'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
