Gord motioned toward the entranceway behind^ them. "Let's try our luck elsewhere. We now know where humans and demi-humans enter and leave this pocket-sized place. Somewhere are the gates that lead to more alien planes, too."

"And our world?"

"If we eliminate all else, we will find the way. There are certainty a fair number of folk from the Flanaess treading Weird Way. After all, we have noted Aerdians. citizens of Dyvers, Kettites and other Westerners, and an odd Frusti or two. Some establishment here serves to transport these folk to and from their own countries," Gord asserted.

"But what if they merely use the tokens as we did?" Chert asked.

"Then we find the gate that leads to Greyhawk and acquire an 'exit' token in much the same manner as we got our hands on the magical disc that got us in here in the first place." -

"Yuuch! Don't you remember what else we got our hands on when we 'acquired' the key to unlocking that enchanted gate?" Chert asked, screwing up his face so badly his friend had to laugh.

"If you walk around looking like that we may not need to leave. Chert. Why, you fit right in with all the rest of the strange folks here!" Chert changed his expression to a menacing one, and Gord continued to chuckle off and on again as the two searched the business district of Weird Way for a travel agency that could provide them passage to Greyhawk.

The Pagoda of Pools was the department for extraplanar travel, as well as the means to access the upper, lower, and similarly removed planes. Eventually the pair discovered that the Explorer's inn also provided a service that allowed its customers to chronogate time and the more unusual probability lines as well. All the other establishments along Weird Way were as they seemed, more or less. Chert looked grim, but Gord was still jaunty.

"Loath as I am to reveal our inexperience and ignorance, I believe it is time to find a knowledgeable and willing denizen of the way to enlighten us," he said to his friend. "What say. Chert?'

The barbarian eyed the sinking sun and nodded. "I agree, and we'd better do so within the hour. I like not the prospect of another night here with a v vengeful vampire seeking usl"

Back in Faire Market, the two strode amidst the riot of vendors shouting the virtues of their wares until they saw a maroon-and-citrine-draped booth that offered vintages of unusual sort. A banner above the booth read "Rare Wine at Bargain Prices." And judging from the throng of customers surrounding the booth, this claim was justified.

A few copper commons bought each of the adventurers a sample, and as they drank the ruby-hued stuff — port, so it was called — they casually surveyed their fellow patrons. Chert spied a gaudily attired Suloise in a double-peaked hat of fuchsia.

"Isn't that the sort of foppish headgear currently vogue in Rel Mord?" he asked, nudging Gord and nodding toward the dandy.

"So I hear. Let's see if we can strike up a conversation."

The fellow was making strange faces as they moved nearer, and he spat a mouthful of wine upon the ground just as they sidled near.

"Well, sir?" asked the purple-fingered merchant.

"Grids! That is a fine vintage! Yes, it opens suddenly, a saucy wine with full body and a blush of arrogance. Is that quolberries I detect a hint of?"

"Possible, although some experts have suggested essence of flowering ogshayallsbay. . . ."

The fellow took another sip, made a moue with his lips, and nodded. "Perhaps, perhaps. No matter, I should like a cart with two tuns of this ready to go within the hour. It suits my needs perfectly!" He paid over a number of coins to the vintner, and the bargain was struck.

Suppressing a desire to relieve the fop of his dangling purse, the young thief spoke. "Your pardon, sir. but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation just now. I am struck by your seemingly astute knowledge of fine wine!" Gord said with a deferential air. "You are from fair Nyrond, are you not?"

"Yes, Rel Mord, more exactly," the man said, looking down his nose as Gord spoke. "And you are a citizen of Greyhawk, unless I miss my mark." His tone of voice left no doubt that Greyhawk was a less than desirable place to be a native of, and that he could not conceive of missing his mark.

"Indeed, sir! Your perceptlveness continues to astound me. Small wonder, I suppose, Nyrond being the center of culture, and its capital being the very heart and spirit of world affairs," the young thief said with admiration ringing in his voice.

The daintily clad fellow smiled condescendingly at that. "True, quite so. It surprises me, sir. that such knowledge is common in the provinces!"

"Such knowledge is not common, sir!" Gord said with an air of combined haughtiness and courtesy. "Know that I have traveled as far as Urnst, and there I gained much intelligence about the true state of affairs in our world. But that is no matter, for I wished to inquire if you would be so kind as to assist me in selecting an extraordinarily fine wine."

"Well, I suppose I could provide some coun—"

"Wonderful! You are most kind, sir." Gord smiled, bowed slightly, and went on "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Master Drogo, and this is my man, Furd," he finished, waving toward Chert. "A lout, to be sure, but most useful as a bodyguard."

Chert scowled at that, stepping toward Gord. "There is a certain bullishness about him that is effective, I'll grant." the fellow said as he put the slender thief more directly between himself and the glowering barbarian. He eyed Gord once again, appraising his dress and bearing carefully. "I am Lord Maheal, Szek of Dohou-Yohpe. Please feel free to call me Your Lordship, Master Drogo."

"An honor indeed. Lord Maheal," Gord said dryly. "Do you come to Weird Way often?"

"To be blunt, no. This is hardly the place for persons of quality, if you catch my drift," the Nyrondel aristocrat replied. "Frankly, my dear uncle, Lord Fizziak, sent me here to acquire certain items for a banquet and revel he is hosting — the king himself will attend, you know!"

Gord nodded, a look of sympathy playing across his features. "Indeed, the place is trying, but one must do one's duty for king and uncle!"

"Quite correct," Lord Maheal agreed curtly, resolution evident in his entire being.

"As a nobleman of such quality, your time is most precious, so I will not presume upon you more than is necessary for me to be enlightened. Let me assay the vintages." With that, Gord perused the shelves until he noted a bottle of most unusual nature resting on a shelf at the back of the booth. He signaled the wine merchant to bring him a bottle. "Are you familiar with the harvest that yielded this liquid?" he asked the foppish Maheal.

The dolt seemed highly impressed. "Most dear!" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Superb selection, sir," the merchant confirmed with emotion as he caressed the dusty green bottle. "This is a 1947 Margeaux Margeaux — are you familiar, then, with the Bordeaux wines of Earth?"

"Ahhmmm," Gord replied noncommittally, peering at the undecipherable inscriptions that covered the parchment glued to portions of the container. "So rare a vintage as this cannot, of course, be sampled. I presume?"

"Impossible." the merchant agreed sadly.

"Ah, but the chateau, the vintage, the bottling are all too well-known to require further exploration of what is already known as gospel, Master Drogo!" Lord Maheal assured the devious would-be connoisseur.

"How many bottles have you?" asked Gord matter-of-factly.

"Just six, noble sir."

"What price for the half dozen, then?"

The plump merchant stammered. "A single bottle sells for" — he paused here to assess Gord's origin — "ten gold orbs. I ... I cannot reduce the price even though you take the lot, for each is a jewel, a treasure!"