Saga of the Old City g-1

by Gary Gygax

  With the end of the instructional term came news from Doctor Prosper. He informed the boys that teaching them had grown tiresome to him-they were slow students, always asking dumb questions, and generally trying the patience of a weary old scholar. No, he didn’t deserve such punishment in his declining years. Instead, he had talked to some old associates at Grey College, and the troublesome fellows would be their charges next term.

  This was incredible news! Grey College wasn’t the most fashionable institution, but it was the oldest and was renowned for its professors. Now they were true students! During the “nineweek,” the hiatus in summer that included Wealsun month, Richfest week, and Reaping month, the two celebrated continually. They also spent a lot of time at their work, so to speak. One of the first things they managed was a new wheelbarrow for Prosper, which they filled with gardening tools, a keg of Renstish schnapps, and wheels of cheese and huge sausages, and an assortment of old ale to top the load off. The Doctor never mentioned it, but Gord knew he was pleased. Before their schooling began again, Gord also located an arms instructor willing to accept two young pupils who wished to learn the use of sword and dagger, for while they had often practiced the nonviolent crafts of thievery, they were both in need of bettering themselves at weaponplay.

  College was not all that they had hoped. It wasn’t just that the studies were hard; their classmates were snobbish and the dons were worse. Gord managed better than San, for he was older-though by this time the younger boy had grown taller and larger than Gord. When their first year of instruction at Grey College ended, San informed his friend that he had had enough of bookish pursuits. There was no arguing with him, and that week he went off to apply to the Thieves’ Guild as a cutpurse, even though they both knew his skills were a notch or two greater than that.

  San had met a pretty young lass in the course of one of the boys’ forays on The Strip. They were soon seeing one another regularly, and she had told him that her father was a ranking member of the Guild, so San had confessed his own skills. After that, nothing would do but for him to talk with her father, and the result was foregone thereafter.

  Gord and San had a farewell party, and then the latter young man left their loft at The Acorns, promising to return often. He had come a few times at first, but the visits grew less frequent, and shorter too, and then stopped altogether around Needfest break during Gord’s next academic term. Gord maintained the big apartment alone, using the empty area as an exercise and practice space.

  Now his second year as a college student had come to an end, and Gord was undecided and restless. After all, how much did he need to know about politics, philosophy, natural and supernatural arts, pantheology, and the like? Sure, it was interesting to learn ancient, dead tongues and the history of Oerik and the Flanaess, but enough was enough. Gord liked action better, and he needed excitement-like the time he had tossed a light-stone into the window of the professor of mathematics and its light had revealed the don in a compromising position with the flighty son of a city official…. Gord’s fellows had been ringed round to see and had cheered!

  Gord wanted adventure-not lectures, scrolls, and tomes. He thought it was high time he put his lessons in the art of swordsmanship and dagger-work to the test, too. How much better than this sheltered life!..

  Four craftsmen from a nearby village entered the Roc and Oliphant and took a table nearby. Gord recognized them; they were staying at The Acorns while they attended a meeting of their chapter of the Artisans’ League. After ordering bumpers of the local brew, the four fell into conversation about their trade. Gord could not shut out this droning and endless shop-talk, even by downing all of his wine and ordering more. When more of their fellows joined them, Gord abruptly decided that, as of this minute, he had had enough of this kind of life. He got up, stalked away to his chambers, and began gathering up his necessary possessions. An hour later he bade the good ostler Calvert adieu and exited the inn forever.

  Soon he was beyond the pale of Clerkburg and striding up The Processional. Since he had money to spend and wished some real action, he was going to the High Quarter to see what he could see. It was time to start at the top!

  Chapter 8

  “A dragon!” exclaimed Lord Dolph. “You must now beat three towers, Your Reverence!”

  The Patricians’ Club, a luxurious gaming house in Greyhawk’s High Quarter, had many tables, each offering a different amusement for those rich and noble gamers who sought excitement and the thrill of wagering fortunes upon chance. Little skill was required; most of what transpired depended upon the spin of a wheel, the sum of oddly shaped dice, and similar devices where random patterns allowed long odds and dumb luck to reign supreme. At an ornately carved table in a special corner, however, a game that pitted players directly against each other was taking place.

  Five wealthy participants were involved, and they had contested for several hours now, fortune smiling first upon one, then another, so that not a single player had yet been forced to quit the table for lack of funds. The most notorious of the five was Arentol, the Grand Guildmaster of Thieves, a tall, thin fellow of saturnine nature and somber dress. He always watched the eyes of his opponents with an unblinking gaze.

  Next to Arentol was Sir Margus, a very young, effete-looking Velunese. His age combined with his title indicated that he was undoubtedly the son of a great noble and thus had gained his knighthood through means other than bold deeds.

  Adjacent to the Velunese knight was Madame Belldray.

  The widow of Degol Belldray was certainly one of the richest commoners in the city-so wealthy that she could move in noble circles without question. She was plump and soft and covered with jewels. In a pudgy, middle-aged way, Madame Belldray was attractive, so she was much sought after by men whose fortunes were in flux, so to speak. This night she was clad in brocaded silk of ivory and golden hues that nearly matched the colors of her fading blonde tresses.

  Just after Lord Dolph, the Baron of Cairnway, spoke triumphantly regarding his newly displayed tableau, Madame Belldray smiled vacuously at the man to her left, Vronstein, a High Priest of Zilchus, and said, “Oh, my goodness! Can you imagine such luck? Do you suppose you can beat Lord Dolph’s three towers? What will you do?”

  Without comment, the richly dressed priest seated between the lady and Lord Dolph turned over the ivory plaque before him, his long, pale fingers seeming to move contemptuously. He smiled as a green horsehead was revealed on the reverse side. “That makes a Host of four, I believe, Lord Baron.”

  The sour expression that came over Lord Dolph’s face as he viewed the emerald depictions of bow, sword, and spear capped by the horse showed that it was indeed a Host, a powerful tableau. All of the men now turned to watch as Madame Belldray took her turn.

  “That’s no good at all,” the plump dowager said in a tone of disappointment as her bejeweled hand exposed a plaque with the green magic sigil on it. Now, His Reverence The High Priest Vronstein could gain no all-conquering Host, at least, but the Madame still had but a pair of coffers showing. She turned over two more of the ivory tiles, revealing the dwarf and a crown. The crown could build to a winning hand, but only if her two remaining plaques were likewise coffers-and those were long odds. With only two plays remaining for her, Madame Belldray must either wager or yield.

  “I feel dreadfully lucky this evening!” she stated enthusiastically. “So, I shall increase the stake by another orb-no, by another plate!” She pushed a platinum lozenge into the pile of coins in the center of the table.

  There was some surprise among the players when Sir Margus not only met the stake but increased it by an orb. He had lost rather heavily this night, and now seemed bent on bankrupting himself by attempting to recoup it all in one losing hand. He showed three tiles up, a red sigil and two gates.

  Arentol likewise had three up and four plaques down, with three spears showing. “It seems that playing with a blessed cleric is unwise,” said the guildmaster. He too had lost considerable sums
. “I am caught between towers, His Reverence, a lady who feels Ralishaz smiles upon her, and a risk-taker extraordinaire,” he observed. “And, worse, I think I can garner no fifth spear, even should the fourth be here,” he added as he tapped his tiles, “so I must yield.” He quietly turned over his exposed plaques and sat back.

  Lord Dolph placed his platinum and gold coins into the pot, and then His Reverence Vronstein increased the wager by yet another plate. Reluctantly, Madame Belldray met it, Sir Margus did likewise only after going to his purse, and then Lord Dolph also saw the bet. The action passed to the young knight.

  “Let us see with whom fortune actually plays,” Sir Margus said as he casually flipped his next flat ivory rectangle so as to show its face: a black sigil.

  “Cities and magic don’t mix, sir!” urged Lord Dolph. “Let’s get on with it!”

  Without any indication that he took offense at the mustachioed baron’s rudeness, the young man lazily reached for his next plaque and tipped it. “Hmmm …”he ruminated, eyes now fixed upon the baron. A bet was again demanded by the rules of the game, for Sir Margus had but two tiles remaining face down. It was evident from the facial expressions of the other players that they did not envy him his position. Already in deep, he had but little chance to defeat the cleric’s Host, while the Baron Dolph had some considerable opportunity.

  “Let us be restrained-a lucky,” offered the young knight.

  As the electrum disc went into the center of the table, Lord Dolph was already shoving two coins in. “And an orb,” he said with menacing flatness in his voice. Margus had but a few pieces of currency before him on the table, and the baron thought it time to force the upstart youngster out of the play.

  Each of the others at the table saw the wager. Sir Margus stared at the glitter of gold, silver, platinum, and electrum in the pot, shook his head, and stared at the baron. As Dolph smiled condescendingly at him, a gold coin appeared in the young man’s hand, and he said, “I’ll see the wager also.”

  Now everyone at the table was watching with enhanced interest-this hand was becoming a personal matter of pride between two noblemen. And by this time, the game had attracted the attention of a small crowd of onlookers. They kept a respectful distance, and after each play the ones in the front ranks would turn and whisper the latest happenings to those behind them.

  Sir Margus glanced toward the spectators and smiled faintly, as if amused by a secret joke. Then he revealed his sixth plaque. Madame Belldray gasped and clutched at the golden brocade of her gown with a plump hand when she saw a white sigil.

  Sir Margus fixed Lord Dolph with a piercing gaze, holding the baron’s eyes as the young Velunese knight slowly displayed his next plaque. Several of the onlookers voiced subdued cheers when the second dragon in the stack appeared-that could stand for the green sigil exposed in Madame Belldray’s tableau. Now, the young nobleman had completed the Mage, a nearly unbeatable display!

  “I believe it is your play, baron,” Sir Margus said laconically, without looking down.

  Livid, Lord Dolph reached for his next tile. It was the elf-no help. Hurriedly, he turned the next, another tower, and it was time to consider the stakes. “A plate, I say, and be damned!” His hand shook as the paunchy baron put the coin into the pot with an angry toss. Madame Belldray yielded her tableau; she could no longer hope luck would save her. The cleric and the Velunese knight put platinum lozenges into the pot without ado. Guildmaster Arentol observed the whole affair with fascination.

  “Istus! That’s five towers you now face!” roared the baron as his sixth plaque turned out to be another of the castle symbols. Lord Dolph’s tableau was now supreme on the board. His florid countenance was wreathed in smugness as he looked from High Priest Vronstein to Sir Margus, his pale eyes red-rimmed but gloating.

  “Calmly, dear baron, calmly,” admonished the haughty-faced cleric as he carefully exposed his fifth tile. The blue horse’s head was some help, but not much, especially in the face of five towers. “I must trust in the divine direction I now require,” he stated. He flipped an orb into the air and let it fall on the table before him. It showed a throne. “Tops, so I am to go on. Consider the gold piece my fresh wager,” he said.

  Neither of the other players increased this sum, so the cleric continued his play. His sixth tile was yet another war-piece, a black sword. After a moment of hesitation, perhaps for silent prayer, Vronstein revealed his seventh and last plaque. It was, incredibly, a red horsehead-cavalry.

  “I offer you the Allied Host,” the cleric said with a casual gesture toward the green infantry pieces and trio of horses. “Is it not the superior of five towers?” Now it was High Priest Vronstein’s turn to sit back and watch, for this seemed the end of all hopes for his opponents.

  Before Sir Margus could play, Lord Dolph exclaimed, “We’re men here, I believe, and it seems time that we showed what we are made of! I say we make an additional wager on who shall have the winning tableau when all plaques are exposed. What say you, Vronstein?” By pointedly ignoring the young knight, Lord Dolph was indicating that he thought Sir Margus would not have sufficient funds-or perhaps the fortitude-to continue. With his Allied Host before him, the cleric acquiesced with a smile. The baron then placed six orbs into the pot.

  Even the priest was startled at that, but he reached into his sash and withdrew a like amount, still smiling, but now shaking his head as if saddened by the gambling lust of the others at the table.

  Now it was up to Sir Margus-if he met the added stake. He took out a flat purse and upended it before him. Out dropped five coins-four orbs and a plate. He added these to his stack of five luckies on the table, but he was still short of the wager. Desperately, the young man dug in his tunic breast pocket, there finding three more electrum coins. He sat back with dejection on his face.

  “Well, sir, now, sir!” crowed the baron. “You seem to be a single lucky short of making the six orbs additional wager. By the rules of play you now stand forfeit!”

  In desperation, the Velunese knight looked around the table at the others. “Will one of you kind folk, nobles all, not lend me a single lucky so that I may continue the test?” he asked in a friendly tone. Stony eyes and hard faces were the only reply to this.

  Then, just as Lord Dolph was about to demand once again that he yield his tiles, the knight held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “Why, how foolish of me!” he exclaimed. “In the heat of the play I seem to have forgotten all about my joss-piece!” With that he shoved his chair back, tugged off the tooled leather boot from his left foot, and tipped the thing upside down over his hand. He placed a worn electrum coin on top of the others, pushed the stack into the pot, and said offhandedly, “My play, I suppose….”

  The knight’s seventh tile was black, and the last of the sigils in the stack-a great coup indeed! “My tableau now displays the Arch-Mage, bettering His Reverence Vronstein’s Allied Host,” announced Sir Margus, “and your five towers as well, baron-unless you can best it with that single plaque you have yet undisclosed.”

  The face of Lord Dolph turned nearly purple, and he sputtered as he reached for the tile.

  “Now you, sir, hold, sir, I say!” the Velunese knight commanded. “You have belittled me without stint since this game began. You have tested my temper, my purse, and my spirit. Now let us test yours. I have no coin left, but here upon my finger is a ring of bright gold with the fair green of a cat’s-eye chrysoberyl peering forth-a family treasure of value both sentimental and otherwise. Though it is worth far more, let us say it has the value of a mere three orbs. If you have mettle, sir, you will accept this additional stake ere you turn your final tile.”

  No noble could turn from such a challenge, though Lord Dolph would doubtless never forgive the challenger. He glared with open hatred at the young Velunese. “You say it has greater value? Then so be it. I wager three plates, not three orbs, against it!”

  “Turn your tile then, baron, and may the better man win.”

&
nbsp; The plaque bore the grinning face of the thief. Baron Dolph had lost.

  Later, in a lavish suite at the Villa Noblesse, three young people were laughing and drinking, toasting the occasion with heady, sparkling violet wine from Ulek’s southern region. A pile of gold discs, platinum rectangles, and electrum coins were arrayed as a centerpiece.

  “You’re absolutely crazy, Gord!” said the curvaceous 1e-line. “I thought I’d faint when you couldn’t meet the baron’s extra stakes…. And then the ring-marvelous!”

  “Marvelous? Perhaps,” interjected the tall blond youth called Sunray. “Yet I must know how you thought you’d turn that sigil!”

  “I cheated,” Gord said without inflection.

  “What?” cried Teline, laughing and reaching over to hug him. “How could you have cheated? The silly Madame Bell-dray dealt the plaques!”

  “I’m good. No one saw me, but I changed the last plaque dealt to me for one I chose-the black sigil.”

  “With the guildmaster at the table?”

  “Oh, so what, Teline?” Sunray chimed in. “Big deal. Everyone was watching the coins tossed into the pot.” It was obvious that Sunray was trying to steal the limelight from Gord-Margus, jealous of his success and the attention it gained him from their female companion.

  “But, even so, how did he know that Lord Dolph didn’t have the fifth tower?” Teline demanded, addressing Sunray and then looking to Gord.

  Gord smiled his most boyish grin at her and simply said, “I didn’t.”

  Chapter 9

  It had been more than two years now since Gord had left the university and come to the northern portion of Grey-hawk, moving back and forth from High to Garden Quarter as his whim, or opportunity, dictated. In one guise or another, Gord had plied his profession as thief among the most wealthy and powerful citizens of the city without a qualm. Never once had he been detected, although suspicion occasionally had forced him to retire one persona and assume a new one.