This opened up a whole realm of possibilities to him, and Gord’s mind raced over the more exciting ones. An unattended cash box would make him rich enough to live comfortably for months-and enable him to afford a ruffian to assassinate Snaggle. Perhaps he’d manage to find a jeweled weapon, a dagger or a small sword, left unguarded for a moment. After a grab and a fast getaway into the Slum Quarter’s byways, Gord figured he would be on easy street for life-and he would hire a personal attendant to dispatch all of the miserable Headsmen. The visions indeed were dancing deliciously in Gord’s mind as he skipped into the heart of that portion of Old Greyhawk City set aside for strangers.

At the Petit Bazaar, near the Black Gate, Gord came out of his wishful reverie and back into the real world. The worn cobbles of the rectangular plaza were crowded with colorfully draped and awninged booths, and rickety wagons and carts from which produce and handmade goods were hucked. The stone and brick buildings that walled the Petit Bazaar made the din of pedlars’ shouts and craftsmens’ calls, mixed with bargaining and insults yelled at the top of customers’ voices, fairly dizzy his head. Worse still, the sight of so many good things to eat-the aroma of broiling meat, bubbling soup, freshly baked bread, ripe galda fruit-caused Gord’s stomach to contract in waves of hunger. What should he do? Steal something to eat? Starvation was only a step behind-as always! Gord paused for a moment, invisible in an eddy where a buttress diverted the stream of human traffic elsewhere, a small, insignificant boy who was of no interest to anyone.

The place was thronged with the usual motley array of beings. Mixed with the typical city dwellers were all forms of outlanders-farmers and serfs from the surrounding area, dark and swarthy Rhennee bargefolk, half-orcs, unemployed mercenaries from Hardby and the Wild Coast, merchants and teamsters from all parts, and demi-humans from who knew where.