[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City

by Gary Gygax - (ebook by Undead)

  Exiting the basement from a back door and melting into the throng on the street was a simple matter for them; both knew how to avoid attention when they wanted to. Once past Odd Alley, they walked west to The Processional and then turned north. Gord was excited at actually mingling as an equal with the folk who strolled along here. This was the major north-south artery of the city. Southward it led to the Grand Square and the Citadel. They were going the opposite direction toward the Garden Quarter. In a short time they left the broad thoroughfare in favor of the narrower streets where the rich and famous commoners of the city dwelled. Blue Boar Street was renowned for its shops, its drinking and eating establishments, and the quality of the gentlefolk and rakes who frequented its curving length.

  Pausing here and browsing there, they proceeded along as would a well-heeled woman of high station accompanied by her servant. Before they entered the Wizard’s Hat Inn, Gord had managed to pinch a spidersilk kerchief and an ivory comb, lift a small purse from an incautious gentleman fretting while his lady looked at material in a dressmaker’s, and filch two silver pieces from the tunic of a prosperous lesser cleric. He had missed an opportunity or two, surely, but he did so by choice. If the prospect looked too alert or too knowledgeable, the lad simply passed up having a go.

  The Wizard’s Hat was a place of considerable reputation, and it was filled with people. The tavern area was crowded with all sorts of men, while most of the tables in the main room were clustered with ladies and gentlemen eating and drinking, for it was but a bit past noon. A haughty Violet accosted the sweating proprietor and demanded a table near the front of the room. One look at her, and from her, and he hastened to comply. Who knew whose mistress she was or what influence she had? Anyway, a looker like that near the front of his place would encourage custom!

  Once seated, Violet ordered a goblet of cooled green wine from Celene—a place Gord had never heard of. She waved him to a position off to one side, and the ostler brought him a small beer. While she dined on the finest provender of the establishment, Gord was served a sort of slumgullion that the serving maid identified as “raw goo.” Violet struggled to suppress a smile when he asked her what it was.

  “It’s ragout,” she said quietly with a stern expression on her face. “That’s one word—a foreign way of saying it’s a thin stew with more vegetables and the like than real meat. Slumgullion’s better, but don’t say that here, Gord! Now hush, or they’ll cop wise as to where you’re from.”

  Gord wrinkled up his nose and was about to whisper a reply when a shadow moved across the table. Violet fell immediately back into character.

  “Get rid of that sullen face, boy,” she snapped, “or I shall have you take your fare in the kitchen with the lackeys there! Have you no appreciation for my generosity?” As she spoke, Violet seemed quite annoyed and very much in charge in a mistress-servant relationship.

  Gord bit back his words and obeyed her, for as displeased as he was about their relative meals and her imperious manner, he understood that she was now up to something.

  “Pardon, Good Lady, but I noted your courage in allowing a serving boy to sup with you. May I be so bold as to suggest that you do so for lack of a proper gentleman escort, and to, ahem, offer my company?” With that he made a courtly bow and flourish, adding, “The Honorable Master Ralph, Elder of Seven Mile Mill, at your service.”

  Somehow, Violet managed to blush, lower her eyes, smile prettily, and stammer all at once. “Well, sir, or Honorable Master, I should say, I am at a disadvantage….”

  “Pardon, m’lady, I shall take my leave then,” said Ralph.

  Gord was quite pleased with that turn of events, but before the fellow could turn away Violet spoke quickly:

  “Oh, nay! Good Master, I am most grateful for your kindness and courtesy. I crave your pardon if you felt otherwise. It is just that a proper lady shouldn’t converse with strangers, yet this knave is indeed unfitting company for one of breeding such as yourself….”

  “Then perhaps our host will introduce us formally, I shall serve your Ladyship, and the boy can be sent to keep company with the scullions—he’d be more comfortable there, certainly. Why, look at him now—the picture of one ill at ease with superiors!”

  Gord was indeed feeling out of place, and angry too, but there was neither word nor deed for him. He sat quietly as the gentleman gestured toward the ostler, who scurried over and performed his role in the ritual:

  “Good sir, may I introduce Lady… aah… Penora” (after being informed by Violet) “…of… Dyvers,” (again, filled in by the fair lady) “and to you, my lady, may I have the pleasure of introducing…” Gord found all of this to be quite sickening, all the more so because Violet seemed to be really enjoying herself. But when the amenities were over, that was the end of it for Gord. With no further ado, the proprietor put him in the charge of a bustling wench who, in turn, took him to the kitchen. There he finished his beer and “raw goo” and slumped glumly, wondering what to do now.

  The answer soon presented itself, for several of the scullions and stableboys were gathered near the rear door rolling knucklebones. Well paid they must be, for each had a scattering of iron drabs, brass bits, and bronze zees before him. The bronze coins surprised Gord: These were stakes worth his while! Forgetting about the handsome gallant and Violet for the moment, he moved toward the game.

  Shuffling his feet and looking as stupid as he could, Gord asked what the boys were doing. Grinning, the leader asked if the inquirer had any money. If so, perhaps they’d be kind enough to teach him a wonderful new game—and give him a chance to win a fortune!

  Gord bit at it perfectly, and soon he was being called by name while taking his turn at tossing the yellowish cubes. He lost more often than he won, but the proceeds he gleaned from his light-fingered work far outpaced the coins he gave up. As the game progressed, Gord worked at fumbling with coins so as to slip many of the growing number of zees into his pocket—away from the gaze of those being fleeced out of their wealth. The disappearance of the more valuable coinage was becoming apparent, and one of the stable boys started to ask a question about this, when a shriek came from the common room. Everyone from the kitchen rushed out to see what had happened. Gord joined the throng, but not before he managed to scoop up a good handful of the remaining coins. In the space of those few seconds, an uproar had come over the place.

  The honorable gentleman from Seven Mile Mill had come staggering down the stairs from the upper floor, gasping and gesturing. As he stepped into the main room, someone saw a knife handle protruding from his upper back and screamed. Ralph turned a bluish hue and expired, falling face down. A babble of questions arose as Gord took in the scene. He heard the ostler shout for Lady Penora, while the wench who had shepherded Gord into the kitchen called out for her charges to find the lady’s servant. Gord got away in the confusion, made the street, and used his best skulking techniques to become an invisible boy. He turned east at the first lane, twisted his trail several times to be sure he wasn’t being followed, and as dusk fell made his way back to the rear of the pawnshop. In a matter of minutes thereafter, Gord, rag-wrapped and dirty, was reentering the headquarters of the Master of Beggars.

  Gord found Furgo upstairs already questioning Violet, his face flushed with rage. It seemed that she had discovered the gentleman was no Town Elder at all, but a thief of no mean rate. Violet had found this out when she searched his purse. How did that come to pass? Well, the man, calling himself Ralph, had led her to dalliance upstairs, but instead of then falling asleep when she feigned slumber, he had slipped soundlessly out of bed, taken her purse, and was just about to do the same with her cheap jewels when Violet sat up and objected. At this, “Ralph” had drawn his dirk and threatened to carve a second mouth into her throat if she made a noise.

  Violet had stayed silent after that, but when the thief came over to truss up his victim before escaping, she had done something foolish—pulled out a knife she had secreted beneath her pillow an
d plunged the weapon into the thief’s shoulder. The little blade was strongly poisoned, and the result was his death scene in front of dozens of witnesses. During the hubbub that ensued, Violet had gotten out a window and escaped, but in her haste she had taken the streets and entered the Old Town by a gate, so her progress could be traced at least that far. Furgo took her loot and ordered her to her quarters until she was sent for.

  Then Furgo turned to Gord and got out of him what he knew. Gord also had to give up his hard-earned coins—all but a pair of silver nobles that he had hidden where only the most careful search would find them… and no such search was made.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning was like any other one of the hundred or more Gord had spent in the Beggarmaster’s house. It seemed that way, at least, until Gord began to notice a certain tension written on the face of Furgo, Grasp, Will Whiner, and other masters. None of his fellow students seemed to notice, but Gord was more aware of small signs and body language than the others. He had turned out to be, as Clyde had predicted, the star pupil of the lot, even if Gord himself didn’t realize it fully yet.

  As his feeling of unease grew, Gord wished more and more to have a minute to himself so he could find Violet’s group and see what she knew. The morning training session seemed to drag on interminably, but eventually the time for the noon meal arrived, and he hurried to the cellar to get his food and see his companion of the previous day. Violet wasn’t there, however. This wasn’t unusual; the groups did not always eat at the same times each day because there wasn’t room for all of them at once in the cramped lower chamber. Under the ever-watchful eye of Furgo, Gord could not duck away to look for her, much as he wanted to.

  He spent his meal time idly eating while again going over everything that had happened the day before. Then it was time for drill again, and after a seemingly endless afternoon session, Gord found himself the beneficiary of a surprise that he received with mixed emotions. He was feted by several of the masters because of his great progress, and the celebration was one that Gord should have relished. The instructors informed him that he was being moved from apprentice to least master, bypassing journeyman status altogether. This was an unprecedented advancement, but there was no great singing in Gord’s heart at the news. He pretended joy and celebrated accordingly, but his mood was really dark and his spirit heavy. Something, he sensed, was wrong.

  Dizzy-headed and reeling from the wine he had consumed, Gord was shown his new master-status room late that night. He fell into a drunken slumber and awoke the next day with a terrible taste in his mouth and an equally terrible hangover.

  The news came early that morning: The Watch had found the body of the woman who was suspected of the murder of a man in the Garden Quarter. Whoever the victim was, the officials of the city were in an uproar over it. The newly found victim had been beaten, raped, and then strangled—obviously the work of some of the many muggers who roamed the Thieves Quarter.

  The victim was Violet, of course. Gord had figured all along that Theobald would never countenance mistakes such as those she had made. Gord was also sure that the fat son of a bitch had been happy to perform the execution of the errant Violet, that the Beggarmaster had thoroughly enjoyed the whole process. With a heart hard as granite, Gord bent himself to the day’s activity. His vow to revenge Violet’s degradation was nothing he needed to think about further until the opportunity arose. In the interim, he would simply work harder and get better at each and every skill he was given the chance to gain.

  There was no outing the next day, as had been scheduled. The word was that training was more necessary than the extra income gained from field operations. It was evident to Gord that this was a lie. After all, what better place to get true training and experience than in the field? Actually doing was much better than practicing with dummies and the like; no matter how clever the lesson, it was just exercise, not real thievery Could the monster Theobald be afraid that his plot had been jeopardized by Violet’s killing of that stupid thief? That he feared discovery was certain, or else he would not have killed Violet and left her corpse to be found by the Watch. That was a dual-purposed ploy. First, it would take the search for criminals in a different direction—and who actually cared if a murderess was in turn slain? Second, if the thieves thought that some daring beggars had overstepped their bounds, they might view Violet’s killing as an apologetic execution, intended to pacify the thieves. Accompanied by a temporary cessation of non-Guild thievery, this would indicate to them that the Beggarmaster had discovered the offenders and eliminated their leader, and all was once again in proper order.

  The fallacy in this line of reasoning was obvious to Gord, and he fervently hoped that Theobald would not also see it. The Guild would not be concerned overmuch about the killing of a single thief—and a foolhardy one, at that. Gord could imagine the leaders of the Guild, upon hearing of Violet’s demise, spying to themselves, “Does fat Theobald really think we care about that?” They would bide their time, giving the Beggarmaster one last chance to change his ways. But if the beggar-thievery did not cease altogether…

  When a week later the Beggarmaster’s corps was once again sent into action, Gord was jubilant. He did his best to steal everything valuable, and not so valuable, in sight. He brought in a record haul, and for it he was given hearty congratulations by all of the masters of the beggar-thieves. They said openly that another trip such as Gord’s today would certainly be sufficient to make him a full master, bypassing the interim rank of associate. Gord only smiled inscrutably. He knew what the results of the activities of the corps would bring….

  The hall was in absolute chaos the next morning. During the night, a notice had been pinned to the front door by an assassin’s dagger. It read:

  THEOBALD, AND ALL THOSE SCABS FALSELY TRAINED BY HIM AND HIS DOGS, ARE RECOGNIZED AND HEREBY GIVEN DUE NOTICE THAT THEIR LIVES AND PROPERTY ARE FORFEIT TO THE WHIM AND EXECUTION OF THE THIEVES’ GUILD. BEGGARS, SEEK A NEW MASTER! ALL THOSE LOYAL TO THEOBALD, PREPARE TO DIE!

  ARENTOL

  GRAND GUILDMASTER OF THIEVES

  GREYHAWK AND ITS TERRITORIES

  No one thought it a joke.

  The beggars were immediately placed under a state of siege. It astonished Gord that Theobald managed to hold the loyalty of so many of the members of the Union. And it somewhat mystified him that there were persons around who were obviously something other than beggars. The hall swarmed with men in mail, robed clerics, black-garbed assassins, and even a handful of magic-users. The gross master of monstrosities must have thrown wide his coffer lids to pay for the likes of these, Gord mused. He was certain that there were few beggars plying their trade anywhere in the city. He would be willing to wager his small store of hoarded coins that none wore the wooden hand symbol of the Beggars’ Union around their necks if they did dare to appear. No more cash would flow into Theobald’s treasury until this matter was resolved, so the Beggarmaster had better have deep chests of coin for his hired swords and spell-casters.

  The Lord Mayor and Directors of the city were turning a blind eye to the whole thing. After all, it was taking place in Old City’s worst area, where the beggars lay between the Slum Quarter and the Thieves Quarter. Besides, who among the Directors would object to a war between beggars and thieves? Even the Guildmaster of Thieves, who was a Director of Greyhawk, would favor this conflict—it would weed out the less hardy and the less skillful in the ranks of the Guild, as well as get rid of a lot of the miserable beggars. The result would be a bigger share of the spoils of the city for each of the thieves who survived, and a correspondingly larger tithe to the Guild from each of them. For once, the Guildmaster of Thieves and the Guildmaster of Merchants were in total agreement on something. And every honest citizen would only see good in such a struggle. With fewer to beg, fewer to steal, they too could but profit. As Gord considered all this, he began to wonder if the officials of the city wouldn’t wait until both sides were deeply enmeshed and then smash them both�
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  For the meantime, there was nothing to do but practice. The masters were in conferences and council meetings most of the time, leaving Gord alone to do as he wished. He took the opportunity to keep honing his skills, for he saw much benefit in the mastery of them. There was certainly a score to settle, but more importantly a livelihood to be earned. The easy life of thievery Gord had experienced was one that so far surpassed his dreams that no other goal had real significance.

  The end of this idyllic period came in a fortnight. Beggars not ensconced within the safety of Theobald’s walls were beginning to disappear, and some had been found dead—murdered in various ways. It was time to strike back, and Gord was to be part of the special force the Beggarmaster was sending forth to counter what the thieves were doing. The fat lord of the lowly understood that he must somehow settle this matter quickly. A protracted conflict could have only one end.

  Theobald opened the deepest recesses of his headquarters. There was a hidden sub-basement beneath the place, and from it passages led in all directions. There was egress to the sewers also, which meant that there was a low road to nearly everywhere. Mercenaries and beggars would form teams for the retributive strike. The specially trained forces of the Beggarmaster would disguise themselves as various ordinary citizens. Nearby would be the hired swords. When a thief was spotted, the beggar-scouts would finger the victim, and then follow so as to keep track of him or her. At first opportunity, the thief would then be taken hostage or slain. Hostages, Theobald stressed, were most important. Any skilled thief must be captured and brought back to the Beggarmaster’s mansion if at all possible.

  Each scout group consisted of a master and an apprentice. As a least master, Gord was a master nonetheless. He and San, a boy of no more than ten but nearly as large as Gord, were given the mission of going all the way to the River Quarter. The Strip, an area running from Dockside to Low Street, was notoriously wide-open and roisterous. Rivermen and bargers, riffraff and ruffians, soldiers and sailors all congregated there for fun and entertainment. Bawdy houses and taverns abounded. Gambling dens were nearly as common as saloons, and saloons were everywhere. In such surroundings, it was only natural that swindlers, cheats, and thieves would abound. In fact, while the headquarters of the Thieves’ Guild was in the Old City, the group’s main base of operations was centered on The Strip. Gord and San would simply be two more boys in the crowd, there for entertainment or whatever else they could manage.