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Since his return from the Theiwar tunnel, Basalt had
spent all his time drowning himself in self-pity. A new ha-
tred of the mountain dwarves for the murder of his father
and uncle, combined with a hopeless feeling of inadequacy,
had left him feeling trapped. He did not feel he could trust
anyone and he knew that no one would believe him, with
his cockeyed story of Flint's disappearance and Aylmar's
murder. He was, and always would be, an abject drunk.
"Say," ventured the innkeeper, as Basalt started on the last
half of his mug. "Hildy's got to make her deliveries this eve-
ning. I happen to know she could use some help...."
"Hah! She'd have nuthin' to do with me!" The scorn in Ba-
salt's voice, Moldoon sensed, was directed inward, at the
dwarf himself.
"Well, she sure won't if you keep treating her as badly as
you do yourself! And neither will I!" snapped Moldoon. He
turned to take the orders of other customers while Basalt
watched the foam melt along the inside of his mug.
Finally he got up and shuffled to the door, stepping out-
side to look at the long, brown strip of the Passroad. Snow,
colored red and purple by the fading twilight, covered the
surrounding hills in a pristine blanket that contrasted
sharply with the muddy blotch of Hillhome
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