Night Arrant

The House in the Tree

The big Roan stallion pranced and snorted, an overabundance of pent-up energy evident in every spasmodic thrust and quiver. The prospect of being released from the restricting confines of its narrow stall was more than the animal could handle. The feisty stallion didn't care which direction it was about to take, it just wanted to run with the wind — and it wanted to do that without another second's delay.

"I should be back within a fortnight" Gord said to the liveryman, noting the dirty, calloused palm suddenly thrust in his direction. The young adventurer was as anxious as the stallion to be on his way somewhere, anywhere, but he paused and considered carefully. Then Gord dropped a few silvery-gold electrum coins into the manure-stained hand. The outstretched palm clamped shut on the luckles with miraculous speed.

"At'll be fine, young sar!" the liveryman said with a grin. The squat fellow bobbed his head and made the hand disappear within his baggy blouse.

"When I return with. . what is his name?"

"Blue Murder, sar, but- "

Gord didn't allow the stable owner to finish his explanation. "I know, I know..he's as gentle as a lamb and hasn't a single bad habit. His former mas ter named him as he did for reasons unknown." Gord repeated the spiel handed to him a short time earlier. As the blocky fellow bobbed his head again and started to speak. Gord concluded. "As I started to say, when Blue Murder and I return, I shall expect you to give over two luckies, for they are left only as surety!"

The fellow's face fell. He wasn't going to skin an inexperienced stranger after all. The dark look lifted, however, when he managed to figure out that Gord was going to pay him a hundred bronze zees for the use of the stallion for only two weeks — and all that time the young man would have to feed and care for the animal too! "Oh, yes, yer worship," the liveryman said, smiling again, "you are a hard bargainer, but I'll agree to yer terms. If the stallion is back in a fortnight!"

"Shit" Gord replied flatly. "I know I'm paying you too much. None of this hard-bargain crap, churl! if I kept him for the entire month of Reaping you'd be amply paid." Then the young adventurer turned, thrust his boot into the stirrup, and swung up onto the stallion's back.

Crumbling and cursing under his breath, the liveryman jerked the hair of the urchin who was trying to hold Blue Murder's bridle to keep the stallion quiet. The boy yowled and grabbed his head, and the sudden noise and freedom from constraint were enough to make the horse rear and dance on its hind hooves.

Gord was ready. The stallion was a full seventeen hands high, and its wildly rolling eyes and flattened ears had alerted the young thief that he could expect any action. Even so, the horse nearly unseated him. Gord laughed, leaned forward, and jerked downward on the reins. The flailing hooves came down, nearly braining the smirking liveryman. The scoundrel tried to jump back, but the move caused him to lose his balance and plop down in the mire with a squishy thump.

Turning the snorting, curvetting stallion, Gord lightly pressed his heels against Blue Murder's sleek flanks, and the horse shot ahead, its hooves throwing up clumps of manure and mud in a spray that couldn't help but strike the fallen stable owner. "A fortnight, then," Gord called gleefully over his shoulder.

Threats and curses followed the receding form of horse and rider as they galloped away along Harbor Road, oblivious to the wrath being called down upon them.

When the heat of High Summer grew too oppressive to bear, or at those times when the crowded, odiferous city became too wearisome for his liberated spirit, Gord would venture into the countryside roundabout Greyhawk. Sometimes these expeditions were shared with his gigantic companion. Chert, but ofttimes the barbarian preferred to be left to his own devices, and then the young adventurer explored alone. Such was the case at this time. Gord was on his own, and he was delighted. He needed to be away from the hillman, for the barbarian's likes and dislikes often seemed to be absolutely contrary to Gord's, and Chert's manner and activities were either stupid or boring of late to the young thief. In short, they had enjoyed enough of each other's company for a time. And Chert was in total agreement with that observation.

Actually, the hillman had decided to abandon the city more than a week ago, a couple of days prior to the seven-day midsummer holiday of Richfest. Muttering something and tossing a pack over one of his ledgelike shoulders, Chert had clumped out of the building he and Gord had used as their lodging.

"See you," he had shouted at Gord as the young man came downstairs to try to discover what all the racket was about. "I'm getting on a boat going all the way to Hardby on Woolly Bay — they tell me the women there are bold and beautiful!" With that the huge hillman stepped out and went his way. Shouting in Gord's general direction through the front door he had carelessly left wide open. Chert added, "If I'm not back in a month or so, start the party without me!"

"You'll find the women of Hardby to be something indeed!" Gord had shouted back before simply banging the door shut without proper farewell. But once it was shut he collapsed behind it roaring with pleasure in anticipation of the rude awakening his friend was going to get upon his arrival in Hardby. The young thief had been to that region once, and he knew exactly what Chert would find. Women were the rulers there; they were quite bold, often beautiful, and regarded men as only a little lower than the least of females. This was an oddity, for in general the women everywhere in the eastern Flanaess were held as men's equals in all aspects except brute force. But in Hardby the amazonian soldiers and guards to the Despotrix were as burly and muscular as dockworkers. and even someone as large as the gigantic barbarian would have a hard time overpowering one of them, let alone a whole city of such warriors. Gord wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, got to his feet, and then set about planning a trip of his own.

As a lad, Gord had known of little outside the territory of the worst slums of Old City. Even when his world had been expanded by his apprenticeship to Theobald the Beggarmaster. Gord had been confined to the precincts of Greyhawk's least desirable portions in general. The young thlefs exposure to freedom, his time with the Rhennee waterfolk. and travels thereafter that took him over much of the eastern Flanaess, had contributed little to his actual knowledge of what the environs of the city were like. Knowledge from books and lectures were no substitute for the excitement of actually seeing and experiencing what surrounded Greyhawk's vast perimeter. As soon as he had returned, older and confident of his abilities. Gord had settled into the city with his barbarian companion, but vowed to take every opportunity to learn at first hand the country that was now his by right of having money and freedom. Money came easily from his talent as catbur-giar and thief, and none disputed his liberty.

Gord was now headed for the village of Gawkes Mere, on the shore of Mere Gawke. He had no intention of exchanging one, summer-hot city for another and. since he'd been to this peaceful little hamlet before and knew many of the members of its population, he was looking forward to a quiet, fun-filled reunion with old friends.

As he rode along, Gord couldn't help but wonder what kind of vacation Chert was having in Hardby. The image of his massive pal being bounced around by a woman kept running through Gord's mind, causing sporadic laughter.

The great stallion finally worked off most of its pent-up energy and then simply cantered along effortlessly, its long legs eating up the miles at a speed that was more typical of a fleet courser than a stallion of such size and weight. Riding easily, Gord had time to reflect on Chert's parting shot. Again, uncontrollable fits of laughter overcame him. "You won't last one night, let alone a 'month or so,' old friend!" Gord shouted to the wind. "I'll see you ere Richfest has long faded into Goodmonth — that is, if have returned by then!" A vigilant jay cocked its head to watch as the solitary young thief passed on the big stallion, shouting merrily to no one at all. The flutter of the bird's wings and the shake of its blue-crested head seemed to say, "That man is odder than most humans I’ve seen!"

"Hoy! Hold that barge!" Gord thundered up the dusty road that led from the village of Neannarsh to the ferry. The vessel was already several feet from its mooring, but the stallion's rider urged the animal to a gallop and pulled hard on the reins. The great steed soared across the slowly widening gap with ease. The watching yokels stood slack-jawed, the boom of iron-shod hooves on the planks of the pier still resounding in their ears, as the stallion shot past, leaped from the pier's end, and landed squarely upon the hastily vacated poop of the ferry. The big vessel pitched at the impact but was otherwise safe from harm. "Here, boatman, is my coin. Ferry me and Blue Murder here safely across this broad-bosomed waterway," Gord said, slapping the neck of the horse in an unmistakable display of admiration.

The master of the barge scratched his cheek and shook his head at such outlandish talk and behavior, but the coin tendered was a fine silver noble — ten times the cost of passage. He and the crew gave the wicked-looking stallion and the crazy man who rode it wide berth, but ferry the pair across the Selintan they did. "If you ever pass this way again, fellow," the barfieinaster shouted as horse and man left his vessel, "don't you be jumpin' so on my good boat!"

The hot sun was still at Gord's back on this last day of Richfest. He was already across the river and heading west before the great ball of flre neared its zenith. A fine forenoon. Gord whistled as he rode along the highway to Dyvers. Soon enough he'd be leaving this well-traveled road with its lines of carts and wagons, pack animals and herders with flocks of kine, sheep, goats, and swine. Drovers and caravans, teamsters and travelers plied this artery between the two great free cities of Greyhawk and Dyvers. The distance was some hundred or more miles between the two, and that trade that didn't use the roundabout way of the Nyr Dyv's waters followed this highway to conduct its intercourse. The road dipped southward to the edge of the Gnarley Forest where herdsmen and foresters dwelled. Then it swung northward again to run near the wave-pounded verge of the beaklike, westernmost arm of the Lake of Unknown Depths. There, where the Nyr Dyv received the mighty tribute of the Velverdyva's flood, stood the great free city on the lake's shore, Dyvers, merchant prince of the lake.

South of this busy, commercial artery, the countryside was far different Gentle hills and long valleys lay there, and the huge old trees of the Gnarley thinned and made meadows here and there that were breathtakingly lovely. Little brooks and clear streams ran through the vales and woodlands, and tiny thorps and small hamlets snuggled in dells or among the forest's outflung groves and copses. Verdant fields and fruit-laden orchards hid there, with stretches of virgin forest and wild thickets between and around.

Wars and battles didn't plunge into this land. The armies of Greyhawk and Dyvers had clashed often enough, contesting for the territory that lay be~-tween their metropolises, but they stuck to the open regions bordering the Nyr Dyv. for not only did neither desire to ravage the fertile places from which wealth flowed to each, but the woodlands were no place for formed troops. Besides, the folk who dwelled there were formidable warriors, and their wrath would mean delay and loss to any invader. Bandits, brigands, and outlaws there were aplenty. Should the attention of such men be turned from the flowing traffic above to the communities below, village militia and woodsmen warriors, silent sylvan elves, or the gnomes of the forest — or more than one of these groups in alliance — would cut short the depredations of the foolish raiders. Dangling corpses and displayed heads offered ample discouragement for the wiser of the freebooters.

Into these lands the stallion plunged with Gord astride, still whistling and singing happily. He had been here several times before, and his anticipation was high now, for he found the country charming and the folk hospitable enough if they were treated courteously. After having paused during the hottest hours of the day to eat a lunch of cheese and bread, washed down with the heady green wine of Celene, he had saddled the stallion again and continued on along the side track that ran southwest from the highway. Blue Murder pranced and snorted as he had done at dawn, rested and refreshed from the two hours Gord had allowed him. The horse had torn great clumps of the thick, green grass to feed itself, cropping only the choicest morsels, and drinking as it wished from a nearby rivulet. A whinnying roll, a shake of the great neck, and more grazing. The stallion was ready for anything!

"So, Murder, you are as anxious as I am to get to our destination!" Gord laughed, giving the great horse its head. The stallion had covered forty miles before noon, and here he was ready to gallop on for yet more. "You are a valiant destrier, you are. Blue Murder! Were I a cavalier, you'd have your own chambers within my castle's tower!" The stallion nodded its head, muscular neck rippling, as if in agreement.

The byways and cart tracks that meandered over hill and through woodland led to the little communities of Gnarhrergia. as some named the region. It was large, two or three thousand square miles, in fact with a populace that would bow neither to Greyhawk nor Dyvers. Minstrels, jongleurs, bear-wards, and troupes of other entertainers detoured through the region when going between the free cities, and not a few spent the sweltering months of Midsummer to High Summer's end in the shaded villages and hamlets of Gnartvergia. Along with them came gypsy wagoneers, young wanderers, and well-to-do folk who owned cottages or villas on a stream or lake. The influx of folk made things most interesting. Coupled with the fair lasses of the region, and the excellent ales and stouts brewed there, it was no wonder that Gord was eager to arrive at his destination. Another, lesser steed would have taken a day and a half to reach the village where the young thief planned to holiday. The blue roan made it just as the last, purplish light was fading into the vast expanse of forest to the west.

Gawkes Mere was a busy little village. The lake that accompanied it was quite large and deep, and boasted a score of islands that thrust abruptly from the placid mirror of the mere. These islets, along with a portion of the lake's hauntingfy beautiful shore, served to accommodate dozens of cottages of substantial sort and villas of even larger stature that gave seasonal dwelling to those affluent enough to come to the place and stay. The wealthy of Dyvers and Greyhawk did so. but mingled little. Northward, and along the wilder banks to the west, less desirable folk lived and like sort visited them.

There was superb hunting, and the waters of the area teemed with game fish; so even the most discriminating of visitors occasionally roamed these rougher tracts too. Olgers Bend, the main village in the wild region, stood on the banks of the Silvern Stream, outlet to the lake, and but two or so leagues from Gawkes Mere. Between these two villages was a twisting road, a narrow and rutted lane actually. Halfway along the six miles of this track's length there stood a hostel, the inn of the Brothers of the One and Score, while scattered near the road but tucked from sight were a number of huts and dwellings of those who lived and traded along this quasi-borderland.

Perhaps there had once been some mystic significance to the name of the inn. Possibly it had once been a hostel of benevolent sort to provide food and shelter to weary and needful travelers. Gord didn't know. He did think it an amusing place, though, for one such as he who was weary of crowded cities and the stilted rituals of courtship practiced by the women of Greyhawk. Few were the fine airs, courtly pretense, and stilted conversations at this inn. And it was exactly what Gord intended to visit first. Gord reined Blue Murder to a halt, whistled for a stable boy, and pulled the saddlebags from the stallion's back.

"Cool him down, rub his coat dry. and give him good oats ere you stall and hay him." the young thief admonished the boy. "His name is Blue Murder, but he's a noble stallion with a good, if fiery, disposition when handled right. You treat him that way, bucko, and I'll see you get another of these when I depart!" Gord finished by sailing a bright coin toward the silent lad.

"Bless you, grafting!" the stable boy exclaimed when he peered closely and saw that the coin was a whole copper common instead of just a bronze zee.

He always hoped for the latter but usually got nothing but brass bits, which were a dozen to the zee. This was too good to be real. He was rich! The lad hurried to care for the horse, and Gord strolled toward the inn.

"Grafling … I'd forgotten that honorific," the young man mused aloud. He'd actually heard it but once or twice, and only in the Gnarhrerge. When he first inquired about it, he'd been told it was an old title of respect that came somewhere between 'sir' and 'lord'. "And he delivered it with blessings, too!" Gord recalled with a smile. "This portends well for me."

As Gord neared the rambling structure, its size became more evident. From the road it appeared rather small and unlmposing. Parts of it ran off unseen, blocked from view by the foremost edifice, and other parts were concealed by downslope and greenery.

The inn of the Brothers of the One and Score, or Score inn, or simply "Score," as it was known to the natives, was actually large and spacious. A visitor came through the front doorway into a small anteroom, a place to doff dusty garments and likewise hat or shield. A long, worn bench, a pair of scarred tables, and several chairs were there, too. These, along with the windows of thick-paned green and amber glass, might lead the uninitiated to believe that this was the tavern area, and that the balance of the rambling building was given over to lodgings for guests, the kitchen, and the proprietor's quarters.

But if that visitor would open the thick, inside door of blackened yew, perhaps faint strains of music and laughter might be heard. Then by strolling into the short hall, past the seldom-used little buttery with its dusty bottles and casks, and proceeding down three steps to where a second, even older and more massive portal stands, the noise can be heard distinctly. Finish by pushing open that trunk-like door, and one is truly seeing the inn.

The common room is a rough rectangle reaching to the right and away from the visitor. A huge fireplace with a long, wide mantle filled with all sorts of odd trophies, curios, and bric-a-brac dominates the far wall. Tables fill all manner of nooks and corners, for the place is by no stretch of the imagination geometric or symmetrical. At the end of the low-roofed room, almost obscured by heavy, blackened beams, dim light, and smoke. Is a wide bar. Here are marshalled high stools aplenty, for the patrons love to cluster round for the ale and good viands that always stand thereon. Wheels and heads of cheese, cold pies, smoked fish and fowl, haunches of game, and long, fat loaves of fresh bread and crocks of butter too. So trusting was the place that customers tossed coins into a little cask on the other side of the board, each computing the cost of his own meal and paying accordingly. The prices were always modest, and often special dishes were given at no charge whatsoever.

". . and that's what makes them so godsdamned ferocious!" That snatch of words and the hearty, raucous laughter that followed the end of the yarn assailed Gord's ears as he pushed open the great door and stepped into the room.

A few of the patrons eyed him suspiciously, but a couple of the old-timers recognized him. "Ho there, Gord" one called, while the other nodded a silent greeting.

"House-brewed ale in a big tankard, as I recall," barman Lean Cole said laconically. He was proud of his memory for customers' faces, names, and drinking preferences, "Been a time since you’ve dropped in, Gord."

"Near six years, Lean Cole, and your own ale it is indeed!"

Summer sun went down late, but the Score never grew crowded until well after the night fell. Gord was able to finish his drink, become installed in a cozy back bedroom, wash, and don fresh clothing before the barroom became too crowded to provide him a place at the counter. Because he was well-liked by the barkeeper, the young thief was accorded space in the darkest most inaccessible part of the bar. From there he could see everything, swap tales with the other elite, and occasionally be offered tidbits of things from the kitchen or gills of spirits reserved for special times and special folks.

"Where's Hop?" Gord asked as Lean Cole sauntered over to see what his regulars needed,

"Still serving the trade come for late supper, I think," the barman replied. "He was in fine fettle when he arrived this afternoon, I’ll tell you!"

"How so? Or should I ask why?"

"Gawkes is crowded, and Hop took a load of his nostrums, quack ointments, and phony philters over there in the morning. Sure enough, when he came back he'd peddled the lot for more cash than should have been paid for the real thing — if that could ever be found."

Gord chuckled. "I think I owe him a night on the town — at feast if I can remember straight!"

Now Lean Cole laughed quietly, and cautioned, "Not likely you'll ever be able to get even with Hop, one way or the other, Gord. I'll send him over your way when he comes down."

Because of the special nature of the Score's common room and its patrons, the inn also provided a pleasant room above for dining. The kitchen was midway between the two floors, so that it could serve formal meals to the good folk who came to dine and informal fare for the folk who preferred to quaff first and sup only when absolutely necessary. It seemed startling to consider, but to Gord's own knowledge many of those who stayed annually at the inn never saw its lower regions. The young thief couldn't understand why. of course. To him rubbing elbows with leathery woodsmen, hard-eyed mercenaries, wandering entertainers, and knights of the road was as natural as could be. Not a single one he'd ever met here wasn't a long cut above those of Old City's slums where he'd spent his childhood. Hop. the ofttlmes flamboyant proprietor of the inn, was a good example.

The fellow claimed to have been born in this rustic area, but Gord was never certain of the truth of the assertion. Hop was certainty well-traveled and had been to forlorn and wild places the young thief had only read about.

One night the talk had turned to younger days, and Hop had admitted that he had sought enlightenment in the monastic disciplines of some distant temple. Although he would not say where, Gord guessed that he'd traveled beyond Ket and gone somewhere into the mountains of the West. Since Hop had returned to the inn, he would catch himself occasionally quoting some guru, as spiritual sages were called by Bayomen folk, and once in a while actually recounting some tidbit or another from this episode in his life.

As far as Gord could tell, Hop practiced no martial arts nor embraced any theological belief as a clerical practitioner would. He was a troubador of sorts, though he rarely plied that art, and an ostler. Gord also knew he was a mountebank of exceptional skill. Although the fellow always denied this, Gord admired him all the more for that. At times Gord's own talents verged on mountebankery, and the best of mountebanks had no little skill at thievery and its adjunctive crafts.

When the charismatic proprietor of the Score at last appeared on the scene, Gord needed no warning from Lean Cole, for Hop's entrance was greeted by friendly calls, playful jibes, and inviting smiles from several of the women. As he stopped here and there to give greetings, slap an acquaintance on the back, or suggest to a pretty girl that she raise her skirts for him, Gord had to laugh aloud. What a fellow! If he truly had bardcraft, as some claimed, and some small skills with unusual dweomers, as others asserted, then this man could be the Mountebank of Mountebanks!

"Gord. old friend!" Hop cried when Lean Cole interrupted his lascivious fondling of a smiling young wench to point out who was seated in the dimness of the bar's far portion. He sprang over the bar, strode to where Gord was, ducked under the board, and managed to pull a free stool from somewhere. "How long have you been here? Will you stay long? Oy! Lean Cole, drinks here!"

"I always wondered about your name — now I know." Gord said during the brief pause. "You hop over things and from question to question without pause for reply."

"Well? How are things in the city? Are you here to celebrate? I don't know if I can join you in such excesses, you know. I have responsibilities, many duties!" The drinks came, and Hop quaffed deeply and then slammed his mug down to indicate he wasn't done speaking. "Gord, you are terrible! A bad influence on me. I know I am going to regret this. I can not afford to spend days lost in revelry, drink, and wenching. That is plain truth, you see."

"Set your mind at ease. Revelry is not what I seek. A rest is what I desire," Gord said agreeably "Relaxation from the press of things in Greyhawk."

"Here, let me get us more ale," Hop said, ignoring Gord's previous statement. "Shall I cut out a likely pair of lasses from this crowd? Lean Cole has this throng well in hand, and if we hasten, he'll not notice we're gone!"

"I thought you said.."

"You are such a silver-tongued devil, Gord! All right I’ll bring a little keg of special brew up to that parlor in the back — you know, the one right near the room you always take. Back in just a trice!"

Hop disappeared into the crowd and then into the precincts of the small kitchen on this floor of the inn. Beneath that room was a deep cellar filled with barrels, tuns, bottles and who knew what else. He was evidently going to fetch the aforementioned keg for later consumption, presumably by a party of four.

Gord shook his head in amused bewilderment "Same old Hop," he said aloud, to no one in particular. He continued to drink and exchanged a few words with another man next to him. A short time later a young woman somehow managed to find space between them, and Gord chatted with her. She was attractive in a wild way, he noted, but somehow too independent and assertive. He didn't feel like taming a shrew — not this evening, at any rate. An hour had passed, and the young thief was growing more than a little woozy-headed from the potent ale, when Hop finally returned with his usual commotion and flurry of chatter. The woman drifted away.

"You've been unbridled in your lusts!" Hop cried when he saw how inebriated Gord was becoming. He clucked his tongue in mock disgust and, reaching into his colorful tunic, pulled out a tiny packet and opened it. Colored powder flew in a cloud as he blew, and Gord nearly choked and sneezed from inhaling it. Hop ignored this, and as the rainbow puff died in tiny motes of bright-hued splendor, the mountebank made several cryptic gestures in the air before Gord's nose. Touching him on the forehead, Hop said, "Clear head, not for bed, thinking straight isnt late!"

Gord wiped tiny remnants of the powder from his visage, then ran his hands over his face again. He felt sober. His brain was no longer muddled. In fact he didn't even feel the weariness of the hard journey! "But. . you offer spurious cures for the gullible and credulous, not real, working potions! So how come I feel so … so lucid?"

"Hop the Savant, sir, offers a wide and amazing range of febrifuges, tonics, simples, restoratives, specifics, cordials, balms, lenitives, philters, elixirs, potions, essences, ointments, salves, and rare oils at prices so ridiculously meager that they cannot be mentioned for fear the sanity of the seller would be questioned. Nostrums and quackery are the tools of those who practice chicanery, but from Hop come the true and potent only. Hop the Savant has a cornucopia of pharmaceutia for those who would be denied because of the price charged by those interested in lining their pockets, not aiding fellow beings!"

"I feel splendid!" Gord exclaimed, still in shock over the success of Hop's remedy.

"Fine! The ladies linger coyly near the door. All we must do is join them, slip out, and go around to the back — where the parlor and the ale are ready and waiting!"

Two days later Gord was sufficiently recovered to begin enjoying the countryside. He left early in the morning to fish with a local guide, or trek through the thick growth of the summer forest to hunt for roebuck, wolf, elk, bear, and rare aurochs. Strings of huge fish and various kinds of fat game went dally to the kitchen of the Score. Gord and Hop and the others favored by them dined on the choicest parts, while the remainder went into the bellies of paying customers, and the young thief was credited for the fare thus furnished. After many glorious days of such superb hunting and excellent angling, the credit for the viands he provided — and such fine provender it was — exceeded his cost of lodging by half again. Good this was too, for the excesses of the night, fees for guides, purchase of equipment, and various gratuities had reduced the contents of Gord's purse alarmingly.

"I fear I will have to be more restrained in my evening activities.'' he ventured to Hop at dinner one night.

"What? What's this you say? Ruin an already too brief holiday by self-denial? You have but a few days left, old campaigner! You and I must live those days — and nights — to the full!"

"Necessity is a harsh taskmaster, Hop. I admit I erred in bringing too few clinkers and those of too little value, but what is done is done."

"Bah! I'll lend you a few luckies to tide you over until you must depart"

Gord shook his head. "No, that is not acceptable. Hop. When I leave, I leave for time indefinite. I may never return, may never be able to repay you. The offer is kind and generous, but I must decline," he said adamantly.

"So. … I respect that, Gord. I will not press you. But wait a bit, and Hop the Savant will devise another plan that will rid you of the onerous need for retreat and quiet contemplation of the night." He jumped up and went off to see to the running of the inn. Despite all else, the mountebank ran a well-ordered, efficient, and usually excellent establishment. It was a miracle he managed to do so, but Gord had come to expect this from the man.

A few hours later Hop returned. "Are you sure a few luckies wouldn't do?" Before Gord could respond, the mounteback noted his firm look of resistance. "You've been here often in the past, and there's every reason to suppose you'll return again, but I yield. Now, I have come up with something that will cost you nothing out of your purse. You and I, friend, will venture into the forest primeval this night to search by the light of a full moon for … certain mushrooms."

Gord was intrigued by this, and tried to wheedle and pry, but Hop would say no more. He merely dashed off to complete one more inspection, serve a few libations to the patrons, jovially explain that he'd play and sing another time, and then he was back again.

"They enjoy it well enough, but none of those here truly appreciate the music I devise — save possibly yourself, Gord. Still, I must not tell them that, lest they take needless umbrage. Just as you venture to these parts, I too must make occasional pilgrimages to satisfy my spirit and play the chords and melodies I so love. Say, that's a thought! Perhaps we will meet again in Greyhawk!"

At that Gord laughed, for he doubted Hop would ever stray very much farther from the Score than Olgers Bend or Gawkes Mere. Or, if he did, the irrepressible mountebank would go on another journey to a faraway place — certainly many times farther away than Greyhawk. Hop was impulsive, and he was a man of extremes. Gord changed the subject. "Come on, you larcenous rogue, stop keeping me in suspense! Are we actually to go forth this night to seek fungi?"

"Yes," Hop said seriously. "I did not jest it is not quite time yet, but before the moon has risen we must be well away from here. Put on appropriate garb, bring your sword and dagger just in case, and meet me out in front in a bit — say an eighth of your candle."

Gord nodded and hurried off to get ready. Half an hour later he walked silently to the front of the inn. Hop detached himself from the shadows there. "Shall we be off?" he hissed to Gord in a conspiratorial tone.

"By all means. Hop, let us be on our adventure," Gord whispered back with a smile. The pair went out into the night, and the darkness quickly swallowed them.

"Ssssh," Hop said softly to Gord, for no good reason, after they had walked for almost an hour.

"Ssssshh yourself! I am making no noise but this whispering." the young thief retorted. Although the mountebank could creep quietly as a woodsman, he occasionally rustled some dead leaves, snapped a tiny twig, or made small sounds by brushing against the undergrowth. If Hop was nonetheless as quiet as a deer, Gord was as silent as a stalking cat. His training as a thief and his experience in the woods combined to make him practically perfect in this regard.

Gord motioned for the mountebank to lean close. "What exactly are we creeping up on?"

Hop spoke into Gord's ear in the same hushed tone with which the young adventurer had queried him. "The glen ahead has an ancient ipt, a twisted and strange growth of many trunks. The tree is the sole survivor of what must have been a great ring of ipts."

"Ipts? How do you know? If the place around the lone tree is now a glade, who can say what trees, if any, once stood therein?"

"I know. Local legends say it was a sacred grove in olden times," Hop said. "The proof, they claim, is that great rings of a huge fungus grow there now, each ring marking the place where once an ipt stood."

Gord assented, but only partly. "That faerie rings grow where once a tree did, I learned from Curley Greenleaf, a ranger and druld friend of mine. Still, this is no proof of ipts."

"When the rings are made of sprites' tables and atomies’ cups, it is proof, Gord."

Not having the foggiest notion what sort of fungi these were, Gord grunted noncommlttally. "Then we should press on, I suppose," he told his friend. "But why is it we creep up on mushrooms in the dead of the night?"

"The moon is rising! Come on, Gord, or we'll be too late," and Hop suited words to action by going on swiftly in the pale beams of Luna. The light of the waning half-moon afforded them better vision, and Gord had to hurry to catch up.

"I thought you mentioned something about a full moon," Gord whispered.

"Must have misspoke myself, old fellow. I meant whole," the mountebank whispered back.

"Whole?" Gord felt stupid at having to ask all of his questions, but he was determined to find out what this was all about, and a waning half-moon was neither full nor whole. "Will you please explain all of this?"

"Celene will rise soon, and when she joins Luna, the two halves will equal a whole. Then, and only then, dweomerdots shoot up. You and I, Gord, will be there to pluck the little devils up and steal away before the little folk come to do the same."

"Sprites and atomies, I suppose," Gord murmured, recalling Hop's earlier reference to what grew in the faerie rings. "Anyway, what in the hells are dweomerdots?"

Hop turned and grimaced at his young companion. "You have more questions than a kid! City boys, bah! Dots are tiny fungi that come in various colors. The color determines the magic it possesses when eaten, and the ingestlon empowers the person eating the dot to have the dweomer it possesses for the space of several hours."

Gord was suddenly excited. "If the powers are of potent sort, these little mushrooms could be worth a fortune! Which colors go with which dweomer?"

"All mushrooms appear pale in the night, Gord! We just pick as fast as we can and hope a lot. Not a few bestow powers such as being able to sing like a nightingale, become transparent, or grow a thick coat of fur — not highly salable, those last sort."

The young thief could make out a clearing ahead, the thinning forest allowing moonbeams to show the place clearly. Hop recognized that they had finally reached the glen, too, and both men ceased their whispering. Should the little folk hear them, these small ones would rush to prevent the looting of what they considered theirs by right. Gord and Hop would then be in deep difficulty.

Just as the mountebank had said, the hidden glen had a huge, ancient, many-trunked ipt This conglomeration of vegetation turned and bent so as to make it impossible for the eye to determine which trunk or limb went where. The gentle hollow of the glade seemed to form a near-perfect circle around the one remaining giant tree. Surrounding the ipt at regular intervals were ring after ring of fungi. The giant, flat-capped ones ringed by smaller versions of the same ilk were evidently sprites’ tables, Gord assumed, while the tall stalks with slightly wider heads might be atomies' cups. All around these bizarre fungi grew a host of other sorts — morels, shaggymanes, puflballs. and more kinds that the young adventurer didn't recognize. There was no living thing visible, no sounds audible save the chirruping and singing of insects and other occasional sounds of the forest.

"I see the azure orb just there," Hop said softly, pointing up to where Celene was moving to meet Luna. "Let's get into the middle of the nearest ring now, so when the dweomerdots appear we can grab them fast if we can clear one ring and get out of the glen, we'll be rich for a month of high-spending nights and lazy days!"

Needing no further prompting, Gord sprang into the glade and was into the nearby ring of fungi with a bound. Hop followed on his heels, crouching down to peer at the sward where the small mushrooms would soon appear. Both of them got out the bags they would use to contain their quarry. A few minutes later, as if by magic, one grew into existence before the young thiefs startled eyes. Gord took a moment to grasp the hilt of his enchanted sword, for it gave him special visual powers. Then he could see a faint hue of pale fuchsia haloing the plump little disc.

"Pssst Hop! I can see color. This one is fuchsia!"

"Put it in your sack with haste, then, and tell me what other hues you detect — how can you see colors, anyway?"

"My … I … I just can." Gord stammered, reluctant to give away his secret and not eager to spend their precious time explaining anyway. He reached down, plucked the thumb-sized growth, and thrust it into his bag. Then he turned to observe his companion and the fungi that had suddenly sprung up all around them. Alternately touching his sword hilt and grabbing out for mushrooms, he called out a litany of colors. "There, that one is amber, that puce, there citrine."

Soon Gord had handed his bag over to Hop and was doing little more than calling out the hues he detected, save for the occasional plucking of a few mushrooms that he secreted in the small pouch that dangled from his belt. He figured that if these things were truly as valuable as Hop said they were, it wouldn't hurt for him to stash some away for his own private use. Hop was so busy selectively plucking the more colorful of the dweomerdots and putting them into the bags — while slipping more than a few in the pocket of his cloak — that he didn't notice that Gord was also sneaking some on the side. Scarlet, purple, puce, cerise, mauve, carmine, tangerine, maroon, azure, indigo — a rapidly growing spectrum of colors popped into existence before the two temporary mushroom harvesters faster than Gord would have thought possible.

"Some of these colors are unknown to me, " Hop murmured as he frantically snatched up mushroom after mushroom. "I'm passing those whose hue is of known undesirabillty, but there will be some surprises. Nevertheless, this will be far better than I could have hoped!"

They were at the far edge of the circle. "Opalescent white," the young thief told Hop.

"That's one we should bypass, I think. No matter! On to the next ring as fast as we can go!"'

"Shouldn't we get out of here?"

"And leave a fortune behind for unappreclative little folk? Not on your life, Gord! It's still quiet, and we can fill both sacks to overflowing with the best of the dots in another few minutes. Then we can slip away rich! None'll be the wiser."

The excitement of their work, the prospect of riches, and the possibility of retaining a few especially powerful types of these magical fungi for himself overcame Gord's concern. Perhaps it was a case of good sense being lost to greed, but …. He hurried after Hop and was soon again pointing and advising the mountebank as to which fleshy body of fungus to pluck. Those in this circle were not as varicolored as had been the others, and only a few were taken. "What now?" the young thief inquired.

"There's room in the sacks still. Over there is the largest remaining faerie ring I can see. We'll work that one and leave."

This one was indeed a choice picking ground. New, unknown hues were in profusion, so Hop took first the known colors for surety, then the unique hues for good measure. "Where are the saffron ones?" said Hop, rattling off colors almost as fast as Gord could locate them. "How about the olive color you noted? The russet? Mustard? Salmon? Pearly pink?"

Gord kept calling and pointing, and his friend plucked eagerly. Fifteen minutes after they had entered this last ring Hop announced, "I've filled both bags now, Gord. Off we go!"

Gord restrained him. The sharp-eared adventurer thought he had heard some new sound that was different "Be quiet and let me look and listen for a moment," he hissed.

After a tense few seconds Hop whispered back. "I hear and see nothing. How about you?"

Uneasy but unable to find anything out of the ordinary, Gord gave the glen one more careful sweep with his eyes and ears at peak. "It was either some forest creature passing or my imagination, I guess," the young thief said slowly. "Let's make a dash for the trees now, for I am growing nervous. I think-our luck is running out"

"That never happens to Hop!" the mountebank said with a sure and certain tone. "It is high time for us to leave, though. Last one into the forest is a rot-"

"A wha-" Gord managed to get out before he, too, slumped to the ground. Tiny shafts protruded from their bodies, each one quill-sized, and so numerous that the pair of unmoving bodies looked somewhat like pincushions.

Gord awoke feeling lethargic, chilled, and weak. His mouth tasted as if an offal-bird would have found it a pleasant nesting place. He managed to blink and open his eyes, even though the undersides of the lids felt grainy. And there was Hop, looking like hell's bottom tier, smirking at him.

"Top o' the morning to ya."

"Sod off!"

"Did ye rest well, me lad?" Hop continued his banter, albeit in a rather hoarse and croaking voice.

The young thief managed to prop himself up on one elbow and peer around. Greenish light from monstrous glowworms in a suspended cage of thick wire hung overhead, and this radiance allowed him to survey the scene. He was nudel No wonder he felt chilled, for he was reclining on hard-packed clay. In fact, the whole domed chamber he and the mountebank were in was made of clay. Here and there a boulder protruded. Roots thrust and twined everywhere, some merely arm-thick, others bigger than Gord's torso. There were no doors, no openings. At the topmost portion of the dome the ceiling appeared to be formed of a single slab of timber of odd sort This wood revealed a knotty, roughly circular plug or trap door. That was certainly how they'd come to be in this pit.

"Like the accommodations?"

"Cut the crap, will you. Hop? How long have we been out?"

The mountebank shrugged his naked shoulders. "You've as good a guess at that as I, Gord. I came around to blissful awareness just a few minutes before you did."

"I see. Where are we?"

"In a clay cave, I'd say."

"How'd we get here? Who stripped us?"

"Person or persons unknown."

Gord sighed and stood up. He began a routine of stretching and flexing. Soon the young thief was lost in the exercise, leaping, bending, straining one set of muscles against the other so that tension would build both.

"All that jumping and bending is making me tired." the mountebank drawled as Gord paused a moment in a weird, contorted position.

"You should work out a bit yourself," Gord chided. "It's healthy, makes one vigorous, and aids in all sorts of physical endeavors."

"I’ve done all I need," said Hop haughtily, "for I follow Western principles of meditation and exercise — the mind does more than the muscles, as Rhumsung Lampba P. says."

"Perhaps that worthy one will come to rescue us now." Gord said sarcastically.

"The most renowned of guru mystics? That notion is offensive, even when uttered in jest or jape," Hop said with a sniff. "Rhumsung- "

"Can be blasted!" the young thief interrupted rudely. "Stand in the center of this chamber, Hop, and stop blabbering about the redoubtable guru! If you can make a stirrup with your hands and boost me. I think I can get up high enough to grab the chain holding that cageful of gigantic glowworms." Gord pointed up. "Where do you suppose those monsters come from, anyway? Do such things inhabit this region?"

Hop stood where he'd been told to and cupped his hands with fingers interlaced. They grow pretty big here in Gnarlvergia. Gord, but these are ten times bigger than any glowworms I’ve ever seen, before," he said in reply as he spread his legs and worked his shoulders to warm the muscles.

"Here goes, then! Heave me upward with all your might when my foot lands in your hands!"

The young man hurtled forward, springing from his left foot so the right came into the stirrup Hop made with his hands. Grunting with the effort, the mountebank heaved up, and Gord's momentum was translated to an upward arc. He didn't quite make the heavy chain, but his grasping fingers managed to clutch the upper portion of the wire cage. The metal strands sagged but held. He clawed upward and found the chain, hauled himself up some more, and quickly came to the uppermost part where the chain was fastened to the timber roof with a huge staple.

"Now what?" asked the mountebank, watching with concern as his companion dangled froIII one arm while thrusting against the trap door with the other.

"We. , ugh!. . shove. . oof!. . this out!"

"Never mind! I get the picture. But how about using your feet to kick it out?"

Even from where he stood. Hop could detect the realization dawning in the mind of the acrobatic adventurer. Gord was being stupid trying to open the trap door with one arm. "I was just about to try that," he called lamely down to his companion. Then, after grabbing onto the huge staple with both hands, he swung back and forth a couple of times to gain momentum. The impact of his bare soles upon the wood made a loud, snapping sound, and the force nearly made Gord lose his grip, but he managed to recover and hold on.

"Great going!" Hop called up enthusiastically. The circular trap door had moved upward about a cubit. "Is that enough for you to crawl through?"

"Easily, Hop. I'll find a rope or something and have you up and out in jig time!" So saying, the young thief swung himself again, this time by one arm, launched his body into the opening, and pulled himself through and out.

A minute later, the end of a thick rope dropped into the chamber where Hop waited, falling until it swung about a foot above the earthen floor of the prison. The rope even had knots spaced at short intervals to facilitate climbing. Gord didn't call any instructions and it was dark above, but the plug was now sitting a full yard above the hole it had stopped, so Hop had no difficulty clambering into the chamber above. As he cleared the opening, a reedy voice sounded from behind him.

"Thank you for saving us the trouble of fetching you."

"Huh?" Hop whirled and peered in vain into the darkness.

"Come this way. Your fellow criminal has already been taken to the Arch of judgement."

Soft light sprang forth from the Up of a slender wand. Hop saw a trio of creatures that looked very much like sprites, but these slender, sharp-featured beings were far more beautiful than sprites — and they were larger than he was! One held an unsheathed sword of needlelike shape casually, and the other two had small bows with arrows nocked and pointed at him.

"This is, of course, an honor I cannot refuse," the mountebank said with a courteous bow. "But could I borrow a bit of clothing first?"

"Get going!" the swordbearer said.

Hop did just that.

"There is no great evil within them." intoned the aged male clad in priestly garments.

"None?" inquired the beautiful, spritelike being seated on a throne of carved and polished wood.

"Tinges of peccadillo, a touch here and there of larcenous desire, and a wisp of dishonesty, yes. But true evil? None of that, your glorious majesty."

"Truespeech is to be laid upon them, then." the queen said in a commanding manner.

Two pairs of armed males advanced on Gord and Hop. Both of the prisoners stood naked and feeling exposed in more ways than one. Worse still, there were many other lovely females present in addition to the queen, and they all seemed to be staring.

"Eat this now!" one of each pair of guards ordered the two prisoners. Each man was offered a wedge of steel-blue fungus about the size of a small piece of pie. Gord and Hop opened their mouths, for their hands were tied behind their backs, so they could do nothing else. The guards crammed the fungus wedges in. "Chew and swallow."

"Ulp!" Gord managed to get it all down, bitter as it tasted. He and the mountebank stood in a large, weirdly arched hall. At least two score of the man-sized sprites were here, not counting the queen, her half-score of attendants, and a dozen armed soldiers.

The place wasn't exactly large enough to accommodate the entire throng, even though it was evidently the throne room, audience chamber and hall of justice all in one. There were shafts and galleries and balconies, with more of the spritelike people crowding every available place. These areas, like the walls, floors and almost everything else in the place, were hewn from living wood!

Where they could be, what tree could be so vast. Gord could not imagine. He had heard of roanwoods that grew nearly ninety feet thick, but this was not roanwood, and their surroundings measured more than ninety feet from end to end. Gord knew this, for after being brought up from the storage cellars above the cell he and Hop had been in. he had been led up curving stairs and through a series of oddly shaped and interconnecting rooms, chambers and corridors. All were on one level — and it was the same level that held this weirdly arched chamber.

"Answer her glorious majesty!"

"A … a thousand pardons, glorious majesty," Gord stammered. "I was bemused. . "

"Her glory asked if you had meant to deprive the Poochauns of their treasure." the officer told him in a hard voice.

"Poochauns? Treasure? I was simply gathering wild mushrooms. Of these Poochauns and their treasure I cannot say, for I do not know them or it."

"You!" another official said to Hop. "Did you know to whom the 'mushrooms' belonged?"

Hop opened his mouth, seemed to inhale and swallow, then said, "I knew that the little folk — sprites, grigs, atomies, pixies, and brownies — favor such places. I knew that tales told indicate that these folk relish the dweomerdots. I have crept into the glen aforetimes, though, and picked some small amount. Never did I see anyone to contest my right to do so. The produce of the wild wood is surety the property of the one who takes it first"

At this last remark the queen's lovely features darkened. She spoke directly to the two men. "You humans are presumptuous indeed! Know you not that we have plucked the Coins of Ehlonna — dweomerdots, as you call them — from this very glen since Avalondria became the home of Royal Poochaunla? Not for a century have those of Unsealy Court dared to trespass here!"

Both men shook their heads. "I crave forgiveness, majesty," Gord said, "but I know nothing of Poochauns, Poochaunia. nor. . Avalondria?"

"Her glory speaks of her subjects, her majestic person, and the very tree we are standing in now, dolt!" the officer said angrily.

"Cease badgering the accused!" said the priestly male. "I shall ask the humans one or two questions — with your glory's kind permission, of course," he said with a stiff bow toward the enthroned queen.

"As you wish, Panloron. Permission is granted."

"To what end did you gather the fungi we call Ehlonna's Coins and you name dweomerdots?"

Hop spoke before Gord could. "To sell, to gain enough money so that my friend, Gord there, could enjoy his few remaining days hereabouts without worrying about costs. The best I would keep for myself, of course, to use in the medicines and potions I make and sell as Hop the Savant — I am not actually a savant, but the claim is efficacious in peddling the products."

"I see," the cleric said. "Do you swindle folk of your race thereby?"

"Perhaps, but I think not. They are pleased with the price, and the material used is of pure and wholesome sort. Some ingredients might actually be beneficial."

"Hmmm. ., Humans are like this, I know." Turning to look squarely at Gord, the elderly being asked, "What plans had you?"

"To select and secret the choicest ere Hop could know," the young thief found himself saying. He had been angry at hearing the mountebank relate his plan for utilizing the mushrooms in his wares. Now he was blurting out how he thought to cheat Hop out of those of the magical fungi that Gord thought would benefit him, and he could not stop himself from stating the pure truth. "The bulk I assumed would be sold and the profit therefrom divided. I didn't know that Hop planned to unjustly withhold most for his own use!"

"As you were planning to filch the cream of the crop for yourself. Gord!" the mountebank retorted angrily.

"Cease," the old cleric ordered them without passion. "You were each plotting against the other, as your sort do frequently. You have said truthfully that you know nothing of Poochauns. Have you knowledge of the Noblest Little Folk? The Sealy Court? Have you heard of The Princely People?"

Both men shook their heads simultaneously.

"It seems clear to me, my queen," said the silver-locked cleric, "that these two humans sought to compete only with such wild folk as they imagined to inhabit the region. That they should know of Avalondria and the Poochauns would be unthinkable. We would never permit such knowledge.. We have recovered what they took, and they have done no harm. I ask that they be enspelled and taken into the forest. Their memory of Ehlonna's Coins will be wiped out so they will not return, and there will be no tales they can tell."

The queen looked uncertain, and the chief officer spoke up when he noticed this. "Glorious majesty. Panloron grows senile in his dotage! A hint of unscrupulousness is warrant for these two to be exterminated. That, and that alone, will assure your majesty and all Poochauns their safety."

"Yes, yes!" the other officers urged, and several of the others around and in the tiers of galleries above cried out their agreement as well. This was followed by other calls in support of the cleric. The queen still seemed uncommitted.

"How dare you tell your twisted version of our laws to her majesty?" The old cleric managed to sound thunderous as he spoke in a piping voice. "These humans are far from blameless, but this is not sufficient warrant for any Poochaun to condemn them!"

"Any?" asked the queen in ominous tone.

"Not even your glorious majesty!" the elder said stiffly.

"Then I proclaim they be tried by arms," she said regally. "Prince Buckbee, you shall serve as Royal Champion, and so shall Sir Dragonfly."

The two named guard officers bowed at this, vowing to champion their queen and prove they were on the side of right, law, and justice. The old cleric frowned and scowled at the dandies who were cheering on the two noble lords, but otherwise did nothing else. Gord and his friend were bound to fight their duels.

"We need proper clothing and our arms," the young adventurer suggested to the sneering Prince Buckbee.

"You will be properly attired soon enough, man-ling, and given good Poochaunian weapons to try defending yourselves with."

This was not what Gord wished at all. "I demand to use arms of my own choice, and my choice is the sword and dagger I wore when you attacked us!"

The queen and her entourage had departed, and the strange hall was nearly empty. All the Poochauns were probably arraying themselves in festive attire in light of the coming tournament. Panloron remained, possibly to see to the fair treatment of the two accused. Prince Buckbee and Sir Dragonfly were assailed with flts of laughter at Gord's demand for his own weapons. Hop had asked for his own sword, too, and both men stood in angry puzzlement when the sprltelike beings made light of these reasonable demands.

"Come, follow me," the silver-haired cleric said. "I will show you the source of their amusement, and you will understand then, I think." Neither officer objected as Panloron led the two men to a pair of huge doors in the hall. Poochauns standing guard at each side came to attention as the old priest approached. At his signal the valves were swung inward to reveal what lay beyond.

Gord and Hop saw a vast expanse of broad, tangled grass that extended upward just above the heads of the Poochaun and his prisoners. There was a path leading through this thicket of head-high growth, and the cleric began to walk slowly along this track. The pair of humans followed, and were soon standing on a high bank that allowed them a view of the area below. There, half-hidden in the tall savannah, were weapons of gigantic proportions.

"A storm giant has been here?" Gord asked aloud, then cut himself off abruptly. Hop stood in shocked amazement too. The swords, daggers, and belts they saw were their own arms — grown to monstrous proportions!

"Why have you enlarged our gear?" Hop asked.

"Enlarged? Oh no, human, no such thing has been done. Quite the contrary — you and your companion have been made small to fit the accommodations of fair Avalondria." the cleric said matter-of-factly. "Now you see why you must accept the arms that we will supply to you for the trial by combat."

Gord didn't feel any different, but he was only a foot tall! No wonder the glowworms were monstrous, the tree's interior so vast. The young adventurer turned and looked at the growth behind. It appeared to be the most titanic ipt ever to grow on Oerth — the largest tree in the world! What startled him even more were the windows, walkways, oriels, pentlces, stairways, and turrets that were built on or hewn from trunks and limbs. "This cannot be the same ipt that stands in the middle of the glen!" he said in disbelief.

"The very same." Panloron said with dignity and pride.

"Impossible!" Hop retorted as he too surveyed the mountain-tall growth that blocked the sky above them from view. "We saw no such construction. Even at a distance in moonlight these works could not escape the eye."

"Of course they could, human. You are in a slightly altered place now, just as are all Poochauns when they are within the Realm of Avalondria. In your own world these will be seen by you as bumps, whorls and holes. Your vision will not see through to the true realm beyond."

"Let's go back and get the clothing and weapons promised to us," Gord interjected practically. He could see the citizens of this tree-realm peering down at them from windows and balconies, and many of these watchers were female. The young thief was growing tired of being on display.

Later, when night had fallen — the time interval seemed endless to the two captives — Hop and Gord mock-fought each other in order to accustom themselves to the long, slender swords, leaf-bladed daggers, and bucklers that the Poochaun guards had grudgingly supplied on Panloron's command. They had also been supplied with garments of Poochaun sort — hose, close-fitting doublet over blouse, silken sash, knee-high boots — and with martial equip-page. "What about long spears and bows?" Hop had asked one of the soldiers.

"In trial by combat you will use noble weapons." was the haughty repry.

After their rigorous practice session, Gord advanced the subject of exactly how to approach the coming contest "We are in a bad predicament, Hop. and in my opinion we will be in worse straits still if we should defeat and slay the champions their queen has appointed."

"Must we then allow these skinny spritekins to skewer us?" Hop retorted hotly.

"Of course not! But somehow we must win without killing or even seriously hurting them, and in a manner that does not humiliate either them or their monarch."

"Impossible! They are winged, too. Our only hope is to fight for our lives, and as fiercely as we can."

Minutes dragged by. They dozed, resumed their fencing, rested, ate a light meal of strange wafers, a milky liqueur, and other things also odd but nonetheless delicious. Finally Poochaun soldiers came to take them to the field of combat.

Moonlight and shadows made the place seem very eerie. Both Gord and Hop could see with new vision. Panloron explained that this was from the drink they had quaffed. The pale moonrays seemed as brilliant as the beams of the sun, shadows were deep purple swaths in which the glowing, golden forms of the Poochauns cavorted and flitted. If colors were distorted and different nothing else was right either. Being reduced to such a small size made adjustment difficult. Smooth ground became rough when one was shrunk to a mere twelve inches high. But as distracting as all of this was. it was also immaterial. They must battle the two champions and win. Whether they were slain in combat or merely defeated made no difference, for death was sure and certain either way.

"Hop," Gord said in the cant of thieves, "can you understand me?"

The mountebank looked surprised but nodded and replied in kind. "Yes, but speak slowly."

"Hold your man — Poochaun — off as long as possible, don’t try to wound or kill him. Understand?"

Hop looked doubtful but nodded assent again. "Until Sir Dragonfly strikes me," he said, "for at that I shall kill the popinjay without mercy."

"We have made a clear space for you humans to stand in, see?" one guard said as he pointed out an area where the Poochauns had been at work removing vegetation and smoothing the earth. "We are a very fair people, you know," he added seriously.

"We can't fly," Gord pointed out. "Will Prince Buckbee and his fellow champion be constrained to remain afoot?"

"Certainly not! To prevent the Poochaun to utilize his natural prowess is ignoble and villainous!"

"I thought as much," Gord said dryly.

The contest was heralded by tiny horns of silver — tiny in Gord's mind, at least, for in his present condition they appeared to be normal-sized trumps. A noble stood and proclaimed the titles of the queen, who Gord and Hop discovered was named Lifayvia. After receiving due homage, she proclaimed the event a Royal Trial by Combat, and again the noble spoke. After the charges against Gord and Hop were stated, the two Royal Poochaunan Champions strode forth to stand and bow before the queen. Their homage complete, the pair took wing in a dizzying display of aerobatics that made Gord's stomach knot. If they used aerial tactics, he and Hop would be dead in no time. Suddenly the two Poochauns swooped back to the ground, and the guards thrust Gord and Hop forward. The fight was on.

The young thief didn't intend to make this a long and noble duel filled with chivalrous acts. Poochaun-tan bards, if there were such beings, would sing of his glorious death if he tried to fight Prince Buck-bee in terms the spritekin expected. The sash at his waist had a barely detectable lump in it — his secret weapon. Gord had earlier found a fist-sized stone and tied it into the cloth. As soon as he and Hop had paid their homage to Queen Lifayvia and compliments to their sneering opponents, the young thief acted.

Prince Buckbee sprang into the air, drawing his sword as he did so. Gord didn't bother with sword, dagger, or even the buckler strapped onto his back. Instead, he quickly undid his sash. He had folded it so that it made one turn around his waist. A quick tug, and he had about eight Poochaun-sized feet of silken sash whirling in his hand.

"What knavery this?" the prince cried, looping and darting to attack the man who spun a sash carelessly over his head.

"No knavery, Dear Buckbee, just human ingenuity!" The Poochaun ignored the retort, intent upon bringing the combat to a quick end by spearing his adversary in a dive-and-impale maneuver. The circling sash forced him to swoop so as to come in a beellne at head height to accomplish his tactic. As he did so, the young thief instantly tilted the plane of the spinning sash. The stone at its end didn't immediately strike the zooming Poochaun, but a portion of the sash that held it enwrapped his arm. The spin then brought the stone in contact with the underside of Prince Buckbee's jaw. He went out like a light. The force of his flying charge continued long enough for his sword to graze Gord's left side. Then the Poochaun thudded to the ground.

"Hang on, Hop!" Gord saw that the mountebank was lighting furiously with the spritekin called Sir Dragonfly. He had been hit at least twice by the Poochaun, but from the looks of it the wounds were no worse than the little cut Gord had suffered. This made no difference to Hop. He was determined to slay or be slain now!

"Foul, foul!" the herald shouted. "Single combat! Stop that human from assisting his co-felon!"

Ignoring these urgings and a threatening response from the soldiers around the field, Gord managed to get close to his friend. Ducking to avoid a slash from the airborne Poochaun, the young thief thrust the end of his twisted sash into Hop's left hand, shouting, "Use it like a flail! There's a rock in the end, and you can entangle-" Then he was grabbed by a pair of the Poochaun soldiers and carted away bodily.

"If you try to aid your fellow human again." they warned him sternly, "you will be brought down by archery, and the arrows used will be lethal!"

"I did naught dishonorable," Gord replied, "but I will not dispute your commands at this time."

Hop had taken Gord's suggestion. As soon as he managed to get the sash spinning rapidly with his left arm, the mountebank flung his sword into the air toward the buzzing Sir Dragonfly and used both hands and arms to wield the silken flail then. The Poochaun tried to cut the device, but this attempt brought him within range of its clublike head. Before he could flutter up for another try, the stone-bearing end of the cloth enwrapped his ankles. Hop jerked back, falling over in his effort Sir Dragonfly was yanked down by the force and fell atop the mountebank. In a moment they were entangled in a wrestling match that the slender Poochaun could not win.

The contest was over, and the queen was furious — at first Her champions had been ignominiously defeated. The humans were proven right by their victory! This was a humiliating day for Queen Lifayvia. But the cleric and others of her subjects spent time calming her, suggesting that perhaps some higher power had taken a hand in the matter.

"Two of the noblest of your subjects, glorious majesty, could not be so defeated, unless another, someone of your majesty's stature, took action to aid these two men. It was, undoubtedly, meant to be," the cleric assured her and added, "Other than bumps and bruises — and Sir Dragonfly's sprained wing — both noble warriors are unhurt, my glorious queen."

"Enough, enough! I am no longer wroth," Queen Llfayvia said. Then she gave a tinkling laugh and actually smiled. "Those two bold warriors of mine did look most foolish as they crashed to dirty their fine garments!" she exclaimed in merriment. "We are glad they are not worse injured than they are, for surely their foes could have killed them had they so desired. In fact, we are most amused and also grateful for the sparing of Poochauntan lives."

Although a few of the males looked sullen and angry at her words, the majority of the Poochauns cheered and clapped at their Queen's acknowledgment She raised her hand for silence, and a hush fell.

"We now proclaim a revel in honor of the victors in Royal Trial by Combat, the Righteous and Honorable Gord and Hop! Fete them with noble Poochaunlan merriment! All of Avalondria is theirs until the cock crows morning!"

It was a night of unbridled revelry, and the cock crowed much sooner than the "Righteous and Honorable Gord and Hop" would have liked.

"What a hangover," Hop groaned, rolling over to shut out the blazing rays of the sun — a useless waste of energy, for the action failed to accomplish his purpose.

Gord keened in misery too. "Aaah, aargh! Where the hells are we, anyway?"

The mountebank squinted and gazed around. "We're in a meadow! How'd we wind up back in the open?"

"All I remember is three of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen." the young thief said dreamily, "and wine the likes of which the gods themselves must envy. Where are we?"

"Didn't we have some special place to go? I think I recall a party or something … or maybe not. What's wrong with my brain?"

Too much 'of that wine, I think," Gord said to the mountebank. "I'm fuzzy-headed too. What a party we must have had!" And then he had to stop and groan and hold his throbbing head.

Their return to the inn was marked by unusually excited cheers and cries of welcome from Lean Cole and the others. It seemed that Gord and Hop had been missing for fully three days. Everyone thought the two had vanished, or had met with foul play and were possibly dead.

"Well, there's one consolation in all this, Gord," the mountebank said with a grin. "We need no longer worry about funds for your stay here."

"Say, Hop, didn't you have some special plan for that problem?"

"Yes … no … hells, I don't remember! I seem to see moonlight on a field of toadstools. No, It's gone. It must be the aftereffects of our party."

That was some celebration, wasnt it? Those girls. ." Gord stopped, puzzled. Like a dream, the memories he had so vividly replayed in his mind were fading as mist before the hot sun.

Hop looked strangely at him. The hangover is getting to you, Gord. What party are you talking about? You and I just did ourselves in with too much good stuff while we were supposed to be hunting."

"I remember that now, too." Gord said in agreement but some vague memory kept tickling the back of his mind.

Meanwhile. Queen Llfayvia and some members of her court were sharing a light moment "So tell me again. What exactly will happen when our two friends find the few mushrooms we allowed them to keep?" Queen Llfayvia asked the cleric while wiping a tear of laughter from one of her brimming eyes.

"Well, your majesty, the 'dweomerdots' we so generously allowed them to keep were. ." the cleric, who was trying to answer the queen's question with some semblance of a straight face, suddenly lost his composure, his repressed mirth escaping from his now tightly closed lips and emitting a spray of saliva that, fortunately for the cleric, did not contact the queen's person. "Ohhh," the cleric sighed, then wiped his eyes with the edge of his robe and attempted to begin again.

"The 'dots' we let them leave with were a mixture of several different specimens with, shall we say, several different functions. If those fools attempt to partake of their precious 'dweomerdots' they'll find the side effects to be somewhat disconcerting — to say the least!" The hysterical cleric, having thus fulfilled the queen's request, collapsed to the ground in an absolute fit of screams and giggles. For the first time in her life, Queen Lilayvia threw regailly to the wind and was soon following the cleric's lead. The tree that housed the Poochauns veritably shook with mirth for a good hour.

Riding Blue Murder slowly back to Greyhawk a day or two later, the unsuspecting Gord discovered he had a handful of dried, oddly colored little discs of fungi in his purse. "Yech!" he exclaimed, tossing them to the ground. Those damn things could be poisonous!"

Meanwhile, at about the same time, Hop was busy in the cluttered kitchen of the rambling inn between Gawkes Mere and Olgars Bend. A group of his special cronies were due to arrive soon, and in honor of the event the mountebank was preparing his special dish. Not one person who had ever savored Hop's slumgullion would deny its excellence. To the contrary, this dish was universally proclaimed as unsurpassed by those lucky enough to have eaten it.

"Where are the morels?" Hop called to the busy woman who usually cooked.

"Gone," she snouted back without looking up from her work.

"Gone? That's terrible! I'm doing my slumgullion with game, and I must have mushrooms. What about those shaggymanes?"

"Gone, too. Lean Cole and his bunch ate them last night."

Grumbling and fretting, Hop searched frantically for what he needed. Then, snapping his fingers, the mountebank searched his cloak. It seemed he could vaguely recall some mushrooms he'd put into an inside pocket for some reason. Sure enough! The little buttons of fungi were there — dried out and wrinkled, but they would have to do. After all, in a stew such as he'd serve, who'd be the wiser?

"Problem's solved, Cookie. I’ve found something that the boys will be sure to think is special!"

The woman finally looked up and shook her head. "Hop, you know you make that stuff of yours so spicy and full of herbs that nobody ever knows what you put in it anyway. Why worry about a few tasteless mushrooms?"

"Because," Hop told her with pride and dignity, "these are some of my special friends. I'm going to serve them up a dish they'll remember for the rest of their lives!"

"Well, I guess you'll just do that then, won't you?" Cookie said rhetorically, for Hop was already departing, pot of slumgullion in hand, heading for the common room.

There was never any doubt about its unforgettability forever after.