"As I could have — and The Pearl too," Zulmon said. "But why look as if you have just learned that your best stallion has become sterile?" the tall nomad added, his dark eyes crinkled with mirth. "You helped and added much glory to yourself in doing so. Now we are happy, and you are an honored blood brother of the Al-babur tribe! I will not beg you to stay with us, Gord, but I pledge you my brotherhood and the welcome of the Kirkir always."

Forsaking offers of horses, flocks of goats, and many wives, the young man rode west without looking back into the steep hills behind. There were many leagues to go and much to consider before he entered Yolakand. One hundred leagues, In fact — more than three hundred miles of travel across the open, rolling plains that stretched westward from the Pennors farther than anyone knew. Just why he was bound for the great city of the Yollites, Gord still wasn't certain, but go there he would.

As he cantered along on Windeater, Gord recalled The Pearl's comment about his being too young, and he chuckled to himself. How old was he? It was a fine question, and he wasn't really sure of the answer.

Since the time when he grew up as a child of Greyhawk's Old City slums, Gord had had no accurate idea of his age. His foster mother, such as she had been, never told him — if she knew, which Gord doubted. Old Leena cared only for herself, never for Gord, except as a means of providing things that Leena could not otherwise get. His adolescent years as a beggar and thief, the time he spent studying at the city's great university, and his periods of traveling in the wide world he could reckon. Counting in the time between travels, when he had roamed throughout Greyhawk as Blackcat, the most successful thief and burglar the city had ever known, and as Gord the free-wheeling gambler end rake, and adding that total to the other years, Gord arrived at a good reckoning of his age.