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
