by Gary Gygax
“And what might this be about?” Doctor Prosper added in a gruff tone when he realized that the youth was waiting to be prompted for his request.
“I am interested in the city, doctor.”
“The city? That’s a lot to be interested in-you must have in mind something more specific than that. You know its history, politics, and demography, don’t you? I’ve given you lessons on those subjects myself, and the college hasn’t neglected your learning, I am certain. Come now, boy! What exactly is going through that fertile mind of yours?”
Of course, Gord did have something specific in mind, but he wanted to ease into the subject so that he didn’t give away any more information than necessary. Gord suspected that if the doctor knew the full extent of his plan, he would not only refuse to give him the information he wanted but might even turn him in to the authorities. The doctor never would have done anything this drastic, but Gord had no way of knowing that for sure.
“I’m interested in planning-the planning out of Greyhawk, the way the early engineers built it,” he ventured.
Prosper’s wrinkled brow became more furrowed still. Try as he might, though, the old man couldn’t discover anything actually nefarious in Gord’s expressed desire. “Are you considering becoming an engineer, then? An architect?”
“Well… no, not exactly. I haven’t ruled out those professions, of course,” the boy added quickly. “This is my city, my only home. I need to comprehend it better, know it more fully, in order to be knowledgeable and understand its history and its future.” That was a broad and ambitious claim. Would Prosper let it go at that?
In fact, the old fellow could relate to such a thirst for knowledge. The broader the base of information from which one drew, the better the decisions one could arrive at. Information along with understanding were keys to success in any endeavor or calling.
“So, why not simply consult the library at Grey College? They have material of the sort you need.” Prosper pretended annoyance he didn’t feel.
“That’s just it, doctor. I’ve searched through the entire library and found nothing to really satisfy me. I want to see the old plans, the original drawings of the city, its water ducts, walls, sewers, the whole works! Do such plans exist?”
Still no clue to give away what Gord was after. Perhaps the boy in truth was becoming a dedicated student, as Prosper had always hoped he would. The old professor pondered the question Gord had posed. Where would such stuff as original plans exist? Possibly the Lord Mayor’s archives would have them, but no student would ever be allowed access to such information as would be contained there. There would be secret escape tunnels, means of defense, and other secret stuff not for the eyes of any save the rulers of the free city. That left only one possibility.
“Landgrave,” the sage muttered.
Gord understood instantly. Landgrave College was the oldest of all the schools that made up the university. It had originally been located in what was now the Labor Quarter of the Old City. Centuries ago, when the New Town had begun to take shape. Landgrave had acquired the land and buildings of a monastery whose sect desired seclusion, not inclusion in a burgeoning metropolis. The college was moved to the place where once monks had been and now stood in the very heart of the whole district of learning. “That is a most respected institution, doctor. As a mere student at Grey, I’ll never be allowed to enter Landgrave’s library.”
“Don’t be hasty, and don’t say ‘never’-too negative and restricts the thinking accordingly. There is always a way.” Doctor Prosper looked around, found a clean sheet of paper, and began scratching away with a quill pen, pausing only to dip the instrument into a pot of sepia ink now and then. “Should your chum… San, is it?… have access to the facility as well?”
“Ah, no, Doctor Prosper. You must have forgotten, but he has left college.”
The elderly sage shook his head, covering his irritation at having forgotten. He hated to face the fact of declining memory. “Yes, yes, of course. No matter. You alone will have the means, then.” He added a few more words to the letter, signed it, and sprinkled sand on it to dry the ink.
“You can give me a letter which will enable me to use the library of Landgrave College?” Gord’s tone was properly deferential, and his awe, though subdued, was genuine.
“Of course,” Prosper said, concealing his pride in his status. “You are a student engaged in research on my behalf-I’ve stretched things a bit by telling an old associate of mine at Landgrave that I am no longer able to manage such strenuous work myself.” He gave the missive over to the boy with a bit of a flourish. “Go right over to the college and seek out Doctor Bizzell. He is a senior don, you know. He will take care of all you need.”
“Thank you!” Gord was excited and eager to be off on his new quest. “I’ll remember this always, doctor, and you can bet-”
“I can bet you’ll forget it almost as soon as you’re outside my door,” the sage interrupted, saying what was probably true but which Gord would never admit. “You’ll stay right here for a while yet, boy. I have a few chores for you to do, and then you can fix me some eggs for supper. While you’re at that, I intend to ask you some questions. As a former pupil, and one for whom I have just done a considerable favor, I am entitled to at least that much.”
Grinning, Gord acquiesced to the old fellow’s demands. He did the work as instructed, whistling as he went, then started preparations for a special meal. It was an honor to be able to serve the good old sage thus, after all, and despite the quizzing that he knew Prosper would give him afterward. Time was always precious, but he could certainly put off his plans for a few hours.
It took longer than he had anticipated to find the facts he needed. Gord had entered the sanctum of Landgrave’s ancient library thinking that it would be a simple matter to find what he sought. Many days, many pages, and much dust afterward, he finally discovered the drawings he was looking for bound into a great, flat book. That tome, along with similar works, was stored in a section of the library that probably had not been visited in years. That was no surprise. Not even scholars had much interest in the aqueducts and cisterns beneath old Greyhawk. The boy was happy to have it remain that way. Only San would know the real reason for Gord’s interest, if he had been aware of the young man’s current search for knowledge.
Gord recalled the whole incident from his past with crystal clarity. It was one he would never, never forget. The young lad paused a moment, reflecting on what had taken place nearly three years ago to the day. He and San had been part of the roving force of the Beggars’ Union that had brought the war to the Thieves’ Guild. In one of their “illegal” thieving excursions, Gord had obtained his cherished ring by slaying a vicious killer in hand-to-hand combat. Thereafter, he and San had roamed the Low and River Quarters, hidden among the Rhennee bargefolk, and done everything else they could to defeat their enemies, even though both young boys had despised Beggarmaster Theobald. It was a matter of sheer survival, and despite their lack of years, both of them understood that all too well.
Suddenly a summons had come to them. The war was over, a peace was about to be negotiated. Gord and San had no choice; they returned to the vast old warehouse that Theobald had made his headquarters and palace. Gord laughed inwardly at the term. Palace, indeed! The building was a gross exhibit of shabbiness and decay, a monument to the sick and perverted mind of the beggarmaster and his hubris.
The slaughter of the beggar-thieves and all who associated with them occurred the very night of the boys’ return. Perhaps Chinkers had been in the old building, but Gord doubted it. He imagined that the chubby rascal had slipped away beforehand. Considering his current position, there was no doubt in Gord’s mind that Chinkers had served as a spy for Arentol and the Thieves’ Guild.
Gord and San had been very lucky indeed not to have been murdered in their beds when the assault came. Fortunately, San had fled his quarters on the top floor of the building when he heard noise from below. Gord, who had b
een sequestered on a lower floor, was assaulted in his room and had been forced to kill a man who was bent on stabbing him to death. That brush with death still gave him nightmares occasionally. It had also earned him a superb short sword to complement the dagger he had won from his very first fight to the death.
Gord had tried to escape by going into the bowels of the building, where he met up with San and Theobald, who promptly forced the boys into carrying out a load of treasure for him. It had been poetic in a way… Gord had driven the fat devil to his demise with his own metal strongbox-a coffer containing coins of unguessed value, used to smash a disgusting monster of no worth whatsoever.
What had been the beggarmaster’s plan after commandeering the two boys to assist him in his flight? Gord thought there could be no doubt. Theobald certainly would have stabbed or strangled both of them, dumped them into the cistern, and pleasurably gone on his way. Ironic, then, that the gross murderer had gone to his end in the very place he had intended to dispose of Gord and San, the hundred-foot-deep well hidden beneath the secret subcellar of the beggars’ headquarters.
The scene floated before his eyes, the memory clear enough even now. “Give me that box!” Theobald roared. He had been poised, waiting, just a little below the rim of the cistern’s mouth, expecting Gord and San to ease the heavy coffer down to his waiting hands. Instead, Gord had hefted the great metal box all by himself. It took all of his strength for him to raise it all the way up to his scrawny chest-not the muscular torso he now had; in that respect, as in most others, the change in him had been great. The uncomplicated but difficult act of lifting the chest, Gord thought later, had been part of a catharsis for him, part of the purging of boyishness to make way for the man to develop.
Why did he do what he did? A flurry of thoughts had raced through his mind as he staggered with the chest over to the rim of the cistern. Gord had despised Theobald. But beyond that, he feared the man, as one would fear some ravening demon-only more so, for this monster was there to threaten the boy day and night. The beatings and torture of his early days as a beggar-boy had not been repeated after Gord’s skills had become noticed and appreciated, but Gord always knew that the gross beggarmaster could resume such punishment at will, and the likelihood was strong that he would do so one day when the mood was upon him.
As his way of proving this assumption to himself, Gord recalled the day that Theobald had killed Violet. Like himself, she was a young member of the union with much promise. But she had incurred the wrath of her master and had paid the ultimate price-not that anger had been the man’s only emotion at the time of her murder. Gord was sure that Theobald had actually enjoyed the act.
In retrospect, Gord found consolation by telling himself that the girl had been unworthy of his admiration, which may actually have been love. That assessment was not meant to fault her; “unworthy” was a poor choice of word. It was simply that her mindset, her ethos, everything about Violet was very different from what he had become. At the time when they worked together, though, the difference had been less sharp. She had erred in greed, possibly helped to undo one of Theobald’s schemes-unwittingly, Gord was sure-and the beggarmaster had killed her for it, strangling, beating, and assaulting her slowly, methodically, with relish. Oh, yes, he remembered that all now… and then. It was for himself, for San, and for Violet too that he did what came next.
As Theobald demanded his cache of money, Gord had hurled the heavy chest down with all the force his puny arms could muster-quite enough to do the job. The fat man’s outstretched hands could not absorb the force of the downrushing iron box. The metal struck his bald head, hitting it sufficiently hard to cause the beggarmaster to topple off his precarious perch and plunge to his death in the depths below.
Only Gord and San knew of Theobald’s fate, and that fact they kept strictly to themselves. To speak of it would be to implicate themselves as part of the organization that had been expunged from Greyhawk. Even this much time thereafter, it was likely to mean a death warrant if the thieves or city officials should learn of it. So afterward they almost never discussed the execution even between themselves. Perhaps San still thought about it, but Gord knew his former companion was not the sort to take unnecessary chances. To San, he suspected, a chest full of coins was not sufficient reason to risk one’s life when plenty of less perilous ways existed to make an income. Gord had other thoughts, however.
Since becoming a trained thief, Gord had utilized his skills to make his livelihood. In fact, he and San had managed both by exercising and by putting their talents into play, as it were, not to just retain their skills but improve upon them too. Now his former comrade had gone off to become a member of the Thieves’ Guild, and Gord recently had worked strictly alone. He rationalized that he had to be an independent thief, a rogue, since he had no other means of supporting himself as a student.
“Don’t kid yourself,” Gord said aloud, startling himself out of his reverie temporarily by the sound of his own voice. Fortunately he was alone in the little storage chamber that housed the plans he was memorizing. He didn’t dare try to copy them here, but at his own place he drew from memory each night, carefully duplicating the information gained that day.
He tried to refocus his concentration on what was before him, but his mind wandered once more… Gord knew he had become a thief by force of circumstances, and he also realized that he remained one by choice. Other avenues, such as that Tapper had offered, were open to him. Gord wasn’t interested in such opportunities, though, partly because he liked the thrill of illicit thievery, the excitement of planning and executing a theft. He felt that the city owed him much while he owed it, and particularly its Thieves’ Guild, nothing but his revenge. Perhaps this was rationalization, but he thought not.
Once, shortly after the incident, San had wondered out loud why Gord had wasted the treasure in the strongbox. Gord explained that it had been his only weapon under the circumstances. He had simply utilized the best tool at hand to accomplish a much-desired result-and that was that. The ledger wasn’t closed yet, though. To be fully even with the ghost of Theobald, Gord needed to do one more thing. He intended to recover the chest of coins from Theobald’s wet grave and have the treasure for himself.
It was a challenge in many ways, and the gathering of the information was by no means the greatest. Finding where the cistern was required a lot of research, but Gord was steeling himself for a far more exacting demand than that. He had to face the dangers of the subterranean maze under Greyhawk by himself. He had to go where the bones of the beggar-master lay and take from them their treasure. The very thought of what he would have to do made the boy shudder, but the man in him was determined to see it through in order to prove that there was no longer a weak and frightened child in his body, no more gutless coward. Alone he would prove that once and for all time, and in the proving he would gain much more than monetary reward.
With that, Gord finally forced his mind clear of such thoughts and returned to his study of the ancient drawings. A vast complex of tunnels and drains was shown on the maps, but repeated exposure to the information had made Gord a virtual expert in deciphering the different features. Sewers were singled out easily now, and drainage tunnels too. The cisterns and aqueducts stood out clearly in his mind as he scanned the map. Tonight his own map would be complete, and his adventure ready to begin.
Chapter 12
The hand-drawn re-creation spread out before Gord showed the deepest layer of tunnels beneath Old City. A network radiated from a place under the old citadel, with ducts running to it from the far reaches of what then had been the whole of Greyhawk. From the notes he had managed to decipher, Gord knew that the whole system had been carved out of the solid rock that lay under the place. Beneath the upper layers of the limestone, the stuff that the higher tunnels ran through, there was harder rock. Into this the original builders had cut shafts and passages for water. But most of the old collection points had long ago been filled and cemented over for oth
er buildings to stand atop.
The reason for this was that times, and needs, had changed. The sprawl of the city now was so great that getting water during time of siege was of no concern. When Greyhawk had stood far from the Selintan, and the damming of the Grey Run by enemies was a possibility, then the need had been a real one. Far beneath the surface was a huge cavern intended to hold a reserve of water against an. eventuality that would never occur now. The ducts that once had brought rivers of rain from above down into the deep pool two hundred feet below the surface sent only a trickle of liquid that way now. The rock was not permeable, yet the reservoir was not dry-of that Gord was certain. The splash that Theobald and the chest had made when they fell had told Gord that.
He studied his carefully made map again. Four main channels sloped gently down to the place where the big cavern was. A dozen smaller ducts fed into each of the underground canals. Each of those ducts, in turn, was fed by a half-dozen conduits from collection points. The place where the strongbox lay was in the western canal. All Gord had to do was to find one of those old openings that wasn’t fully closed up. He couldn’t use the secret subcellar of the Beggars’ Guild to gain access to the canal, but one of the conduits would do as well.
What seemed an easy matter proved to be quite the opposite in practice. Gord spent most of his free time during the following three weeks searching the streets of Old City for one of the places where the drains had been. Changes made over the centuries were difficult enough to determine, so that locating the correct areas in itself proved most trying. The task was complicated by new layers of cobbles, plazas, dwellings, and all forms of other things that had been built upon what had been there before. Perhaps a collection conduit still remained somewhere, but Gord couldn’t find it. He was only temporarily stymied, however. Giving up was not in his nature.
