'We are considering the utilization of your. . services. Be so kind as to enumerate them for our edification,' the young thief instructed the spidery servitor — if indeed he was not the proprietor.
'Novices to the Way, I see,' the little gnome squeaked. 'Well, your worships have certainly come to the right place!' he added with enthusiasm. 'Unlike some of our competitors, the Pavilion serves the main parallels — and a few of the trunk lines, of course — of the multiverse. We have no trunk with the unhospitable planes, off byways, dead-end dimensions and the like. No, sirs!'
Taking them by the arms with his gnarled hands, the colorfully garbed gnome led Gord and Chert a few paces along the corridor. He gestured to a strange maze of shifting lines and glowing, pastel-colored dots displayed on the wall of an alcove. 'There, see? All the routes that our gates serve are shown here. Fares are given in credits, domars, and sequins, as well as the standard precious metals, as displayed to right and left.'
Chert stared wordlessly at the display. Gord nodded, pretending to study and understand the complex depiction.
'Would this perhaps deposit us within the City of Greyhawk?' Gord asked as casually as he could.
'Never, good sir!' the gnome reassured him.
'Oerik?'
'Of course not!'
'Any other of the towns or principalities of the Flanaess?'
With an expression of pain showing clearly, the gnome drew himself up to his full three feet and said. 'This establishment provides safe and convenient travel to safe destinations along every proper line. Our record is nearly accident-free, and not even a major scrambling of fluxes would bring such disaster to our patrons!' he squeaked indignantly.
'Ahem!' Gord managed.
Chert just looked confused and scratched his mop of curly hair reflectively.
'Do you hail from Yarth? Aerth?' the little fellow asked in a barely restrained horrified tone. Gord and Chert exchanged glances and said nothing, prompting the little fellow to conclude hurriedly. 'I must be off, for there is much business to attend to.' As he scuttled away, the gnome called back over his shoulder. 'Gates are clearly identified with sigils that correspond to those you see. You'll have no trouble finding one you desire — unless, of course, you wish to travel to lands this establishment does not see as being worthy of visiting!' And with that he turned a comer and disappeared.
'Now what?' demanded Chert.
'I was wondering just that,' his friend replied.
The barbarian snorted. 'It is certain that we have no need to use any of the gates that gnome raved about. They will carry us only to some other place from which we know not how to escape!'
'You speak the truth, I fear,' Gord said somberly. 'It seems that this place is a nexus for travel to the probabilities common to our own existence.'
'What?'
'The portals lead to parallel planes similar to our own — the Prime Material, as we call it on Oerth.'
'Oh,' the huge barbarian said in a subdued tone, for he understood that. 'That explains why there are so many oddly dressed folk and unnatural creatures here.'
Gord motioned toward the entranceway behind^ them. 'Let's try our luck elsewhere. We now know where humans and demi-humans enter and leave this pocket-sized place. Somewhere are the gates that lead to more alien planes, too.'
'And our world?'
'If we eliminate all else, we will find the way. There are certainty a fair number of folk from the Flanaess treading Weird Way. After all, we have noted Aerdians. citizens of Dyvers, Kettites and other Westerners, and an odd Frusti or two. Some establishment here serves to transport these folk to and from their own countries,' Gord asserted.
'But what if they merely use the tokens as we did?' Chert asked.
'Then we find the gate that leads to Greyhawk and acquire an 'exit' token in much the same manner as we got our hands on the magical disc that got us in here in the first place.' -
'Yuuch! Don't you remember what else we got our hands on when we 'acquired' the key to unlocking that enchanted gate?' Chert asked, screwing up his face so badly his friend had to laugh.
'If you walk around looking like that we may not need to leave. Chert. Why, you fit right in with all the rest of the strange folks here!' Chert changed his expression to a menacing one, and Gord continued to chuckle off and on again as the two searched the business district of Weird Way for a travel agency that could provide them passage to Greyhawk.
The Pagoda of Pools was the department for extraplanar travel, as well as the means to access the upper, lower, and similarly removed planes. Eventually the pair discovered that the Explorer's inn also provided a service that allowed its customers to chronogate time and the more unusual probability lines as well. All the other establishments along Weird Way were as they seemed, more or less. Chert looked grim, but Gord was still jaunty.
'Loath as I am to reveal our inexperience and ignorance, I believe it is time to find a knowledgeable and willing denizen of the way to enlighten us,' he said to his friend. 'What say. Chert?'
The barbarian eyed the sinking sun and nodded. 'I agree, and we'd better do so within the hour. I like not the prospect of another night here with a v vengeful vampire seeking usl'
Back in Faire Market, the two strode amidst the riot of vendors shouting the virtues of their wares until they saw a maroon-and-citrine-draped booth that offered vintages of unusual sort. A banner above the booth read 'Rare Wine at Bargain Prices.' And judging from the throng of customers surrounding the booth, this claim was justified.
A few copper commons bought each of the adventurers a sample, and as they drank the ruby-hued stuff — port, so it was called — they casually surveyed their fellow patrons. Chert spied a gaudily attired Suloise in a double-peaked hat of fuchsia.
'Isn't that the sort of foppish headgear currently vogue in Rel Mord?' he asked, nudging Gord and nodding toward the dandy.
'So I hear. Let's see if we can strike up a conversation.'
The fellow was making strange faces as they moved nearer, and he spat a mouthful of wine upon the ground just as they sidled near.
'Well, sir?' asked the purple-fingered merchant.
'Grids! That is a fine vintage! Yes, it opens suddenly, a saucy wine with full body and a blush of arrogance. Is that quolberries I detect a hint of?'
'Possible, although some experts have suggested essence of flowering ogshayallsbay. . '
The fellow took another sip, made a moue with his lips, and nodded. 'Perhaps, perhaps. No matter, I should like a cart with two tuns of this ready to go within the hour. It suits my needs perfectly!' He paid over a number of coins to the vintner, and the bargain was struck.
Suppressing a desire to relieve the fop of his dangling purse, the young thief spoke. 'Your pardon, sir. but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation just now. I am struck by your seemingly astute knowledge of fine wine!' Gord said with a deferential air. 'You are from fair Nyrond, are you not?'
'Yes, Rel Mord, more exactly,' the man said, looking down his nose as Gord spoke. 'And you are a citizen of Greyhawk, unless I miss my mark.' His tone of voice left no doubt that Greyhawk was a less than desirable place to be a native of, and that he could not conceive of missing his mark.
'Indeed, sir! Your perceptlveness continues to astound me. Small wonder, I suppose, Nyrond being the center of culture, and its capital being the very heart and spirit of world affairs,' the young thief said with admiration ringing in his voice.
The daintily clad fellow smiled condescendingly at that. 'True, quite so. It surprises me, sir. that such knowledge is common in the provinces!'
'Such knowledge is not common, sir!' Gord said with an air of combined haughtiness and courtesy. 'Know that I have traveled as far as Urnst, and there I gained much intelligence about the true state of affairs in our world. But that is no matter, for I wished to inquire if you would be so kind as to assist me in selecting an extraordinarily fine wine.'
