by Gary Gygax
"You pour," said the young adventurer, without a hint of friendliness. Gord's gaze stayed on San the whole time. The fellow seemed to be acting normally now, as he filled two small, red-tinted glasses and offered Gord his choice. Gord took the one nearest him, sat back again, and watched San unwinkingly.
"Gord, whatever information you're after. I can't supply it. The thieves guild has nothing whatsoever to do with your present predicament," San said gently, then asked, "Is there anything else? Or can I see you to the door and get to my work?" This was more of a dismissal than a query, and San's expression showed he was tired of the conversation.
Gord sat up now and placed his hands flat on San's desk. "You better be telling the truth, my friend. If I find out that you knew about what happened, or that your precious guild was involved in it, I'll come back to see you again. I, for one, live now, not in the past. If I find that you haven't told me the truth, then when I return to see you, you'll have no future."
"Get out, now!" San shouted, his face livid.
"See you around, then," Gord said as he casually strolled out of the concealed chamber.
A moment later San had second thoughts about letting Gord find his own way out, and followed the young thiefs path out of the room to be sure he was really leaving the premises. The guards in other parts of the house said they had seen no one, and there wasn't a trace of Gord or his exit to be found. Cursing, San growled at his men to be more alert, made a note to get more protection the next day, and went to the suite he and his wife called their own. He said nothing about Gord's visit.
Undaunted by his lack of success with San, the young thief was already off into the night. He had formed a plan in his mind, and decided to start at square one — the Lotus House. The fellow who greeted him was unfamiliar. "A goblet of wine would be most welcome, my good man," he told the sallow-faced Bakluni. "And have something on me," he said with friendliness, passing a silver coin to him.
"A thousand thanks, master!"
When Gord sat down he felt pangs of emptiness and loss. Another dancer writhed listlessly for the amusement of the audience, her performance unlike that of his beloved Ageelia's, her looks different too, but the young adventurer seemed to hear different music and watch a different dancer.
"Your wine, master."
"Stay a moment!" Gord urged the fellow. "I expected to see the man named Ovzool here. I have something to give him."
"That one? Why they ever hired so lazy and stupid a man I will never understand," the turbaned servitor said. "That useless lump of camel droppings left without notice, and I had to work two shifts through an entire week before another could be found to replace him!"
"But I owe Ovzool money," Gord lied. "Tell me how to find him, and I am sure he will be grateful."
"That puddle of dog vomit would never show gratitude to anyone! No matter, master. I can find him and take care of your debt. Give me the sum and I'll see to it!"
As a confidence man, Gord thought to himself, this Bakluni would make a fine dishwasher, Gord laughed in his face. "Do you take me for a fool, rear of an ass? Tell me where Ovzool is now, or I shall become angry, and you will receive no additional silver piece."
The fellow fawned disgustingly, but he could tell Gord nothing. It seemed that no one had seen the missing waiter since he disappeared several weeks ago. Shrugging, the young thief tossed him a copper for his time and departed the Lotus House. Tomorrow he would pursue the matter further.
Daylight brought nothing more helpful than had the wasted visit to the Lotus House. Friendly banter and a few bronze coins enabled Gord to discover that one of the guards from that fateful day was at this time on duty in the Bastion.
He could discover nothing, however, about the one he saw at the gate who knew thieves' cant signs. A few more zees in the palms of the men-at-arms, and a copper common for the other guard, when Gord finally located him, were not productive. The soldier knew only what the young thief had already learned. The fellow's comrade on duty that day had vanished as far as he knew. The Medegian was, or had been before being petrified by the medusa, a very wealthy merchant. Trading in rare tomes and similar materials, he had been given a special pass by the oligarchs of Greyhawk to enable him to bring exceptional wares to them, and thus the guards were ordered to pay special attention when the Medegian entered the city. Did the guard recall anything else about the matter? No.
Now Gord was beginning to become disturbed. Ovzool's vanishing act, the missing soldier-guard who knew thieves' cant, and the ruse of an emissary seemed to add up to the conclusion that this was a long-planned plot. Someone had to know that the Medegian was due to arrive. It seemed that there were many more involved in this than the dead and missing.
"I think it's time to pay a visit to Basil the Lock," Gord mumbled to himself. He was convinced that the rat-faced fence knew what had occurred. He had spilled his guts once, and this time Gord would get the whole truth out of the miserable sodder or literally spill his guts for him!
The shop Basil operated out of was closed and dark, but Gord went around to the rear via a gangway and a filthy alley. The rear door was iron, but Gord found it unlocked. "Careless little rodent, very careless," he chuckled softly as he slipped through the portal and closed it silently behind him. Dim light from a dirty little window high on the wall revealed a nearly empty room. A long bench and several broken crates were all that was in the place. From what Gord recalled, there was a large front area set aside for the shop, which filled about half of the ground floor. Between it and this back room there would have to be some sort of office and a stairway to the floors above. Gord went to the small door opposite the one through which he had entered and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He opened it. That action revealed a short hall with another door at the end. There was a stairway, all right, and a side room without a door. Although there was no light, he checked the room before going up and found an unoccupied, cluttered, paper-strewn office.
"Asleep, Basil? And dreaming sweet dreams? It is time to awaken!" There was no response. Gord crept up the steps and searched the first storey, then went one floor higher. In a lavishly furnished bedroom on the second floor, he saw his quarry lying in a huge bed.
"All right, Basil, time to get up!" the young thief said, rudely shaking the foul little man. When Basil failed to even twitch, Gord understood immediately. Basil was not asleep at all — he was dead. A quick check found him cold and stiffening. Gord first examined the man's mouth for any residue of poison, but found no such evidence. Then he pulled back the collar of Basil's nightshirt and knew right away that his death was by garrote. Basil probably never woke up to know he was being slain.
This death was no coincidence, Gord thought as he began to conduct a careful search of the chamber. If the dead fence kept anything of special value, it would be somewhere near his bed for constant guarding. Gord found a strongbox and began to work on its triple locks carefully, knowing that some mechanical or magical traps would be included by such a man as Basil had been. He was nearly through with the task when he heard the noise below.
"Upstairs, quick!" The voice was loud, and there were footsteps to match the words. From the sounds, Gord judged there were a half-dozen men, and Gord was trapped in a room with a barred window and a door leading to the stairway. It would be useless to attempt to flee, so the young man simply stood and waited.
Two armed men wearing the black and gold of Greyhawk's Praefecture of Magisterial Enforcement entered the bedroom. When they saw Gord standing with folded arms near the bed, one leveled a crossbow, aiming it directly at his chest. The other man checked Basil's still and lifeless body.
"He's dead, as we suspected," one man announced to those who were still outside the room.
"Here, I have the killer!" the other called loudly.
A gold-chained magistrate and a silver-chained inspector joined the two warders, and in a moment the party grew by the entrance of yet another pair of men. Gord said to all, "You have me, no doubt
but you do not have the killer of Basil the Lock. He was stone cold dead when I arrived here ten minutes ago."
"Who are you?" demanded the magistrate. Before Gord could open his mouth, the inspector volunteered. "I have seen him around, sir. He's called Gord, and we suspect him of many crimes — including unlicensed thievery."
Guarding and policing the city was the province of The Watch. The black uniforms with white trim were a common enough sight, for the city was divided into nine regular sectors, each with a Captain of the Watch, various officers and men, and bailiffs. Only the university district had its own protectors, a group commanded by a Master of Arms and composed of men who were tinder Greyhawk's direction only in time of war. High, Garden, Low, River, and Foreign Quarters were sectors, as were the Longtrade District. The Halls and Clerksburg, the Craft District, and the sprawled warren of Old City. For one such as Gord, The Watch was inconsequential. Most of its members could be duped, bribed, or dealt with in other ways. The Praefecture was another matter.
Greyhawk maintained a small, standing army. The Bastion housed one portion, the Citadel the other. The soldiers of the city wore the reversed colors of the battle flag of Greyhawk, dark gray with a bright red hawk on chest and shield. Their police, and the special police of the city too, were the Praefecture. In addition to schooling and training the young of the city's officials and recruits for its soldiery, they enforced the laws which were specially decreed and kept rebellious plots down. Unlicensed murder was a capital oflense. This would be the crime they would accuse Gord of, and when they brought that before the Tribunal, there would certainly be some accusations about his various activities as a burglar and gambler, and his having engaged in nonguild thievery. The Praefectors, as these enforcers were called, didn't accept bribes. They were tough and capable. This was a terrible situation indeed for the young thief.
The silver-chained official came from his inspection of Basil's corpse. Gord thought it time to play his only card. "I am innocent, and Basil can clear me. Have him resurrected."
"Inspector Hone thinks otherwise," the magistrate replied, dryly. He motioned the regulars away, drawing Gord to a corner before continuing. "This place has been gone through thoroughly. Why did you linger here so long?"
"I have been here minutes. Basil was killed hours ago. I need say no more."
Shrugging, the magistrate ordered his men to escort Gord to the Citadel. As they began to depart, however, the official had second thoughts. "Wait a moment. I will see to this matter personally, for if what you say is true, he is a man of unusual abilities, shall we say. Hone, come with me."
As the trio reached the ground floor, the magistrate halted by the rear door. He smiled for a moment, looked directly at Gord, and then said. "What is your opinion, Hone?"
"The murder of Basil was done by the same person or persons who have been responsible for five unsolved killings in the last seven weeks, sir."
Gord was stunned by this — would he now be accused of multiple murders? — and repeated his earlier suggestion. "If resurrection fails, it is a small matter to have a cleric converse with the corpse. The last impressions before death remain."
"Have you heard of Vatman before?" the magistrate inquired, still smiling blandly at Gord.
"Who hasn't heard of him? That ferret has laid more crimes and plots before the oligarchs than . . . You're Vatman?"
"Magistrate Vatman, now, and about to lose repute and office unless this string of murders is solved. Fortunately, we now have you."
Hone frowned, and Gord was stunned. "Me? This is insane! I demand a clerical reading. In fact, I shall even pay for the spell"
"Tough luck, youngster," the grizzled inspector said solemnly. "Whatever else is done in killing the victims, some dweomer is used as well. Nothing — and I do mean nothing — remains in the body for detection through raising from the dead or speaking with the essential memory that lingers. The bodies have all been as empty as if drained by all the Lords of the Hells together."
"So I am the patsy. I take the fall, and you save your job."
Vatman shrugged. "If we hold you a long time before trial and conviction, there'll be no more killings for some time."
Hone smiled, and Gord looked confused. The inspector clucked at the young thief. Tsk. tsk, my boy! Do you take the magistrate — or me, for that matter — to be fools? The intelligence so fortuitously received that enabled us to catch you at the scene of the crime is far too timely to be coincidence. You might well be guilty of many things for which we could arrest and convict you. Of murdering Basil, though, or the other five, you are as blameless as I."
"Then set me free now!"
"Not so fast, thief," Magistrate Vatman said coldly. "I intend to solve this affair one way or the other. One way is to arrest and convict you, allowing the guilty party or parties to think I actually have been duped, and watch for them to grow careless in the future."
"But I’ll be dead then!"
"What's wrong with having one less thief in Greyhawk?" Hone asked earnestly.
"My assistant is right, of course," Vatman said with his everpresent smile, "but I have a second reason for handling the matter thusly. Don't relax. It falls squarely onto your shoulders. I'm going to allow you to slip away in a moment. You will have exactly three days— "
"Three days!"
"—to find out who set you up for the little game where you finally slew Xestrazy — yes, we know about that. I think whoever was behind that scam had a larger motive than getting rich from your efforts, Gord. Find the one who set you up there, and we'll have the one who has been committing these murders!"
Gord nodded. "Ill find the one, all right. But I'll need more time. Do you really expect me to solve a crime in three days that you have failed to solve in seven weeks?"
The magistrate ignored the insult. "Don't do anything else," said Vatman. "Don't try to leave Greyhawk. Don't get involved in anything else. You have three days, and three days only. After that, we'll arrest you and annihilate you after trial. This is no threat."
"This is as crazy as the murder charge," Gord shot back. "I'm no policeman. What can I do?"
Vatman had stopped smiling. "You had better do something. By way of encouragement, allow me to point out that you were evidently doing enough to follow the trail of the perpetrator as far as this place—"
"I wasn't following any trail. I intended to try to get information out of Basil because he was involved— "
"Even if you were later than the killer thought you'd be. Just between us, Hone here has watched the back for an hour prior to your arrival. The tip came too soon."
"Yes," said the inspector. "His Worship knows you're not guilty, as do I. But you have only a short time to prove it to the world, or you must be sacrificed in the name of justice."
That last ironic statement by Hone, the inspector of the Praefecture, still lingered in his brain as Gord prowled through the midnight alleys of the Garden Quarter. He was not followed now. He had been this afternoon, though, picked up from one of the places he kept as a safe hide-away. Prior to recent events, Gord would have wagered all he possessed that none but he knew about these hidey-holes, which Gord continued to change on a regular basis. Now he had less confidence but felt wiser.
Upon investigation of the matter, Gord discovered that the young man whom Basil kept as a lover was gone from the apartment the fence had provided him. Many of his personal belongings were still there, but Gord thought that the fellow, named Kesterin, had either managed to flee or had been kidnapped. It was hard to tell what might have happened, for the young thief found marks of entry indicating someone else had been to the apartment for the same reason Gord had come. Whoever it was, Gord estimated that he was about two hours behind in the chase.
"If I were this fellow, where would I go?" he said to himself as he neared the Processional. Traffic was only moderate, and nobody seemed to notice as he slipped into the stream of men and animals. "Would I attempt to leave the city? Not at dusk with
a killer after me. Then I would hide . . . but where?" Kesterin was a comely and well-bred person, one used to easy living. Old City and most of the rest of Greyhawk would be unappealing and downright dangerous for one such as he. The Strip had its share of homosexuals, but the killer would expect Kesterin to go there, and he would probably know that. Where then?
Unless the fellow had some special friend in the High Quarter, there was only one place Kesterin could hide and realistically expect to remain undiscovered. Gord snapped his fingers and strode across the broad main thoroughfare of Greyhawk, slipping into the darkness of the trade area which paralleled the Processional to Green Commons and the Newmarket, taking great care that no one followed him as he moved purposefully to the south end of the city. Basil's frightened lover would have hidden in only one place — The University District, where there were many males his age. Effete manners and dress were as common as whores in the River Quarter, and Kesterin would blend in amongst the students and hangers-on there.
The University District was large by itself, and students lodged in an area that extended from the Craftsmen's Ward on the east all the way to The Halls northward and within the belt of trade that followed the lower Processional from the River Quarter to the Citadel. The greatest concentration of colleges and students, however, was along the wall of Greyhawk itself, the very southernmost part of the University sector. Many eating houses and taverns catered to the student trade in this area. It was to this part of the district that Gord went. Although it had been years since he dwelled here, the young thief still had many contacts. He had to take one chance, for it wouldn't do for anyone to recognize him as Gord as he walked the streets of the district. It was too big a risk to go to the little flat he had nearby, but his old friend Calzo the Trader was probably safe to visit.
Dressed in gaudier fashion now, a floppy cap of purple and olive-green velvet hiding his hair and shading his eyes, Gord left the darkened shop of Calzo to begin his search in earnest. He hated to do it, but he had left his shortsword behind in his friend's safekeeping. Even his dagger was hidden at his back, kept from view by the pleated cape which was in fashion now with students. At his Waist in plain view was an ordinary blade also typical of those affected by the young men who attended the colleges here.
