City of Hawks

Chapter 8

“You saw him?”

“I think so. He fits your description pretty well. Who can tell for sure? All those little guttersnipes look pretty much alike.”

“He’s been sent to the Old Citadel?”

“For three years-imprisoned and working off a theft.”

“Will he survive it?”

“Not very likely. The boy’s too small and weak to manage there for more than a few months. Between the labor, the abuse, and the food, I’d say that the coming of winter solstice should see him dead.”

“That can’t happen.”

The nondescript man scratched his leathery cheek. “I never did understand this whole business anyway, Markham. If one little urchin is important, why in the hells didn’t we pull him out of the slums long ago?”

Markham was a fat trader who made his living buying and selling goods brought into Greyhawk from foreign parts. He didn’t really care about politics or meddling in affairs of states and governments. Matters of tariffs and taxation interested him, as did profits and costs.

Still, the obese trader had some other concerns. He was an agent for an association that covered the whole of Oerik, from the Flanaess to the distant West. Markham was a small cog in a complex organization that sought to keep the balance between Evil and Good while promoting the status of the neutral group that viewed all as a necessary part of existence. If the trader was a small cog, then the shabby-appearing Tapper, to whom he spoke, was a mere tooth on the gear.

“Who can say. Tapper? I don’t make the decisions, I just carry out the directions given to me. Now I’ll give you yours.”

It paid to listen and follow instructions. Markham got cash from someplace and passed it on to Tapper and others. Tapper was one who believed in balance, of course, but he believed in seeing to himself first, too. The coins were worthwhile, and the strength of the group was persuasive too. Although the group didn’t flaunt its power, incurring the enmity of the shadowy organization would mean trouble indeed. Tapper knew that his life wouldn’t be worth a drab if he crossed Markham. Still, after hearing just the beginning of his instructions, he couldn’t help being frank about his reservations.

“No matter what, I can’t manage to get the little bugger out of the workhouse-not without arousing a whole lot of suspicion!”

“Relax,” Markham said. “Neither you nor I will be required to do anything stupid or dangerous. You just have your friend at the prison keep an eye on the kid… Gord, is that his name? Be sure that he isn’t worse off than any of the rest of the lot there. Sooner or later an opportunity to get him out of there might come; then your associate is to see to it that the boy gets it.”

“Gord’s the name all right, Markham,” the nondescript man said. “Sharp Clyde is my contact there. The warden doesn’t realize he’s a member of the Thieves’ Guild, and the guild doesn’t know he’s an agent of the Balance.”

The fat trader knew everyone who Worked for Tapper, whether or not they were dedicated members of the organization or knew not a whit about the Balance and merely performed small services for the money paid to them. Markham was careful and thorough, and kept tabs on everything. That’s why there was a lot more to the fat man than met the eye. “Right, then-look up Sharp Clyde now, and give him the word.”

“That alone isn’t going to guarantee that the boy survives.”

“I know that,” Markham said with a sigh. “My instructions are to give the lad whatever help can be given without revealing it is being given.” Whatever those who run things were thinking, Markham didn’t know, but his own orders could be interpreted, on the surface, in only one way: The organization’s interest in the boy was not to be exposed, even if refraining from this meant that he might not survive. When Markham tried to reason one step deeper, he ran into speculation and uncertainty. It seemed that whatever value was placed on the orphan, it was only marginal, and not worth risking the organization in any way. Or possibly, the reason that no attention must be focused on the boy could be that his value to the organization was actually much greater than Markham could perceive. That made for a whole different set of probabilities…

“Just a moment. Tapper, I want to read something again.” Markham pulled out a small sheet of thin paper, unfolded it, and read the tiny markings on its surface again, very carefully this time:

“The loop of fate may pin some small part of our web squarely on this urchin’s dirty collar. Then again, he might stem from those who seek to disturb the scale, tip it a bit one way or another. Watch for him, assist without being evident, but do not actively interfere. His value is uncertain, and better to lose him than imperil us in any way.” Markham decided to share his information with Tapper. “Here, take a look at this and see if you notice anything.”

Tapper took the letter and peered intently at it for a long time. His lips moved as he went over the passage a second time.

“…loop… pin… web, that’s it!” Tapper looked at the fat trader with a grin of pride. “The parts of a key are named in the first two sentences, Markham! See? Loop, stem, collar, pin, web-that’s even named twice, ’cause bit is another name for the web part of a key. Hells, I make enough of ’em myself!”

“Very perceptive, Tapper, very perceptive indeed!” Markham looked at the semi-retired thief with new respect. Tapper was still a member of the Thieves’ Guild-one big reason why he was so valuable an operative. The guild allowed him to be semi-retired because he operated a locksmith shop. Only the few who ruled the guild knew that Tapper was a still-active part of the organization. In fact, most thieves had no idea that the man had ever been a fellow of theirs. “I’ll take that piece of paper back now,” said Markham with a smile, “and here’s a lucky for your work.”

The coin spun through the air, and Tapper plucked it from space with an easy move of his hand. “Thanks, Markham,” the thief replied as he handed over the paper, regaining his composure but finding it hard to suppress his pride and excitement. “I’ll inform Clyde to keep an eye on the kid.” Tapper had a clear idea that Markham’s masters were in fact taking special notice of the urchin boy Gord, notice beyond what either of them had perceived before Tapper discovered the hidden message.

“Do more than that, Tapper,” said Markham with new vigor in his voice. “Tell Clyde that there’s a lucky in it for him, too, if he gets the boy out of the workhouse without attracting attention. Wait a minute,” the fat trader added as Tapper started to leave. “Perhaps I should speak to Clyde myself. You two meet me at the Four Pots tonight.”

“About nine,” Tapper said as he left. He knew the little tavern well, and knew that Sharp Clyde would have no objections to going there either, for it was out of the way and safe for meetings of this nature, since thieves seldom went to it.

When the nondescript Tapper had gone, Markham took the note and burned it, then broke up the ash into powder.

Finding the parts of a key in the message told Markham all he needed to know. No matter what the note seemed to say, the boy was very, very important to the Balance. Of course, this fact could not be conveyed directly in writing, in case the paper intended for Markham found its way into the wrong hands. But it was now obvious that, for some reason, the skinny little urchin from Old City’s slums was thought to be so vital that no hint of his importance must be revealed even if the boy’s life was at risk.

Markham knew that his duty was to do everything possible, short of revealing the organization’s interest in him, to get Gord out of the workhouse and located elsewhere, preferably in a place where he could be overseen and would not be so vulnerable to other sorts of outside influences and threats. No, that last was too much of an assumption… Markham decided that before the meeting tonight, he would seek more detailed instructions as to just what he should do in this matter. Cursing himself for not having deciphered the message without Tapper’s help, the fat trader hurried out to atone for his stupidity.

“I’ve made a small fortune this day, barkeep! Ale or wine for all of these good patrons gathered round the bar, and for yourself too!”

The stolid proprietor of the Four Pots nodded and touched his forelock in thanks and respect. “Thanks, Trader Markham. Right happy to hear you’ve done well… as are the fine souls here who will be glad to drink to your health and prosperity-right, lads?”

“Aye!” came a chorus from the seven or eight others in the immediate area. “To your health and fortune, trader!” they added, quaffing the drinks that the tavernkeeper hastened to deliver to them.

Markham beamed, swigged a good portion of his dark beer, and casually looked around the place. He noticed two men sitting at a back table idly playing a game of plaques. The fat trader ambled over to the pair and watched the play for a minute. “May I join the game?” he asked amiably.

“Why not, friend?” one of the men said, barely glancing up from his study of the tableau on the stained wood. “We can use some fresh coin.”

“Barman! A round for me and these two here. They’ll soon be making me richer still, and I’ll want them happily oiled before that.”

Nobody in the place paid any attention to the three gamers thereafter. Markham was well known as a drab-pincher. Although his largess tonight must mean he had indeed managed to cheat some unfortunate customer out of much silver, he’d never spend that much on drink nor lose it in a game of chance. The plaques game would involve nothing more than brass and bronze coins, perhaps a copper in a big pot. Watching such a contest was about as exciting as viewing the wet rings on the table as they were slowly absorbed by the wood and dried away by the air. For all the other patrons were concerned, Mark-ham and the other two didn’t exist after the first flurry of excitement.

“Two zees on that one!” The fat trader said this loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Then, under his breath, he added, “The lad has promise if we can train him. Can you manage to get him out?”

“And another!” Clyde cried out in the same loud tone as he tossed three bronze coins onto the table in answer to Markham’s bet. “In time, I am sure of it,” he said softly.

Quietly, Markham said, “Do so, and you’ve earned a lucky.” Then, loudly, looking at Tapper, “And what about you, friend?”

“I’ll match the three zees, never fear!” Tapper replied, then whispered, “What’s the boy to be trained as, a thief?”

“Can’t be done,” Clyde said in a hushed voice. “He has to be sponsored, and that’d attract attention.” He revealed his plaques then, and the three talked loudly about it, for he had won the hand. Between plays, however, the undertone of conversation progressed. Clyde was to get the boy apprenticed to the Beggars’ Union. That was the best prospect any of them could come up with.

“Enough!” Markham rose with a sour look “You two have managed to reduce my profits to nothing in the space of an hour. I’m for home and bed, a poorer and sadder man.”

“Bah,” Tapper said, looking at the coins in front of him. “You lost but a copper or two in total.”

“I’m an honest trader, not some rich noble. Besides, I swear I’m down twice that sum,” the fat man said as he stumped from the tavern. Several of the customers laughed at his display, but Markham didn’t mind. All had occurred as he’d hoped. Tapper and Clyde thought that they had determined the course of apprentice beggar for the boy. All the while, however, Markham had steered them to it-as instructed by the man he took orders from, the learned sage…

…No. He mustn’t even think of that name. In any event, it was out of his hands now. Sharp Clyde would manage things from here on. If he succeeded, then another would take over. Who that was, even Markham didn’t know. It was enough that his part had gone smoothly and as planned.

Tapper and Clyde spent a little more time and money at the Four Pots so as not to arouse suspicion. The place was frequented mostly by laborers and the common workers from the brewery nearby, but there was no harm in avoiding unnecessary risks. One could never be certain who was a spy, an informant, or the like.

“I cursed my assignment to the workhouse,” Clyde said quietly to Tapper. “Now it seems lucky indeed that I pissed off the captain and got the Old Citadel assignment as punishment.”

“Not much there in the way of income for a thief, though,” Tapper observed.

Clyde grinned. “I thought so at first, but there are plenty of coins to be picked up-bribes for adjusting the work schedule, bribes from the better-off inmates for special treatment, and good money for selling off prisoners.”

“Selling prisoners?”

“Sure. Change identities with some corpse due for discharge soon, or a falsified death sometimes. Then the former prisoner can be sold into indenture. Of course,” Clyde added thoughtfully, “it’s more profitable to have a long-termer buy freedom that way, but not many with that much money need to use such means to escape.”

The nondescript locksmith looked at his associate with new admiration. “So you’ll sell the kid as an indentured servant, take Markham’s coin too, and be paid as a guard in the bargain!”

“None of which will make me a wealthy man. Tapper,” the thief said as he nodded agreement. “I still need to get out and about in order to make ends meet.” He referred to his trade, naturally.

Tapper, older and less interested in carousing, managed quite well on his fees for services from the Balance to augment the income from his trade and kickbacks from thieves. He understood what Clyde remarked on, though. High living In Old City cost plenty. If it was done in New Town, it was even more expensive. “It’s hard to keep a full purse,” Tapper agreed.

“True, friend, in more ways than one… when I’m about,” Clyde said with a wink.

Laughing together, the two then departed the tavern. Tapper headed toward the secret thieves’ portal that would enable him to return to his place in the Foreign Quarter, and Clyde turned north to go back to the prison where he was barracked.

Next morning Clyde made a point of finding out where the boy was. Gord was the kid’s name, and he was a skinny, weak-looking little urchin. His group was a mixed lot of weaklings, children, and the aged. They were quartered together In a common cell and taken out six days of the week to work off their crimes against the city and its honest citizens. Their assignments were fairly light ones, considering they were being punished. Toil was the lot of the poor anyway, and what the gang of criminals had to do each day was no more strenuous than what many free persons had to manage. Of course, they did get the dirtiest and most dangerous work, but that could be expected as well.

Clyde found out that Gord had been on the workhouse roll for only five days. “They certainly are keeping close tabs on this one, and acting fast,” he murmured to himself, thinking that he had good cause to ask for more than a hundred zees for getting the lad out. He’d demand two luckies for the accomplishment, twice the sum promised, and expected he’d get it, too.

It was just after sunup, so Clyde headed for the prisoners’ section of the massive old fortress. He wanted to get another first-hand look at the boy as he was marched off to work. Tomorrow was a day of rest for the prisoners, an opportunity for Clyde to pull the lad out of the cell and get him away. No really careful body count was kept, so it would be easy to forge a document saying that the child prisoner known as Gord of the Slum Quarter of Old City had died accidentally while serving his term of imprisonment.

Clyde was in for a surprise.

He arrived in time to see that the lad had taken things into his own hands, so to speak, by using what meager means he could devise to make himself appear stricken with some sort of contagious plague. The trick was one that any good thief or accomplished beggar would see through immediately, just as Clyde did. However, the stupid clods who were the regular guards at the prison were completely fooled.

“Now that’s very clever and considerate,” Clyde thought to himself. “He’s saved me a lot of work and taken away the risk, too!”

Clyde got the “body” out, and the records of the workhouse showed Gord dead of disease, type unknown. In reality the boy was indentured, just as his secret benefactor, Markham, had instructed. The fat trader was glad when he heard the news from Clyde (although he already knew the truth from his other sources), but not quite so elated when he heard what followed.

“You expect twice the pay I promised?” Markham asked with a tinge of angry incredulity in his voice, repeating the request so as to give his irritation a chance to die down.

Clyde smiled serenely. “Yes, Markham, I do expect just that.”

The fat trader paid, grumbling loudly, but was actually very satisfied inside. It was a cheap price to pay for the lad’s safety. Safety? Well, more like a better chance of survival. Markham knew well the master of beggars in Greyhawk, and the fat trader also was aware of the clandestine thieving activities of the group. One of the trusted masters of the place was also one of Markham’s agents.

Theobald’s ascension from leadership of the Beggars’ Guild to the head position of the recently formed Beggars’ Union made the already egotistical man full of hubris. Obscenely fat, lazy, and a dangerous psychotic, the Beggarmaster was not one to trust or cross. Now the guild of beggars had allied itself with peddlers, tinkers, actors, and similar riffraff to form the Beggars’ Union, and Theobald sat haughtily atop the entire organization.

It was an odd association, but one that actually worked. The beggars brought goods they found, expropriated, or were given and dispensed them to peddlers for sale, or to tinkers to repair and then sell. They also traded with these groups for goods. Actors, the lowest of society save the beggars themselves, were paid to assist the latter in their performances on the streets, and when out of work the actors could then likewise earn a living with a bowl. Certain street gangs were also brought into the association, as were wandering folk and traveling entertainers.

Theobald had forged the union In order to increase his own power, of course. It combined all of the elements that the Thieves’ Guild disdained. The gross master of beggars hated the thieves, for they had both respect and wealth. Theobald was bent on gaining both as well, and at the expense of the more prestigious guild of thieves.

Chinkers was as skillful a beggar as any in Grey-hawk. In the process of perfecting his art, Chinkers had learned petty thievery and the craft of convincing others to become part of a scheme that resulted in their being fleeced. Certain thieves would employ him as an assistant, a cloyer to enable them to pick pockets or cut purses more easily. These fellows taught Chinkers more skills. Soon the beggar could sham merchandise, switching real for fake or actually making the shoddy seem otherwise. He could counterfeit coins, forge, and cheat at games such as dice and plaques. Why, thereafter, he still chose to practice begging as well, even Chinkers couldn’t say, but he did.

Then Theobald decided to displace the thieves of the city with his own beggars, found willing teachers, and began to arrange instruction for his most trusted minions. Chinkers was one of those trusted souls, and in a short time there were a half-dozen trained beggars able to perform as well as any cutpurse or robber belonging to the Thieves’ Guild, with Chinkers better than the rest.

One day soon thereafter, the three outlaw thieves who had agreed to take the treasured gold orbs of the Beggarmaster in return for teaching his lieutenants the craft of thievery were invited to a banquet in Theobald’s own quarters.

“Chinkers, Furgo, Jenk!” It was the squeaky voice of Theobald summoning them to him next morning. They hurried to him at once. “Our dear friends are no longer with us,” the gross beggarmaster told them blandly.

“You mean they ran off?”

“Of course not, Jenk. Don’t be a bigger dolt than you are! We all supped together last evening. I think some vile assassin must have made an attempt on my life.”

“No!” The three lieutenants chorused disbelief at that.

“But yes,” Theobald retorted without force, his fat face still emotionless, jowls hanging placidly. “Fortunately, I had no taste for the wild mushrooms grown in our own cellar by Bellytimber Jane, so I passed the dish. The three instructors loved them-devoured the lot. When you have finished disposing of them-the old cistern will do nicely, I think-bring the cook to me.”

“Jane wouldn’t try to poison you, Theo-”

The greasy visage of the Beggarmaster instantly grew livid. “Never contradict me!” he screamed at Furgo, making the one-eyed man flinch. “Now get on with it, and make certain nobody knows about it, either. If anyone dares to inquire, you say the three simply moved on to some new city where the pickings were thought to be easier.”

Chinkers and Jenk managed to dispose of the stiff corpses of the dead thieves, and Furgo went off and brought Bellytimber Jane to her audience with Theobald. Chinkers made a point of eavesdropping from a place in the cellar where he could hear what went on above.

“Furgo seemed very nervous, Theo,” he heard the voice of the cook say clearly.

There was a high-pitched titter from Theobald. “Three stiff bodies are sufficient to make most men a trifle edgy.”

“I made the whole batch just as you ordered,”

Jane said slowly, “and those three will never be able to tell now. Are you pleased?”

“Of course, Jane, my dear cook and assassin. It turned out just as I had planned. But…”

“But?” Bellytimber Jane’s voice sounded strained. “What else am I to do?”

“Come here, my dear, and I shall whisper it in your ear.” Chinkers envisioned the woman approaching Theobald. She was youngish and rather plain, but she fancied herself a favorite of the beggarmaster. Suddenly a shriek sounded, but it was cut off almost immediately. He could hear a hammering sound accompanied by the high-pitched giggle of Theobald. After a minute or two all of the noise stopped, and then there was a thud.

The beggar made haste to leave the cellar then, for Chinkers had no wish to be discovered spying on Theobald-especially not now!

What happened to Jane’s body he could not guess. Theobald had taken care of that himself. Chinkers never said a word about it to anyone in the place, and the beggarmaster never spoke of the cook again except to say, “Find me a new chef, Furgo. Our old one is no longer with us.” Furgo asked no questions, either. Next day Bald Jim was made official cook. Soon his nickname was changed to Batcrap in honor of his cuisine, but despite the man’s seeming ineptness at preparing meals for the inmates of the place, Theobald seemed satisfied with the decision. Chinkers, and others, supposed that this was because the beggarmaster ate different fare from what they were forced to settle for.

Because Chinkers believed strongly in certain things, the beggar-thief served as an agent for the Balance. Everything that went on in the Beggars’ Guild, and the Beggars’ Union thereafter, was noted and duly reported to Markham. When the hews of the boy arriving as an apprentice was transmitted to him, Chinkers was pleased that he had been selected the safest bet for the child’s survival.

“I won’t actually work with him myself,” he assured the trader. “I’ll see to it that those who do are the best, though, and that young Gord is treated fairly. That’ll be hard, with that monstrous bastard to contend with, but I’ll manage.”

Markham was confident he would, and Chinkers did.