Night Arrant (26 page)

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 from the press of things in Greyhawk."

"Here, let me get us more ale," Hop said, ignoring Gord's previous statement. "Shall I cut out a likely pair of lasses from this crowd? Lean Cole has this throng well in hand, and if we hasten, he'll not notice we're gone!"

"I thought you said . .."

"You are such a silver-tongued devil, Gord! All right I’ll bring a little keg of special brew up to that parlor in the back — you know, the one right near the room you always take. Back in just a trice!"

Hop disappeared into the crowd and then into the precincts of the small kitchen on this floor of the inn. Beneath that room was a deep cellar filled with barrels, tuns, bottles and who knew what else. He was evidently going to fetch the aforementioned keg for later consumption, presumably by a party of four.

Gord shook his head in amused bewilderment "Same old Hop," he said aloud, to no one in particular. He continued to drink and exchanged a few words with another man next to him. A short time later a young woman somehow managed to find space between them, and Gord chatted with her. She was attractive in a wild way, he noted, but somehow too independent and assertive. He didn't feel like taming a shrew — not this evening, at any rate. An hour had passed, and the young thief was growing more than a little woozy-headed from the potent ale, when Hop finally returned with his usual commotion and flurry of chatter. The woman drifted away.

"You've been unbridled in your lusts!" Hop cried when he saw how inebriated Gord was becoming. He clucked his tongue in mock disgust and, reaching into his colorful tunic, pulled out a tiny packet and opened it. Colored powder flew in a cloud as he blew, and Gord nearly choked and sneezed from inhaling it. Hop ignored this, and as the rainbow puff died in tiny motes of bright-hued splendor, the mountebank made several cryptic gestures in the air before Gord's nose. Touching him on the forehead, Hop said, "Clear head, not for bed, thinking straight isnt late!"

Gord wiped tiny remnants of the powder from his visage, then ran his hands over his face again. He felt sober. His brain was no longer muddled. In fact he didn't even feel the weariness of the hard journey! "But. . . you offer spurious cures for the gullible and credulous, not real, working potions! So how come I feel so ... so lucid?"

"Hop the Savant, sir, offers a wide and amazing range of febrifuges, tonics, simples, restoratives, specifics, cordials, balms, lenitives, philters, elixirs, potions, essences, ointments, salves, and rare oils at prices so ridiculously meager that they cannot be mentioned for fear the sanity of the seller would be questioned. Nostrums and quackery are the tools of those who practice chicanery, but from Hop come the true and potent only. Hop the Savant has a cornucopia of pharmaceutia for those who would be denied because of the price charged by those interested in lining their pockets, not aiding fellow beings!"

"I feel splendid!" Gord exclaimed, still in shock over the success of Hop's remedy.

"Fine! The ladies linger coyly near the door. All we must do is join them, slip out, and go around to the back — where the parlor and the ale are ready and waiting!"

Two days later Gord was sufficiently recovered to begin enjoying the countryside. He left early in the morning to fish with a local guide, or trek through the thick growth of the summer forest to hunt for roebuck, wolf, elk, bear, and rare aurochs. Strings of huge fish and various kinds of fat game went dally to the kitchen of the Score. Gord and Hop and the others favored by them dined on the choicest parts, while the remainder went into the bellies of paying customers, and the young thief was credited for the fare thus furnished. After many glorious days of such superb hunting and excellent angling, the credit for the viands he provided — and such fine provender it was — exceeded his cost of lodging by half again. Good this was too, for the excesses of the night, fees for guides, purchase of equipment, and various gratuities had reduced the contents of Gord's purse alarmingly.

"I fear I will have to be more restrained in my evening activities.'' he ventured to Hop at dinner one night.

"What? What's this you say? Ruin an already too brief holiday by self-denial? You have but a few days left, old campaigner! You and I must live those days - and nights - to the full!"

"Necessity is a harsh taskmaster, Hop. I admit I erred in bringing too few clinkers and those of too little value, but what is done is done."

"Bah! I'll lend you a few luckies to tide you over until you must depart"

Gord shook his head. "No, that is not acceptable. Hop. When I leave, I leave for time indefinite. I may never return, may never be able to repay you. The offer is kind and generous, but I must decline," he said adamantly.

"So. ... I respect that, Gord. I will not press you. But wait a bit, and Hop the Savant will devise another plan that will rid you of the onerous need for retreat and quiet contemplation of the night." He jumped up and went off to see to the running of the inn. Despite all else, the mountebank ran a well-ordered, efficient, and usually excellent establishment. It was a miracle he managed to do so, but Gord had come to expect this from the man.

A few hours later Hop returned. "Are you sure a few luckies wouldn't do?" Before Gord could respond, the mounteback noted his firm look of resistance. "You've been here often in the past, and there's every reason to suppose you'll return again, but I yield. Now, I have come up with something that will cost you nothing out of your purse. You and I, friend, will venture into the forest primeval this night to search by the light of a full moon for ... certain mushrooms."

Gord was intrigued by this, and tried to wheedle and pry, but Hop would say no more. He merely dashed off to complete one more inspection, serve a few libations to the patrons, jovially explain that he'd play and sing another time, and then he was back again.

"They enjoy it well enough, but none of those here truly appreciate the music I devise — save possibly yourself, Gord. Still, I must not tell them that, lest they take needless umbrage. Just as you venture to these parts, I too must make occasional pilgrimages to satisfy my spirit and play the chords and melodies I so love. Say, that's a thought! Perhaps we will meet again in Greyhawk!"

At that Gord laughed, for he doubted Hop would ever stray very much farther from the Score than Olgers Bend or Gawkes Mere. Or, if he did, the irrepressible mountebank would go on another journey to a faraway place — certainly many times farther away than Greyhawk. Hop was impulsive, and he was a man of extremes. Gord changed the subject. "Come on, you larcenous rogue, stop keeping me in suspense! Are we actually to go forth this night to seek fungi?"

"Yes," Hop said seriously. "I did not jest it is not quite time yet, but before the moon has risen we must be well away from here. Put on appropriate garb, bring your sword and dagger just in case, and meet me out in front in a bit — say an eighth of your candle."

Gord nodded and hurried off to get ready. Half an hour later he walked silently to the front of the inn. Hop detached himself from the shadows there. "Shall we be off?" he hissed to Gord in a conspiratorial tone.

"By all means. Hop, let us be on our adventure," Gord whispered back with a smile. The pair went out into the night, and the darkness quickly swallowed them.

"Ssssh," Hop said softly to Gord, for no good reason, after they had walked for almost an hour.

"Ssssshh yourself! I am making no noise but this whispering." the young thief retorted. Although the mountebank could creep quietly as a woodsman, he occasionally rustled some dead leaves, snapped a tiny twig, or made small sounds by brushing against the undergrowth. If Hop was nonetheless as quiet as a deer, Gord was as silent as a stalking cat. His training as a thief and his experience in the woods combined to make him practically perfect in this regard.

Gord motioned for the mountebank to lean close. "What exactly are we creeping up on?"

Hop spoke into Gord's ear in the same hushed tone with which the young adventurer had queried him. "The glen ahead has an ancient ipt, a twisted and strange growth of many trunks. The tree is the sole survivor of what must have been a great ring of ipts."

"Ipts? How do you know? If the place around the lone tree is now a glade, who can say what trees, if any, once stood therein?"

"I know. Local legends say it was a sacred grove in olden times," Hop said. "The proof, they claim, is that great rings of a huge fungus grow there now, each ring marking the place where once an ipt stood."

Gord assented, but only partly. "That faerie rings grow where once a tree did, I learned from Curley Greenleaf, a ranger and druld friend of mine. Still, this is no proof of ipts."

"When the rings are made of sprites' tables and atomies’ cups, it is proof, Gord."

Not having the foggiest notion what sort of fungi these were, Gord grunted noncommlttally. "Then we should press on, I suppose," he told his friend. "But why is it we creep up on mushrooms in the dead of the night?"

"The moon is rising! Come on, Gord, or we'll be too late," and Hop suited words to action by going on swiftly in the pale beams of Luna. The light of the waning half-moon afforded them better vision, and Gord had to hurry to catch up.

"I thought you mentioned something about a full moon," Gord whispered.

"Must have misspoke myself, old fellow. I meant whole," the mountebank whispered back.

"Whole?" Gord felt stupid at having to ask all of his questions, but he was determined to find out what this was all about, and a waning half-moon was neither full nor whole. "Will you please explain all of this?"

"Celene will rise soon, and when she joins Luna, the two halves will equal a whole. Then, and only then, dweomerdots shoot up. You and I, Gord, will be there to pluck the little devils up and steal away before the little folk come to do the same."

"Sprites and atomies, I suppose," Gord murmured, recalling Hop's earlier reference to what grew in the faerie rings. "Anyway, what in the hells are dweomerdots?"

Hop turned and grimaced at his young companion. "You have more questions than a kid! City boys, bah! Dots are tiny fungi that come in various colors. The color determines the magic it possesses when eaten, and the ingestlon empowers the person eating the dot to have the dweomer it possesses for the space of several hours."

Gord was suddenly excited. "If the powers are of potent sort, these little mushrooms could be worth a fortune! Which colors go with which dweomer?"

"All mushrooms appear pale in the night, Gord! We just pick as fast as we can and hope a lot. Not a few bestow powers such as being able to sing like a nightingale, become transparent, or grow a thick coat of fur — not highly salable, those last sort."

The young thief could make out a clearing ahead, the thinning forest allowing moonbeams to show the place clearly. Hop recognized that they had finally reached the glen, too, and both men ceased their whispering. Should the little folk hear them, these small ones would rush to prevent the looting of what they considered theirs by right. Gord and Hop would then be in deep difficulty.

Just as the mountebank had said, the hidden glen had a huge, ancient, many-trunked ipt This conglomeration of vegetation turned and bent so as to make it impossible for the eye to determine which trunk or limb went where. The gentle hollow of the glade seemed to form a near-perfect circle around the one remaining giant tree. Surrounding the ipt at regular intervals were ring after ring of fungi. The giant, flat-capped ones ringed by smaller versions of the same ilk were evidently sprites’ tables, Gord assumed, while the tall stalks with slightly wider heads might be atomies' cups. All around these bizarre fungi grew a host of other sorts — morels, shaggymanes, puflballs. and more kinds that the young adventurer didn't recognize. There was no living thing visible, no sounds audible save the chirruping and singing of insects and other occasional sounds of the forest.