Accustomed to piecing together tales from half-heard words and phrases, thestoryteller rapidly grasped the essence of One-Thumb's ordeal.
He had been trapped by a magician's spell in the tangle of tunnels belowSanctuary's streets. Confronted by an image of himself, he had killed it andbeen slain in turn - over and over until this night when he miraculously foundhimself alone and unscathed.
As One-Thumb redoubled his lurid description, describing the feel of cold metalas it found its home in one's innards - again and again, Hakiem pondered thefacts of the story. It fitted.
Lately someone had been stalking wizards, slaying them in their own beds.Apparently the hunter's knife had struck down the spell-weaver who was holdingOne-Thumb in painful thrall, freeing him suddenly to his normal life. Aninteresting story, but totally useless to Hakiem.
First: One-Thumb was obviously willing to spill the tale to anyone who wouldstand still long enough to listen, ruining the market for second-handrenditions. Second, and more important: it was a bad story. Its motive wasunclear; the ending hazy and inactive; there was no real interplay betweenthe characters. The only real meat was the uniqueness of One-Thumb's abilityto tell the tale in the first person and even that weakened through repetition.In short, it was boring.
It didn't take a master storyteller to reach this conclusion. It was obvious. Infact, Hakiem was already growing weary listening to the whine and prattle.
'You must be tired,' he interrupted. 'It's wrong of me to keep you. Maybe we cantalk again after you've rested.' He turned to leave the Unicorn.
'What about the wine?' One-Thumb called angrily. 'You haven't paid yet.'