Night Arrant (29 page)

"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.

Cats Versus Rats

THE WELL-REGULATED BUSINESS of the Thieves Guild was in turmoil. Nerof Gasgol, Lord Mayor of Greyhawk, was personally calling upon the assembled masters of the guild. The usual procedure for such an audience would be a summons of the latter to appear before His Solemn Authority, The Lord Mayor. This reversal of form boded ill.

Amid the confusion a tall, sinewy servant went about his duties unnoticed. His hard eyes were keen and quick. None of the others hurrying about would meet his gaze twice, for the tall man's eyes were as flat and cold as a viper's.

A small whistle sounded, its brassy tweet a formal alert that visitors had entered the precinct of the guild. As a great staff was pounded to announce the lord mayor and his entourage, the tall man seemed to melt into the background. The one with viper's eyes was now no more noticeable than a table or a stool. He had, somehow, managed to shrink and become older. Now he was but one of many lackeys awaiting orders to fetch and serve.

"Cease this parody of ceremony!" the lord mayor commanded as the crier and sergeant-at-arms began to go through their well-rehearsed rituals in honor of the occasion.

"Desist!" ordered Arentol, master of the Thieves Guild. Even though he was one of the ruling oligarchs of Greyhawk, there was no question as to whom ultimate authority belonged.

Gasgol waved a hand. "Have this chamber cleared immediately. I have come to speak with you in privy."

The master of thieves signed his instructions to his fellows. Although he was quite aware that the lord mayor was an expert at the silent speech used by both thieves and assassins, Arentol was determined not to bend his guild's rituals and customs one jot more than absolutely necessary. "And your own servitors?" Gulldmaster Arentol inquired politely, even as his hands and fingers ordered the room emptied of all but a pair of guards and a like number of attendants.

"Don't be impudent." Gasgol countered dryly. Then, turning so as to face his half-dozen men, the lord mayor directed, "Two of you remain at the door while you others assist the gulldmaster's good helpers there." he concluded, pointing out the servants and guards well back from the center of the irregularly shaped counter.

"As you wish, my lord." Arentol's tone reeked of artificial politeness.

"Indeed it will be, guildmaster, indeed. Sit, sit by all means," Nerof Gasgol said with a humorless smile as he took a chair.

"The honor of your—" Arentol was not allowed to finish his attempted lie.

"Honor? Come now. Oligarch Arentol! You know very well that this visit is less than an honor to you." the lord mayor said with a chill in his tone. "Your guild is indeed honored by my presence, but it is a disgrace to you for me to be here,"

The master of thieves of Greyhawk winced imperceptibly. "I know the reason for this visit, but it is no disgrace to me. Surely, Nerof, one rogue bandit roaming so vast a city as this one cannot be so great a matter."

The lord mayor stared at the thief as he said that. "What? You, one of our oligarchs, one who has heard council and leading citizens threaten revolt, dare to say that?" Gasgol's face flushed with anger as he spoke. "This matter is one that must be resolved with alacrity, or else this guild will be made anathema until we have control once again!"

"We have obeyed the codes! All thieves of the guild obey—"

"Says you! Not a handful believe that any longer, Arentol. Even I have begun to doubt."

The guildmaster was pale but spoke firmly. "You have seen my orders, your men have been with my agents as we sought to find and take this Blackcat."

"Oh, so? And has that rogue thief been caught and put to justice? I see no head adorning the gates of the Citadel announcing Blackcat's end!"

"Such a one as that takes time to trap."

"You have run out of time, guildmaster!" As he spoke Gasgol was smiling inwardly. He reveled in the discomfort of the proud and ambitious master of thieves. Arentol was, after all, an oligarch and a potential rival for the headship of Greyhawk. The lord mayor had himself once been a thief, albeit one less skilled than the current guildmaster. The humiliating of this man before his own, before the other oligarchs, and before the eyes of the influential folk of the city would help assure Gasgol's own continued preeminence. "As of this moment I am hereby personally assuming control of the matter."

Arentol sat bolt upright in his high-backed chair. "What?"

"What, indeed. Any thief wishing to carry out his trade must first clear the matter with me — or one of my lieutenants. For that, of course, there will be an additional tithe levied against your guild. Inform your membership immediately."

"What if the members decide not to obey?"

Gasgol smiled broadly at that question. "They will be killed." he said simply. "Any thief found acting outside the strict confines I have just outlined will be subject to instant execution."

"The other guilds — assassins, beggars ..."

"Either concur or care not a bit. Arentol. After all, most have suffered loss because of your inability to find and end the career of a single rogue."

"Bah!"

Again the lord mayor smiled. "Perhaps you prefer that Blackcat not be caught."

"Are you suggesting that I somehow support the depredations of a rogue thief? That threatens my leadership and weakens—" and with that Arentol snapped his mouth shut grimly.

"Yes, that result is evident now, isn't it? Whether or not it occurred with your approval or participation, we shall soon learn, shan't we?"

"Be damned, Gasgol!" the guildmaster said forcefully but so softly that only the lord mayor could hear. "I am no fool to risk such an undertaking."

"No? Perhaps the lure of such rich hauls and an underestimation of my response prodded you into being, ah, less than prudent, shall we say?"

Guildmaster Arentol sat back and stared at the lord mayor. "So now this matter of Blackcat is out of my hands and in yours alone?" he demanded with anger evident in his tone.

"Correct," Gasgol replied. Just as forcefully.

"Very well. I shall inform the guild immediately, just as you have commanded. Guildmaster and guild bow to your wishes."