". . . and that's what makes them so godsdamned ferocious!" That snatch of words and the hearty, raucous laughter that followed the end of the yarn assailed Gord's ears as he pushed open the great door and stepped into the room.

A few of the patrons eyed him suspiciously, but a couple of the old-timers recognized him. "Ho there, Gord" one called, while the other nodded a silent greeting.

"House-brewed ale in a big tankard, as I recall," barman Lean Cole said laconically. He was proud of his memory for customers' faces, names, and drinking preferences, "Been a time since you’ve dropped in, Gord."

"Near six years, Lean Cole, and your own ale it is indeed!"

Summer sun went down late, but the Score never grew crowded until well after the night fell. Gord was able to finish his drink, become installed in a cozy back bedroom, wash, and don fresh clothing before the barroom became too crowded to provide him a place at the counter. Because he was well-liked by the barkeeper, the young thief was accorded space in the darkest most inaccessible part of the bar. From there he could see everything, swap tales with the other elite, and occasionally be offered tidbits of things from the kitchen or gills of spirits reserved for special times and special folks.

"Where's Hop?" Gord asked as Lean Cole sauntered over to see what his regulars needed,

"Still serving the trade come for late supper, I think," the barman replied. "He was in fine fettle when he arrived this afternoon, I’ll tell you!"

"How so? Or should I ask why?"

"Gawkes is crowded, and Hop took a load of his nostrums, quack ointments, and phony philters over there in the morning. Sure enough, when he came back he'd peddled the lot for more cash than should have been paid for the real thing — if that could ever be found."

Gord chuckled. "I think I owe him a night on the town — at feast if I can remember straight!"

Now Lean Cole laughed quietly, and cautioned, "Not likely you'll ever be able to get even with Hop, one way or the other, Gord. I'll send him over your way when he comes down."

Because of the special nature of the Score's common room and its patrons, the inn also provided a pleasant room above for dining. The kitchen was midway between the two floors, so that it could serve formal meals to the good folk who came to dine and informal fare for the folk who preferred to quaff first and sup only when absolutely necessary. It seemed startling to consider, but to Gord's own knowledge many of those who stayed annually at the inn never saw its lower regions. The young thief couldn't understand why. of course. To him rubbing elbows with leathery woodsmen, hard-eyed mercenaries, wandering entertainers, and knights of the road was as natural as could be. Not a single one he'd ever met here wasn't a long cut above those of Old City's slums where he'd spent his childhood. Hop. the ofttlmes flamboyant proprietor of the inn, was a good example.

The fellow claimed to have been born in this rustic area, but Gord was never certain of the truth of the assertion. Hop was certainty well-traveled and had been to forlorn and wild places the young thief had only read about.

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?"