A pair of ruffians lurking along Batwing Lane heard steps approaching slowly and moved to positions where they could best take joint advantage of their approaching target. Only the drunk or foolhardy were abroad alone in such places at this hour, which was nearing midnight The unwary passerby should be an easy mark.

One thug went into the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the lane; the other took station in a recess just a little farther down the lane on the opposite side. A smallish man appeared around the curved way, walking slowly and humming a mournful tune. Faint glittering indicated he wore some valuable jewelry. Best of all, he was unaccompanied by friend or guard.

"Ho, stranger," the ruffian farthest down Batwing Lane called softly as he stepped from concealment. The lone man stopped still and peered at the big shape before him.

A soft sound, inaudible to any but the keenest ear, came from behind the wayfarer. The second bandit crept to a position behind his intended victim and raised his cudgel. The heavy oaken billet hissed through the air, but it failed to strike the victim's skull with the good, solid impact its wielder anticipated so fondly. Instead it continued through emptiness until it impacted with the only solid mass in its path — the thug's own shin! He howled, dropped the weapon, and grabbed his injured leg.

His startled partner was left to deal with the supposed victim who had somehow managed to appear directly in front of the big mugger. One moment he was a handful of paces distant, and the next instant this dark-clad stranger, sword in hand, was before the bandit who intended to waylay him. The ruffian tried to stab with a knife, but the lone man's move was far too quick. The blade went spinning out into the darkness, and the criminal yowled in pain from the cut he'd taken in the bargain. In a flash he was off into the night as quickly as his legs could carry him.

"Now for you," the lone night stalker said quietly, turning with his sword at the ready. But the thug who had wielded the club was already hobbling away. The lone man shrugged, not smiling at even so ludicrous a sight as the limping fellow presented as he disappeared. Sheathing the sword blade, the wayfarer entered the cul-de-sac, and in the dim glow of a lantern overhead, went down the steps and into the entrance to The Turning Wheel.

The strains of a quartet playing lively music were evident even before he entered the place.

"Darksgreeting, sir. Do you wish ..." a woman with a fixed smile routinely began her usual spiel. Then, recognizing her latest customer, she brightened considerably. "Ah, Gord, come again, have you? It's wonderful to see you after such a long interlude! Shall I bring the usual to your table?"

"Yes, that is fine, Tess," the young thief answered unenthusiastically, and the woman went to fetch his drink. Gord moved through the crowd to a small, empty table in a dim comer of the high-vaulted cellar.

Gord sat watching the performance while sipping the mulled wine fortified by fiery spirits. There were three instruments accompanying a troubadour who played a lute and sang sad ballads. The musicians playing the virginal, the dulcimer, and the trilling shalm were familiar, but Gord couldn't recall their names. The troubadour, however, was well-known to the young adventurer. The entertainer noticed Gord at the same time that Gord noticed him. He nodded and grinned in Gord's direction and lost no time in getting to his friend's table when he finished the song and the applause died.

"A pleasure to see you, Gord, old friend! May I join you?" the musician asked, obviously delighted to see his longtime friend.

"Be at ease, Hop," Gord said without enthusiasm. "Allow me to supply you with potable in way of appreciation of the entertainment you so capably provided just now. Your music is of the sort I am drawn to these days."

"Not so fast, my friend," Hop countered. "As an entertainer here, I am supplied by the house with whatever I want to drink. You shall have another of those concoctions you drink on me instead."

Before Gord could say anything to that, the troubadour had signaled one of the barmaids, and two bumpers were immediately placed before them. Gord looked at the singer without any change in expression. "I am surprised to find you here, Hop. The last I heard, you had vowed to rusticate in Gawkes Mere forever."

"The life of a tavernkeeper has its charms, but the lure of the city draws me back once again to learn the latest gossip and play with other minstrels for a while. I'll tire of it soon enough and return to Gawkes Mere, have no fear. But enough of that. How fare you? It is said you are as gloomy and silent as you were once ribald and social. And I can see with my own eyes that this is true. Why so morose, Gord?"

"A passing spate of ill humors, perhaps," the young man said vaguely in reply, lifting his beaker to drink so that he wouldn't have to provide further explanation.

Hop nodded and said, "Rhumsung Lampba P. once told me that the overzel—"

Coughing from having swallowed hastily, Gord managed to interrupt, "No discussions of philosophies or arcane life-knowledge this night, please! Better anything — even your lecherous tales — than that!"

Hop, whose given name was Runewort, son of Kay of Ashdown, was in addition to ostler and troubadour a highly skilled mountebank. When he spoke of gossip, Hop knew of what was told from the noblest of salons to the lowest of dens in Greyhawk and elsewhere as well, for his customers were of many diverse lifestyles. He knew the cause of Gord's melancholy and, having failed at his attempt to broach the subject by philosophizing, decided to come straight to the point. "I too have suffered love lost, my friend. A place such as this is good medicine for the imbalance of humors you suffer of late, but the cure requires the cooperation of the afflicted as well."

"Meaning what?" Gord asked impatiently. "If you wish to be dolorous, then no amount of drink and lively company will lift the pall, old friend."

"Talk, smile, laugh — allow yourself to heal! Come, let's find a pair or so of likely wenches and see if that doesn't lift your downtrodden spirits. Tomorrow I ride west — come with met I’m sure we can fill a few weeks with the kind of activity guaranteed to make any man forget his troubles — no matter who or what they may be."

"I have no desire for such frolicking," Gord said, adding a slight scowl for punctuation.

Hop launched into a long-winded lecture on life and the ways to deal with its problems, but Gord had no intention of letting his words take effect. "As a savant, Hop, you are a superb mountebank. Save this patter for marks and those who wish-to be entertained."

The bearded, crop-headed fellow was undaunted by the rebuff. "I am ever the rebel, Gord, as you well know. If society or a star-crossed friend were able to put me off, what would I be?"

"Less noticeable and silent!" Gord volunteered with a slight grin that quickly vanished, to be replaced by a frown once again.

"Touche!" said Hop, with a rueful smile, and feigning a deep wound he continued. "Now I see that you can relieve your hurt only by skewering those who care about you on the sharp point of your wit."

"Point of my head, more likely. Why not leave off, Hop? I know you mean well, but I just wish to be alone."

"Gord, this is not merely a matter of idle chatter and uplifting the spirits of an old associate. Considering the adventure — or two — we have shared together, you are one of my closest friends in life. I need you to get back your zest for life, or I shall have to end up doing all your drinking, lusting and other miscellaneous adventuring for you! Even I can't handle that much fun!" With that the mountebank winked at the young thief and quaffed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. Gord drank, too, and the slamming tankards brought the serving wench hurrying to the table with refills. Hop belched and patted his muscular stomach, where a slight paunch could be seen. "I really should spend some time exercising," he said.