by Gary Gygax
A mile farther, and seven signs passed, Gord had scored a total of ten more legs to the professor's two. That gave him a round six and thirty, less Twistbuck's mere six, for a lead of fully thirty legs! The poor professor was going to lose the equivalent of six hundred bronze zees, thirty silver nobles, at this rate! Even the fact that they had passed out of the Low Quarter and into the Halls District didn't trouble Gord now. Chance dictated a win of from twenty to forty legs in his favor. Chert was not at all pleased.
The Avenue of Fountains was not a place for drinking, and Twistbuck had the option of direction at the next intersection. He selected Scrivener's Crescent, which curved off southeastward. The professor did not add to his score when they came upon Iggy's inn. Gord was pleased to see that there was a tavern a little farther along with a sign showing a wispy maiden in green and brown garb. "I score another two for The Dryad," he noted reflectively, not bothering to name the lead he now held.
"What miserable luck I am having today," Twist-buck lamented in earnest. "Now you are up by thirty-two legs, I have no idea what direction to take," he added miserably, indicating the lane that ran into the crescent at an odd angle. "Well," he said in a resigned manner, "I don’t wish to go back to the fountain area again, so I guess I choose Haven Lane for my next route." They walked some distance, and then Twistbuck clapped his hands in glee.
"My luck is changing!" he caroled. "This is my sign and I count two legs!"
"How so, Twistbuck?" Gord demanded. The tavern had only a piece of metal above its door, a chime to be struck to indicate meals or some like event.
"Surely that is an iron triangle, is it not?" When the young thief concurred, the professor nodded and said firmly. Triangles are figures composed of two legs!"
"How do you figure that, or are you beginning to grasp at straws here, professor?" Gord was more than a little perplexed.
Twistbuck grinned. "In my lexicon the legs of a triangle are the two sides, as distinguished from the base or the hypotenuse. Therefore I score two, and your lead is cut to thirty!"
Gord shrugged and let the new totals stand. After all, he was still incredibly ahead. They zigged and zagged and passed two more establishments that had permissible signs. Gord's was Web and Spiders for twenty-four, since the signs depicted three of the arachnids; Twistbuck's was the Xorn and Gems. Since that creature had three legs, the total lead now enjoyed by the young thief was fifty-one.
Gord began to feel a bit sorry for the unfortunate professor, for he could never afford to pay over such a sum as that Chert had long since begun to trudge along in a dejected manner. He was, of course, feeling sorry for himself, but Gord took his demeanor as an indication that Chert felt the same way he did about taking such great advantage of the professor. But Gord shrugged off his pity abruptly; after all, a game was a game, and old Twistbuck was responsible for his own decisions.
"Perhaps we should stop where we are," Gord ventured, for he glimpsed a sign ahead that would aid Twistbuck. If tt were counted. Gord's lead would be sharply cut.
"Never!" the fellow shot back. "How dare you attempt to cheat me of my rightful opportunity to win?"
"As you wish, as you wish," Gord reassured the angry professor. "I simply thought it might prove expedient considering the high losses you might suffer, but I will abide by the number of a round dozen each, so set when we began."
"As well you should!" Twistbuck countered, "and I make my new score to be up by a figure of twenty-four, for there is the tavern called Six Mastiffs!"
"That reduces my lead to but seven and twenty — slender indeed," Gord replied dryly. Twistbuck ignored the sarcasm.
"You are next, and it is your choice of direction as well," he told his opponent flatly.
"Then let us follow Harper Street here," said Gord. He had been in this section of Clerksburg before, and he thought he remembered a tavern that would seal his victory and teach the pedant a sharp lesson. Sure enough, they came upon the place after a short walk. It was called The Loyal Company. Twistbuck started to protest loudly, but Gord pointed to the illustration on the sign. Although only some of their legs were shown, the sign clearly depicted a score of men. "Forty legs, I am certain, and a lead of sixty-six. You have two signs to go, and I one," he added with a small but triumphant smile.
"So I am foredoomed, it appears. No matter, we shall proceed straight along this route to the next establishment"
Had he noted the sign ahead? Gord thought so, but it didnt matter. "You gain six for The Blind Basilisk," Gord said smugly, "cutting my lead down to only sixty even with that coup." Twistbuck started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. The young thief stole a glance ahead. They were coming to another crossroads, and far ahead he could make out another sign. "I approve of your selection, sir don. I too shall march straight ahead. . . . What's this? The Hornets' Nest! Do I see ten of those angry insects there? Yes, I do! Sixty legs plus sixty makes a lead of one hundred and twenty, Twistbuck, and you have but a single sign left to count!" Chert moaned under his breath, and Gord continued to taunt his opponent. "Shall we end the charade now? I'll be kind, allowing you twenty off the total I have, so that you need pay over but a hundred good nobles."
"Your generosity is monumental, my young fellow, but I prefer to allow the game to run its full course. I shall take my last sign no matter what the outcome, and I shall also choose direction here. I think we will pass down inkwell Lane to close the game."
A little time later they came to the end of the passage. There was a tavern there, and Gord turned pale at the sight of its sign of three red centipedes. A very clear depiction.
It was almost two weeks before Gord would exchange anything approaching friendly conversation with his huge companion. In fact, for several days he wouldn't speak to Chert at all, and thereafter he had merely grunted replies when necessary to do so. Finally, the pain of having lost a hundred, and eighty nobles, almost four gold orbs, wore off sufficiently for the young thief to resume a semblance of his former swagger and assurance.
"You noted, didn't you, that never once during the course of playing that stupid game did we encounter a felon or ruffian? They feared to accost us, for it was evident that I was there to protect the scholar from harm," said the thief.
Chert flexed his arm, looked at Gord, and said nothing.
"Of course, your being along as a backup was of benefit too. But tell me, did you set the whole thing up?"
"Gord, I am thunderstruck at such a suggestion," the barbarian said, shaking his head in hurt disbelief. "You insisted on going to meet Twistbuck and you alone determined you'd play against him!"
"True, true. Still, I am troubled. There has to be a logical explanation for the professor's victory over one with my capabilities. It just doesn't make sense. Do you know what position the man holds at Counts College?"
"He professes."
"Of course." the young thief snapped irritably, "but what does Twistbuck profess?"
"Architecture."
"And?"
"Someone mentioned cartography, I think."
"That wouldn't have been a factor. Is there anything else you heard about Twistbuck that would have contributed to his win?" Gord demanded.
"Well, there is one minor detail that might have made a difference in the game. But I don't know, maybe it's nothing," Chert said hesitantly, while concentrating on stifling the grin that wanted to spread from one cheek to another and back again.
"Let me be the judge of that. Tell me, what do you know?" Gord demanded.
"Oh, just that your worthy opponent also specializes in history and city planning. Knows Greyhawk like the back of his hand!" The barbarian allowed the insistent grin to have its way and then broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
"Aaargh!" Gord roared in absolute rage. It would be some time before the furious rogue would send another word in Chert's direction.
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.