Hop laughed appreciatively and then grew serious. "It is good to see you more the Gord of old. I’ve heard what is said of the dancer, Ageelia. I heard of the vast treasure. The tale of her betrayal is oft told. You are more than a bit of a folk hero these days, Gord. I am sorry that the fame is such. ." Hop trailed off with a sympathetic look at his unfortunate friend.
When Gord heard Hop's mention of Ageelia, the lovely dancer who had been pulled to her death in the Gray Run by the gold and platinum she and her lover had stolen from him, his heart grew leaden and his face became granite again. "You are sorry? So am I," he said flatly, turning to look elsewhere in dismissal of the other man.
"Why not find another girl to love and forget what happened?" asked Hop with a not-to-be-put-off urgency.
"I cannot." Gord replied heatedly.
"You mean you won't. I know you. Your pride won't let you!"
"As you will," Gord said emotionlessly now, his face averted.
"This mourning is useless!"
"Something else is bothering me," Gord said, now looking squarely into the mountebank's eyes. "Eventually, I'll figure out just what it is that troubles me so. It is more than the loss of one who did not love me. When I find the answer to this disquietude, perhaps then I'll do something besides mourn — as you put it."
"So!" Hop said slowly, with a nod of his head. He eyed the cat-quick young man, seeing determination written on the tanned face and within his deep gray eyes. His scrutiny also took in the slender but powerful body that moved so easily and surely, and the hands so agile as to be able to deal cards from mid-deck, unseen, yet hardened for deadly weapon play. Gord noticed the assessment but said nothing. Hop finally sighed in resignation, determined to speak again. "I feared you would be thus. Gord. There are whisperings in certain places."
Without a sign of interest, Gord echoed, "Whisperings?" He barely accented it so as to form a question, but did not really care.
"Yes, whisperings. Hushed talk among those who frequent the hangouts of the guild," Hop went on in a conspiratorial tone.
"What? What are you mumbling about?" Gord asked with a trace of annoyance.
Not wishing to mention the girl, the mountebank-turned-ostler paused a second, then said softly, "The affair with Xestrazy. The sum of money involved. Your part Who knows?"
"A thousand and more orbs is bound to make anyone buzz — from the lowest dive to the grandest court."
"Perhaps. . yes. But before you had even, ah … acquired. . the sum for the supposed purpose you obtained it?" Hop asked with a voice filled with implication.
"The hells you say if you're trying to tell me something, come out with it man!"
The near-shout caused several of the bistro's nearby customers to turn and see what was going on. Hop ran his fingers through the stubble of hair he so prided himself on. His hair style was formerly a sign of nonconformity, but it was now unremarkable except for the fact that only villains and certain unusual folk from far-off territories affected the style. Gord recognized his friend's gesture as one of nervousness and reiterated, in a quieter tone of voice but a no less determined tone, "What is this all about?"
"Rumor and gossip are unreliable." Hop said in a negligent tone of voice and with a wave of dismissal.
"Dragondung!" Gord spat in a low, steely voice. Tell me the whole of what you’ve learned, or by all the-"
"Now take it easy! And can the threats — I am not impressed." Hop added with a mixture of confidence and anger. "As I have told you, I only heard hints and allusions. In all likelihood, none of it has any substance."
Gord was pale now, and his eyes burned with fervor. "Hints? Of what were you given hints? No more beating around the bush! Come out with it, Hop!"
"It is time for me to entertain the patrons once again. Gord," the mountebank said. As he rose and slung his battered lute over his shoulder, he looked the perfect troubadour. His words, though, were not of music or poetic lyrics. "If I were in your boots, Gord, I'd look up old friends for information, especially those now high in the Thieves Guild."
The meaning of those words was clear — there was a distinct possibility that the scam pulled by Ageelia and Xestrazy had more players involved than those two scoundrels. Hop had implied that the person Gord must question could be none other than the companion of his childhood, the one-time beggar-boy San. But what would his old friend have to do with a plot against him? He would have to pay San a visit and find out.
Just South of River Street, from the Old Wall to the Processional, trade, commerce, and common dwellings give way to a special element. Hidden behind blank walls and screening buildings are a collection of large, lavish homes with walled gardens and guarded perimeters. This enclave, not so originally named The Enclave, is located directly east of the High Quarter and touches the green commons near the Newmarket Square. It is the place reserved for the most important of the city's underworld society. The foremost thieves of the guild dwell in The Enclave, as do the leading assassins. The community is also the home of prosperous panderers and madams, forgers and counterfeiters, actors, smugglers, and a gang boss or two.
However, the head of the Thieves Guild, as well as the Guildmaster of Assassins for that matter, and all the other oligarchs and officials of Greyhawk, had palatial residences elsewhere, disdaining The Enclave, as did all who haughtily decreed their domiciles to be in the High or even the Garden Quarter. Only the best of places in either quarter could claim more opulence than the walled villas and mansions of The Enclave, but prestige was gauged by the location of the residence first and the state of the residence second. The best of the worst and only oligarchical status could remove the epithet.
Gord was comfortably seated in one of these large and lavishly furnished dwellings located within the confines of the place referred to as The Enclave. The dwelling was many-storied and bartizaned, impressive on the outside and beautiful on the inside. With flowers growing amidst a befountained garden and room after room filled with the best of furnishings, the place must have cost a fortune. The dwelling belonged to San, now a master thief, once a comrade and fellow student of Gord's. Entry had been easy for one of Gord's skill, even with a half-dozen guards and various, locks and boobytraps set for the less talented. A pair of vicious mastiffs now lay sleeping at the young adventurer's feet, bellies filled with meat dusted with the soporific pollen of duskbloom. Gord was at ease in San's own chair, behind that worthy's desk, in his hidden office located in the heart of the big building. Gord waited patiently. San must come home soon, and when he did, he would come here.
The sound of voices below awakened the young man from a light doze. Footfalls sounded on a nearby staircase, and the sound of a door opening was discernible to the sharp-eared Gord. Then he heard San's voice and that of a woman — probably his wife, from what Gord could hear of their conversation. The door closed, but a faint line of light still showed on the wall where the secret door to the chamber was located. Hands behind his head, feet up, Gord waited. The light expanded to become a full rectangle as a tall mirror swung outward on its heavy, hidden-hinged frame.
"Hello, San. Nice place you have here." Gord said dryly.
The startled thief jumped, for he had not seen that there was an unexpected visitor in the secret chamber. He nearly dropped the candlestick he was holding, but managed to recover quickly enough. "This is an unanticipated pleasure. Gord, to say the least." San said without any pleasure apparent in his tone. Then, more heartily, Gord's former comrade from the slums uttered, "It really is good to see you! But what the devils are you doing sneaking into my home like this?" San sounded more puzzled than troubled.
"Don't you know?" Gord allowed the question to trail off as he stared hard at San.