Night Arrant

The Weird Occurrence in Odd Alley

"Cross my palm with nobles, noble youth, and you shall have my best reading." With that the old Rhennee crone cackled and winked suggestively.

Chert snorted derisively, but Gord complied with the request, dropping a half-dozen silver coins into the dirty, dried-up old hand. The crone wrapped her clawlike fingers possessively around the treasured nobles, and the payment quickly disappeared into the folds of her soiled robe.

"Read your rede, woman, and make it clear," Gord snapped. "At such prices, you should predict the future unerringly!"

The old woman's icy glare sought to penetrate the young thiefs soul. "Mind your tongue when you speak to a Wise Woman of the True Folk, young Gord! Remember, you sought out Old Annya, not she you!"

Gord shrugged but said no more. Mollified, the ancient hag brought forth a small leathern container that looked to be as old as its owner. She held the container in her left hand and, while making odd, jerky passes over the top of the antique box with her free hand, mumbled in a high-pitched voice: "Take now the runes and sigils of your fate." Then she solemnly extended the mysterious container and motioned for Gord to reach inside.

The contents of the leather coffer were not visible to the young thief as he reached up and inserted his hand into the box. His fingers carefully scouted the mixed group of small objects that seemed to squirm and twist away at his touch. Gord's forefinger and thumb played a strange game of tag with several of the elusive contents inside the pouch until, having grown tired of the chase, the young thief clamped all five fingers around a jumbled mass of jiggling mystery and extracted the mysterious mess from the box. Before he could examine his catch, however, the crone spoke again. "Now loose them, one by one — if you can!" she commanded.

Gord wanted to obey the old woman's orders, but the task proved to be much more difficult than he imagined. The young rogue fought to suppress a groan as he strained to do as he was instructed. The strange objects worked independently on their own behalf in spite of Gord's obvious wishes, each stngle-mindedly intent on wriggling out of his hand.

Chert perched himself on the edge of the bench he'd been offered as respite and watched with more than casual interest as his friend managed to hold on to all but a few of the squirming things clasped within his sweating hand. Old Annya called out the names of the falling components as Gord slowly spilled them:

"Bauble! Skull and snake. Shoe. Dagger and stinger. Rat. Eye. Nothingness! Coffin, horse, torch — gateway!" Gord shook his now-open hand, but a small object refused the offer of freedom, seemingly glued fast to the startled rogue's palm. Old Annya seized the hand and peered at the last sigil there. The Fool's Cap!" she exclaimed gleefully, and then sat back in her rickety chair and, abandoning what small scrap of propriety she may have possessed, cackled hideously.

"Enough of this!" Chert spat impatiently. "Give the meaning, or return the silver!"

"Oh, yes! You both shall have your glimpse of the future, just as promised," the crone screeched mirthfully. She sat back, a self-satisfied look dominating her prunelike face. "Listen carefully now," she purred, gazing fully into Gord's face.

"You and your overgrown associate" — at this, she paused, to throw a disgusted glance in Chert's direction — "have stolen something that many hold dear." She leaned closer and enunciated the next few words with purposeful emphasis. "It is of evil!" The old hag sat back and let her warning sink in before continuing her soothsaying. "Know now that you are hunted because of this. None you have spoken to will give you gold for the trantle — or at least as much as you two think your prize worth. You have sought a fence throughout most of Greyhawk, and come here as a last resort."

Gord was nodding as she spoke, but his barbarian companion was scowling. "Easy enough to guess, old bag. Get to your rede!" said Chert.

Old Annya gave Chert a look that was sufficient to wither a flower in first bloom, but thereafter ignored him and went on.

"There is a place that is neither here nor there, but if you leave from here and go to Odd Alley, you will realize your fortune from what you have. . appropriated." The ancient Rhennee wise woman then sat back, gazing from one to the other of the two young men. Her face was impassive, but Old Annya's eyes fairly danced with malign amusement.

Chert stood up and moved toward the crone, his face clouded with growing rage. "If you want to play games, I’ll show you games, you miserable old. ."

"We leave now!" Gord said, using all his strength to pull the hulking barbarian away from his intended target and out the door of the ramshackle establishment. Peals of crackling laughter followed them out the door, but Gord continued to steer his enraged friend toward Odd Alley.

Odd Alley, an area within Greyhawk's Old City, was so difficult to locate that most citizens of the metropolis were unaware of its existence. Gord, a consummate thief, burglar, and swordsman, had spent many years in the slums of Greyhawk practicing his skills. He knew the people and the city, so many of the places within Odd Alley were not foreign to him. But one thing that was not familiar to him was an inability to dispose of loot.

Chert, on the other hand, was a woodsman from the distant east and as such was not entirely accustomed to Greyhawk's nooks and crannies. However, as Gord's friend and companion for the past year, he did know quite a bit about hardships in the wilderness, life-and-death battles, and now thievery, as it were.

And he knew Gord's code of ethics where thievery was concerned. The honorable thief took only from takers, swindled the dishonest, and stole from those who gained by foul means. It was a long-standing point of honor with the young rogue, one the huge hillman sometimes found hard to accept.

If there was occasionally a question regarding the line between honesty and fairness, Gord usually allowed his friend to make the decision regarding the prospect. After all, there were more than a few eligible marks in a city the size of Greyhawk.

"What are we going to do now?" Chert asked, his tone implying a sense of despair. "I told you that dark temple was no place for life-loving thieves to rob! If you had listened to me, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Not wishing to hear yet another lecture in what was becoming a continuous series, Gord thought back. He and Chert had stolen into the Great Temple of Nerull and had taken a reliquary of red gold from the altar of the sanctum sanctorum. This gem-encrusted object was worth a king's ransom — that is, if they could sell it. Gord knew that it contained a substance the priests of the grim deity claimed was ichor shed by Nerull himself. Gord also knew now that no dealer, collector, or fence in the whole of Greyhawk would even willingly lay eyes on the reliquary, let alone pay cash to possess it!

"Are your ears failing you, oaf?" Gord asked his comrade sarcastically. "Didn't I tell you Old Annya would know the answer? You heard her tell us how to be rid of the thing and be rewarded too!"

"I heard her say that dark evil hounds us. I heard her babble gibberish. That is what my good ears heard all too well," Chert responded, his tone a combination of anger and self-pity.

"Ah ha! She fooled you, then, old chum. That biddy is a mean and tricky one, I'll admit,'' Gord said brightly.

"Mean as they come." Chert nodded in agreement "But tricky? How so?"

"She speaks in riddles and half-truths in order to make the customers agree to pay more. We need not worry, though. Recall you the runes and sigils I brought forth? Remember the gateway at the last?"

"So what?"

Gord pointed to the dim end of the alley. "See yonder? There is the gate that shuts fast Odd Alley. Beyond must be our goal!"

"Hmmm," Chert said, doubt creeping across his rugged features.

"Come on! I'll show you," Gord said confidently. A few minutes later, that confidence was gone. The distant end of the alley, a place evidently shunned by all living creatures, had its gate, certainly. The portal was old, iron, and locked. Knocking, banging, and pounding did no good.

"This cannot be," Gord said with exasperation.

"Horseshit!" his huge comrade sighed. "Let's get out of here and plan a journey. Greyhawk is getting too unhealthy of late."

"Will you allow a few assassins, noises in the night, and one locked gate to scare you off?" demanded the smaller man.

"Gord. If you call murder attempts and night daemons nothing, you're either a brave fool or a stupid oaf. And I’m not going to stand around here and ponder which of the two categories best describe your present state. I am going to saddle my horse and ride elsewhere — while I’m still able. You do as you wish," Chert said with an air of finality.

Gord had tried to make light of their peril ever since they had left the temple with the dreaded yet valuable relic. The young thief pretended it was little more than a joke because his comrade had stubbornly resisted his plan to steal the Reliquary of Nerull from the temple right up until they had actually pulled the whole thing off. Since then Chert had said little, but his expression spoke volumes.

Gord had noticed that they were followed after they had approached several fences who normally bought stolen items such as the purloined reliquary. All of these so-called dealers were quite adamant about their lack of interest, and one of the proprietors had them ejected from his premises at first sight of the pair. Then it was evident that something was seriously amiss.

That same night they had been attacked by four assassins. As was customary, Gord and the barbarian had gone on an evening carouse, ending up at the Green Dragon. Because the dauntless duo picked up on the fact that they were being trailed when they left the tavern, both feigned drunkenness, an act that probably saved them their lives. The killers were not as careful as professional assassins should have been. As the assassins sprang from concealment to strike, they found that their "drunken victims" were anything but disoriented.

Gord met them with sword and dagger. Chert with his great axe, Brool. When it was over a minute or two later, three of the four murderers were dead, and the fourth managed to escape only by luck. Both adventurers knew they had been lucky. The next time the assassins would be more experienced and much more clever. And the "next time" was not to be far off.

Congratulating themselves on their skill, Gord and Chert had returned victorious to the old stable they had rented and made into an apartment. The two young men carefully barred the door, set various alarms and traps as was customary, and went to bed. They were awakened not long after by a loud clang and an awful, blubbering shriek.

A high window, left purposely unshuttered as an inviting means of entry to the place, had served its purpose. The window was equipped with a heavy bar of iron that was set to crash into anyone attempting to come into their domicile via this particular route. The trap was set such that a body crossing the sill of the opening would trigger the mechanism releasing the iron bar. The pair didn't have to wait long for an unsuspecting victim to put the device to a test. Something had indeed entered by the window, and the iron weight had swung like a pendulum, crashing into the ignoble intruder.

The impact had broken the cord, and the bar had rung like a bell against the stone wall as it fell loose. Both Chert and Gord had rushed over to investigate, hearts in their throats and weapons in hands. One look at their "catch" was enough to make both men shudder. A horrible daemon, a thing with slimy scales and suckered appendages, awaited their arrival. Whatever it was, the heavy lump of iron had damaged it, and the daemon was still reeling when Gord and Chert entered the chamber. Sword and axe bit into the horror, and the adventurers managed to deal it mortal wounds before it could recover. Again, they knew that luck had been with them. Future visitors of this ilk would not be dealt with so easily.

With all this fresh in his mind, Gord couldn't blame his friend for wanting to plot a new course. He stared at the bulky barbarian for a long moment. Chert, arms crossed, jaw set and eyes narrowed in a "don't mess with me" glare, was the perfect picture of resolved determination. But Gord was not about to let him go without a fight. "You lose all claim to the prize if you desert!" He tried to goad the hillman into reconsidering, but Chert wouldn't budge.

"Well rid of it! And this is far from desertion, my friend. It is definite self-preservation. You seem to have a death wish, and that is one adventure i'd just as soon steer clear of. And you're supposedly the, brains behind this partnership. Hah!"

The pair stood glaring at each other for a full minute. But despite the harsh look on his face, Gord could not help but smile inwardly. The concern and determination written across the face of his comrade was touching indeed. It was obvious that Chert really meant exactly what he said and that he had no intention of allowing himself to be swayed. But Chert had said it himself — Gord was the smarter of the two, and he didn't earn that reputation by letting his hillbilly friend best him. As he saw it. Only one course, however devious, remained.

"Then prosper and farewell. Chert, old friend, until our paths cross again," Gord said, his eyes beginning to moisten as he reached up and slapped the big barbarian fondly on his shoulder. Chert clapped Gord on the back so hard that the young thief was nearly bowled over by the blow. The barbarian then spun on his heel and stomped off. Gord stayed where he was, mentally whistling a lively tune while counting the minutes.

It took five minutes, give or take 'a few seconds — about what Gord had expected — before his overgrown friend appeared in sight. The husky barbarian's brisk stride, accompanied by a chain of loudly sputtered yet unintelligible curses, told Gord all he needed to know. The angry hillman stamped back to where Gord stood stock still. "How can I leave a small and crazy man to the mercies of the followers of that dung-deflled Nerull?" he cried overdramatically, arms waving madly about, frustration evident in every syllable. "If I am forced to follow death's road, at least I'll take many with me when I die! What now, my death-defying friend?"

Grinning boyishly. Gord slapped his comrade's hand and said just as dramatically, "Ever a stout friend!" Then he added soothingly. "Listen, Chert, there must be an answer! Old Annya said our goal was neither here nor there, but if we went from her place to there, we'd gain our fortune, right?"

"Yes," Chert agreed, nodding reluctantly, "that much I recall. But what good do her words do us when we don't know what they mean?"

"Well, if we couple what she said wilh the significance of the gate way …" Gord stopped and added emphatically. "I'm sure it's the key!"

"So, what lies on the other side of the gate?" Chert asked, absentmindedly scratching his head with the leather-covered tip of his dagger.

"How should I know?" Gord snapped, irritated at having his thoughts interrupted. Then after a few seconds of silence, he said, "There are only a few places here that I can recall. There is the junk store run by that miserly old half-elf Scriggin, the used clothing shop, Freedle's Librarium, the potter's booth, the Sunken Grotto Tavern, the money changer's stall. Green Wulfurt's apothecary, the crazy limner's place, Zreed's Antiquary — that's where we tried to unload the, ah, stuff — and the old warehouse and stable across from it at the mouth of the alley."

"But what's at the head?" Chert asked.

"The gate, stupid!" Gord shot back as he pondered the wisdom of having conned the barbarian into sticking around.

Now Chert was grinning. "My point exactly! The gateway — and beyond it. The gate leads to someplace. Every place has walls, windows, and doors: Let's find the other side of the doorway and go in that way!"

"I was just about to suggest that myself," Gord said lamely.

"At the end of that passage! See the dull gleam?"

"That must be it. Chert. Let's see," Gord agreed as he hurried into the opening.

It had taken them hours of searching, walking through the twists and turns of the mazelike lanes and alleys of Old City. A false turn, backtracking, a street angling in the wrong direction. They had even entered a few of the establishments bordering their destination with the intention of finding an excuse to slip out the back doors and. thus, reach their destination. But to their astonishment, none of the places had back windows, let alone back doors! And they had been not-so-nicety ejected from the Sunken Grotto Tavern when they were caught painstakingly searching a back room of the establishment in hopes of finding some sort of exit.

They probably would never have located the area save for the fact that they happened to end up in just the right location as the last rays of the setting sun illuminated the close and the passage leading from it. The light gave a glimmer of metal for an instant, and the sharp-eyed barbarian was quick to notice. "It appears to be nothing more than the other side of the iron portal!" Gord exclaimed in disappointment after the two had conducted a close inspection of the premises.

Before anything further could be said or done, both men heard soft footfalls approaching. Gord and Chert moved quickly, without sound, into the far comer of the tunnel. Was this yet another hired murderer? A cloaked figure was silhouetted in the opening of the passage. No features of its face could be discerned, but the body was broad and short. The person went directly to the metal door, evidently not noticing that the passageway was occupied. The iron turned phosphorescent when the figure touched it with something, and then the door was gone, revealing a dim space beyond. Before either of the young men could react, the stocky figure stepped through the arch and was gone. The iron gate reappeared.

"What the hells?" Chert asked in a hushed voice.

Gord squeezed his friend's massive forearm.. "That is a most ensorceled portal, but it leads to where we must be! Come on, let's see if we can discover the mechanism by which that fellow operated it. Neither struck a light, not wishing to attract attention. There was just enough illumination from the deepening twilight to serve their purpose. Using fingers, palms, and dagger points Gord and Chert carefully went over every inch of the portal, but the rusted metal revealed not the slightest hint as to how it operated. No amount of inspection of the posts and walls to either side yielded anything useful, either. Even Gord's metal-penetrating dagger would not pierce the door. Both were ready to give up when yet another sound of footsteps came faintly to their ears.

"Let's take this one!" Gord whispered.

"High and low," the barbarian affirmed in a hiss.

The footfalls faltered and stopped. Could their intended victim be that keen of hearing? if so. he quickly satisfied himself that the passage was free of danger because the sound of walking came again. Whoever it was had most likely merely stopped to look around before entering the passageway, just as the first entrant had approached furtively.

"Now!" cried Gord as he flew through the air to tackle the barely discernible target. Chert sprang at nearly the same moment, taking the figure high in a crushing bearhug.

"Yaagh!" Gord shouted as the form he tried to hold seemed to writhe and squirm from his grasp. Whatever his arms were encircling, the sensation was like live eels!

"Bite me, will you?" his friend bellowed after emitting a surprised grunt. And this was followed by a muffled thud and another exclamation from Chert.

Suddenly Gord was holding onto nothing at all, and something big and heavy fell upon his prone body, driving the breath from his lungs in a pain-filled whoosh. "What's going on?" he managed to gasp weakly.

The weight eased off, and Chert spoke. "I don't have the faintest, fluttering idea. I hit that slimy son of a bitch after he bit me. It was as if I broke a pig bladder filled with air. One minute I had him by the neck — I think. The next there was nothing there, and I toppled over onto you!"

"Deviled dung beetles!" Gord spat, clambering to his feet shakily. "This is some strange stuff we've gotten into."

In a flash of pale radiance from Chert's phosphorescent pocket stone, Gord saw only a pair of boots and a huge cape where. . something. . had been only moments before. He peered at the boots, held one up, and then dropped it "That is padded inside for no human foot!" he said with disgust as he quickly gathered up the cape and searched it. "Nothing," Gord informed Chert as he tossed the garment down, "but a faint and repugnant odor."

"I still have a part of. . it." Chert said flatly as he held forth his left hand for Gord's inspection.

"That's a tentacle," Gord said with a faint quaver in his otherwise smooth voice.

"A tentacle whose suckers still grasp a coin!" Chert retorted as he jerked the metal disc from the member and flung the extremity to the stone paves. "But it is like no other in Greyhawk," he continued as he inspected the shining bit of stuff.

Gord moved closer to get a better look at the coin. "It has to be the trigger! it has a hand on one side and a rectangle on the other."

"It is no metal i've ever seen before," the big barbarian agreed. "It is no real coin. How do we proceed?"

Thus," the young thief said as he picked the disc from the huge palm with his long, slender fingers. "I hold the thing so that the hand faces my hand and the rectangle matches the gate. Then I simply touch the gate with the coin!" So saying, Gord matched action to word, but nothing happened. "Well, it seemed logical," he muttered.

"Reverse the coin and try again." Chert suggested, seeming rather proud of this insight.

"Right," Gord replied sourly as he turned the coin so that the hand lay upward. "There is an equal chance that my first guess would be correct, and now I have a smirking lout telling me how to do my work. Here goes. . "

Both adventurers jerked back in surprise as the iron portal glowed, shimmered, and vanished, all in an instant. Although there was dim light beyond the archway, some mist or haze prevented either of the two from seeing more than a few feet into the area revealed.

"This must be some anteroom, perhaps a small courtyard. So there is a building between here and Odd Alley!" Gord said triumphantly. "In we go on the count of three. One, two, three!"

Gord sprang forward while Chert simply used his long legs to stride into the newly revealed space that the metal gate had hidden. As the pair entered; the mist swirled, darkened, and then disappeared.

"Back on Odd Alley?" Chert asked in a puzzled voice. The sudden dispersal of the obscuring haze showed a torchlit street before them. But the place they had just come from was no longer visible.

"Hey! I don't think we can leave the same way we came!" Chert said rather frantically, pulling on his friend's sleeve as he spoke. But the barbarian's lean friend was concentrating on what lay ahead, not behind.

"Never was Odd Alley so wide or so well-lit!" Gord said, seemingly awestruck. "See there, glass lanterns and glowing globes, too! Is there then a whole section of street — a mews, rather, hidden between those twin gates?"

Chert was hardly paying attention to what Gord had said, for, as his eyes had frantically scanned the street for some sign of an exit, they had spotted a beehive-like structure with a sign that depicted an incredibly well-endowed young lady. "Do me of de lights?" he said aloud, trying to decipher the words on the display. "Hey Gord. What does 'do me of de lights' mean?" the baffled barbarian asked as he pointed a huge finger at the object of his contusion.

"It reads 'Dome of Delights'," you lecher," Gord said distractedly, for his gaze was roving up and down the curving way ahead. "Beyond is a place called Achmutt's Cut-Rate Carpets, and across the road are the Tower Tavern and Count joseph's Emporium of the Unusual."

"Never heard of any of them. Let's check out the Dome," Chert suggested a little too eagerly.

"In time, perhaps," Gord said firmly as he directed his hulking companion up the lane. Looking around the gentle curve, Gord knew it was all wrong. There was not this much space for all these establishments between Odd Alley and the gate through which they had just passed. Then his eye caught a bronze plaque affixed to the wall of a nearby building. He read it aloud in wonder. "Weird Way?"

"It does appear a bit peculiar," Chert agreed. "What is that exotic edifice over there?"

"Pagoda of Pools. I’ve never heard of a Weird Way in Greyhawk!"

The ways of this city are all strange, my small friend." the barbarian mumbled as he stared at a woman in gauzy garments who had just exited a place called the Pavilion of Portals and was heading directly toward them. She smiled invitingly at Chert's ogling gaze.

"Hey, beautiful, the streets at night aren't safe for someone as luscious as you!" the giant fellow fairly crowed. "How about I serve as your guard?"

"With you as guard, who'd need attackers?" the woman retorted in a laughing, husky voice. "But if you're interested, I'm heading for the Dome — want to come with?"

"We'll be in later," Gord interjected firmly.

"Ask for Zenobia of Aerth." She flung the words over her shoulder as she went past.

Chert watched the swaying hips and long, shapely legs until Zenobia was out of sight within the beehive-shaped edifice. "Like a peach!" he said with admiration.

"Like a melon!" Gord countered.

"What? What are you talking about?"

Gord strolled on up the street. "Your head," he called, and ignored the big barbarian thereafter.

"Okay, okay!" Chert said, as he hurried to walk beside his companion. "What other interesting stuff do you see?"

"Learning to read should be a requirement for all barbarians," Gord told his friend.

"But I can read — better than I used to, anyway."

"Which isn't saying a whole hell of a lot!" Gord mumbled. But Chert's curiosity overrode his pride, and he was insistent upon knowing the name of every establishment they passed. The young thief, knowing how persistent his sometimes troublesome friend could be, shrugged in resignation and called out as they slowly walked along the nearly deserted street. "Juxort's Charts and Maps is to the left. Next to it is the shop that styles itself Wonders of the World. Across the street are Abner Crobny the Outfitter, the Arms Exchange, and Elixirs from Everywhere. Interesting."

As they approached the end of the street they saw a large and brightly lit hostel, the Explorer's inn, and a store identified as Multiversal Armorer. Beyond that was a walled plaza at least a hundred paces deep and twice as broad The booths and stalls that lined its perimeter were empty, closed, and their bright colors and diverse forms were only faintly discernible in the light spilling into the area from the street.

"Too bad the market is empty," Chert said. "Let's have a bite of repast a sip of malt tonic, and explore the most interesting places thereafter."

"Bite? Sip? Stuff and swig is more your style, you bottomless pit! But I’ll agree this once, for we need both refreshment and information," Gord said soberly, "You, unlike me, are not native to Greyhawk, so you do not understand my bafflement. This place is not in the city I know as Greyhawkl"

Chert waved airily. "Then we are elsewhere — what matter? There are places of interest here, and those who pursue us are in Greyhawk. right? Therefore, we are free of the dogs who seek us and have excellent prospects for an entertaining night!"

"Well, yes. Come to think of it, your logic does seem sound. So, shall it be the Tower Tavern or the hostel for explorers?"

"The nearest, my friend, the nearest," Chert said happily, rubbing his huge hands together in anticipation. "A suckling pig and a flagon of amber ale with which to wash it down would serve well as an appetizer, don't you think?"

Walking swiftly now, the two adventurers retraced their path down the now-busy street. Both young men noted that the pedestrians were of all sizes and shapes, male and female, human and who-knew-what.

"Beware, Gord! An ogre!" Chert shouted as an eight-foot-tall creature suddenly loomed out of a nearby doorway.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the creature drawled through tusk and fang. "I am no more an ogre than you are a gorilla!" he huffed defensively as he eyed the barbarian and his lean friend up and down. "But perhaps I employ an inept analogy. Apes are, after all, rather amusing things, and you aren't capering at all."

From modish, floppy cap with plume to paisley hose and soft slippers, this ogrelike creature was the epitome of trendy vogue. Even the casual, drawling manner of speech and haughty, disdainful air fit the current affectations of the courtiers of Greyhawk. The being's hanger was a bastard sword, however, worn as casually as a bodkin, backed by a long sword of main gauche. Gord decided that discretion was in order.

"Your pardon, good sir, but there is no question that in such poor light your form and size do somewhat resemble those of an ogre. The mistake was, therefore, quite natural. Shall we leave it at that?"

A small crowd had gathered to enjoy the exchange, some rooting for the ogre-like creature, others urging Chert and Gord to show some human mettle. "What is this monster called?" Chert quietly asked an almost human-looking creature standing closest to him.

"That, my large but intelligence-lacking lifeform, is an ehjure- a snob with a talent for trivial trouble," the creature said. "But don't let his appearance scare you. He'd rather swallow an insult than muss up his pretty clothing."

The monstrous humanoid had spent the last several seconds sizing up his adversaries — the muscular barbarian fingering the great axe at his leather girdle and the small, lithe man beside him armed with short blade and long dagger. Hard, unwinking eyes met his own gaze without fear, evidencing alertness and experience in combat. With a lazy motion the creature identified by the onlookers as an ehjure waved its fingers toward the two. "As you apologized, I choose to allow the offense to pass unregarded." and so saying, the ogre turned and strutted through the crowd, which parted to let him pass, disappearing down the ruddy cobblestone thoroughfare. The group of gawkers dispersed in twos and threes, chatting and laughing about the close encounter between the snooty ehjure and the newcomers. Gord and Chert, meanwhile, were left standing alone, wondering exactly what it was that had just transpired — or failed to.

"I’ve never seen such an odd lot in my entire life!" Chert expostulated.

"Strange indeed" Gord mused. "But what should be Odd Alley is now Weird Way — what can we expect?"

"Anything, it seems," the barbarian remarked, loosening the clasp that secured his enchanted axe, Brool, in its thronged carrier on the wide aurochs-hide belt.

"Well, in any case the brute was an easy mark," Gord said, displaying a clinking wallet that had only minutes before rested comfortably within the ogre's leather girdle.

"Guess we won that round, eh, pal? Nice move!" The burly barbarian gave his slender pal a congratulatory slap on the back that almost sent the young thief flying. Before Gord had a chance to protest this rough treatment. Chert exclaimed, "Hey! Look there!" He motioned toward a trio of furry-faced humanoids with huge, purplish eyes. "Nonesuches!"

The denizens of the place were a mixed lot indeed, Gord decided. They were garbed in all styles of apparel, some of which resembled the dress of the Flanaess — whether the region of Greyhawk or others of the nations surrounding the deep waters of the lake called Nyr Dyv — but other garb was totally strange and alien. He decided they both needed a stiff tot of spirits and a chance to consider their circumstances.

There is the Explorer's inn. Let's go there immediately and refresh ourselves."

Chert noted the stress in his comrade's voice. "Aye, Gord, a bumper or two will help clear my reeling brain, too!"

Unlike other such establishments familiar to the pair of young adventurers, the Explorer's inn was filled with a wild variety of potted plants and trophies. The latter were displayed on walls. In cases, and atop every surface not otherwise utilized for the business of the place. The homely familiarity of the worn floor made of narrow-sawn oak. wainscoted walls, and smoke-blackened beams above were in sharp contrast to the miscellany of curios and hunting souvenirs arrayed among the flowers and shrubs — often themselves resting in unusual pots and containers, Before Gord and Chert could take in the whole, a mufti-clad fellow greeted them unctuously.

"A good evening to you, gentlebeings. The membership salon? Or shall I seat you in the general parlour?"

"The parlour. If you please," Gord said with hauteur. The fellow gave a stiff little bow and led them away through a press of patrons.

After a fine dinner highlighted by skewered hedgefowl, saddle of mutton roasted to a turn, and raspberry tort with spoon-thick cream. Chert suggested that they repair to the common room. As this boasted of a bar stocked beyond belief with a selection of bottles, jugs, and casks of unique nature, and because it was filled with an assortment of what appeared to be knowledgeable and adventurous customers, Gord readily agreed to go along. A few rounds and several enlightening conversations later, they had the information they sought. A chap with a pale blue complexion and hair and eyes of jade green directed them to the shop of the merchant calling himself Count joseph.

"The man is a shark, so protect your purse!" the helpful patron admonished the two. "As most of his trade prefers the dark to the day. It will be the erstwhile count himself who greets you. Trust not his smile, watch for dissembling, and never accept a first or second prize."

"Thanks, friend," Chert said. They hurried from the place, the barbarian leading, for the sky-colored imbiber seemed desirous of continuing his lecture on the subject of Count joseph and his Emporium of the Unusual. Gord noted that he had gained the ear of a squat dwarf sitting on the high stool next to him, and the hapless demi-human was being subjected to a lengthy discourse on the dealings of not only the self-styled count, but merchants and traders in general.

It did not take the anxious pair long to reach their destination.

"Welcome! Have you come to acquire treasures of the multiverse?" The questioner was a tall, pear-shaped man of indeterminate age wearing a powdered wig.

Gord withdrew the reliquary from the pouch concealed beneath his cape. The container was dweomered, having come from one Wenterbritz the Mottled Mage in payment for a service performed by the burglar Blackcat. Although scarcely larger than a loaf-sized box. It could hold an extraordinary amount of material because the space inside was magical. Gord showed the object to the man and asked. "Is this something you might be interested in acquiring?"

"A rather ordinary, gem-encrusted reliquary of one of the greater deities of Oerth? Perhaps, but only at a bargain. Such items are — I make so bold as to tell you — quite undesirable due to the proliferation lately."

Chert scowled, but Gord smiled. "Ah well, I shall not bother you with so trilling a piece then," he said, picking up the relic. "Let us endeavor to find a purveyor elsewhere," he added as he gestured toward the door. Indicating that Chert should precede him.

"Not so fast!" Count joseph cried. Then, speaking quickly to cover his excited exclamation, he went on. "This place is a nest of vipers, and a pair of forthright men such as yourselves might find a cheat who would attempt to gain your object on the cheap, shall we say. You have come to the correct dealer! Even though I am a poor man, one whose mother needs an operation for which I scrimp and save, else she will soon pass on, I will pay you top value for the reliquary!"

"How much?" Chert demanded in a flinty tone.

"A hundred, with this marvelous set of Yeogoiian doorknockers thrown in to boot!"

"Let us get on," Gord said once again.

"Yes." his brawny comrade nodded, giving the count a look of disgust.

"I merely jest!" Count joseph assured them, wringing his hands as he somehow insinuated himself between the adventurers and the door to his emporium.

"The serious price?" Gord demanded.

"One thousand, and I’ll even throw in any of these Staffordshire Toby mugs!"

"Let us say twenty thousand." Gord countered, "forgetting any other items from your stock."

"Twenty thousand? That is exorbitant! I am not an emperor. I am an honest dealer who barely survives his dealings with such mean and hard-hearted customers as yourselves! How am I to survive if I make no profit? For such a price I might start an entire new business. I offer three thousand, or five if you will take domars."

"You must take us for dolts indeed," Chert interjected. "You seek to rob us without a weapon! No domars," the barbarian said with a grim expression that threatened mayhem. "And do not insult us with beggarly sums!"

Count joseph turned paler and swallowed. "Let us bargain in the spirit of friendship, my dear friends. This is, after all, an understood function of merchant and customer alike, is it not?" The fellow's voice actually squeaked at the last, but he managed to clear his throat and went on. "I will offer you my absolute maximum — a price which will leave me with only a percent or two profit. Ruinous, ruinous! What am I to do?" As he spoke the last, the merchant held his head in his hands and swayed back and forth.

"Enough of this showmanship!" Chert roared.

"What is the offer? We haven't all night to spend here," the slender thief added, staring hard at the self-styled count.

"Twelve thousand. You must take it either in scrip, credits, or sequins, however."

"We will accept that sum in gold," Chert said flatly.

"Gold? Gold? I haven't anything like that sum in gold — or platinum, iridium, or jotellium either! I withdraw my offer," the count said, turning-his back. "Good night, gentlemen."

"Good day," Gord countered gruffly, and he and the hillman turned to leave.

There then ensued a lengthy session of argument, punctuated by threats, sobbing, shouts of outrage, and various other expressions of combined grief and anger. Finally, the agreed-upon price was set at eleven thousand — seven in gold, four in platinum. Count joseph clapped his hands and an elephantine creature of some sort dragged forth a huge metal box The erstwhile nobleman fiddled with something on his belt, worked at the container's lock, and then threw back the lid. The inside of the box was filled with gold and platinum coins — although many were strange and unidentifiable even to Gord, who was familiar with many sorts of foreign minting. Eventually, the counting was done and the money was transferred to a bronzewood coffer that Count joseph grandly included at no charge. This made both men nervous.

"What now, my dear fellows?" asked the count. "I must ask you to hasten, for I have business elsewhere." The expression on the count's face betrayed his eagerness, and it was evident that the reliquary was the reason he desired to depart in haste. In fact, although Count joseph had paid more than his usual tithe of an object's value, the golden reliquary was sure to bring immediate return. He felt he could get at least fifty percent over market for it.

"This box is a trifle cumbersome." Gord said to the fidgeting merchant. "Pray tell. Is there a dealer of jewels nearby?"

"Of course, of course," Count joseph said as he shooed the two adventurers toward the door. "Sogil the Gemner at the end of Faire Market You can't miss the place," he said hastily as he shoved Chert and Gord outside. "And he opens promptly at the third hour of the morning!" With that, the door was slammed shut, punctuating and terminating the conversation with finality.

Both young men sat atop the bronzewood chest.

They were out of the stream of traffic, so no passerby paid them the slightest heed. This was much to both men's liking, for they were uncomfortable in the extreme. They were sitting on a fortune in precious metal, and both feared to move it for obvious reasons. Gord wished to get a room at the Explorer's inn. Chert thought that they would be better off if they transported the chest to the jewelry shop and waited outside until it opened. They were debating the merits of both thoughts when a voice interrupted them.

"Free portage to the Hostel of Ineffable Comfort. Come, allow me to transport your luggage upon my cart."

The speaker was a raggedy fellow with tangled, greasy hair. Although he was stooped and bent, there was no mistaking that he was also very big and strong. He stood peering at the pair, one hand resting on the handle of his wheelbarrow-like cart, the other beckoning them toward him.

"Who are you, villain, and what is this hostel you speak of?" Gord asked in his hardest tone, hand going to swordhilt as he spoke.

"I be Yagbo, your worships. It is my duty to convey weary travelers and their gear to my Master's place, the Hostel of Ineffable Comfort."

"Why the service?" Chert demanded curtly.

"That's easy, m'lords. The hostel is at the far end of the market square, so to maintain business it is necessary to provide services which neither the Tower Tavern nor the Explorer's Inn offer, they being nearer. Some undiscerning folk — unlike men of your station — find convenience preferable to comfort, quality and quietude!"

"Perfect!" Chert exclaimed, rising and grabbing one handle of the wooden trunk. "Come on, Gord. We'll put this aboard that cart and hie to the hostel this Yagbo extols. You get your comfort and I get the proximity I desire."

Yagbo made to assist with the chest, but Gord waved him off and took the other end himself. In a moment the heavy container rested in the porter's heavy cart, and that worthy pushed it on down the crowded length of Weird Way. Yagbo emitted a piercing whistle now and again to warn the pedestrians that he needed a way through their midst, and even the largest and most surly-looking of them stepped aside. Gord wondered at this until he noticed that the cart had a number of wickedly pointed spikes protruding from its forepart. A few hundred paces later brought them to the plaza called Faire Market, and at the upper end were the Hostel of Ineffable Comfort, Sogil the Gemner's shop, and a half dozen other places that Gord could not identify.

"I'll do that!" Chert fairly roared as Yagbo made to carry the chest into the hostel. The huge barbarian hoisted the heavy box as if it were no heavier than a trunk full of clothing, although bronzewood and coin must have weighed two hundred pounds.

"Yagbo doesn't mind," the fellow said with a gap-toothed grin. He scuttled crabwise between the two and opened the door. There he remained, scratching his unshaven jowls expectantly with his left hand, the other grubby member held forth to receive a coin.

Gord flipped him a silver noble with a grand flourish as the pair entered the narrow lobby of the place. Chert set the big coffer down carefully on the thick carpet, peering around as he did so. The hostel was richly furnished and displayed several valuable-looking works of art.

"May I serve your needs, worthy sirs?" a smooth voice inquired.

Startled, both Gord and Chert turned to face the sound. A tall, exceptionally thin man had somehow appeared behind the counter of polished rosewood to the right of the chamber. "We seek a suite of rooms for the night," Gord said without evidencing his surprise.

"We are. . somewhat crowded this evening, but I believe I can provide you with suitable accommodations. Please register, and I will have Yagbo carry your trunk to your suite meanwhile."

"I carry that," Chert said, placing one foot on the bronzewood container as he scrawled his mark on the vellum page the thin man had placed before him on the counter.

"Hmmm. Just so. Yagbo said you preferred to manage it yourselves, but we must always extend every courtesy to our guests. And this is your first visit to Weird Way?"

"Why do you ask?" Gord demanded suspiciously.

"No reason, no reason at all — other than to describe the finer services and accommodations that we at the Hostel of Ineffable Comfort offer!" The fellow then described the drinks and meals available, clothes-cleaning and tailoring services offered while guests took their repose, and various and sundry other offices that the hostel could provide.

"What are these Gedrusian Exotic Dancers?" Chert asked as they approached the door that led to their quarters.

"Never mind," Gord said sternly to the lanky fellow. "My friend tends to be overzealous. but we are tired and have a full day on the morrow. Simply show us our chambers."

"Here you are." the fellow said, ushering Gord and the glum-faced barbarian into a large parlour. There is only one bed," he continued as he led the pair into the adjoining room. "But notice how large it is."

"I care not for a bedstead of heavy iron," Chert said, eyeing the thing distrustfully and shaking his head.

"Ah, but notice the fine feather mattress and down pillows. Do you know that this device — bed, that is, was created by the renowned Procrustes himself?"

"No. We don't like this suite at all," Chert replied over the protests of their tall, thin host. "Be so good as to show us another, or we will take our custom elsewhere."

"Well, I have a very fine set of chambers, what we call the Burke and Hare Suite, but it is quite expensive."

"Bugger the cost!" Chert said forcefully. "Show us that place now."

Gord disliked the thick, padded canopies of the beds in the Burke and Hare Suite, and neither adventurer cared much for the cramped suite the proprietor identified as the Bates complex. Finally, after much muttering and exasperation, the lanky fellow settled them in a large, ordinary room. The bed was smallish, but each took his turn sleeping while the other kept vigil. Neither Gord nor Chert felt at ease in the hostel despite the claims and services offered. An hour before dawn. Gord detected a faint draft. Grasping the pommel of his enchanted blade, he peered around the room, using the dweomer of the sword to see in the pitch blackness as if it were a normally lit place. The room remained pitch dark to any who did not hold the enchanted blade.

Yagbo stood in a newly revealed opening in the wall near the head of the bed. With him was another man who, if anything, was less savory than the rascally porter. Each had a cloth tied over his face and a wad of lint clasped in hand. Yagbo was unstopper-ing a flask, bent on pouring its contents into the wad of lint each held. Gord could see fumes rising as the stuff issued from the bottle. Yagbo worked with swiftness, and as soon as both balls of stuff were soaked, he and his villainous associate pitched them onto the bed where Chert's head was, and where Gord's should have been. Chert groaned softly, tossed, and then began to breathe most heavily and unnaturally.

That does for ‘em!" whispered the porter with an evil chuckle. "Light the candle and we'll tie 'em up nice and tight for Plincourt's supper!"

Holding his breath, Gord stepped to the bed and skewered the nearest ball of lint on the point of his shortsword. He flicked it through the air with unerring aim. The wet, fuming clump of fiber took Yagbo full in the face and hung for a heartbeat before dropping. As the soggy mass slid down to gravity's will, Yagbo's eyes bulged, his hands clutched at his throat, and he wheezed forth a croaking cry of agonized defeat.

"Wazzamatter?" the other would-be killer whispered as he looked up from the sputtering stub of candle he held. "Youse trussin' ‘em already, Yagbo?"

The needle-sharp point at his throat, pressed just hard enough to cause a bead of crimson to drip forth, answered his query. "If you move so much as an eyelid, I’ll put this point through your neck!" Gord said. "Now, kneel — slowly!"

The trembling scoundrel complied without a sound, crumbling to the floor, and Gord soon had him flat upon his stomach, hands folded behind his neck, chin set so that the fellow's eyes were upon him, allowing Gord to move to the bed to ascertain his friend's condition. Chert was evidently in a comatose slumber, for he made no response to a sharp pinch upon the earlobe.

"What is the effect of the drug you and Yagbo administered?" Gord demanded.

The prone man started to move as he replied, then felt the tip of Gord's blade at the base of his spine. "It causes drugged sleep for at least an hour, maybe two," he said in a strained whisper.

"What were you going to do after tying us?"

"Tie youse guys? Naw, we was just gonna- "

The pressure of the weapon caused him to gasp in pain, but Gord ignored that. "If you lie to me once more, I'll sever your spine, then work on the upper part of you for good measure — but slowly! What was your plan?"

"Hang ya up fer da vampire. He'd have us dump youse down da old cistern when he'd finished wid ya. Da trunk goes to Plincourt, too."

"Plincourt? Who is that?"

"Plincourt's da guy who runs dis place at night. He hires us to get greenies and pays us a nifty thirty nobles each to do dat."

"Who are the friends of this Plincourt?" Gord asked, leaning a little on his sword as he said it.

"Ow! Easy. easy. I'm tellin youse the truth! Plincourt hangs 'round wid joe and a se'edy trollop called Fritzie — dat's about it."

"Joe? is that the merchant?" Gord saw the man nod vigorously, so he went on. "What about the owner of this place? is he in on the scam?"

"Shaz, no! if Huskons knew what was goin’ on, he'd have all of our arses!"

"So it shall be," Gord murmured softly as he jammed the still damp wad of lint under the prone man's nose. A surprised gasp, a cough, and the fellow was out. Gord proceeded to tear the linen from the bed into long strips with which he bound both criminals, making the ties as tight and uncomfortable as possible. Taking water from the ewer on the stand, the young thief then splashed it generously on Chert's face. But the cold liquid had no effect on the slumbering barbarian. Nor did pinching, poking, slapping or punching. "Guess I'm just going to have to tend to matters myself," Gord grumbled.

It took some doing, but the slender rogue finally managed to drag the sleeping killers into the secret passage. The candle showed the space to be about three feet wide and several yards long. At its end was a narrow stone stair that descended into a tight spiral. Being quiet but none too gentle, the adventurer managed to get his burdens to the bottom of the flight without undue noise. Gord found that he and his sleeping nuisances were in the cellar of the hostel. After very little exploration he entered an ordinary storeroom through the hinged back of an old cupboard.

There is where they dispose of the corpses," Gord said to himself upon spotting a large, open shaft in the center of the chamber. The cover had been moved aside in anticipation of the duo's demise. Gord shuddered. He dragged the bodies of his would-be assassins through the deceptive cupboard door and over to the edge of the cistern. "Now isn't this convenient?" he asked his sleeping prisoners. "Youse guys were considerate enough to leave me some rope with which to hang you." And with that the two unconscious thugs were trussed and suspended over the gaping cistern. "Have a nice sleep, guys, because you're going to wake up to a hell of a nightmare!" Gord chuckled and gave the hanging bodies a shove.

By the time the young thief returned to the room he shared with his friend, the groggy hillman was just beginning to come around. "One more time," Gord said as he tossed more water on the surprised fellow's head.

"What the hell?" Chert jumped to his feet but quickly fell back on the bed. "Who's been messing with my brain?" he asked, holding his head in both hands. His friend resisted the urge to reply sarcastically and, instead, briefly related the past hour's events. Although he was still somewhat lightheaded from the drug, the hillman readily agreed with Gord's suggestion that the two immediately pay Plincourt a visit.

They crept up the main stairs and cautiously entered a room that was obviously the kitchen. It was quiet and deserted, although a lantern burned, indicating that someone was probably nearby. Taking the closest exit, Gord led the way to a refectory with two passages leading from it. This time the adventurers opted for the narrower way. In a minute they had stolen up to a small room that was the hostel's office. Plincourt was there, hunched over a small table reading a scroll by candlelight. He spoke without looking up. "Come in, Yagbo, and bring the trunk, but be forewarned. If you and Lou have rifled it I will be very angry."

Without hesitation. Gord sprang into the room, swinging his shortsword so as to strike the long head of the rail-like Plincourt with its flat side, stunning him. As fast as he was, Gord missed the blow, for somehow Plincourt had sensed the attack. He ducked, turned, and leaped erect in one smooth motion.

"Thunderation!" Chert exclaimed, now fully conscious and wishing he wasn't. Following his friend's lead, the brawny barbarian had also entered the office ready to use dagger, pommel and fist to finish the work that Gord initiated. What he saw made him tear free his axe with haste, giving the sign to ward off the evil eye as he did so.

Plincourt was facing his attackers. "Welcome! I am feeling hungry and regretting the spilling of blood. . uselessly." he sneered, glaring at the two young adventurers with his burning red eyes and licking his fangs all the while.

"Vampire!" Gord hissed.

"No shit." Chert, said, hefting his axe and swinging it a little so that it emitted a reassuring hum.

Plincourt chuckled softly at the reaction he had evoked in the pair. "Let us chat a while, friends, rather than use ugly aggression. I am willing to forgive and forget, so let us be comrades," he said softly, gazing at first Gord, then Chert.

"Beware his eyes!" Chert called to his friend.

Gord had already acted, however, even as the barbarian spoke. He took out the symbol of Fharlanghn given to him by his druid friend, Curley Greenleaf, and held it before his eyes.

"Put that filthy thing away!" Plincourt demanded as his gaze swept from the bigger man back to Gord once again.

"This?" Gord asked ingenuoiisly, thrusting the symbol toward the vampire as he spoke.

Plincourt recoiled, clawing at the holy disc that Gord held in both hands. Thus distracted, the vampire failed to notice the steely blur of Chert's great axe as it sang toward him. Brool bit deep into the undead monster's chest, causing the vampire to stagger and throwing him back against the wall.

"And this!" Gord shouted as he thrust his own weapon full into Pllncourt's skinny body.

Plincourt shrieked, a piercing scream much resembling the cry of a monstrous bat. He tore the axe from the hands of the dumbfounded barbarian, reversed it, and hurled it toward Chert's face. "Now you, small man!" the vampire said with a growl, darting forward to grapple with Gord.

The long, thin frame rushed at him, but Gord had already withdrawn his blade and was dancing back, point before him on guard. The sign of Fharlanghn hung free around his throat, and the supple thief’s free hand now held his long poinard as main gauche. He spat at the horrible visage of the vampire as it rushed toward him. "No easy foe here!" and then struck again twice at the exposed form, thrusting sword into Plincourt's abdomen, dagger into throat. "These fangs drink blood too!"

The force of his own furious lunge carried the vampire into the darting blades. Plincourt groaned and jerked back from the pain which the dweomered steel conveyed to his unnatural body. Eyes blazing, mouth set in a horrific snarl, he screamed. "For that I will make your death slow and painful, your afterlife one of degrading service to me!"

Gord laughed and taunted him, buying time for his friend. Chert had moved so as to avoid the full force of his own weapon, but the heavy axe had torn a gash in his forehead and stunned him. Gord saw the barbarian out of the corner of his eye, risen to one knee now, and holding Brool once again. At that moment, Plincourt launched himself at Gord in another furious assault.

"Penwolf!" Chert boomed, shouting his clan war-cry as he stood erect and swung his axe from his hip in one, smooth motion. Brool sang like an angry hornet as it arced from the floor to strike the lunging vampire in the upper torso. The edge nearly severed Pllncourt's extended arm. and the force of the blow skewed the vampire's lanky form toward the left where Gord's shortsword waited.

"Die. undead thing!" Gord said from between clenched teeth as he thrust the blade forward to pierce the vampire's body in a blow that sank past collarbone through chest and protruded from Plincourt's back.

Plincourt jerked backward, alive somehow despite the terrible wounds inflicted upon his unnatural form. Right arm hanging limp and useless, the vampire held up his left hand, saying, "Wait! Before you slay me consider the wealth I could bestow upon you!"

Chert hesitated, his great axe poised at shoulder height. Still recovering from the vampire's last lunge. Gord, too, slowed his attack at the creature's words. As Gord watched, however, the vampire's form seemed to grow translucent and hazy. What was happening?

"Quickly. Strike!" The young thief shouted to his friend, for he suspected some trick on Plincourt's part.

Too late. Brool flashed through the air and swept through the insubstantial form of the vampire — uselessly. The smoky shape wavered, coalesced upon its core, and swirled, shrinking and pouring downward through a space beneath the floorboards.

"He escaped!" Chert cried.

Gord sheathed his dagger and loosed the holy disc from around his neck, placing it over the crack through which Plincourt had vaporized. "The monster is somewhere below — let him stay there!" He looked around the disheveled room. "So, what have we got here?"

Both adventurers rapidly searched the small office, but found nothing there save a small box filled with coins of little value, notes, some bills, and the scroll that Plincourt had been studying when they had attempted to take him by surprise. Chert scooped the coins into his purse while Gord rolled up the scroll, tied it fast, and thrust it into his pouch for perusal at a more convenient time. Then they departed the small room hurriedly, Gord grabbing his necklace from the floor as he went.

"It is nearly dawn," the barbarian muttered as they came to the foyer. "Let's hasten upstairs, get our gold, and leave this place forever!"

"Wait a moment," Gord said, and proceeded to search behind the rosewood counter. A few minutes later he had found what he sought. The thick book that they had registered in laid open on the counter's polished wooden top. "There!" he said, with satisfaction as he ripped out the page that contained his signature and Chert's mark. "That will make things more difficult for any who seek our identity."

Both men bounded upstairs then, and upon entering their chambers went to work. The gold and platinum coins were bagged in lots of one hundred, each group housed within a small, leather sack. Using the blankets off the bed they made two bundles. Gord carried one. Chert the other, as they departed the Hostel of Ineffable Comfort.

"What of Yagbo and his crony?" Chert asked.

"I have a feeling they're going to turn up missing — tsk, tsk." Gord clucked his tongue and shrugged, then burst into laughter. The huge hillman grinned and with a jaunty step followed his friend.

The pale light of the milky dawn revealed a number of establishments surrounding the plaza. The lights of the previous night had been insufficient to show these places when the two had peered into Falre Market from the street below.

"No ways leading out," Chert nodded grimly.

"A teahouse there, the Fragrant Blossom, should serve to get us out of sight," Gord replied. "See, a scullion is removing the shutters, and the house will be open for business in a minute. We'll be safe enough there until Sogll the Gemner is ready to show his wares!"

"Safe? What of Pllncourt and the rest? Surely there will be a hue and cry raised soon!"

"Bah! Plincourt won't be out and about Weird Way until night falls — he's a vampire, remember — and who else is to accuse us of misdoing? Yagbo? His scabrous associate Lou? Whoever comes in to run that hostel when Plincourt must retire is probably as guilty as the others."

"But you told me that thug said only Plincourt was in the murderous scheme along with Yagbo and Lou," Chert contended.

"Nonsense. I knew it for a lie the moment I heard it but considered it immaterial to our needs. Let's continue our discussion over a mug of alder-root tea — and some breakfast too, perhaps. This running about and fighting has given me a superb appetite!"

Chert nodded and pulled his hood up so as to conceal the wound on his forehead. Although Gord had wiped it clean, and the smears and splatters as well, the gash was obviously a recent one. It might draw unwanted attention if not concealed. A bit of hair and the hood's shadow did the trick.

Several other patrons entered the tea house and took seats at the small tables filling the room. None were suspicious-looking or near enough to overhear the conversation, so the two adventurers discussed their options over their breakfast.

"Try the whortleberry muffins 'n butter!" Chert exclaimed through a mouth stuffed with the very food he recommended. "So, what's next?" he mumbled, spewing crumbs over the tabletop.

Brushing bits of muffin from before him, Gord detailed the plan. "It is certain that we must reduce the bulk of our gain to some portable commodity. At Sogil's we'll buy two essentially equal pieces of jewelry, agreed?" The barbarian nodded his agreement, so Gord continued. "We must then locate a means of egress. Mind, I am not in a hurry to leave this safe haven, but I like not the feeling of being trapped. We must find an egress prior to really exploring the whole of Weird Way."

"Sound reasoning." said the giant hillman as he spooned honey atop a bowl filled with semolina gruel topped with green figs and swimming in thick, yellow cream, "Some porridge?"

Gord demurred, breaking off a bit of rusk and flavoring it with a thin layer of black current jelly before nibbling it. After sipping the astringent infusion he had ordered, the young thief finished his exposition. "It seems certain that we have discovered a place where we are free from the filth who hounds us. With luck, we can find quarters here in Weird Way and use them as a base of operations. There is also much of interest here. Despite our unpropitlous start, and I mean Yagbo, the hostel, and that blood-sucker Plincourt, this might prove our most favorable occurrence."

"I'll say!" Chert said happily, sinking his teeth into a leg of fowl. "And despite the number of odd-looking folk about the place, most of the girls are absolute smashers!"

"Brother!"

"Yes, we are brothers indeed!" The barbarian nodded, not looking up from his trencher. "But, ah, we have at least another hour before the gem shop is open, so what say we order more food, brother? I'm famished!"

Eventually the third hour arrived, and with it came old Sogil. Gord and Chert were loitering outside his shop, and the gemner eyed them suspiciously. "Do you have any business with me?" he demanded, fingering an oddly shaped brooch he wore at his neck.

"Are you Sogil the Gemner?" asked Gord.

"None other indeed," the bald jeweler said.

"Then we have business for certain!" exclaimed the barbarian.

This was nearly too much for the skinny ancient, for he doddered back with a look of fear on his face, and his fingers fumbled to unclasp the apparently enchanted brooch.

"You don't need protection from us, we simply wish to buy from you," Gord said with haste, as he took out a sack of coins and shook it. "Something very expensive."

Relief flooded the merchant's countenance. "Ah, I understand! Your gains are in coin and you wish small items of high value instead. This is easily accommodated. Come in!"

Sogil attempted to sell the two all sorts of exotic and unknown stuff, but neither showed the least bit of interest. After this tack failed, the conniving fellow tried to foist off gemstones at ten times their actual worth. This again met with no success, so he got down to basics.

"What do you desire?"

"Two pieces of identical value. Each must be salable to any jeweler for not less than five thousand gold — orbs, I mean. The pieces should be set with many fine stones salable separately, and the stones must be diamonds, emeralds, jacinths, rubies or the like. For these two pieces we will pay seven thousand in gold and four thousand in platinum," Gord finished flatly.

"How do I profit from such a sale?" the gemner asked querulously.

"The margin is small, I admit," the young thief said. "But how often do you sell goods of such value? The gold that you clear from this deal will operate this shop and keep you in style for a good year — if not longer!"

Sogil grumbled and cursed under his breath, but he went into the back room and returned with a velvet-covered tray. He set this down on the counter and flipped open the covering. Revealed was an exquisite ensemble of jewelry: necklace, bracelet, diadem, earrings, and ring, all in gold and set with square-cut diamonds and emeralds of great size and clarity. The gems seemed to flash and sparkle a? the two adventurers gazed at them.

"Wonderful," Gord said laconically. "May we see the remainder at this time as well?"

Sogil tottered off, doing his best to stamp disgustedly in the process, but he was simply too decrepit to manage anything effective in this vein. Eventually he brought forth more trays from the mysterious back room. Finally an agreement was made, and Gord and Chert handed over their bundles of coins. While the ancient gemner counted them carefully, the pair of adventurers examined their newly purchased fortune in gems and jewelry.

Chert took the diamond and emerald jewelry set and a dozen precious stones of unparalleled clarity and color. Gord had similar jewelry set with sapphires, a ruby the size of a small egg, a pouch of black pearls, and various other gems as well. Each then selected a brooch for his cape, a rich thumb ring, and picked up small silver coffers filled with miscellaneous lesser stones. "Done?" they inquired in unison.

"Be gone," Sogil cried, still fondling the coins as he counted.

"I wonder where all this wealth came from," Chert mused. "And how it found its way to that old fart's establishment."

"A place ideal for the likes of us," his companion said softly.

"Yes, I get your drift," agreed the barbarian as he strode through the bright sun of mid-morning toward the street known as Weird Way.

Noon came and they had made no progress toward their first objective. Simply put, neither Gord nor Chert could find a way to escape the confines of Weird Way. The portal at its end, identical to the one they had entered through, did not yield when Gord tried using the coin he still held in his possession. "Apparently the way out of this place is as strange as the way in — but not identical," Gord said dejectedly. Not a single building — and they had managed to explore a few — had a rear exit. Each opened onto Weird Way and nowhere else. "Let's try the rooftops," Gord said in exasperation.

"What can we lose?" Chert shrugged.

Gord had a sinking feeling, but he strode jauntily toward a narrow opening between two of the nearby buildings. The space was a gangway between the two structures, opening onto a small courtyard. Sure enough, on each side of the courtyard were stairs leading to apartments on the upper floors and above. Three storeys later, both adventurers stood on the roof. There were dovecots, small gardens, lines of washing, and the like. By positioning themselves just right, they could see a good bit of Weird Way. Beyond the area. In the place where adjacent buildings should be, where Greyhawk was, there was a wall of impenetrable, colorless nothingness. Sunlight came through but nothing else.

"Trapped!" Chert growled, desperation keening in his voice.

"Use your head, man!" Gord exclaimed. "How can we be trapped here? Look at all the people — and other creatures too — that we see down there. The plaza is jam-packed with shoppers. The public houses are full. There are more living things here than will fit into these buildings, and they come and go somehow!"

"They must all know something we don't, then," Chert sighed, hefting his massive axe.

"Possibly some do," his comrade agreed, "and we will just have to acquire this information for ourselves, now, won't we?" He nudged his gloomy friend in a playful manner. Chert managed a weak grin and Gord continued. "Mark you the gate area," he said, taking Chert and turning him so he faced the end of Weird Way. "Wait for two minutes and tell me how many folks you see coming and going in" the space of time."

Chert squinted and watched for almost two full minutes before asking, "Is the time up?"

"Close enough," Gord replied. "Now, how many did you see?"

"Six leaving, two seeming to come."

"Passage through that portal is too cumbersome for all to use. Besides, would not the folk of the city notice such a stream of pedestrians — especially strangers of such unusual nature as these — coming and going from the Old City's less frequented sector? There must be other places from which to come and go!" Gord exclaimed, hope rising in his voice. The iron portal is controlled by some magic. and I am convinced that all other means of entrance and egress are also tied to some dweomercraeft."

"Agreed," Chert said glumly. "But can we discover it? There's the rub."

"With all the traffic that flows in and out of this place? Come now, my giant friend, how can we not?" Gord chided as he clapped the barbarian on his muscular shoulder. "We just have to think a bit."

"In that case, I’m going to sit down. Thinking wears me out," Chert said half-heartedly.

Gord stayed where he was, taking in the aerial view of Weird Way and its establishments. "How can one person be so bereft of his senses?" the young thief suddenly cried, hitting the side of his head with his open palm.

"Hey! Insulting me isn't going to make me think any faster!" Chert protested. "In fact, that kind of talk may cause your own brain to suffer some serious damage if I have half a mind to use your head as a stomping ground, which I just might decide is worth the effort."

Gord laughed. "No, you idiot. I was referring to my own mental abilities." He pulled the confused barbarian to his feet. "Look, down that way, what do you see?"

"A crowded street with strange-looking people, so what?"

"No, no, no! Look at the sign across the way. We didn't know what we were looking for. Now we do. If you could discern the written word half as well as you can — Oh, never mind. The sign I'm referring to proclaims the edifice to be the 'Pavilion of Portals'. What quest could be simpler?"

"Perhaps," Chert said with a ring of doubt in the word. Patting the steely bit of Brool for reassurance, the great barbarian followed his slender companion down the stairs and back into Weird Way.

Streams of people were leaving and entering the Pavilion of Portals. The broad double doors were shaded by the wide portico that ran the entire length of the large, plastered building. The whole had an exotic air, with its strange columns, tent-like roof and tower tops, and the draped windows and entrance. It was cool and dim inside, with the faint hum of conversations and comings and goings to be heard. Broad corridors led left, right and ahead. The marble walls and tiled floors seemed to lead away endlessly.

"May I be of assistance?" inquired the owner of a high-pitched voice.

Both men turned quickly. The speaker was a spidery gnome dressed in tailored livery of apple red and saffron which displayed many modish puffs and slashes that revealed flashes of contrasting colors. Gord nodded and replied. "Yes, I believe you can be of service." he said handing the gnome an electrum coin.

The gnome tucked the lucky into his pouch without expression. "Pray tell?"

"We are considering the utilization of your. . services. Be so kind as to enumerate them for our edification," the young thief instructed the spidery servitor — if indeed he was not the proprietor.

"Novices to the Way, I see," the little gnome squeaked. "Well, your worships have certainly come to the right place!" he added with enthusiasm. "Unlike some of our competitors, the Pavilion serves the main parallels — and a few of the trunk lines, of course — of the multiverse. We have no trunk with the unhospitable planes, off byways, dead-end dimensions and the like. No, sirs!"

Taking them by the arms with his gnarled hands, the colorfully garbed gnome led Gord and Chert a few paces along the corridor. He gestured to a strange maze of shifting lines and glowing, pastel-colored dots displayed on the wall of an alcove. "There, see? All the routes that our gates serve are shown here. Fares are given in credits, domars, and sequins, as well as the standard precious metals, as displayed to right and left."

Chert stared wordlessly at the display. Gord nodded, pretending to study and understand the complex depiction.

"Would this perhaps deposit us within the City of Greyhawk?" Gord asked as casually as he could.

"Never, good sir!" the gnome reassured him.

"Oerik?"

"Of course not!"

"Any other of the towns or principalities of the Flanaess?"

With an expression of pain showing clearly, the gnome drew himself up to his full three feet and said. "This establishment provides safe and convenient travel to safe destinations along every proper line. Our record is nearly accident-free, and not even a major scrambling of fluxes would bring such disaster to our patrons!" he squeaked indignantly.

"Ahem!" Gord managed.

Chert just looked confused and scratched his mop of curly hair reflectively.

"Do you hail from Yarth? Aerth?" the little fellow asked in a barely restrained horrified tone. Gord and Chert exchanged glances and said nothing, prompting the little fellow to conclude hurriedly. "I must be off, for there is much business to attend to." As he scuttled away, the gnome called back over his shoulder. "Gates are clearly identified with sigils that correspond to those you see. You'll have no trouble finding one you desire — unless, of course, you wish to travel to lands this establishment does not see as being worthy of visiting!" And with that he turned a comer and disappeared.

"Now what?" demanded Chert.

"I was wondering just that," his friend replied.

The barbarian snorted. "It is certain that we have no need to use any of the gates that gnome raved about. They will carry us only to some other place from which we know not how to escape!"

"You speak the truth, I fear," Gord said somberly. "It seems that this place is a nexus for travel to the probabilities common to our own existence."

"What?"

"The portals lead to parallel planes similar to our own — the Prime Material, as we call it on Oerth."

"Oh," the huge barbarian said in a subdued tone, for he understood that. "That explains why there are so many oddly dressed folk and unnatural creatures here."

Gord motioned toward the entranceway behind^ them. "Let's try our luck elsewhere. We now know where humans and demi-humans enter and leave this pocket-sized place. Somewhere are the gates that lead to more alien planes, too."

"And our world?"

"If we eliminate all else, we will find the way. There are certainty a fair number of folk from the Flanaess treading Weird Way. After all, we have noted Aerdians. citizens of Dyvers, Kettites and other Westerners, and an odd Frusti or two. Some establishment here serves to transport these folk to and from their own countries," Gord asserted.

"But what if they merely use the tokens as we did?" Chert asked.

"Then we find the gate that leads to Greyhawk and acquire an 'exit' token in much the same manner as we got our hands on the magical disc that got us in here in the first place." -

"Yuuch! Don't you remember what else we got our hands on when we 'acquired' the key to unlocking that enchanted gate?" Chert asked, screwing up his face so badly his friend had to laugh.

"If you walk around looking like that we may not need to leave. Chert. Why, you fit right in with all the rest of the strange folks here!" Chert changed his expression to a menacing one, and Gord continued to chuckle off and on again as the two searched the business district of Weird Way for a travel agency that could provide them passage to Greyhawk.

The Pagoda of Pools was the department for extraplanar travel, as well as the means to access the upper, lower, and similarly removed planes. Eventually the pair discovered that the Explorer's inn also provided a service that allowed its customers to chronogate time and the more unusual probability lines as well. All the other establishments along Weird Way were as they seemed, more or less. Chert looked grim, but Gord was still jaunty.

"Loath as I am to reveal our inexperience and ignorance, I believe it is time to find a knowledgeable and willing denizen of the way to enlighten us," he said to his friend. "What say. Chert?'

The barbarian eyed the sinking sun and nodded. "I agree, and we'd better do so within the hour. I like not the prospect of another night here with a v vengeful vampire seeking usl"

Back in Faire Market, the two strode amidst the riot of vendors shouting the virtues of their wares until they saw a maroon-and-citrine-draped booth that offered vintages of unusual sort. A banner above the booth read "Rare Wine at Bargain Prices." And judging from the throng of customers surrounding the booth, this claim was justified.

A few copper commons bought each of the adventurers a sample, and as they drank the ruby-hued stuff — port, so it was called — they casually surveyed their fellow patrons. Chert spied a gaudily attired Suloise in a double-peaked hat of fuchsia.

"Isn't that the sort of foppish headgear currently vogue in Rel Mord?" he asked, nudging Gord and nodding toward the dandy.

"So I hear. Let's see if we can strike up a conversation."

The fellow was making strange faces as they moved nearer, and he spat a mouthful of wine upon the ground just as they sidled near.

"Well, sir?" asked the purple-fingered merchant.

"Grids! That is a fine vintage! Yes, it opens suddenly, a saucy wine with full body and a blush of arrogance. Is that quolberries I detect a hint of?"

"Possible, although some experts have suggested essence of flowering ogshayallsbay. . "

The fellow took another sip, made a moue with his lips, and nodded. "Perhaps, perhaps. No matter, I should like a cart with two tuns of this ready to go within the hour. It suits my needs perfectly!" He paid over a number of coins to the vintner, and the bargain was struck.

Suppressing a desire to relieve the fop of his dangling purse, the young thief spoke. "Your pardon, sir. but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation just now. I am struck by your seemingly astute knowledge of fine wine!" Gord said with a deferential air. "You are from fair Nyrond, are you not?"

"Yes, Rel Mord, more exactly," the man said, looking down his nose as Gord spoke. "And you are a citizen of Greyhawk, unless I miss my mark." His tone of voice left no doubt that Greyhawk was a less than desirable place to be a native of, and that he could not conceive of missing his mark.

"Indeed, sir! Your perceptlveness continues to astound me. Small wonder, I suppose, Nyrond being the center of culture, and its capital being the very heart and spirit of world affairs," the young thief said with admiration ringing in his voice.

The daintily clad fellow smiled condescendingly at that. "True, quite so. It surprises me, sir. that such knowledge is common in the provinces!"

"Such knowledge is not common, sir!" Gord said with an air of combined haughtiness and courtesy. "Know that I have traveled as far as Urnst, and there I gained much intelligence about the true state of affairs in our world. But that is no matter, for I wished to inquire if you would be so kind as to assist me in selecting an extraordinarily fine wine."

"Well, I suppose I could provide some coun-"

"Wonderful! You are most kind, sir." Gord smiled, bowed slightly, and went on "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Master Drogo, and this is my man, Furd," he finished, waving toward Chert. "A lout, to be sure, but most useful as a bodyguard."

Chert scowled at that, stepping toward Gord. "There is a certain bullishness about him that is effective, I'll grant." the fellow said as he put the slender thief more directly between himself and the glowering barbarian. He eyed Gord once again, appraising his dress and bearing carefully. "I am Lord Maheal, Szek of Dohou-Yohpe. Please feel free to call me Your Lordship, Master Drogo."

"An honor indeed. Lord Maheal," Gord said dryly. "Do you come to Weird Way often?"

"To be blunt, no. This is hardly the place for persons of quality, if you catch my drift," the Nyrondel aristocrat replied. "Frankly, my dear uncle, Lord Fizziak, sent me here to acquire certain items for a banquet and revel he is hosting — the king himself will attend, you know!"

Gord nodded, a look of sympathy playing across his features. "Indeed, the place is trying, but one must do one's duty for king and uncle!"

"Quite correct," Lord Maheal agreed curtly, resolution evident in his entire being.

"As a nobleman of such quality, your time is most precious, so I will not presume upon you more than is necessary for me to be enlightened. Let me assay the vintages." With that, Gord perused the shelves until he noted a bottle of most unusual nature resting on a shelf at the back of the booth. He signaled the wine merchant to bring him a bottle. "Are you familiar with the harvest that yielded this liquid?" he asked the foppish Maheal.

The dolt seemed highly impressed. "Most dear!" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Superb selection, sir," the merchant confirmed with emotion as he caressed the dusty green bottle. "This is a 1947 Margeaux Margeaux — are you familiar, then, with the Bordeaux wines of Earth?"

"Ahhmmm," Gord replied noncommittally, peering at the undecipherable inscriptions that covered the parchment glued to portions of the container. "So rare a vintage as this cannot, of course, be sampled. I presume?"

"Impossible." the merchant agreed sadly.

"Ah, but the chateau, the vintage, the bottling are all too well-known to require further exploration of what is already known as gospel, Master Drogo!" Lord Maheal assured the devious would-be connoisseur.

"How many bottles have you?" asked Gord matter-of-factly.

"Just six, noble sir."

"What price for the half dozen, then?"

The plump merchant stammered. "A single bottle sells for" — he paused here to assess Gord's origin — "ten gold orbs. I … I cannot reduce the price even though you take the lot, for each is a jewel, a treasure!"

"Certainly, my good man, I concur." Gord nodded in agreement. "That comes to sixty orbs, then."

Lord Maheal stared in astonishment as Gord brought forth his purse and counted out twenty plates and thirty-eight orbs. "Do pack them carefully, but leave one separate, for I wish to bestow it as a gift"

The merchant made haste to comply. Chert, meanwhile, was in shock at his companion's extravagant, impulsive purchase. Knowing Gord's devious mind, however, the brawny barbarian managed to remain silent the whole time, playing his role of bodyguard to the hilt He glared at several curious onlookers, and they went away hastily. Then he moved to a position where he could protect Gord's back. Just then a grubby laborer appeared with a cart, and a pair of the wine merchant's assistants placed two wooden casks upon the vehicle.

"Your bottles of Margeaux are crated in straw and awaiting, sir," the fellow said somewhat sadly to Gord, obviously torn between parting with the nectar and making a hefty profit. "And one is wrapped separately as you instructed." Then, turning to Lord Maheal, he said perfunctorily, "And your twin tuns of Yugharian Purple are on that cart there — three luckies, six nobles, and a common for wine and hand truck."

Gord smiled and bent his knee slightly to Lord Maheal. "It is farewell then, Lord Maheal. You must be off, and my purchase is ready. Please accept this small gift as a token of my esteem," he concluded with a flourish and held forth the single bottle of Margeaux.

The nobleman stared fixedly at the proffered bottle for a moment, a mixture of emotions playing across his face. Suddenly Lord Maheal's face lit up, and he spoke warmly to Gord. "So pleasant an acquaintance must not be stifled in its infancy! I can not accept so generous a gift from a gentleman I scarcely yet know. Let us rectify this sorry pass by sharing a draught and viands at the Helix!" And before Gord could reply, Lord Maheal took the young thief smoothly by the arm and began steering him out of the emptying plaza. Your man Furd can handle both of our purchases, I'm sure."

"Just so!" Gord said in hearty comradeship as he strolled haughtily along with the Nyrondel nobleman. Cursing under his breath. Chert hastily placed the crate of wine atop the load on the two-wheeled cart and trundled after the receding pair.

The Helix was an exclusive club, evidently, and, as he feared when he learned the status of the establishment, Chert was relegated to the servant's, dining hall while Gord and Lord Maheal supped in the Grand Salon of the place. They had entered a garden through a plain doorway off the Way. The little space was quite lovely and shielded from view by a two-storey wall separating it from the street it formed the patio for the club building, which was a throne-shaped edifice with low wings and a tower in the middle. After passing through a guarded antechamber and climbing a wide, spiral stair to the second storey, Gord and his new friend marched off to their splendid repast.

Chert had been seated on a bench, given a small beer, and then fed a bowl of turnips and hog jowls swimming in a greasy broth, plus a lump of black bread with which to sop up the mess. He was disgruntled at first but the conversation in the drab chamber was open and lively. The huge hillman ended up making several acquaintances there, and when the meal was finished he and a group of five or six others moved to a corner where they could gamble undisturbed.

"Chert!" The insistence in the call was unmistakable and immediately broke through the barbarian's concentration on the game. He looked around and saw Gord just inside the door of the hall. Gord beckoned urgently, and Chert stood up and strode to where his slight comrade waited.

"Tired of fine fare and noble talk already?"

"Spare me your sarcasm. I have not learned as much as I had hoped, but I am invited to the festivities in Rel Mord. That gets us out of here, for you are coming as well of course."

"Strong backs are always needed for transportation of quantities of potables," Chert mused with thoughtful agreement "So how else could it be? Still, I have not exactly wasted my time either and have gleaned some valuable knowledge."

Gord interrupted impatiently, not allowing his brawny friend to say more. "No time for that now. Maheal excused himself to attend to privy needs but will return momentarily and-"

"Not so fast, Gord. Listen to me for once," Chert said forcefully. "I know now how to enter and exit this place without need of some vain twit from Nyrond to carry us as supercargo in order to gain the wine you squandered a fortune on."

"Squandered? How you talk!" Gord nearly shouted, ignoring the rest of what his towering companion had told him. "With thousands in our purses, no count of ones and tens need be taken!" he exclaimed with derision for such copper-clawing accountancy as the barbarian had suggested. Chert merely stared back at him, his eyes unwavering. After a moment Gord's face registered shock. "You've what?" he asked, grabbing the forearm of the silent hillman. "Did you say you know the ins and outs of Weird Way?"

"Yes, Gord," his friend said smugly. "But tell me, did someone come along in the last few seconds and clean out your ears without me noticing?"

"No need to be a smartass, even though I deserve it. Fill me in."

"What about Lord Maheal? Won't he miss you?" Chert asked innocently.

"Futter that fop. Holding the key to entering and leaving this place at will is of utmost importance to us." Gord replied earnestly.

Moments later, nobleman and game both forgotten, the pair were deep in conversation, hunched over the long board where Chert had recently eaten his unappetizing turnip supper. Chert was doing most of the talking, with Gord occasionally asking a question or interjecting a rueful exclamation. A quarter of an hour, perhaps more, passed before they concluded.

"I should have guessed it all along!" Gord said with anger directed at his lack of discernment.

Chert shook his great head. "Not so, my friend. The answer is not so easily gained without the bits and pieces of the puzzle to put together. You did well enough as it is, for had I not managed to find the key you, at least, had our leaving assured."

With an expression of wry disbelief, Gord arose from the bench and clasped the huge barbarian in an embrace. "Thanks, good friend, for your solid thinking and ever-toiling efforts. It is you who have saved the day, not I. Come on. Let's do what we must and be out of Weird Way for a time. This confined place makes me abridged in mind and spirit, it seems!"

The two were leaving, arm in arm, when Lord Maheal called out "Say, I say there! Master Drogo!"

"Time to give this perfumed popinjay something to bite on," Chert said with a grin as both men turned in his direction.

Gord assented and they walked up to the linen-covered table at which the lily-skinned aristocrat was seated, awaiting the return of the fellow he thought to be Master Drogo of the bottomless purse.

"What droll humor causes you to clasp your manservant's arm?" the noble Szek of Dohou-Yohpe asked crossly. "Furthermore, where have you been, Master Drogo? it is improper to leave a lord waiting alone while a common gentleman twaddles about with servants."

Chert was fairly beaming in anticipation, and Gord was readying his retort when a burning, itching feeling at the base of his skull distracted him. The young adventurer instinctively turned, and out of the corner of his eye saw two familiar figures. The more noticeable of the two was the ogrish creature they had encountered yesterday. With him, though, was the vampire, Plincourt. The latter figure flashed Gord a white-fanged smile when the slender thiefs eyes met his red-rimmed ones. Gord turned away hurriedly. Chert had failed to notice anything unusual.

"I say there, this appears to be the start of a very fine evening!" Plincourt said loudly to no one in particular and then added, "I do so love the night life!"

"Shit!" Gord exclaimed.

"I await your apology!" Maheal said petulantly.

"My good lord, you have it — and a thousand more!" said Gord.

Chert scratched his head in utter bewilderment, looking down at his comrade as if the darkly handsome young man had gone mad. Gord nudged his friend and tipped his head in Plincourt's direction.

"Double shit!" Chert bellowed, forgetting himself for the moment.

Leaving Maheal standing oaflshly with a strange expression of amazement on his countenance, Gord seated himself and said confidentially to the Nyrond nobleman. You see. Furd was my playmate and whipping boy as well when I was a lad. I allow him such familiarities and breaches of propriety for the sake of old times, as it were."

Shaking his head over the manners and customs of the folk of so rustic a community as Greyhawk, Lord Maheal thought of the five other bottles of Magoo, or whatever it was called, and the favorable impact it would have on his uncle and the king. The matter of impropriety could be settled later — after the wine was gone and the royal guest had departed. "I now understand," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Let us be off. The revel will not wait for dilatory persons!"

"At your service, your lordship." Gord said as he sprang up and assisted the scrawny aristocrat to his fashionably shod feet. As Maheal straightened his stylish hat, Gord gave a sign to Chert, directing the hillman's attention to the pair of diners glaring at them from a booth at the rear of the salon. As Chert now gaped even more foolishly at the sight revealed, Gord was whispering to the Nyrondel Szek. "You will note, my lord, that the poor fellow is not quite right in the head. I had to strike him once for disobedience, and I fear it was too severe a blow. Furd has been a bit hoddy in the peak ere since."

"Oh, ho," Maheal said thoughtfully, eyeing the barbarian as he slowly turned toward them again, his mouth working and a glazed look in his eyes. "It is much clearer now than before!"

"Absolutely, your lordship. As large and oxlike as he is now, I must occasionally humor his childlike mind, or else he might become violent and forget his station."

"Why keep such a dangerous brute then?" Lord Maheal demanded.

"Huh?" Chert grunted.

"He protects me as a mastiff would its master," Gord replied with a wise expression and a wink, and the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe nodded sagely.

"Come on, Furd, be livery now! His Lordship and I require your strong back in a very important matter." So saying, they left without further ado.

Gord had not planned to actually accompany the egotistical nobleman beyond the precincts of the Helix. Upon reaching the lovely garden with its myriad blooms and pattering fountain, however, his sixth sense made him turn and survey the building. For just an instant he saw a figure outlined against the warm light of the candles inside. The shape had been tall and very thin.

"Let us make all haste!" he shouted to the sweating Chert as that worthy strained under his load of wine casks and crate. "It is most inconsiderate to keep Lord Maheal from his appointment. Now hurry along!"

Chert uttered a garbled oath but quickened his pace, noting the direction of Gord's gaze. The noble Szek beamed at the just recognition of his station now being evidenced by the formerly lax Master Drogo, and he thought perhaps he would not be quite as harsh when it came time to set matters aright as he had originally determined.

"Yes, do show a bit of life there. . Furd," Maheal cried, brushing at his fuchsia velvet pantaloons as if to remove the dust of toil. "Our destination is right over there," Maheal went on, pointing toward a steep flight of narrow stone steps leading to the impenetrable darkness of the rooftops above.

"Up there?" Gord asked. "But the gate is-"

"Yes, dolt up there!" Maheal shot back. "That is where the turret is that leads to my beloved uncle's castle, and that is where we must go. What's this business about a gate?"

Soft footfalls sounded from behind them. Gord grasped Chert's bulging arm and thrust him ahead. "Utter nonsense on my part, of course, my Lord Maheal. Mind me not if my non-noble head sometimes becomes addled by noble doings." With that, he fairly dragged the startled Nyrondel aristocrat up the steps, crying out behind him as he did so. "Get a move on, Furd, or I shall have you caned when we reach our host's fair castle!"

Chert groaned and broke into a lurching run, for his keen hearing had likewise detected the stealthy sounds of approach, and he knew full well that these footsteps came from a rail-thin man and a man-like ogre bent on mischief and foul play, to say the least. "Gladly, Master Drogo!" the sweating barbarian called in reply as he somehow managed to take the steep risers three at a time.

Flustered and annoyed at being handled thus, Lord Maheal was thrust into the opening that he stated was the way to Lord Fizziak's castle in Rel Mord. He made up his mind to double the severity of the eventual lesson in manners he would teach this Drogo. Chert nearly bowled him over as he leaped into place hot on Gord's heels. Despite this, the fellow daintily withdrew a disc of reddish metal from inside his padded doublet and placed it upon the slabs of gneiss upon which all three men stood. "There, we are off to Uncle's!" he declared triumphantly. Just as they were wavering between the "here" of Weird Way and the "there" of Castle Fizziak, however, a snarling vampire and a roaring, ochre-complexioned ogre hurled themselves into the chamber and onto the massive block of stone.

"I say!" the stupefied nobleman managed to utter in a distant, fading voice.

"Oh, shit. ." Chert swore as his component atoms were dissolving into another plane.

Faintly, as if from a million miles away. Gord's voice began calling out a list of items essential to his predicament. "Holy symbols, blessed water, garlic, sharpened stake, mallet of wood. ." and then the small room was silent and empty.

The enspelled device was completely overloaded. Somehow its dweomer managed to draw the huge ogre and the vampire, Plincourt, along with the rest, but then its power failed. Objects began to pop into the splendid chateau called Castle Fizziak. The malfunction of the transportation magic was such that these objects were precipitated in an unexpected place. Instead of coming safety into the room that Lord Fizziak's mage had designed for the reception of such travelers, Gord, Chert, Maheal and the rest were suddenly dropped unceremoniously into the Great Hall.

The vaulted ceiling was sufficiently high to allow the sudden materialization without solid objects interfering. Thus, the precipitation involved no devastating explosion. Twenty odd feet beneath the ceiling a throng of nobles and courtiers were assembled to pay formal welcome and homage to the king, A sea of startled faces turned upward at the popping noise of the arriving objects. Startled shouts and screams followed as these objects began to plummet downward.

Casks of Yugharian Purple tumbled, hit, smashed and sent their contents spraying over rich robes and silken gowns. The case of straw-wrapped Mar-geaux struck an oaken table, and its bottles shot out to explode like grenades against walls and pillars. Chert had divested himself of these encumbrances as disintegration occurred, so they rematerialized accordingly, sailing in divergent arcs. Then the barbarian came crashing down upon a trestle laden with cakes and dainty pastries. Covered with icing and spangled with jam tarts, the hillman bounced upward from the spring of the planks and landed amid a half-dozen or so ladies in waiting. His fall brought all of these startled beauties down with him in a heap, appropriate cries and shrieks accompanying the tangle.

". . and a silver mirror," Gord finished even as he plunged downward. The young thief landed on his feet, knees bending to absorb the shock of the fall, then his entire body balled and he went rolling, striking a file of finely clad fops as if they were ninepins. Gord sprang to his feet, somewhat battered by the unexpected obstacles, reaching for sword and dagger as he came erect He had no idea where he was, and the bedlam around him convinced the young man that there was certainty trouble ahead. He was correct indeed. Gord had a moment to view the remainder of the dweomer's failure to materialize the group in the proper place. It was a stupefying spectacle.

Lord Maheal had landed head first in a great tub of plum pudding borne by four liveried servants. As they dropped the vessel, Maheal, feet kicking wildly, received another thump on the head and then sprawled full-length, bedecked with pudding, while the tub rolled away to crash into a silver cart, utterly ruining the delicate server and tossing its contents, fresh fruits, berries and thick cream, out to roll around and litter the already messy hall floor.

The bellowing ogre had sailed along an arc that sent dozens of noble lords and ladles unceremoniously upon their aristocratic rears before it terminated against a pillar. The sound was solid and meaty as the creature struck the marble post, but he somehow managed to stagger to his feet. Roaring and flailing his massive arms wildly, the monster tried vainly to discover the source of the outrage. This action was more than sufficient to cause a general panic. Velvet-clad courtiers fled screaming in all directions. This simply added to the already chaotic state within the great chamber and prevented the onrushing guardsmen from attacking the ogre. The stupefied creature was no real threat to anyone able to get out of his way. One of his thrashing arms struck the stone pillar, and a fresh bellowing of pain erupted from the ogre's massive chest As he hunched over and nursed the injured member to ease the smarting, Gord sprang into the area and delivered a swift and forceful kick to the monster's exposed rear. The ogre was knocked forward, head first. Again there was a meaty thump as his head struck solid marble. This time the monster stayed down. Feeling triumphant, the young thief spun to see what the fresh noise was all about.

Hissing and baring his fangs, the vampire Plincourt, unable to transform himself into bat form, had fallen from the air where he had suddenly appeared. Plincourt popped onto the scene directly above the upper end of the hall, the place where the king and his attendants, Lord Fizziak, and several noble priests were seated in state. The vampire landed squarely upon the lap of the Most Venerable Quinthup, Chief Cleric of All Nyrond. Reacting instinctively, the vampire sunk his inch-long fangs into the holy man's left thigh, even as the outraged cleric smote Plincourt a tremendous thump with the silver symbol of his exalted state, which he had been holding aloft ceremonially. Both vampire and chief cleric bore expressions of shock and horror at this exchange, but the Holy Father was the first to recover. He quickly proceeded to beat the vampire with his ancient and blessed divine relic while lesser priests surrounding the two hastened to add blessed water and various and sundry other sorts of attacks upon the undead creature. Plincourt, teeth viciously closed upon Quinthup's leg, was brought to a long-deserved end within a matter of moments. But Gord had no time to observe or enjoy the event.

Steel-clad guardsmen had finally managed to get through the wild, screaming press that filled the chamber. The young thief ducked a scything sweep of a halberd, only to be struck squarely on the temple by a chance stroke from the metal-shod butt of a second such weapon. Blackness descended, and the roaring swelled into a velvety silence. EscapingWeird Way had been accomplished, but even narrower confines now hedged them in. It was a sorry pass indeed.

Prisoners soon graced Lord Fizziak's dungeon cells, Gord among them, but he wasn't aware of his sad state for several hours. The king, hastening to get clear of the melee between priest and horrid-visaged vampire, gave a most unroyal bound. His feet came down squarely on top of the spilled fruit, skidded, reached the pool of rich cream laden with butlerfat, and left the floor in a relatively horizontal position. "Whoosh!" his majesty exclaimed as the exalted seat of power struck the marble tiles on the floor.

"I am undone!" wailed Lord Maheal.

"He, too, goes below!" his uncle commanded, glaring at the young Szek. "Perhaps the king will get over this — eventually — but it might require the removal of a few heads from their useless bodies!"

Lord Maheal was carried off after the others, wailing and pleading most piteously. Despite his loud blubbering, however, the foppish nobleman heard the voice of the king plainly enough.

"Heads? Heads, you say? A dozen will not be sufficient to compensate for my losses!" the monarch of Nyrond roared. "Guardsmen, to me! Who knows what further treachery is planned?"

Lord Fizziak hastened to make apologies while swarms of varlets went to work to restore order. Eventually the whole affair was smoothed over to some extent.

The inhabitants of the dungeon were not so fortunate, however, to escape from the confines.