[Gord the Rogue 05] - City of Hawks

by Gary Gygax - (ebook by Undead)

  The first time Gord was a one-legged cripple whose tale of woe was sufficient to cause an iron-bearded dwarf to part with a bronze coin. On the next outing he was a drooling half-wit—a fairly common sight, and one not likely to gain more than a few iron and brass coins for a whole day’s effort. But Chinkers was surprised to see that even while Gord was feigning idiocy, the boy was busily filching coins from the unwary. The lad was an excellent pickpocket, and the disguise made marks less conscious of the possibility of being had by a thief.

  The third and last time Chinkers saw Gord in operation was the best of all.

  Gord was obviously in charge of a squad of beggar-boys and girls who were probably meant to operate as a group to surround and harangue likely-looking folks. Sheer weight of numbers and the impact of the all-too-evident misery of so many hapless children was meant to melt the hearts of otherwise stolid individuals. It was a tried and true means, but it took careful control so as not to underwork or overdo it. The lad got the hang of it quickly after a few trial-and-error runs at passersby going through the Foreign Quarter. Then Gord worked the gang for several hours to near perfection. During one episode, however, Chinkers suddenly lost track of him.

  “Now where has he gone off to?” he muttered, seeing all of the apprentices but Gord break from their whining, pleading knot surrounding a trio of well-equipped Outlanders, their actions indicating that the three men had broken down and tossed them coins.

  A flinty-eyed merchant came into view, leading a mule-drawn cart whose cargo was secured under a sheet of canvas. Chinkers noticed that the two biggest of the lot, a gawky, stringy-haired girl and an even uglier boy, were watching a narrow alley nearby. Suddenly they rejoined the other children and rushed off in a pack toward the merchant. He was as unlikely a mark as any the pudgy expert could think of. Nonetheless, the band of urchins quickly crowded around him and began their begging. The hard-faced fellow simply ignored them at first. They persisted. He then cursed the lot soundly. The flock of filthy beggar-children was undaunted. This infuriated the merchant, and he began to berate them in earnest as he struck out with fists and feet to teach these guttersnipes a lesson.

  “Eat shit!” the gawky girl cried, picking up a lump of horse dung and hurling it at the man. It was a well-aimed shot.

  The merchant had a short, heavy whip, and he began to lay about him with that instrument. The urchins howled plaintively when struck, but those out of range threw more filth at the raging man. He was incautious with his whip and struck a passerby, who promptly punched the fellow. At this point a full-scale brawl erupted, with an eventual chase of the beggar-children as its climax. During the confusion, Chinkers was almost too distracted to keep watching for Gord—almost. But the man was, after all, a master in all respects of begging and thievery, so he spotted the boy just as Gord was setting knife to canvas at the back end of the cart.

  With uncanny speed and deftness, especially for one so young, Gord slashed, grabbed, loaded the loot into a sack, and faded away at a casual stroll down the street without a backward glance. Best of all, Gord was no longer in the filthy attire of a beggar. Chinkers saw what appeared to be a typical apprentice boy of the lower class toting a heavy burden on some errand.

  It was robbery, pure and simple. Beggars were involved, but no witness would incriminate them in any reported loss of goods. Anyone could have decided to take the foolish merchant’s goods. To chase after urchins and brawl in the streets is to ask for loss, and no sensible man would do it. In Old City, everyone was a potential thief. Protect yourself and your property at all times: that was the axiom of survival here, and all knew it.

  “Did you hear about it?” Squiddle asked excitedly when Chinkers entered. Before he could reply, the old fellow went on. “That apprentice, Gord. He came back here with a haul which would have made the master of thieves proud. He’s a lad to watch, all right!”

  “Is that so?” said Chinkers dryly as he pushed past the man.

  Not a month later there was a minor fete in progress for the newest master cadger and thief of the union, Least Master Gord. Not a few of the others at the celebration, especially the others of the lad’s rank, and some of the Associate Masters as well, were displeased or jealous of one not yet fully grown being elevated to the status of master of thiggery and expert thief, the agreed-to ranking of a Least Master of Theobald’s new union.

  That brought up something else that bothered some of the members. They were proud of being beggars, and they knew that soon the gross beggarmaster would disdain that name. He favored cadger or thigger over beggar, and when he became head of thieves in the city, Theobald would certainly wish himself to be called something like Archmaster of Thieves and Thiggers. Such was the gossip at the party.

  Chinkers talked with Gord, congratulating him in a reserved way that was genuine because the man would now never have a chance to supervise the lad personally. Gord affected great happiness, but inside he felt something else—a sort of vague anticipation tinged with uneasiness and dread. Chinkers couldn’t determine what was on the boy’s mind, but considering Cord’s aptitude, the plump beggar was certain that all of his talents and desires would come out soon enough and surprise them all.

  In a few weeks’ time thereafter a great war between the thieves and the beggars commenced, and Chinkers lost track of the boy during this uproar.

  Chapter 10

  Dillor was a river rat—a nasty scavenger who lurked along the banks of the Selintan. looking for anything worth taking. Greyhawk was built on hills and ridges, just as most cities of its sort were. The various drains that lay beneath the place eventually ran down into the waterways that virtually surrounded the walled city. Some few drained into Bubbly Mire and the Grey Run, but most came out on the western side of the city. Dillor haunted these places, searching through the various effluences for valuables. It was a filthy and vile existence, but it kept Dillor alive, and he didn’t actually mind the work at all.

  “That’s gold!” he exclaimed aloud as he peered into the mouth of a broad drain. The illumination was dim Inside, but the setting sun glinted off something yellow and shiny. The drain was barred, of course, but the object was just on the other side of the great metal poles that prevented entrance beneath the city. “Dillor, you’ve finally struck it rich!” he babbled, clambering through the shallow outflow and debris to get to the object.

  After using his hooked pole to drive off a half-dozen rats and get right up to the outside of the bars, Dillor saw that the glittering object was indeed a piece of gold—and it was set with a gem, too. It was on the bony finger of a partially eaten corpse. Nearly eaten, more like it, and soon to be finished by rats, beetles, and the rest, but not before Dillor jerked free a skeletal digit and the ring attached to it. He snared the golden object with the hook on the end of his pole, thrust the ring onto his own dirty finger, and set off quickly to find a buyer.

  He couldn’t know that the bit of jewelry he now sported had recently been in the possession of a hired killer who had taken it from the corpse of yet another assassin. Because its most recent former owner had no need of immediate cash, he had kept it for quite some time and on occasion sported it on his hand, even though it fit his finger rather loosely. He had been in the process of escaping from a botched assassination attempt while wearing it. In his haste to flee, the wearer had tried to push the ring farther back onto his finger as it began to slip off. His attention divided, the fellow had slipped and fallen. His head struck a corner of the ledge above the subterranean duct he had just climbed down into, and that was enough to cause his drowning. That incident had happened but two days before.

  “What’s this worth to ya?” Dillor asked the Rhennee bargeman.

  The dark-skinned water-gypsy whistled in surprise at what he saw. “Where’d you get that, Dild?”

  He hated to be called that. Dild was a contraction of his nickname, and Dillor didn’t like it at all. “Call me Dillor! That’s my name, and you’ll call me that if you want to bu
y the ring from me!”

  “Sure, sure, Dild… Dillor, I mean. Come on ze barge, an’ we’ll talk.”

  Eventually they agreed that the Rhennee would give him five hundred zees for it, payment to be made in copper commons and silver nobles. Dillor knew that having coins of greater value, such as luckies, would not only attract unwanted attention to him but also be hard to change in the places he meant to frequent shortly.

  “Done,” the Rhennee said with a grin. The dark man rummaged around in a low cabinet and drew out a box. It was filled with an assortment of money—bronze, copper, and a sprinkling of silver. “I got only five nobles, so you’ll have to take the rest in commons, Dild. Got a bag to load ’em een?”

  The dirty gypsy had dared to call him that again. Suddenly it struck Dillor that he could have even more than five hundred. He could have both the ring and more money than that easily. He and the river-man were alone….

  “Ah, yeah. Sure thing, Streebul. I got a poke here,” he said, reaching inside his filthy jerkin.

  Dillor was not very smart, and he telegraphed his intention to the wise and wary Rhennee even before his fingers had closed around the worn haft of the heavy, broad-bladed knife he kept hidden inside his clothing. Streebul was on his feet in an instant, his own dagger out and in motion even as the clumsy river rat dragged his own blade out in his “surprise” move. Dillor was stabbed twice before he even knew it. “You eediot!” the gypsy bargeman hissed. “Don’t you know you’re a dead man?”

  The thick blade struck wildly, cutting Streebul’s cheek. “Yaagh!” was all Dillor could manage to say. Then he groaned and grunted as the bargeman’s dirk went home again and yet again. Those were the last sounds that Dillor ever made.

  “Well,” Streebul said as he wiped the cut on his cheek with a rag, “Dildo, you always were a poor one at bargaining.” At that the bargeman laughed wildly. “Giving a lousy life for a leetle cut ain’t half bad, but you threw in the reeng to boot!”

  A few months later Streebul was killed by a wagon-gypsy. They were arguing over whether the Rhennee or the Attloi were the true folk, and the bargeman was too slow with his weapon. Naturally, the victorious Attloi gypsy took the gold ring set with its precious stone as part of the rightful spoils of his victory.

  The new owner of the ring made it all the way to central Urnst before a group of particularly fierce brigands attacked the train of wagons he was with. A pitched battle was fought, and the Attloi made the raiders pay dearly. In the end, however, all the gypsies were either killed or carried off as slaves. The captain of the outlaw band took the ring as part of his share of the spoils.

  “Why’n hells name we heddin’ norf?”

  “Shut yer flappin’ lips, Dogteeth,” Renfil Leed said without bothering to look at his lieutenant. “Even that fool should be able to tell when things were too hot for them. The duke’s horsemen are after us, and I’m goin’ to head for quieter places and easier pickin’s.”

  There was no argument, of course. The captain was too tough, too mean to contest with—at least for now. He brought Dogteeth and his troop of seventy or eighty bandits through border provinces and wild lands in a long sweep that went through parts of both the Duchy and County of Urnst, then along the contested strip that ran between the Pale, Nyrond, and County Urnst. From there it was an easy swing into the safety of the Bandit Kingdoms, where the brigands could rest and their leader could plan fresh forays.

  Disaster struck when the company was raiding in the Shield Lands. Leed and his surviving men were forced to flee westward, and a tribe of humanoids ambushed them there. The humans were eaten and their possessions either discarded or used to adorn the trappings of the great goblins that had killed and eaten the bandits who had previously possessed the articles. A heavy ring of gold set with a strange green stone now decorated the braided sidelocks of the tribal chieftain.

  When the head of that humanoid monster was taken by a knight of Furyondy some time later, he salvaged the ring and took it for his own. Not-long thereafter the warrior was bested in a joust with a knight errant who. had challenged him. To redeem his armor, weapons, and steed, the Furyondian paid over all his other wealth, including the ring.

  Eventually the wandering knight who now possessed the gem-set ring took service with a marcher lord. Nothing untoward happened to him thereafter, although he did eventually lose the ring to a dwarf with whom he was gambling.

  After roaming the mountains for a long period, the dwarf passed along the Kron Hills, heading eastward in search of a lost gold mine said to be there. He found the mine, but in his avarice, the dwarf entered the place incautiously. A great she-bear was denned therein, and she had two cubs to protect. The dwarf died quickly, and the bear devoured him, ring and all.

  Hunters from the estate of a lord of Dyvers took the old brown bear when she came into their preserve. The animal had been driven there by swarms of humanoids who had moved into her territory and forced the bear away by their presence. The hunters shot her with arrows as the she-bear was held at bay by their hounds. One of these men discovered a ring lodged in the creature’s stomach. After washing it clean, the fellow donned it happily, considering himself a rich and lucky man.

  The lord of the manor who employed him was not inclined toward mercy. When he caught the huntsman dallying with his daughter, the noble had the unfortunate fellow hanged without ado. Not wishing to soil his hands, the lord told the executioner that whatever the criminal possessed was his by way of payment for his work. So, the executioner got the ring along with some other, petty items.

  In time the executioner took service in Dyvers proper, since the officials there were offering a good stipend for a headsman and torturer. When the fellow was discovered taking bribes to free certain political prisoners, he was himself sent to the block. His ring was seized and placed in the city treasury.

  A spy who had just returned from a particularly successful mission was allowed to take the ring as a bonus for his services. In due course the agent went to Greyhawk on behalf of the Lord Mayor’s secret police, masquerading as an ally of that city. His true identity was discovered, and the Lord Mayor of Grey-hawk hired the Assassins’ Guild to deal with him. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the city’s own agents involved, for that breach of etiquette might precipitate serious difficulties between Dyvers and Greyhawk. Possessions found on the victim were always part of the payment for services rendered, so the assassin who did in the spy happily added the ring to his fee.

  * * *

  In this way, after a half-score years and several thousand miles of traveling, the ring had come full circle back to Greyhawk. Not one of the men or other creatures who had owned it in the meantime had ever found it worthwhile. To call the ring ill-omened was to be kind, only not one of those who gained it knew of its nature, for the previous owner wasn’t around to inform the next, or else didn’t actually know. It made no difference either way. Eladon the assassin would not have blenched even had he heard of the ring’s history. He liked the stone’s color and the way it appeared to wink in the right light.

  In celebration of his success in disposing of the spy from Dyvers, and because he had gained so valuable a jewel as he now wore on his finger, Eladon went on a drunk of considerable proportions. He ended up in a bawdyhouse at the end of the Strip, and being what she was, the whore he was with rolled him for his purse and other valuables, for the assassin was too far in his cups by then to resist. Unfortunately for her, she had taken the precaution of bringing along the valuables she had stolen rather than leaving them In the room where she obtained them. This turned out to be a mistake because Red Mel, the doxy’s pimp, caught her trying to sneak the comatose form of Eladon from her crib to a place in the alley.

  “Hey, ya stupid bitch! What are you up ta?” he hissed.

  She dropped the fellow’s limp legs and ceased trying to drag him along. “He passed out on me, and—”

  Smack! Red Mel hit her hard on the side of the head. “Don’t lie to me,
not ever, else I’ll give you a second mouth right where your windpipe is. Yer rollin’ ’im, ain’t ya?”

  The doxy held her throbbing temple and nodded while her other hand went protectively to the sash at her hip.

  “Hand It over,” Red Mel ordered, and the woman did exactly as she was told, loosening the sash and then pulling the man’s purse from where it had been hung on the cloth.

  “Wow! You’re one fine worker, Flos,” he said with real admiration as he saw the stack of coins and the ring. Who could have such wealth? Red Mel rolled the drunken man over with his booted foot to get a better look at him. “Shit! This bird is a killer!”

  “Whadda ya mean, Red, honey?…” The woman’s voice trailed off as her victim suddenly sat up and stared bleary-eyed at her and her pimp.

  “Whass goin’ on here?” Eladon was beginning to recover from his alcoholic stupor, adrenaline starting to surge through his system as he realized that something was very wrong. “You dirty—”

  Red Mel used his heavy boot to shut the man up. He kicked him as hard as he could, and Eladon’s head snapped back with a crack. Just to make certain, he felt for a pulse. The assassin was stone dead, his neck broken. “Now, woman,” said Mel in an even tone, “help me get the body to the alley.”

  Flos complied without saying a word, glad that the pimp wasn’t angry anymore but worried about what would happen when the body of the assassin was found. “What’ll I say if someone from his guild asks about him?” Her voice was nervous.

  “That does it,” Red Mel said, not bothering to answer her until he had pulled the corpse out of sight. He turned then to the whore and smiled. “Don’t worry, Flos, you won’t have to talk to nobody at all.” She looked relieved until the dirk stabbed her. It was in her heart almost instantly, however, so her expression was one of mingled relief and shock when they discovered her body in the morning, next to that of the dead assassin. The crime was of no interest to anyone, not even the Assassins’ Guild. Eladon had not, after all, been on assigned work when he died, so the matter was of nothing more than passing concern, and even that faded when it seemed probable that he and the whore had done for each other in a disagreement of the sort often had between purveyor and client.