Garett quickly scanned the faces of the rest, recalling names and positions, and noted at once the two glaring absences. As the high priest of Boccob, Acton Kathenor should have been present. Under the circumstances, however, Garett could see why he was not. It was the second absence that most puzzled him. One of the most powerful men on the Directorate was Prestelan Sun. It seemed extremely unlikely that he would miss such a gathering. But there was no sign of the master of the Wizards’ Guild.
Garett felt the weight of all their eyes upon him. He gave a barely perceptible shrug and sighed. It was going to be a long and unpleasant morning. “Good morning to you, gentlemen,” he said with a lightness of spirit he didn’t feel, regretting as soon as the words left his mouth the hint of mockery that edged them.
“You’re a mess, man!” Rankin Fasterace sneered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I can smell you from here!” “Forgive me for offending your sensibilities,” Garett answered with a bow. More mockery, he realized. He was just too tired to care. He wiped a hand again over his forehead. “You may have heard: we had a small fire last night.”
“Is the fire out?” Thigpen asked, still standing over the table. There was an impatience in his gaze that put Garett on his guard and commanded a tautness in his posture. The livid veins in the little mayor’s neck stood out against his pale skin. His hands gripped the edge of the table tightly.
Garett drew another breath and nodded. “The worst flames are beaten,” he reported. “We still have teams stirring in the coals and ashes. Many of the buildings in that section were built with timber, and you know how wood can burn inside and cause a new fire if it’s not watched.” “We were lucky.” Axen Kilgaren regarded Garett with a quiet respect. Garett had had few encounters with Kilgaren, but he held a measure of respect for the man. Even though Kilgaren was an assassin, Garett had the feeling sometimes that he was the only one on the Directorate who truly had the city’s interests at heart—and not just his own.
“Yes,” Garett agreed, “because the wind blew the flames toward the city wall instead of into the heart of Greyhawk.” “Was the wall damaged?” Fasterace interrupted. The fat little man reached up to his chin with a heavily ringed finger, manipulated a pimple, and wiped a small trace of white puss on his expensive blue silk robe. “The city coffers can ill afford repairs,” he added.
Garett bit back a sarcastic remark. Greyhawk’s coffers were fat with the taxes levied against the trading vessels and cargo ships that daily anchored at the city’s docks. The city was, in fact, one of the richest along the Nyr Dyv, the Selin-tan River, or anywhere. If that wasn’t reflected in outward opulence, it was due to the notorious stinginess of the city leaders. “Tight as a Greyhawk director” was a running joke in the streets.
“Don’t let it trouble your sleep, sir,” Garett intoned. “We were able to get large barrels of water atop the wall to pour down upon the flames. It served the double purpose of wetting down the stone and preventing heat-cracking.” As slow-witted as he was, even Rankin Fasterace realized he was being mocked. “You have an insolent tone, Captain!” he charged angrily.
Garett lashed back, too tired to stop himself. “I have an empty belly, a parched throat, and your weight in soot clinging to me!” he shouted. “If you’re so concerned about the wall, hire a carriage and go check it yourself. You might also check on the hundreds of people down there who will be rebuilding their own walls from their own coffers!” “Captain Starlen!” Korbian Arthuran stormed around the table and came face to face with Garett. “You’re in the presence of the full Directorate, and you’ll keep a subordinate tongue in your head. Is that clear?”
Axen Kilgaren interrupted with a stern voice. “Sit down, Korbian. The captain is right to be upset. He’s labored at the fires all night while we’ve been safe in our beds, and we haven’t even offered him a drink to quench his thirst.”
Korbian glared at the master of the Assassins’ Guild but backed down and said no more. He went to stand beside the mayor again. Axen Kilgaren himself rose from his chair, went to a side table, and poured wine from a glass bottle into a delicate crystal goblet, which he carried to Garett.
“Thank you,” Garett said, accepting the precious vessel gratefully. His throat was indeed dry. He inhaled the bouquet of the amber liquid as he swirled it around the interior of the glass. His eyebrows went up in appreciation. He sampled a small quantity. The taste was as rich and smooth as new silk. “Veluna,” he said wryly, noting the wine’s origin, “Shamarit Province, from its northernmost vineyards.” He tasted the wine again and smiled.
Axen Kilgaren moved quietly around the table and threw open the shutters on the chamber’s two large windows. New light flooded in, and a refreshing breeze swept about the room. Everyone waited patiently until Kilgaren took his seat again.
Then Sorvesh Kharn rose with a languid grace that belied his impressive size and went to pour himself some of the fine Velunan wine. “Now, then, Captain,” he said without looking at Garett. The neck of the glass bottle clinked gently against a goblet that matched the one Garett held, and the sound of pouring liquid was heard as he paused briefly in his speech. “For those of us who are cursed to spend our nighttime hours in sleep, please give us the benefit of a complete report.” He turned, raised his glass to his lips, and leaned patiently against the sideboard.
Garett took a sip from his own glass, eyeing the master of thieves, knowing full well the man had more spies than any other director in the room. Every petty thief in the city who held guild status—and that was any thief who valued his life—reported to his guild superior each morning. They, in turn, reported to Sorvesh. Garett had no doubt the man knew as much about the fire as he did.
Garett stared down briefly into the amber depths of his wine, summoning his faculties before he spoke. He began with the unnatural murders of Duncan and Soja, told all he knew about the dragon and the poet Chancreon, and plunged into detail about the fire and the devastation it had caused in the Halls. No one interrupted him while he made his report. The directors sat stony-faced in their chairs, except for Sorvesh, who maintained his place by the sideboard and placidly sipped his wine.
“Very good, Captain,” Sorvesh said with a complimentary nod when Garett had finished. “Have you left anything out?”
Garett sensed a trap immediately. He gazed around at the faces turned toward him. Yes, he saw it in their eyes. They knew something he didn’t. But what? He gazed toward one of the empty chairs and remembered.
“I’ve heard reports that Kentellen Mar is camped somewhere outside the Duke’s Gate, prepared to enter the city today. I assume the reports are true. There was quite a lot of celebrating in the streets last night.”
At the far end of the table, Ellon Thigpen at last slumped into his chair. “It’s true that Kentellen is camped outside the city,” he admitted, waving a hand to drive away a fly that buzzed around his head, “but he will not enter the city today. In light of all that’s been happening, we’ve asked him to put off his entrance until tomorrow. We’ve already sent a messenger.”
Garett walked to the sideboard and set his glass down unfinished. His thirst, at least, was quenched. But his stomach was still empty, and he didn’t need any blurring of his senses now. There was a charge in the room, and all eyes were on him. “Because of the fire?” he said.
“That and more.” Dak Kasinskaia leaned forward, one elbow on the table, as he answered in a high, nervous voice. Then he paused and watched Sorvesh Kharn warily as the master of thieves moved away from Garett and returned to his own seat. The patriarch of Rao continued. “I don’t think either you or our esteemed Korbian realize, Captain Starlen, that Greyhawk has suddenly become a city on the edge of turmoil.”
“Young Dak does not exaggerate,” Ellon Thigpen interrupted, drawing a glare from his fellow director at his use of the word “young.”
No one was quite sure by what politics one as youthful as Dak Kasinskaia had become the leader of his temple sect. Some thought i
t was out of respect for his father, a former patriarch, while others charged more devious dealings. However Dak had seized the position and the directorship that came with it, he plainly intended to hold his own among his more seasoned colleagues. For the moment, though, he yielded to the mayor, albeit grudgingly.
“The priests of Boccob are on the verge of declaring war on the Temple of Ralishaz, claiming it had something to do with Kathenor’s murder,” Thigpen explained wearily. Korbian Arthuran moved to the sideboard and returned to place a glass of wine by the mayor’s right hand while Thigpen continued. “The residents of Old Town are making ugly noises about the recent series of murders there.” He waved a hand at the fly again, ignoring the wine Korbian had brought to him. “There’s a lot of grumbling about these other murders, too, I’m sure you know. Now, on top of it, if this fire is as serious as you say—and I don’t doubt you, Captain—there are going to be a lot of injured people with no place to go.”
It was Garett’s turn to interrupt. “I ordered the university’s dormitories opened to them,” he said.
Fester-face rose half out of his chair. The look of shock on his face was profound. “You did what?’’ he shrieked. “Have you any idea of the cost?”
“Damn the cost,” Garett muttered with an open sneer. “The dorms were half-empty, and those people had to have someplace to go. The students themselves suggested it.” “Actually,” said Dak Kasinskaia, rolling his eyes upward in typically priestly fashion, “that’s quite a charitable solution, at least for the time being. It’s far better than having a disgruntled mob living on the streets with the investiture and the solstice celebrations approaching.”
Fasterace sighed and sat back in his chair with a doubtful expression. “Well,” he mumbled in a barely audible voice, “perhaps we can charge a rent...” No one paid that suggestion any heed.
Sorvesh Kharn rapped his knuckles gently on the table to draw their attention. “We are digressing, gentlemen,” he said. There was a silken lilt to his words and a look in his eyes that once again put Garett on his guard. “My original question to our captain still stands. I’m curious to know if there’s anything he’s neglected to mention in his report.” Garett drew a breath and let it out slowly. He leaned back against the sideboard just as Sorvesh himself had earlier, and folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re accusing me of something, Director,” he said patiently, “then accuse me outright. If you know something that I don’t, then enlighten me. But don’t annoy me with games.”
Sorvesh held up a hand to silence a purple-faced Korbian Arthuran before the captain-general could speak. “Forgive me, Captain Starlen,” Sorvesh continued, almost with a purr. “I realize you’re quite tired. I accuse you of nothing. I only meant to prod your memory. Was there anything out of the ordinary about last night?”
Garett felt his temper flare again and barely controlled it before a shout burst from his lips. “Out of the ordinary?” he answered with a tilt of his head, his voice dripping honey. “I’d say the whole damn night was out of the ordinary, Director.” He put on a weak smile.
Sorvesh pursed his lips and rose from his chair. With a look of infinite patience, he went to stand behind another of the empty chairs and leaned over it. “As I said, Captain, I realize you’re tired.” He straightened and rocked the empty chair back on its rear legs as he did so. “What I’m getting at is this: With all this help and fellowship you speak so warmly of regarding the efforts to defeat the fire last night, where were the wizards? I mean, wouldn’t their skills have been of particular value?”
Garett forced himself to be calm. “Of great value,” he admitted, meeting Sorvesh’s steady gaze. “Had they been (here.”
It was almost with a sense of relief that he noted the faint smile that curled the corners of Sorvesh’s lips, and the dark gleam that came into the eyes of the master of thieves. He was setting a trap, but not for him, Garett realized, for Prestelan Sun. Here was some piece of politics, some struggle on the Directorate itself that had nothing to do with him or his job. Sorvesh had merely used him to score some point.
The master of thieves let the empty chair fall forward. It banged against the table with a harsh, wooden thunk, causing a dollop of the mayor’s wine to spill over the side of the crystal glass. “So there’s the love that Prestelan Sun holds for Greyhawk,” Sorvesh suddenly thundered. “Our city burns, but the Lord High Wizard is too busy to descend from his tower and lend a hand. Nor does he send any of his guildsmen to offer their skills.”
Sorvesh leaned forward and slammed his open palm down on the table. “And where is he now, gentlemen? Too busy once more to attend this meeting? I myself sent messengers to summon him, but they were turned away by the porters who man his guildhall gates. I say a vote of censure is in order!”
Dak Kasinskaia rose to his feet in protest. “That’s preposterous!” the young patriarch shouted. “Your own overweening ambition is showing, Sorvesh. You’re still angry because Prestelan voted to make Ellon mayor instead of you!”
An uncontrolled shouting match ensued, fourteen voices all hurling charges and accusations, while Ellon Thigpen attempted uselessly to restore order. Garett stood forgotten, watching it all with thinly veiled contempt, wondering whether he dared to simply slip out.
Beyond the two large windows, the sky suddenly flickered. Then it flickered again. The arguing ceased.
Unnoticed, Greyhawk’s sky had turned a leaden gray. Thick clouds obscured the sun, and a wind blew sharply through the chamber. Once more the sky flickered, and a distant rumble of thunder shortly followed.
“Oh, my!” Rankin Fasterace exclaimed, leaping up. “I must get home at once. I’m wearing my best velvet slippers, and they’ll be ruined in a storm!” Without another word, he gathered his robes about himself and waddled from the room, not bothering to close the door.
Several of the lesser directors who had not spoken at all also seized the excuse to depart over Sorvesh’s angry objections. In no time, he found himself without a quorum and no chance of a vote on his motion to censure. In a mighty rage, he, too, left.
The first droplets of rain blew in through the windows and splattered on the stone floor. Ellon Thigpen went to one window and drew its shutters closed. Korbian Arthuran, following his mayor’s lead, went to the other. As he reached out for the shutters, however, the clouds burst open, and a sudden blast of wind struck him like a tide. Sputtering and drenched, he leaped back.
“Damn it all!” Korbian Arthuran shouted, wiping away a faceful of rain.
Ellon Thigpen sighed heavily. From across the room, he waved a hand at Garett. “That’s all for now, Captain,” he said by way of dismissal.
Garett offered a curt salute and made his exit. The hallway was full with the day-shift staff going about their duties, and he weaved among them as he made his way to his own office a level lower. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been in the Citadel at this hour of the day. It surprised him just how crowded the place was.
He reached his office at last and opened'the door. A horrid stench assailed his nostrils. Rudi rose from the chair behind the door and turned to face his commander.
“Good morning, sir,” he said smartly, executing a proper salute. “I’ve been waiting for you. I took the liberty of lighting a few lamps.”
Garett didn’t care about the lamps today. He wrinkled his nose and moved several paces away from the young sergeant, taking refuge at last behind his desk. “Where the hell have you been?” he complained, noting the filthy condition of Rudi’s uniform, the slime that still clung wetly to his boots. “No, don’t tell me,” he said before his sergeant could explain. “The sewers. That’s obvious enough.”
“We all marvel at your deductive powers, sir,” Rudi answered with a straight face. “By the way.” He reached into his pocket and drew out three familiar amethyst crystals. “A junior sergeant from the River Quarter watch house came by and said to give these to you.” He deposited them on the desk.
A blas
t of thunder shook the shutters of Garett’s only window, and lightning flashed through the cracks. Rain smashed the thin, old wood with the force of driven nails.
Garett reached into the purse he kept tucked under his belt and withdrew the remaining two amethysts and placed them with the others. The five dicelike stones glittered in the lamplight. “I’m surprised he was willing to leave them with you,” Garett admitted, recalling Kael’s brashness.
“I pulled rank,” Rudi answered bluntly, “and sent him away. I figured you’d have your hands full with that bunch upstairs. He can do his sucking up some other time.” Garett grinned. “He tried it with you, too, huh? You have my appreciation and respect, Sergeant,” Garett conceded politely. Then he pointed to the chair by the door ,and wrinkled his nose again. “But please stay over there. Y)u could be the only post in town, and a dog with a bladder infection wouldn’t come near you.”
Rudi took the chair and folded his arms behind his head. “If I may be so bold, sir,” he scolded, making a face of his own, “you could be that same post. Smells like we’ve both made a hard night of it.”
“I’ll probably have to have this room cleaned,” Garett agreed readily enough as he settled into his own chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He glanced toward the short pile of reports from the various watch houses, which were stacked in one corner, and decided they could wait. “Now, then, Sergeant,” he said. “It seems to me I gave you an assignment in the River Quarter last night.”
“Duncan’s dead, sir,” Rudi interrupted.
Garett looked at the boy for a moment, trying to decide if he was being mocked. But Rudi kept the same straight face. “I know,” Garett answered with strained sweetness. He pushed at the amethysts with a fingertip. “These belonged to her.”
D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch Page 11
