“Hey! ” Vendredi shouted, waving another customer out of her way as she snatched a pear from the basket and drew back to throw. “You forgot your purchase!”
The pear struck the poor man squarely in the back of the head, splattering in his hair as it flew into several pieces, knocking him flat. In no time, though, he was on his feet
and disappeared into the crowd.
Vendredi’s customers cheered, grateful for a little entertainment, and resumed their shopping. For a moment, Vendredi became too busy to talk to Garett. The action had actually helped her business as the curious stopped to watch. Now they pressed closer for a better look at Vendredi herself, and inevitably, they bought.
“If you ever want to work security,” Vendredi told Garett over her shoulder, “I bet I could pay you better than the city.”
Garett didn’t answer. He finished his apple, nibbling it right down to the core while he watched her work. Vendredi was a bright point in his day. Almost every morning she tossed an apple at him, and almost every morning he stopped for a brief chat. She had a small farm and an orchard just outside the city walls and grew the best fruit in the district. It was a rare thing for a single woman to make her own way in the world, Garett knew, and he held a deep respect for her for managing it.
“I’d better be getting on,” he said when the apple was gone.
Vendredi stooped down, pulled out a tin box, and set it on a low stool. She opened it, with a watchful eye over one shoulder. It was half-full of coins of all kinds: copper commons, silver nobles, electrum luckies, even a few gold orbs. Bending a bit lower over the box, she pressed a hand against her bosom and more coins came rushing up from her cleavage and fell tinkling into the box. When the cascade ceased, she straightened and gave herself a shake. Still a few more coppers and a noble appeared on the ground under the hem of her dress. She snatched them up quickly, dropped them in the box, and shut the lid. She pushed the box back under a basket and turned another of her dazzling smiles up at Garett.
“I like the way you do business,” he said, unable to hide his grin.
She gave the neck of her dress a tug and twitched a bit as
she came to his side. “I think I’ve got a lucky stuck down here,” she said with a pout. “Would you like to get lucky?” Garett’s grin widened, but he held up both hands and shook his head.
Vendredi lowered her eyelids playfully. “How about a pair of nice melons to take home?” she offered, running the finger of one hand lightly downward from her throat.
An old ore with bad teeth and gold earrings who had stood by listening, suddenly leaned closer. “I like melons,” he said with a dry rasp characteristic of his race, licking his lips. Without sparing him so much as a glance, Vendredi picked up a lettuce and hit him over the head with it. The creature slunk away.
“Sorry,” Garett said with genuine regret, knowing Vendredi wouldn’t be offended. They played this game with each other quite often. Sometimes she was the aggressor and he the prey. Sometimes it was the other way around. But one of them always politely, but regretfully, begged off, and nothing had ever happened between them. Garett doubted if it ever would. “It’s been a long night,” he added, suddenly weary, “and tonight’s going to be longer.” Vendredi abandoned the game at once. “Is it true?” she whispered, dropping her voice so her customers wouldn’t overhear. “Acton Kathenor was murdered last night?” Garett resisted the urge to laugh and gave a little sigh instead. The mayor and Korbian were fools. Already the story was spreading through the streets. By noon, there would be a dozen versions, each more fantastic than the last.
But Garett was supposed to keep it quiet. “Don’t you worry, my little redhead,” he answered with mocking paternalism. “Our new mayor and our captain-general have everything under control. They told me so personally.” “Thanks a lot,” Vendredi deadpanned. “I feel safer than ever.”
Garett said good-bye once more and started down the Processional. The street was crowded and dusty, and he was bumped and jostled more times than he could count. Each time, he paused and took a mental inventory to make sure he hadn’t been pinched by some pickpocket.
The guards at the Garden Gate saluted smartly as he passed through, but he didn’t stop to talk. His apartment on Moonshadow Lane seemed a long way off, and he only wanted his bed. Already his garments were sweat-drenched. It would be good to get out of his clothes and lave some cool water over his body.
A cart loaded with crates nearly ran him over as he turned up Cargo Street. “Opgn yer damned eyes!” the driver yelled at him, raising a whip as if to strike. Then he recognized Garett. “Oops. Sorry, Cap’n! Good day to ye!” The man cowered back down on his seat and drove on.
Garett shook his head and walked on up the street. Carts and wagons continued to trundle by. Cargo Street was the city’s main route to the docks and the river, and goods came down it bound for their various markets. Still, it was less crowded than the Processional, and he made better time.
Idly he wondered what would happen if he or Vendredi ever stopped playing games, and one of them said “yes,” and meant it. He had to admit she had a knack for making him smile, and he didn’t know of a lovelier lady in all of Greyhawk.
From Cargo Street he turned right up Moonshadow Lane and arrived at Almi’s tavern. The old woman had not risen from bed yet. The tavern required her to keep hours like Garett’s. But she had thoughtfully left a plate of beef strips, a chunk of bread, and a pitcher of watered wine on the table in his apartment.
He stripped off his weapons and his clothing as he ate, then stretched out naked on his bed. He would wash later. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.
Garett woke. His room was pitch black and stifling,
and for a frightening instant, he didn’t know quite
where he was. Then he threw back the sheet and swung his legs over the side. He hung his head in his hands and just sat there for a moment, feeling as if he’d been in a good fight and lost. His heart hammered, and he ached in a score of places. Gods, he was drenched with sweat, and so was his bed.
He rose shakily, disoriented, and fumbled toward the table in the center of the room. Overhead he felt for the cresset on its slender chain. It was cold. He groped his way to the window and threw back the shutter. Immediately a soft breeze blew into the apartment and a little light spilled in from the street below.
Beyond the window, night had fallen. Garett listened to a pair of voices, a young couple who made their way up Moonshadow Lane and entered Almi’s tavern. Damn! He’d forgotten to tell Almi to wake him early. That’s why there was no fire in his lamp. She usually lit it before waking him.
He cursed himself as he pulled on the same tunic he’d worn the night before. He didn’t have time to dig around for a clean one. Burge, Blossom, and Rudi would be waiting for him. What time was it, anyway? Almi hadn’t come up yet, so it had to be well before midnight. And if couples still felt safe in the streets of the River Quarter, it couldn’t be that long after dusk.
He pulled on his leather trousers and stamped into his boots. His cloak was around somewhere, and so were his weapons. Damn, he thought. He was usually so orderly about such things! He opened his door, and a thin ribbon of illumination fell across his floor. It wasn’t much light, but enough to help him move about and find the things he had so carelessly discarded. In no time at all, Garett was dressed and armed.
He paused long enough to pour himself a cup of the leftover watered wine, then took a long sip as he glanced out his apartment door. A trio of characters came up the lane, locked arm in arm, laughing and staggering. They had the look of bargemen about them, kind of rough, but good-natured. Garett watched them until they passed out of sight and quiet reigned in the street once more.
He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead where a bead of sweat trickled from his hairline toward his left eye. Was it the heat or was it that damn dream again? He glanced toward his bed. The strewn sheets were clear evidence of his tossing and turni
ng. His body was stiff, as if he’d gotten no real rest at all.
And yet, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember anything about the dream. All that remained was a deep foreboding, a restless sense that something loomed out there in the night, waiting.
He swallowed the last of his wine and set the cup back on the table. Using the key in his purse, he locked his door and descended his stairs into the street.
Almi was in her window as she usually was. After all, she had hired girls to see to her customers. Minding the business of the street was her main occupation. “you’re up early,” she said by way of greeting.
“I’m late,” Garett answered curtly, frowning at himself.
Almi ran a hand through the wild knot of hair that crowned her head. “Well, saves an old lady from climbing those steps,” she said. “Got time for a bite? Take something with you?”
Garett ran a hand over his stomach, but he shook his head.
“Well, you be careful tonight, Garett Starlen,” Almi said strangely. She rolled her eyes up toward the dark roofs on the other side of the street as if searching them, then craned her old neck back farther to see the narrow strip of star-speckled sky. “There’s trouble in the air.”
Garett followed her gaze. “I know,” he answered before he could stop himself. His frown deepened. It was an odd, pointless thing to say.
Almi’s gaze settled on Garett again, and she sighed heavily. “I’d have a tough time getting as much as I get from you if I have to rent that room to someone else.”
Garett spared the old woman a brief smile. “Two bowls of gravy tomorrow night,” he told her, “and half a loaf of bread to go with it. And you can rub my back, too, before I get up.”
“Hard beans and water.” Almi scowled teasingly as she waved him on. “That’s what you deserve!”
There was a bit more spring in his step as he turned east onto Cargo Street, where a string of citizens meandered his way. The raucous sounds from the Strip a few blocks away drifted to him, and the people he passed were obviously headed there. He almost envied them. Burge was right. He was forgetting what pleasure was. When was the last time he’d gone out for a good time?
As he stepped out onto the Processional, he watched a crimson and gilt palanquin with drawn curtains come his way, borne on the shoulders of four stout servants and guarded by four more blue-shirted, cudgel-bearing night watchmen. They turned up Cargo Street, no doubt also bound for the Strip. Some noble out slumming, Garett thought with a disparaging sneer. Blue-shirts or no, that one would be going home without his purse. The thieves would have it, or the gaming houses.
He proceeded north toward the Citadel and through the Garden Gate. The High Market Square, so full of activity during the day, was abandoned now. The gray, hard-packed ground shone silvery in the light of Oerth’s two moons. Garett thought briefly of Vendredi, home now in her bed, or perhaps reading by the light of a fire. A smile flickered over his lips. Perhaps someday he would call on her.
There were fewer people on the streets of the High Quarter. A few lamplights gleamed in the unshuttered windows of the nobles’ estates, and here and there a figure or two shifted on a rooftop veranda. A small carriage, drawn by a single horse, approached and passed him. He listened to the sound of hoofbeats until they faded in the distance. The other parts of Greyhawk sometimes ran like a circus with no closing hour, but the High Quarter was usually quiet.
A couple of off-duty guards leaned against the wall to the jail. They nodded toward Garett as he walked across the High Market Square. He responded with a curt wave and went straight to the entrance to the Citadel. Two of the four sentries there, however, moved suddenly and blocked his way with their lances.
“Soldiers!” Garett snapped, stepping back and peering at the men.
One of the soldiers saluted crisply. “Begging Captain’s pardon, sir,” he said with a straight face. “Where’s our apple, tonight, sir?”
Garett realized these were the same men who had stood duty at the entrance last night, and he hid a grin. After all, he appreciated a sense of humor, as well as a man with courage enough to use it on his superior officer. Still . . .
Garett put his face close to the face of the soldier who had spoken. “Are you asking for a bribe, man?” he accused in his sternest voice. “I give you something, and you let me in? Is that it?”
The soldier paled a bit and shook his head vigorously. “No, sir! That wasn’t . . . !”
Garett turned toward the others. “Are any of you taking bribes? Speak up!”
All four shook their heads as they shot nervous glances at each other. The two who had crossed their lances to bar the captain’s path snapped to attention, bringing their weapons to their sides, opening the way for him.
“That’s good,” Garett growled as he peered at each of them in turn. “I’d hate to think ill of any member of Greyhawk’s constabulary.” He made a face and drew his thumb slowly across his throat before he went inside.
He grabbed the first man he encountered in the hallway, a young lieutenant whose name he didn’t remember. “Go to the barracks at once,” he ordered the man. “Get four apples from the kitchen and give them to the guards outside.” The lieutenant sputtered as he adjusted the weight of an armload of papers. “Sir, I hardly think . . . ,”
“I’m sure that’s right,” Garett interrupted. “Don’t argue. Just do it.”
“But, sir,” the lieutenant persisted. “The cook will be asleep!”
Garett caught the young man by his arm, pulled him close, and pressed one finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t alert the cook or anybody,” he said. “You take care of it personally. Sneak in. Be quiet. Can you handle it?”
The lieutenant drew himself erect. “Of course I can handle it,” he said, suddenly cooperative and eager to prove himself.
“Then go!” Garett turned him around and pointed him to the door.
Halfway there, the lieutenant turned and called back in a loud whisper. “Sir, is it all right if I take one for myself?”
Garett grinned and nodded, then headed for the stairs that would take him to his second-level office. Even from down the hall he saw the fine line of light that seeped under the edge of his door, and he drew a breath and let it out, knowing that his friends were already waiting for him.
He pushed open the door, spying Burge at once. The half-elf was sprawled atop his desk, propped up on one elbow, with one knee bent. Garett pointed a finger at him. “Don’t give me a hard time,” he ordered, hoping to defuse any criticism.
Burge, of course, ignored him. “See?” he said to Blossom, who leaned against the wall to his right. “I told you he’d be here on time. The sun just sets a little slower in the River Quarter, that’s all.”
Blossom said nothing. She merely frowned and turned blue eyes, heavy with boredom, on Garett.
“Welcome home, Captain,” Rudi said patiently from where he sat in the chair right behind the door. “I took the liberty of refilling your oil lamps, sir.”
“Thank you,” Garett answered, setting his helmet down on a corner of his desk as Burge swung around and sat up. “I’m sorry I’m late. Anything from the watch houses?” He pulled out his chair, but instead of sitting down, he planted his hands on the desk and leaned over it.
Burge rose with a fluid grace and went to stand by the opposite wall, facing Blossom. “Every Attloi in Greyhawk has packed up and fled the city,” he answered quietly.
“All of them?” Garett said, incredulous. “In one night?”
Burge pursed his lips. “All of ’em,” he affirmed.
’“That’s not all,” Blossom said. “A number of dwarves, or folks with dwarvish blood, have reportedly slipped out, too. Sentries also reported a pair of half-orcs left through the Highway Gate at the far south end of town.”
Garett raised an eyebrow. “Dwarves? Orcs? None of them have been murdered. The Attloi I can understand after seeing Exebur’s body. But why them?”
Blossom folded her hands behind her back and began to pace in a small area. She’d tied her blond hair back in a tight braid, and it swung as she moved. “I think we should ask Burge how he feels right now.” She shot him a look from the corner of her eye and leered down at him. “How about it, sugar boy? Any queasies?”
Burge drew himself straighter and flashed her a bright smile. “I feel fine,” he answered at once.
“Burge?” Rudi said at the same time. “Why?” “Think,” Blossom said with smug superiority. “Gypsies, dwarves, ores. All people or races who are sensitive to the presence of magic. There’s a pattern. Why not elves?” “I’m not an elf,” Burge snorted, looking insulted. Garett rubbed a hand over his chin, wishing he’d had time to scrape his cheeks and bathe himself. “You think they’re getting out because of the murders last night?” he said to Blossom. She was irritating sometimes, but she had a keen mind.
“While the ‘getting’ is good,” she answered seriously. Garett paced behind his desk, ignoring his friends while he thought out a course of action. The murder victims of last night had been the best seers in Greyhawk. That was the only connection they all shared. Due to the nature of the murders, the criminal was undoubtedly a wizard. Presumably then, there was some thing or some event this unknown magic-user didn’t want them to “see” in advance.
But, surely, in Greyhawk, a city some called Necropolis, those were not the only five seers. They were the best, maybe, but there had to be others.
“I thought we were goin’ to turn to the Wizards’ Guild for a little advice,” Burge said with the penchant he had for sometimes knowing what was on his captain’s mind.
Garett stopped near the window and gazed down into the darkness that filled the Great Square. Beyond, the lights of the High Quarter shone like little earthbound stars. “I suggested that this morning,” he answered. “But our new mayor, Thigpen, rejected it this early in the investigation. ‘An unwarranted expenditure of city monies,’ he called it.”
D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch Page 5
