by Gary Gygax
A pair of ruffians lurking along Batwing Lane heard steps approaching slowly and moved to positions where they could best take joint advantage of their approaching target. Only the drunk or foolhardy were abroad alone in such places at this hour, which was nearing midnight The unwary passerby should be an easy mark.
One thug went into the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the lane; the other took station in a recess just a little farther down the lane on the opposite side. A smallish man appeared around the curved way, walking slowly and humming a mournful tune. Faint glittering indicated he wore some valuable jewelry. Best of all, he was unaccompanied by friend or guard.
"Ho, stranger," the ruffian farthest down Batwing Lane called softly as he stepped from concealment. The lone man stopped still and peered at the big shape before him.
A soft sound, inaudible to any but the keenest ear, came from behind the wayfarer. The second bandit crept to a position behind his intended victim and raised his cudgel. The heavy oaken billet hissed through the air, but it failed to strike the victim's skull with the good, solid impact its wielder anticipated so fondly. Instead it continued through emptiness until it impacted with the only solid mass in its path — the thug's own shin! He howled, dropped the weapon, and grabbed his injured leg.
His startled partner was left to deal with the supposed victim who had somehow managed to appear directly in front of the big mugger. One moment he was a handful of paces distant, and the next instant this dark-clad stranger, sword in hand, was before the bandit who intended to waylay him. The ruffian tried to stab with a knife, but the lone man's move was far too quick. The blade went spinning out into the darkness, and the criminal yowled in pain from the cut he'd taken in the bargain. In a flash he was off into the night as quickly as his legs could carry him.
"Now for you," the lone night stalker said quietly, turning with his sword at the ready. But the thug who had wielded the club was already hobbling away. The lone man shrugged, not smiling at even so ludicrous a sight as the limping fellow presented as he disappeared. Sheathing the sword blade, the wayfarer entered the cul-de-sac, and in the dim glow of a lantern overhead, went down the steps and into the entrance to The Turning Wheel.
The strains of a quartet playing lively music were evident even before he entered the place.
"Darksgreeting, sir. Do you wish ..." a woman with a fixed smile routinely began her usual spiel. Then, recognizing her latest customer, she brightened considerably. "Ah, Gord, come again, have you? It's wonderful to see you after such a long interlude! Shall I bring the usual to your table?"
"Yes, that is fine, Tess," the young thief answered unenthusiastically, and the woman went to fetch his drink. Gord moved through the crowd to a small, empty table in a dim comer of the high-vaulted cellar.
Gord sat watching the performance while sipping the mulled wine fortified by fiery spirits. There were three instruments accompanying a troubadour who played a lute and sang sad ballads. The musicians playing the virginal, the dulcimer, and the trilling shalm were familiar, but Gord couldn't recall their names. The troubadour, however, was well-known to the young adventurer. The entertainer noticed Gord at the same time that Gord noticed him. He nodded and grinned in Gord's direction and lost no time in getting to his friend's table when he finished the song and the applause died.
"A pleasure to see you, Gord, old friend! May I join you?" the musician asked, obviously delighted to see his longtime friend.
"Be at ease, Hop," Gord said without enthusiasm. "Allow me to supply you with potable in way of appreciation of the entertainment you so capably provided just now. Your music is of the sort I am drawn to these days."
"Not so fast, my friend," Hop countered. "As an entertainer here, I am supplied by the house with whatever I want to drink. You shall have another of those concoctions you drink on me instead."
Before Gord could say anything to that, the troubadour had signaled one of the barmaids, and two bumpers were immediately placed before them. Gord looked at the singer without any change in expression. "I am surprised to find you here, Hop. The last I heard, you had vowed to rusticate in Gawkes Mere forever."
"The life of a tavernkeeper has its charms, but the lure of the city draws me back once again to learn the latest gossip and play with other minstrels for a while. I'll tire of it soon enough and return to Gawkes Mere, have no fear. But enough of that. How fare you? It is said you are as gloomy and silent as you were once ribald and social. And I can see with my own eyes that this is true. Why so morose, Gord?"
"A passing spate of ill humors, perhaps," the young man said vaguely in reply, lifting his beaker to drink so that he wouldn't have to provide further explanation.
Hop nodded and said, "Rhumsung Lampba P. once told me that the overzel—"
Coughing from having swallowed hastily, Gord managed to interrupt, "No discussions of philosophies or arcane life-knowledge this night, please! Better anything — even your lecherous tales — than that!"
Hop, whose given name was Runewort, son of Kay of Ashdown, was in addition to ostler and troubadour a highly skilled mountebank. When he spoke of gossip, Hop knew of what was told from the noblest of salons to the lowest of dens in Greyhawk and elsewhere as well, for his customers were of many diverse lifestyles. He knew the cause of Gord's melancholy and, having failed at his attempt to broach the subject by philosophizing, decided to come straight to the point. "I too have suffered love lost, my friend. A place such as this is good medicine for the imbalance of humors you suffer of late, but the cure requires the cooperation of the afflicted as well."
"Meaning what?" Gord asked impatiently. "If you wish to be dolorous, then no amount of drink and lively company will lift the pall, old friend."
"Talk, smile, laugh — allow yourself to heal! Come, let's find a pair or so of likely wenches and see if that doesn't lift your downtrodden spirits. Tomorrow I ride west — come with met I’m sure we can fill a few weeks with the kind of activity guaranteed to make any man forget his troubles — no matter who or what they may be."
"I have no desire for such frolicking," Gord said, adding a slight scowl for punctuation.
Hop launched into a long-winded lecture on life and the ways to deal with its problems, but Gord had no intention of letting his words take effect. "As a savant, Hop, you are a superb mountebank. Save this patter for marks and those who wish-to be entertained."
The bearded, crop-headed fellow was undaunted by the rebuff. "I am ever the rebel, Gord, as you well know. If society or a star-crossed friend were able to put me off, what would I be?"
"Less noticeable and silent!" Gord volunteered with a slight grin that quickly vanished, to be replaced by a frown once again.
"Touche!" said Hop, with a rueful smile, and feigning a deep wound he continued. "Now I see that you can relieve your hurt only by skewering those who care about you on the sharp point of your wit."
"Point of my head, more likely. Why not leave off, Hop? I know you mean well, but I just wish to be alone."
"Gord, this is not merely a matter of idle chatter and uplifting the spirits of an old associate. Considering the adventure — or two — we have shared together, you are one of my closest friends in life. I need you to get back your zest for life, or I shall have to end up doing all your drinking, lusting and other miscellaneous adventuring for you! Even I can't handle that much fun!" With that the mountebank winked at the young thief and quaffed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. Gord drank, too, and the slamming tankards brought the serving wench hurrying to the table with refills. Hop belched and patted his muscular stomach, where a slight paunch could be seen. "I really should spend some time exercising," he said.
"No fear." Gord teased "You'll guzzle down a gallon of ale a day for the rest of a long life and never grow fat — you work it off nightly bawdstrotting each willing wench you meet."
Hop laughed appreciatively and then grew serious. "It is good to see you more the Gord of old. I’ve heard what is said of the dancer,
Ageelia. I heard of the vast treasure. The tale of her betrayal is oft told. You are more than a bit of a folk hero these days, Gord. I am sorry that the fame is such . . ." Hop trailed off with a sympathetic look at his unfortunate friend.
When Gord heard Hop's mention of Ageelia, the lovely dancer who had been pulled to her death in the Gray Run by the gold and platinum she and her lover had stolen from him, his heart grew leaden and his face became granite again. "You are sorry? So am I," he said flatly, turning to look elsewhere in dismissal of the other man.
"Why not find another girl to love and forget what happened?" asked Hop with a not-to-be-put-off urgency.
"I cannot." Gord replied heatedly.
"You mean you won't. I know you. Your pride won't let you!"
"As you will," Gord said emotionlessly now, his face averted.
"This mourning is useless!"
"Something else is bothering me," Gord said, now looking squarely into the mountebank's eyes. "Eventually, I'll figure out just what it is that troubles me so. It is more than the loss of one who did not love me. When I find the answer to this disquietude, perhaps then I'll do something besides mourn — as you put it."
"So!" Hop said slowly, with a nod of his head. He eyed the cat-quick young man, seeing determination written on the tanned face and within his deep gray eyes. His scrutiny also took in the slender but powerful body that moved so easily and surely, and the hands so agile as to be able to deal cards from mid-deck, unseen, yet hardened for deadly weapon play. Gord noticed the assessment but said nothing. Hop finally sighed in resignation, determined to speak again. "I feared you would be thus. Gord. There are whisperings in certain places."
Without a sign of interest, Gord echoed, "Whisperings?" He barely accented it so as to form a question, but did not really care.
"Yes, whisperings. Hushed talk among those who frequent the hangouts of the guild," Hop went on in a conspiratorial tone.
"What? What are you mumbling about?" Gord asked with a trace of annoyance. .
Not wishing to mention the girl, the mountebank-turned-ostler paused a second, then said softly, "The affair with Xestrazy. The sum of money involved. Your part Who knows?"
"A thousand and more orbs is bound to make anyone buzz — from the lowest dive to the grandest court."
"Perhaps . . . yes. But before you had even, ah ... acquired . . . the sum for the supposed purpose you obtained it?" Hop asked with a voice filled with implication.
"The hells you say if you're trying to tell me something, come out with it man!"
The near-shout caused several of the bistro's nearby customers to turn and see what was going on. Hop ran his fingers through the stubble of hair he so prided himself on. His hair style was formerly a sign of nonconformity, but it was now unremarkable except for the fact that only villains and certain unusual folk from far-off territories affected the style. Gord recognized his friend's gesture as one of nervousness and reiterated, in a quieter tone of voice but a no less determined tone, "What is this all about?"
"Rumor and gossip are unreliable." Hop said in a negligent tone of voice and with a wave of dismissal.
"Dragondung!" Gord spat in a low, steely voice. Tell me the whole of what you’ve learned, or by all the-"
"Now take it easy! And can the threats — I am not impressed." Hop added with a mixture of confidence and anger. "As I have told you, I only heard hints and allusions. In all likelihood, none of it has any substance."
Gord was pale now, and his eyes burned with fervor. "Hints? Of what were you given hints? No more beating around the bush! Come out with it, Hop!"
"It is time for me to entertain the patrons once again. Gord," the mountebank said. As he rose and slung his battered lute over his shoulder, he looked the perfect troubadour. His words, though, were not of music or poetic lyrics. "If I were in your boots, Gord, I'd look up old friends for information, especially those now high in the Thieves Guild."
The meaning of those words was clear — there was a distinct possibility that the scam pulled by Ageelia and Xestrazy had more players involved than those two scoundrels. Hop had implied that the person Gord must question could be none other than the companion of his childhood, the one-time beggar-boy San. But what would his old friend have to do with a plot against him? He would have to pay San a visit and find out.
Just South of River Street, from the Old Wall to the Processional, trade, commerce, and common dwellings give way to a special element. Hidden behind blank walls and screening buildings are a collection of large, lavish homes with walled gardens and guarded perimeters. This enclave, not so originally named The Enclave, is located directly east of the High Quarter and touches the green commons near the Newmarket Square. It is the place reserved for the most important of the city's underworld society. The foremost thieves of the guild dwell in The Enclave, as do the leading assassins. The community is also the home of prosperous panderers and madams, forgers and counterfeiters, actors, smugglers, and a gang boss or two.
However, the head of the Thieves Guild, as well as the Guildmaster of Assassins for that matter, and all the other oligarchs and officials of Greyhawk, had palatial residences elsewhere, disdaining The Enclave, as did all who haughtily decreed their domiciles to be in the High or even the Garden Quarter. Only the best of places in either quarter could claim more opulence than the walled villas and mansions of The Enclave, but prestige was gauged by the location of the residence first and the state of the residence second. The best of the worst and only oligarchical status could remove the epithet.
Gord was comfortably seated in one of these large and lavishly furnished dwellings located within the confines of the place referred to as The Enclave. The dwelling was many-storied and bartizaned, impressive on the outside and beautiful on the inside. With flowers growing amidst a befountained garden and room after room filled with the best of furnishings, the place must have cost a fortune. The dwelling belonged to San, now a master thief, once a comrade and fellow student of Gord's. Entry had been easy for one of Gord's skill, even with a half-dozen guards and various, locks and boobytraps set for the less talented. A pair of vicious mastiffs now lay sleeping at the young adventurer's feet, bellies filled with meat dusted with the soporific pollen of duskbloom. Gord was at ease in San's own chair, behind that worthy's desk, in his hidden office located in the heart of the big building. Gord waited patiently. San must come home soon, and when he did, he would come here.
The sound of voices below awakened the young man from a light doze. Footfalls sounded on a nearby staircase, and the sound of a door opening was discernible to the sharp-eared Gord. Then he heard San's voice and that of a woman — probably his wife, from what Gord could hear of their conversation. The door closed, but a faint line of light still showed on the wall where the secret door to the chamber was located. Hands behind his head, feet up, Gord waited. The light expanded to become a full rectangle as a tall mirror swung outward on its heavy, hidden-hinged frame.
"Hello, San. Nice place you have here." Gord said dryly.
The startled thief jumped, for he had not seen that there was an unexpected visitor in the secret chamber. He nearly dropped the candlestick he was holding, but managed to recover quickly enough. "This is an unanticipated pleasure. Gord, to say the least." San said without any pleasure apparent in his tone. Then, more heartily, Gord's former comrade from the slums uttered, "It really is good to see you! But what the devils are you doing sneaking into my home like this?" San sounded more puzzled than troubled.
"Don't you know?" Gord allowed the question to trail off as he stared hard at San.
The son-in-law of Guildmaster Arentol was a little younger than Gord. San was probably twenty-three or twenty-four years of age now, but he looked older. Soft living and rich food had thickened him, but he still seemed fit enough. He was larger and heavier than Gord, and if appearances alone were used as a gauge, stronger too. San's face hardened, but he didn't show any sign of hiding some guilty secret.
"C
ut the crap. For old time's sake I'll forgive you for breaking into my house and this private room, but you damn well better tell me what this is all about or I'll make a point of forgetting the past. What are you doing here?"
Gord was stone-faced too, and the forcefulness of San's tone didn't move him at all. "I said I thought you knew why I was here, old chum. Remember or forget the bygone days as you like. I want to have a little chat with you about the more recent past, shall we say."
"All right, tough guy." San said, without taking his eyes from Gord. "Let's just do that." He hooked a nearby chair with his leg and pulled it over to where he could sit to the side of the table Gord was behind.
"Cute move," said Gord, with feigned admiration, as he shifted his booted feet so that the soles faced his unwilling host. San had to sit up straight to see the whole of Gord's face, and Gord was smiling without humor. "I think we need to take a few minutes to talk about a recent caper."
"Guild business is none of your affair, friend."
"Let's dispense with party-line stuff, San, and get to the worm at the heart of this apple. Any guild activity that involves me is damn well my business!"
"I don't know any guild activity that involves you, Gord. And I'm about as close to the top as you can get," San said in a sincere tone of voice and then added, "Look, word spreads fast, you know? I realize you've had a hard time of it and you probably just aren't thinking straight right now. How about a drink?" he inquired with a comradely motion toward a bottle and glasses on a small stand next to Gord.
