"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.