D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  Blossom chewed and swallowed her fish. “No, I came to tell you that you’d best get some sleep tonight.” A malicious smile crept over her face as she leaned back on the bed and balanced herself on one elbow. “I have a feeling the Directorate’s going to want to see you in the morning.” Garett’s brows knitted together warily as he raised his cup. “Why do you say that?” he asked over the rim of the vessel.

  Blossom’s smile turned unpleasant as she lifted her head and gave a little laugh. “Because someone murdered Captain Kael tonight. That’s why.”

  Burge leaped to his feet, slopping wine over the side of his cup. “What?” he shouted, glaring at her with a genuine look of shock. “You didn’t . . . !”

  “Sit down, elf,” Blossom ordered calmly. She lifted the bottle to her lips, tipped it, and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Of course I didn’t,” she continued. “His throat was cut, and the tongue pulled through the bloody gash. Assassins’ Guild work. That’s their trademark. But that’s not the best part.” She looked at Garett and gave him a wink. “They left the body on Korbian’s doorstep. A warning if there ever was one.”

  Burge winced and gave a low whistle.

  Garett took a drink from his wine cup, remembering the Directorate meeting the previous morning. Axen Kilgaren had risen to protest Garett’s firing by Korbian, and Kilgaren was the master of the Assassins’ Guild. No member would have dared make such a kill without Axen’s approval.

  Yet, Garett took no pleasure in the news of Kael’s murder. The man had been a pompous, ambitious little yes-man, but for all that, he was still a watchman.

  The three of them talked a bit more. They told Blossom what they had found at the wizards’ guildhall, and Garett explained his suspicions about the coming night of the full moons. After that, the food was nearly gone and the wine bottle empty. Blossom rose and stretched. Now that she’d quit the City Watch, the barracks was off-limits to her, and she’d taken an apartment not far away, down on Horseshoe Road. She buckled on her sword and said her good nights.

  Garett escorted her to the door and watched from the landing as she descended the steps and melted into the meandering throngs on Moonshadow Lane. When she was gone, he glanced up over his shoulder. Both Kule and Raenei sailed high in the heavens, and the rooftops of Greyhawk glowed with their radiance. How, Garett asked himself silently, could the days be so cloudy and the nights so perfectly clear?

  Burge had neglected to arrange for a room, so Garett put a blanket on the floor for him. Eventually, he turned the wick in the cresset lamp down to only a tiny glow, and they lay down to sleep. The sounds from The Crusty Widow and

  Moonshadow Lane drifted up, but the half-elf soon began to snore.

  For Garett, sleep would not come. He turned first onto one side, then the other, then onto his back. He thought of skull symbols and the Horned Society. He thought of seers and dead people in Old Town. He thought of amethyst fortune-telling dice and enchanted swords. When he closed his eyes, he saw birds and giant slugs, leeches and a dragon setting fire to the city. The wind outside his window whispered with the sound of Mordenkainen’s voice.

  Suddenly, Garett sat up and grabbed for Guardian, where it stood against the wall at the head of his bed. He stared at it, gripping it in a trembling hand. Twelve swords, Mordenkainen had claimed, the Pillars of Heaven. Garett turned the weapon slowly. The fanged tigers’ heads on the weapon’s tangs stared back at him. The eyes were tiny splinters of emeralds, the workmanship exquisite.

  “Burge!” Garett shouted. “Wake up!”

  The half-elf sat up at once, instantly alert, one hand on the sword that lay on the floor at his side. “What is it?” he asked, quickly perceiving that there was no threat.

  Without drawing Guardian from the plain leather sheath, Garett held the sword out. “Tell me what you see,” he demanded.

  Burge looked at Garett, frowning. His gaze flickered to the sword. An intent expression came over his face. His eyes widened, and he brought a hand to his mouth. “Cap’n!” he exclaimed in an awed whisper. “It’s a sword!”

  Garett glared angrily. “Damn it, man, don’t joke with me! Describe it!”

  Burge rolled his eyes impatiently. “What did you expect?” he snapped. He waved a hand at the blade. “It’s a sword, isn’t it? If it had a red wrappin’ on the hilt, it could be standard barracks issue. Except that this sword glows like a firebug in heat and cuts through magic like an axe through butter.”

  Garett slid Guardian from the sheath and held it up again. The amber light from the cresset lamp shimmered on the edges. “Now what do you see?” he pressed.

  “The blade!” Burge answered sharply, realizing that he was missing something his captain wanted him to see. “It’s not even glowing.”

  Garett pursed his lips and ran his finger down the line of black runes the sword’s maker had engraved on the metal.

  When he first saw the sword in Mordenkainen’s crystal ball, it appeared to be of plain manufacture. But then the old wizard touched his eyes, and when he looked again, he saw the blade in all its arcane glory. The twelve swords called the Pillars of Heaven had been hidden, Mordenkainen had told him. It must have been Mordenkainen’s magic then, in that gentle brush on his eyelids, that lifted whatever spell disguised Guardian’s true nature and allowed Garett to see it. He touched the runes again, wondering at the language and the unreadable message written there.

  Burge couldn’t see the runes or the fantastically carved tiger-hilt, or the emerald pommel stone.

  But someone else had seen. It’s quite exquisite. He’d paid little heed when those words were first spoken. He’d been too angry at Korbian and at the directors. Now they thundered in Garett’s head.

  “I know who the wizard is,” he said. He leaned forward and put Guardian into Burge’s hands, and when the halfelf s face lit up this time, the awe was genuine.

  As Blossom had predicted, Garett was summoned to yet another early morning meeting of the Directorate. A knock at the door woke him and Burge shortly after first light. A patrol escort waited at the bottom of the stairs. Burge rose also, determined to come along. Together, they dressed in plain clothes and strapped on their weapons.

  A welcome hush hung over the city. They moved through the streets at just that median hour when the nighttime celebrants had finally gone home to sleep and the daytime celebrations had not yet begun. The River Quarter was almost empty, except for teams of prison work-gangs, who labored at cleaning the streets and picking up the refuse. It was a welcome calm after all the noise and turmoil.

  In the High Market Square, the hastily built dais from which the mayor had welcomed Kentellen Mar home still stood. It had been enlarged, though, and decorated with garlands of flowers and colored streamers. Tomorrow, on that dais, on the day of the summer solstice, at the hour of noon, the Directorate would officially name Ellon Thigpen as Greyhawk’s mayor, no matter that he had carried the title and duties of the office for months since the death of his predecessor. Following that ceremony, Ellon would, in turn, officially bestow upon Kentellen Mar the office of the magister.

  At the entrance to the Citadel, the patrol stopped. Burge stopped also. “Welcome home,” the half-elf muttered.

  “It remains to be seen how welcome I am, my friend,” Garett answered, pausing before he went inside. “Wait for me here.”

  A watchman stood guard outside the door to the Directorate’s meeting room. As Garett approached, the man threw back the door and announced his arrival, then stepped out of the way. Garett gave him barely a look. Although he was a watchman, he was a day timer and unknown to Garett.

  Again it seemed the entire Directorate was present, despite the early hour. Garett glanced quickly around at their faces, attempting to determine their mood. Ellon Thigpen looked worried and weary. There was the ever-present smirk on Sorvesh Kharn’s features. Fasterace the tax-collector fanned himself nervously with a hand fan made of shiny silk cloth and avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Dak Kasinskaia di
d his youthful best to look perfectly sublime. But it was Axen Kilgaren that intrigued Garett most. Axen

  did not look like a happy man.

  Almost as quickly, Garett noted the only two empty seats. Prestelan Sun, of course, was absent. So was the magister-to-be. That surprised Garett somewhat.

  A couple of the less notable members of the Directorate were involved in a heated discussion and unwilling to give up the floor.

  “The Lamplighters’ Guild refuses to do anything about the streetlights in the High Quarter,” stated Patri Cardulo, a representative of the Guild of Lawyers and Scribes, “unless the Directorate completely negates its contract with the Wizards’ Guild for lighting services!”

  Alek Prestikan, of the Merchants’ and Traders’ Union, thumped his fist on the table. “That’s totally unreasonable!” he blustered, red-faced. “They think they can hold us up, force us to tear up a good contract, just because we need their services for a few stinking nights until we get this all straightened out? Don’t they realize some of those streets up there are completely dark? That’s unheard of in the High Quarter!”

  “I’m sure that’s what they’re counting on,” Patri Cardulo purred. “They want the contract themselves, and at double their usual rate. And I should tell you, a lot of people up there are pressuring us on this. They don’t feel safe.”

  Ellon Thigpen rapped his knuckles on the table, and the room fell quiet. All eyes turned toward Garett as he took an at-ease stance and clasped his hands behind his back to await their pleasure. No greeting was exchanged, and certainly no welcome.

  Ellon Thigpen was the first to speak. His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. “I believe you have something to say, Korbian.”

  Korbian Arthuran rose slowly to his feet. The captain-general looked pale and shaken. Dark circles and thick, puffy eyes suggested he hadn’t slept at all. He looked across the room at Garett, then his gaze flickered away.

  “"Yes, yes,” Korbian said haltingly, leaning forward over the table, almost as if he had to support himself. “I—I was, uh, too hasty yesterday, Captain Starlen,” he stated. His gaze flickered to Garett again, then to Axen Kilgaren and to the mayor.

  Fasterace gave a tiny, girlish snicker, then quickly brought up his fan to hide his face.

  Korbian struggled to continue. “Uh, circumstances have led me to, uh, reconsider your suspension. In fact, to lift it.” He shot another glance at Axen, as if looking for some sign of approval. But the master of assassins sat stonily, yielding nothing. Korbian stared down at his own hands. “ou are commander of the night watch once more, Captain.”

  Korbian sat down and said no more while Sorvesh Kharn gave the captain-general a look of utter scorn.

  “Thank you, sir,” Garett said formally and politely. “I serve at your pleasure, as always.”

  He had not intended it to sound like a wisecrack, but Korbian lifted his head and shot him a look of pure hatred.

  Ellon Thigpen changed the subject. “Is it true you somehow managed to break into the wizards’ guildhall last night, Captain?”

  It shouldn’t have surprised Garett that Ellon had that bit of information. He had little liking for the mayor, but Thigpen was proving to be quite competent. Garett had guessed that for some time he’d been reading the watch reports left for Korbian, or that Korbian had been filling him in on all the details. Of course, the High Quarter watch house would have logged a record of the guards he’d requested to be posted outside the guildhall gates.

  “And,” said Dak Kasinskaia, rising to stand, “is it true that Prestelan Sun is dead?”

  “The answer to both your questions,” Garett answered bluntly, “is yes.”

  Several of the directors rose at once. “However did you get in?” they wanted to know.

  “What of the other wizards?”

  “Who will take Prestelan’s place on the Directorate?” Too many questions at once. Garett had no intention of telling them about Guardian, but before he could say anything, the door behind him opened.

  Kentellen Mar entered with little Cavel at his side. So powerful was Kentellen’s presence that the room fell silent as he walked around the table and took his seat. Cavel, never far from Kentellen, took up a position at his side and rested a hand on the old man’s arm.

  The magister settled back, folded his fingers under his chin, and gave Garett a long, dark-eyed look. “So, Captain,” he said quietly, “as I predicted, your absence was not a lengthy one.”

  Garett felt suddenly cold inside. “It has been a night of surprises,” he answered cryptically, “for many of us.” “And a night of loss as well,” Dak Kasinskaia stated with appropriate sadness. “We must prepare a suitable funeral and mourning period for poor Prestelan, something that befits a director who has served this city so faithfully.” Fasterace whipped the air with his fan. “Mourning period?” He sneered. “A celebration, you mean!”

  “Not that!” someone muttered. “Not another celebration!”

  Garett marveled at the capacity of politicians to degenerate from important business into meaningless babble. They confused activity with action and debate with problemsolving. He did not trust them, not one man sitting at that table.

  He felt the eyes of Kentellen Mar upon him. Kentellen sat apart, uninvolved in the argument. He did not even bother to hide his interest in Garett. For a moment, the room seemed to swirl, and it was as if the others disappeared and they were alone. Garett’s heart quickened, and the rush of the blood in his veins surged in his ears.

  Then the moment passed, and Garett discovered his hand curled lightly around Guardian’s hilt. He didn’t remember even moving. “Excuse me,” he said loudly enough to attract everyone’s attention, “but I have duties to catch up on. If you have no further questions ...”

  Ellon Thigpen interrupted. “We have plenty of questions, Captain Starlen,” he said authoritatively. Then, surveying the expressions of his fellow directors, he relented. “But perhaps we should deal with more pressing matters first. You are excused.”

  More pressing matters. Funerals and investitures. Fools! Garett thought as he turned and left the chamber. The city could crumble upon their heads, but never without an appropriate ceremony!

  Garett went straight to his office. There was no fire in any of his lamps, nor any oil. For light, he flung op'fl the shutter on his only window. Then he grabbed the first watchman he found in the corridor and sent for Burge.

  “You’ve got your job back,” he told his friend. “That’s not an offer. It’s an order. And go find Blossom. I need her, too. All of you. Here, tonight.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n, sir!” Burge answered with exaggerated enthusiasm. Deliberately, he snapped a crisp salute with the wrong hand.

  “We’re going to do this our damned selves!” Garett swore grimly.

  Burge left, and Garett sank down in his chair, turned it toward the window, and propped his feet up on the sill. Once again, he tried to put it all together in his head, to convince himself that he was right. There were so many pieces to the puzzle, and all of them were rough. He told himself he should have been more forceful with the directors. He should have made them listen. But what real proof did he have that his conclusions were the right ones?

  How could he hope to convince them that the enemy was their beloved Kentellen Mar?

  Garett knew that he couldn’t. So he folded his hands over his stomach, leaned back in his chair, and made his plans. The directors would help him whether they wanted to or not. He knew their weaknesses. He intended to use

  them.

  Outside his window, the black birds circled in evergrowing numbers.

  By midafternoon, the streets were once more choked with citizens and outlanders come to celebrate the investitures. The High Market was a mass of seething human flesh, and the Processional a colorful river of costumes and banners and flower garlands. People danced on the corners, sometimes in the middle of the road. Men and women leaned out of windows and shrieked at the tops of
their voices. Music sounded from everywhere, wild and furious, sometimes played by musicians, and sometimes by folks beating sticks on the lampposts or banging spoons on pots and pans as they marched through the crowds, employing anything that could make a noise.

  On horseback, Garett rode through it, taking side streets when he could to avoid the worst crowds. He had never seen the people of Greyhawk like this before, and it disturbed him. It begins to border on hysteria, he thought uneasily as he guided his mount southward down the Processional to the Black Gate. Since he was again dressed in uniform, the guards did not bother to stop him. They saluted, and he nodded and passed through into the Thieves’ Quarter. He rode up Rat’s Road, then turned down Black Lane, and stopped at last before the great hall of the Thieves’ Guild.

  The hall was the true heart of Old Town. Little transpired south of the Black Wall that was not known, or even sanctioned, here. The hall’s windows and rooftop commanded views of every possible approach, and Garett knew that he had been observed for some time by spies who had followed him from the moment he passed through the gate.

  A pair of young, rough-looking boys, apprentice thieves, stood guard at the entrance. Garett rode right up to the steps before he stopped and called up to them. “Tell Sor-vesh Kharn that—”

  The great doors swung inward. “I am here, Garett Starlen,” the master of thieves responded as he stepped into the daylight. He came halfway down the steps and stopped, and the pair of guards at the door came down to take up positions just behind him. Still another pair slipped out of the hall and took their posts on either side of the entrance.

  Garett nodded to himself with satisfaction. It was a small exercise, but it showed that the thieves were disciplined. “We need to talk,” Garett said.

  Sorvesh Kharn inclined his head slightly in consideration. “We can do so out here in the heat,” came his answer, “or, if you will surrender your weapon and allow yourself to be blindfolded, there is the luxury of my quarters inside.”

  Garett had expected the blindfold. No one who was not a member of the guild was allowed to enter the hall. And those who were taken inside never saw more than one room. That way, no outsider learned the layout of the place, or where any of the many deadly traps were set. It was the guild’s oldest rule and known throughout Greyhawk.