Night Arrant

Cat or Pigeon?

In the south central part of Greyhawk, at a point where the Halls District abuts the area called Clerksburg, there can be found a number of theaters and halls where plays and musical performances are staged on a regular basis. Surrounding these centers of culture are houses providing food, inns of good quality, saloons, and taverns where one can eat, drink, socialize and be further entertained before and after the staged performances.

In an out-of-the-way area where the maze of lanes, side streets, and alleys take the bon vivant away from the busy thoroughfare, there are cellars and cabarets where performers, artists, intellectuals, and other sorts of nonconformists gather. Many students can be found in such places, for the colleges are but a little way from this sector. Batwing Lane is one of these byways, and in a small cul-de-sac, just off the narrow passage between the tall buildings that loom over the lane like canyon walls, is a flight of steps, eight to be exact leading to a tunnel.

An oddly shaped wheel with varying scenes depicted around it hangs above a door in semi-darkness at the bottom of the stairs. Those ascending these steps after having been exposed to bright daylight must have sharp eyes to be able to discern the markings on this strange advertisement. An unusually keen observer, after having viewed it several times, would note that the sign's octagonal sides are periodically rotated in a clockwise fashion. The tunnel beyond the display leads to a cellar bistro named The Turning Wheel. It is at this location that one of Greyhawk's most infamous citizens unwittingly begins an adventure that will find him, before its completion, the principal participant in a dangerous mission on behalf of the city he loves above all others.

A pair of ruffians lurking along Batwing Lane heard steps approaching slowly and moved to positions where they could best take joint advantage of their approaching target. Only the drunk or foolhardy were abroad alone in such places at this hour, which was nearing midnight The unwary passerby should be an easy mark.

One thug went into the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the lane; the other took station in a recess just a little farther down the lane on the opposite side. A smallish man appeared around the curved way, walking slowly and humming a mournful tune. Faint glittering indicated he wore some valuable jewelry. Best of all, he was unaccompanied by friend or guard.

"Ho, stranger," the ruffian farthest down Batwing Lane called softly as he stepped from concealment. The lone man stopped still and peered at the big shape before him.

A soft sound, inaudible to any but the keenest ear, came from behind the wayfarer. The second bandit crept to a position behind his intended victim and raised his cudgel. The heavy oaken billet hissed through the air, but it failed to strike the victim's skull with the good, solid impact its wielder anticipated so fondly. Instead it continued through emptiness until it impacted with the only solid mass in its path — the thug's own shin! He howled, dropped the weapon, and grabbed his injured leg.

His startled partner was left to deal with the supposed victim who had somehow managed to appear directly in front of the big mugger. One moment he was a handful of paces distant, and the next instant this dark-clad stranger, sword in hand, was before the bandit who intended to waylay him. The ruffian tried to stab with a knife, but the lone man's move was far too quick. The blade went spinning out into the darkness, and the criminal yowled in pain from the cut he'd taken in the bargain. In a flash he was off into the night as quickly as his legs could carry him.

"Now for you," the lone night stalker said quietly, turning with his sword at the ready. But the thug who had wielded the club was already hobbling away. The lone man shrugged, not smiling at even so ludicrous a sight as the limping fellow presented as he disappeared. Sheathing the sword blade, the wayfarer entered the cul-de-sac, and in the dim glow of a lantern overhead, went down the steps and into the entrance to The Turning Wheel.

The strains of a quartet playing lively music were evident even before he entered the place.

"Darksgreeting, sir. Do you wish …" a woman with a fixed smile routinely began her usual spiel. Then, recognizing her latest customer, she brightened considerably. "Ah, Gord, come again, have you? It's wonderful to see you after such a long interlude! Shall I bring the usual to your table?"

"Yes, that is fine, Tess," the young thief answered unenthusiastically, and the woman went to fetch his drink. Gord moved through the crowd to a small, empty table in a dim comer of the high-vaulted cellar.

Gord sat watching the performance while sipping the mulled wine fortified by fiery spirits. There were three instruments accompanying a troubadour who played a lute and sang sad ballads. The musicians playing the virginal, the dulcimer, and the trilling shalm were familiar, but Gord couldn't recall their names. The troubadour, however, was well-known to the young adventurer. The entertainer noticed Gord at the same time that Gord noticed him. He nodded and grinned in Gord's direction and lost no time in getting to his friend's table when he finished the song and the applause died.

"A pleasure to see you, Gord, old friend! May I join you?" the musician asked, obviously delighted to see his longtime friend.

"Be at ease, Hop," Gord said without enthusiasm. "Allow me to supply you with potable in way of appreciation of the entertainment you so capably provided just now. Your music is of the sort I am drawn to these days."

"Not so fast, my friend," Hop countered. "As an entertainer here, I am supplied by the house with whatever I want to drink. You shall have another of those concoctions you drink on me instead."

Before Gord could say anything to that, the troubadour had signaled one of the barmaids, and two bumpers were immediately placed before them. Gord looked at the singer without any change in expression. "I am surprised to find you here, Hop. The last I heard, you had vowed to rusticate in Gawkes Mere forever."

"The life of a tavernkeeper has its charms, but the lure of the city draws me back once again to learn the latest gossip and play with other minstrels for a while. I'll tire of it soon enough and return to Gawkes Mere, have no fear. But enough of that. How fare you? It is said you are as gloomy and silent as you were once ribald and social. And I can see with my own eyes that this is true. Why so morose, Gord?"

"A passing spate of ill humors, perhaps," the young man said vaguely in reply, lifting his beaker to drink so that he wouldn't have to provide further explanation.

Hop nodded and said, "Rhumsung Lampba P. once told me that the overzel-"

Coughing from having swallowed hastily, Gord managed to interrupt, "No discussions of philosophies or arcane life-knowledge this night, please! Better anything — even your lecherous tales — than that!"

Hop, whose given name was Runewort, son of Kay of Ashdown, was in addition to ostler and troubadour a highly skilled mountebank. When he spoke of gossip, Hop knew of what was told from the noblest of salons to the lowest of dens in Greyhawk and elsewhere as well, for his customers were of many diverse lifestyles. He knew the cause of Gord's melancholy and, having failed at his attempt to broach the subject by philosophizing, decided to come straight to the point. "I too have suffered love lost, my friend. A place such as this is good medicine for the imbalance of humors you suffer of late, but the cure requires the cooperation of the afflicted as well."

"Meaning what?" Gord asked impatiently. "If you wish to be dolorous, then no amount of drink and lively company will lift the pall, old friend."

"Talk, smile, laugh — allow yourself to heal! Come, let's find a pair or so of likely wenches and see if that doesn't lift your downtrodden spirits. Tomorrow I ride west — come with met I’m sure we can fill a few weeks with the kind of activity guaranteed to make any man forget his troubles — no matter who or what they may be."

"I have no desire for such frolicking," Gord said, adding a slight scowl for punctuation.

Hop launched into a long-winded lecture on life and the ways to deal with its problems, but Gord had no intention of letting his words take effect. "As a savant, Hop, you are a superb mountebank. Save this patter for marks and those who wish-to be entertained."

The bearded, crop-headed fellow was undaunted by the rebuff. "I am ever the rebel, Gord, as you well know. If society or a star-crossed friend were able to put me off, what would I be?"

"Less noticeable and silent!" Gord volunteered with a slight grin that quickly vanished, to be replaced by a frown once again.

"Touche!" said Hop, with a rueful smile, and feigning a deep wound he continued. "Now I see that you can relieve your hurt only by skewering those who care about you on the sharp point of your wit."

"Point of my head, more likely. Why not leave off, Hop? I know you mean well, but I just wish to be alone."

"Gord, this is not merely a matter of idle chatter and uplifting the spirits of an old associate. Considering the adventure — or two — we have shared together, you are one of my closest friends in life. I need you to get back your zest for life, or I shall have to end up doing all your drinking, lusting and other miscellaneous adventuring for you! Even I can't handle that much fun!" With that the mountebank winked at the young thief and quaffed the rest of his ale in a single gulp. Gord drank, too, and the slamming tankards brought the serving wench hurrying to the table with refills. Hop belched and patted his muscular stomach, where a slight paunch could be seen. "I really should spend some time exercising," he said.

"No fear." Gord teased "You'll guzzle down a gallon of ale a day for the rest of a long life and never grow fat — you work it off nightly bawdstrotting each willing wench you meet."

Hop laughed appreciatively and then grew serious. "It is good to see you more the Gord of old. I’ve heard what is said of the dancer, Ageelia. I heard of the vast treasure. The tale of her betrayal is oft told. You are more than a bit of a folk hero these days, Gord. I am sorry that the fame is such. ." Hop trailed off with a sympathetic look at his unfortunate friend.

When Gord heard Hop's mention of Ageelia, the lovely dancer who had been pulled to her death in the Gray Run by the gold and platinum she and her lover had stolen from him, his heart grew leaden and his face became granite again. "You are sorry? So am I," he said flatly, turning to look elsewhere in dismissal of the other man.

"Why not find another girl to love and forget what happened?" asked Hop with a not-to-be-put-off urgency.

"I cannot." Gord replied heatedly.

"You mean you won't. I know you. Your pride won't let you!"

"As you will," Gord said emotionlessly now, his face averted.

"This mourning is useless!"

"Something else is bothering me," Gord said, now looking squarely into the mountebank's eyes. "Eventually, I'll figure out just what it is that troubles me so. It is more than the loss of one who did not love me. When I find the answer to this disquietude, perhaps then I'll do something besides mourn — as you put it."

"So!" Hop said slowly, with a nod of his head. He eyed the cat-quick young man, seeing determination written on the tanned face and within his deep gray eyes. His scrutiny also took in the slender but powerful body that moved so easily and surely, and the hands so agile as to be able to deal cards from mid-deck, unseen, yet hardened for deadly weapon play. Gord noticed the assessment but said nothing. Hop finally sighed in resignation, determined to speak again. "I feared you would be thus. Gord. There are whisperings in certain places."

Without a sign of interest, Gord echoed, "Whisperings?" He barely accented it so as to form a question, but did not really care.

"Yes, whisperings. Hushed talk among those who frequent the hangouts of the guild," Hop went on in a conspiratorial tone.

"What? What are you mumbling about?" Gord asked with a trace of annoyance.

Not wishing to mention the girl, the mountebank-turned-ostler paused a second, then said softly, "The affair with Xestrazy. The sum of money involved. Your part Who knows?"

"A thousand and more orbs is bound to make anyone buzz — from the lowest dive to the grandest court."

"Perhaps. . yes. But before you had even, ah … acquired. . the sum for the supposed purpose you obtained it?" Hop asked with a voice filled with implication.

"The hells you say if you're trying to tell me something, come out with it man!"

The near-shout caused several of the bistro's nearby customers to turn and see what was going on. Hop ran his fingers through the stubble of hair he so prided himself on. His hair style was formerly a sign of nonconformity, but it was now unremarkable except for the fact that only villains and certain unusual folk from far-off territories affected the style. Gord recognized his friend's gesture as one of nervousness and reiterated, in a quieter tone of voice but a no less determined tone, "What is this all about?"

"Rumor and gossip are unreliable." Hop said in a negligent tone of voice and with a wave of dismissal.

"Dragondung!" Gord spat in a low, steely voice. Tell me the whole of what you’ve learned, or by all the-"

"Now take it easy! And can the threats — I am not impressed." Hop added with a mixture of confidence and anger. "As I have told you, I only heard hints and allusions. In all likelihood, none of it has any substance."

Gord was pale now, and his eyes burned with fervor. "Hints? Of what were you given hints? No more beating around the bush! Come out with it, Hop!"

"It is time for me to entertain the patrons once again. Gord," the mountebank said. As he rose and slung his battered lute over his shoulder, he looked the perfect troubadour. His words, though, were not of music or poetic lyrics. "If I were in your boots, Gord, I'd look up old friends for information, especially those now high in the Thieves Guild."

The meaning of those words was clear — there was a distinct possibility that the scam pulled by Ageelia and Xestrazy had more players involved than those two scoundrels. Hop had implied that the person Gord must question could be none other than the companion of his childhood, the one-time beggar-boy San. But what would his old friend have to do with a plot against him? He would have to pay San a visit and find out.

Just South of River Street, from the Old Wall to the Processional, trade, commerce, and common dwellings give way to a special element. Hidden behind blank walls and screening buildings are a collection of large, lavish homes with walled gardens and guarded perimeters. This enclave, not so originally named The Enclave, is located directly east of the High Quarter and touches the green commons near the Newmarket Square. It is the place reserved for the most important of the city's underworld society. The foremost thieves of the guild dwell in The Enclave, as do the leading assassins. The community is also the home of prosperous panderers and madams, forgers and counterfeiters, actors, smugglers, and a gang boss or two.

However, the head of the Thieves Guild, as well as the Guildmaster of Assassins for that matter, and all the other oligarchs and officials of Greyhawk, had palatial residences elsewhere, disdaining The Enclave, as did all who haughtily decreed their domiciles to be in the High or even the Garden Quarter. Only the best of places in either quarter could claim more opulence than the walled villas and mansions of The Enclave, but prestige was gauged by the location of the residence first and the state of the residence second. The best of the worst and only oligarchical status could remove the epithet.

Gord was comfortably seated in one of these large and lavishly furnished dwellings located within the confines of the place referred to as The Enclave. The dwelling was many-storied and bartizaned, impressive on the outside and beautiful on the inside. With flowers growing amidst a befountained garden and room after room filled with the best of furnishings, the place must have cost a fortune. The dwelling belonged to San, now a master thief, once a comrade and fellow student of Gord's. Entry had been easy for one of Gord's skill, even with a half-dozen guards and various, locks and boobytraps set for the less talented. A pair of vicious mastiffs now lay sleeping at the young adventurer's feet, bellies filled with meat dusted with the soporific pollen of duskbloom. Gord was at ease in San's own chair, behind that worthy's desk, in his hidden office located in the heart of the big building. Gord waited patiently. San must come home soon, and when he did, he would come here.

The sound of voices below awakened the young man from a light doze. Footfalls sounded on a nearby staircase, and the sound of a door opening was discernible to the sharp-eared Gord. Then he heard San's voice and that of a woman — probably his wife, from what Gord could hear of their conversation. The door closed, but a faint line of light still showed on the wall where the secret door to the chamber was located. Hands behind his head, feet up, Gord waited. The light expanded to become a full rectangle as a tall mirror swung outward on its heavy, hidden-hinged frame.

"Hello, San. Nice place you have here." Gord said dryly.

The startled thief jumped, for he had not seen that there was an unexpected visitor in the secret chamber. He nearly dropped the candlestick he was holding, but managed to recover quickly enough. "This is an unanticipated pleasure. Gord, to say the least." San said without any pleasure apparent in his tone. Then, more heartily, Gord's former comrade from the slums uttered, "It really is good to see you! But what the devils are you doing sneaking into my home like this?" San sounded more puzzled than troubled.

"Don't you know?" Gord allowed the question to trail off as he stared hard at San.

The son-in-law of Guildmaster Arentol was a little younger than Gord. San was probably twenty-three or twenty-four years of age now, but he looked older. Soft living and rich food had thickened him, but he still seemed fit enough. He was larger and heavier than Gord, and if appearances alone were used as a gauge, stronger too. San's face hardened, but he didn't show any sign of hiding some guilty secret.

"Cut the crap. For old time's sake I'll forgive you for breaking into my house and this private room, but you damn well better tell me what this is all about or I'll make a point of forgetting the past. What are you doing here?"

Gord was stone-faced too, and the forcefulness of San's tone didn't move him at all. "I said I thought you knew why I was here, old chum. Remember or forget the bygone days as you like. I want to have a little chat with you about the more recent past, shall we say."

"All right, tough guy." San said, without taking his eyes from Gord. "Let's just do that." He hooked a nearby chair with his leg and pulled it over to where he could sit to the side of the table Gord was behind.

"Cute move," said Gord, with feigned admiration, as he shifted his booted feet so that the soles faced his unwilling host. San had to sit up straight to see the whole of Gord's face, and Gord was smiling without humor. "I think we need to take a few minutes to talk about a recent caper."

"Guild business is none of your affair, friend."

"Let's dispense with party-line stuff, San, and get to the worm at the heart of this apple. Any guild activity that involves me is damn well my business!"

"I don't know any guild activity that involves you, Gord. And I'm about as close to the top as you can get," San said in a sincere tone of voice and then added, "Look, word spreads fast, you know? I realize you've had a hard time of it and you probably just aren't thinking straight right now. How about a drink?" he inquired with a comradely motion toward a bottle and glasses on a small stand next to Gord.

"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.

There were no clues to be had at the Flaming Torch, Ancient King, Jolly Master, or Nymph and Satyr. One barmaid at the Lusty Friar, though, told Gord that she thought she recalled seeing one of Kesterin's general description having been here with a fat young chap about his own age and a hollow-cheeked man she thought was a professor or some such — she was very vague there. A copper richer, she hurried off to serve the thirsty throng of young patrons. Gord left his ale unfinished and went searching again, now fairly certain of his quarry.

The gaunt man the wench described could be no other than Maust the Scholar. If he had, in fact, ever professed any particular subject, Gord didn't know what it was. He did know that Maust operated a seedy place called the inn of the Seven Quills, a few minutes' walk from the tavern. It was a likely place for Kesterin to hole up in until he felt it was safe to leave Greyhawk, and it was equidistant from Southgate and Longgate too. The only problem was in getting into the inn without alerting Kesterin. Maust knew what Gord looked like, for the two had experienced several unfriendly encounters in the past year.

The proprietor wasn't in the common room, so Gord walked boldly into the place. "Give me an ale-gill, my good man," he said with a merry voice and simpering manner to the barkeep, "and do tell Kesterin I have come with what he needed," Gord concluded, patting his purse to indicate the need was money. The purse was heavy, and the sound of the chinkers therein evident.

"Kesterin? I know no Kesterin," the barkeep responded abruptly.

"Maybe he goes by another name these days. You would know him if you saw him. He's very sexy," Gord winked.

"I wouldn't know anything about that!" the barkeep said, his forehead wrinkled in an unmistakable frown.

"Well," Gord leaned closer, "you're not so bad yourself, and I would know about that!" The good-looking young thief removed a lucky from a pocket inside his robe and set it spinning on the bar as he cast an inquiring look in the bartender's direction. "I know you're acquainted with Maust the Scholar and I'll bet you can tell me whether or not he's had any company of late. . " Gord gave the barkeep an admiring glance. He was about done with this game. This was a role he would just as soon never have to play again!

Hie barkeep withdrew the lucky from the counter and said "The person you might be looking for goes by the name Lambert. His chamber is at the back of the inn, on the topmost floor. If you'll pardon me whilst I fetch another to stand my post, I'll tell the man that you've come to see him."

With a flip, Gord sent another electrum piece to the barkeep. "Save yourself the effort, there's a lucky chap!" Giggling in a shrill voice at his own witticism, Gord drawled over his shoulder, "I shall tell him m'self, thanks."

Out of sight, the young adventurer made a wry face and spat. This sort of pose was not to his liking, but it was far better than being executed for a murder he hadn't committed. He'd do what he must in order to get to the bottom of the game that had been run, for his whole life had been affected. The hall was narrow and ill-lighted, but Gord had no difficulty finding his way to the room that apparently hid the dead Basil's boyfriend. Voices were coming from the place, muffled by the door, but not so much so that Gord couldn't identify them. Kesterin, Maust, and the others must all be within.

Not having his sword, Gord decided waiting was the best approach. He pressed his body flat against the recess of the door to the room next to Kesterin's. He expected to have to remain in this uncomfortable position for a while, but he wasn't expecting what happened next. One minute Gord was vertical, his body stiff and rigid by choice, and the next he was toppling into the darkness of the room behind the door.

"Wha-?" he cried out in surprise.

"If you've come to rob me," a soft voice whispered, "the valuables I possess are on the top of the lowboy."

Gord froze. What was this?

There was a sharp intake of breath, the speaker having held it listening for some sound or reply until needing air. Then she spoke again. Take the stuff, but I warn you I am armed, and if you touch me I'll kill you!" the soft voice hissed this time. It managed to sound quite menacing.

"Sssshhh!" Gord closed the door quickly, cutting off the light from the hallway. "I'm here neither to rob nor molest. Be still, and in a few minutes I'll be gone."

"How do I know you speak the truth? You've been sneaking around outside my door, haven't you? I heard you bumping against the planks and, rather than have you break it down I figured I might as well let you in, give you all I have and be rid of you without having to suffer the violence that usually accompanies this sort of nocturnal visit."

Gord was exasperated. He would have only a minute or two after Maust left to question the catamite rogue about Basil and the plot that lost Gord a fortune. The owner would certainly check downstairs, and there the barkeep would mention Gord's coming to see Kesterin — alias Lambert — and the ploy would be known.

"Hush! Use your weapon if I move closer — yell aloud for all I care. I'm staying right here until … I can go out again. No noise meantime." he whispered forcefully.

"I think I'll scream now."

Gods, the woman! "No. no! Please don't make noise!" Gord was nearly frantic now. "Wait. I have an idea. Before you do anything, think about this. I'll leave you a handful of silver nobles if you remain quiet until I'm gone."

"I don't believe that lie for a moment," the soft voice shot back. "Now I'll scream even louder."

"Here! I’ve got a handful of coins now — silver, electrum, and whatever else is there. It's too dark to see, but I’ll put them on the floor." He let them clink as he did so.

"I'll light the lamp to see if you're telling the truth."

Devils must possess this woman. Gord thought. How he regretted the lack of the dweomered blade that allowed him to see in the dark. Without his enchanted sword, he was as helpless as a blind man. Without light he couldn't see. but he didn't want it nowl "Not the lamp!" he hissed back as sharply as he could. "I'm here to hide from another. The light will betray me."

"Nonsense! This is my room, and everyone in the inn must know I'm here. You'll not be at risk from a mere light," she replied.

It did make sense, but Gord remained stubbornly determined. "Don’t touch the lamp!"

"All right, sir smart-ass. I shall not." The whole room was suddenly washed in bright, clear light. "Is this spell to your taste?"

Blinking and owlish, Gord tried to regain his vision, but his eyes were filled with dancing spots. He had been peering almost directly into the area the woman had used to cast the magic that created light.

"Helpless female, my ass! What kind of a game are you playing here?"

The woman ignored the question. "Well, you look a student, but you act the part of a thief, and you're a bit too old … so i'd say you're a thief." the female voice laughed softly. "You're not too ugly a thief, though, so I shall allow you to explain everything to me now — and take back your coins, too. You might need them later."

Slipping down to a sitting position on the floor, Gord leaned back against the door. By now his eyes had adjusted to the light and he was able to see that this was a female of great beauty. "I trust I can speak from here." he whispered. "I must be off at a moment's notice."

"Of that, we shall see," the woman said as she donned a white robe to cover her nightdress. She carefully rearranged her long, blonde tresses and then turned her full attention to Gord. "Tell me the tale you have, and then I will judge whether or not the authorities should be called."

"And if I am a licensed thief?"

"You will be the oddest one I’ve encountered, and perhaps a dead one, too."

"I am no lackey of the guild, madam," Gord said with resignation. The woman was a strongly built, well-proportioned one only a bit older than Gord. From the things she said and did and the items she wore, Gord thought she was either a magic-user or a caster of illusions. However, she could be a cleric, so he decided that truth was the best means of handling this situation. "I am with the authorities of this city. I am charged with the solution of certain crimes and the apprehension of the criminal or criminals involved. In the course of this duty I used your doorway, knowing not that you or any other person was herein, to keep an eye on one of these suspects. I must be ready to leave in an instant, for a person with possible knowledge of the crimes is in the adjoining room. As soon as the company in there with him leaves, I must break in and question him. Is this satisfactory?"

"Absolutely not!"

"But-"

"Oh I believe you, so far as you went," the woman said. She looked rather attractive in her seriousness as she spoke. Gord smiled at her, and she smiledback. "My name is Summer. What are you called?"

As golden-haired and blue-eyed as she was, he thought it a good name. "I am Gord, but all of this is a waste of time."

"No it isn't, Gord. I have to make a decision as to whether or not I am going to help or hinder you. This is part of that decision."

The young thief was growing exasperated. He nearly clenched his teeth as he whispered, "My life is at stake in all this. Why don't you just go back to bed and leave me be? Let me get on with my affairs, and I’ll leave you to yours."

Summer was obviously amused at Gord's seriousness. It wasn't that she didn't believe him, but his inability to handle this unexpected situation was beginning to become funny. Just as she laughed softly and started to speak, a commotion in the hall silenced her.

"On the morrow, my friends," a voice called.

Two other voices responded with farewells, and footsteps sounded as the pair headed for the ground floor. Gord knew it was Maust and the fat fellow. He arose, but Summer pushed him aside and opened the door of her room before the young thief could stop her.

"I'll see about delaying the proprietor and those who may be with him while you question the man you suspect," she whispered hurriedly and then slipped out the door.

Gord couldn't believe his ears, but he didn't hesitate. "Luck!" he whispered to her. Summer turned and smiled, and her lips formed a little kiss as she headed after the departing visitors. Not bothering to watch her leave, the young adventurer turned to the door to Kesterin's chamber. It was locked, but the mechanism was the same as that which was on the other door. After silently manipulating the lock, Gord tried pushing open the portal softly. The occupant must have trusted his ability to hide successfully more than barriers, for no other bar stood between him and Gord. With a feeling of satisfaction, Gord swung the door open and stepped into Kesterin's quarters.

"How dare you-"

The startled expostulation was cut short by the fellow himself as he darted to reach his hanger. The small sword was slung over the bedpost, but he was so fast that he almost succeeded in drawing it before Gord reached him, knocking the grasping hand away and putting dagger point to chest. "I dare much, Kesterin. I am Gord, the man your dead lover Basil helped to cozen and swindle."

"What have I to do with that? Stop threatening me, or allow me to arm myself and I'll gladly oblige you in a contest of honor."

Gord grudgingly accorded the fellow courage in addition to the respect he had already mentally given to Kesterin's quickness. Neither, however, mattered a jot now. "Not a chance. You will speak all you know about the matter of Xestrazy, Ageelia, Basil, and myself now. If you don't, there will be no need for you to flee Greyhawk to avoid the killer who seeks you, for I'll do the job before he can!"

Kesterin grew very pale at that. "You know I am a marked man, then … as are you, Gord," the fellow added. With urgent sincerity, Kesterin said, "Come, Gord the hunted thief, set aside whatever course you follow now and leave the city with me tomorrow. I have means and a sure way to pass undetected. Once well away I will give you half of the money I have, if you wish, and you can go your own way. I care nothing for killers and dead men. I mean to live!"

"Then stop babbling of other things, and tell me all you know of the plot, or I vow I’ll send you on a journey to the other planes here and now."

"You are a fool," Kesterin said with a shrug, "but if you choose to ignore my offer and die, that is your affair. A waste, but what the hell?" The man made a wry face and began telling what he knew.

"Basil was approached by a man calling himself Raynald. Basil didn't tell me much, you know. From what I overheard, though, and from Basil's comments, I think that the Thieves Guild and the Assassins Guild were both bent on defrauding someone — you, I suppose — and there was more to the plan, too. Basil wasn't sure about the latter, but he suspected that the whole hoodwinking operation was only a part of something bigger. He said they needed lots of cash in a hurry."

"Lots of cash," Gord mused. "What would they need lots of cash for?"

"Basil said they needed to buy the services of some very influential people — that much he did pick up from snatches of conversation he overheard," Kesterin offered.

"Anything else?"

"That's truly all I know."

"You never saw anyone other than this Raynald?"

"No. He and Basil were the only ones."

Gord was stymied. Then he demanded, "What did Raynald took like?"

A distant look came into Kesterin's eyes. "I only saw him once, and let me tell you I was jealous! Raynald is as beautiful as a demigod, I'll tell you. His hair is bright yellow, and his body is wonderful! He's taller than I even, and his smile is enough to set your heart pitter-patting. I warned Basil-"

"Were his eyes greenish?" Gord demanded.

"Well. . yes, sort of. I'd call them hazel."

Gord was silent for a moment. Then he asked.

"What were the professor and the other fat man doing in here a while ago? Are they part of this?"

"No — at least I hope not!" Kesterin said.

"Then what was their business here?"

"They're just personal friends — you know, a man cant have too many- "

"Never mind! I'm sorry I asked!" Gord snapped, and then he suddenly remembered something. "His left arm — did Raynald have a curved scar on his left forearm?"

Just then there were shouts and cries from below. The bedlam caused Gord to turn involuntarily to see if someone would come through the door. Kesterin took the opportunity to act. In the moment that Gord's distraction allowed, the fellow grabbed his sword and had it drawn before the young adventurer could prevent it. Backing away from Gord's dagger, sword before him, Kesterin grinned and said, "Enough of this cross-examination now, Gord dearest. You have all I know. I'm going to leave this place now. Will you come with?"

Gord shook his head, grim-faced. "The scar?"

Kesterin slung his cloak over his shoulders one-handed. "Perhaps. … I don't really recall," he replied as he grabbed a pair of saddlebags with his left hand and headed for the shuttered window. "I'm glad you don't want to fight, Gord. It would be a pity to damage your good looks. Perhaps we'll meet again under more friendly conditions. Until then, try to stay alive." As he fumbled the shutters open and went through the opening, he added, "And do blow a kiss to that dirty old Maust from me!" Then Kesterin was gone, laughing, into the night.

It would have been easy for Gord to pursue him, but the young thief didn't bother. He'd learned everything the fellow knew, probably, and Summer might be in desperate straits downstairs. Why he should worry about someone who had given him so much difficulty, a woman he had only met minutes ago, Gord didn't know. She had gone to help him, and she had done something helpful indeed. He had never thought to have time for such extensive questioning of Kesterin. Now he'd repay her.

A short dash brought Gord into the common room. The place was a shambles. Maust and several of his henchmen were threatening Summer with drawn swords. Summer was backed into a corner, a short wand of bone pointed threateningly at the men, so that they were reluctant to attack. The standoff would end as soon as one gathered sufficient courage to rush in. When that happened, the woman would certainty be slain. The rest of the room, meanwhile, was in a wild turmoil. A half-dozen patrons brawled in the wreckage, while an hysterically laughing mercenary watched two of his comrades fending off dogs that winked in and put of existence. The barkeep stood rigidly watching this whole confused scene, as a berobed scholar sat playing with his fingers before the statue-like barman, asking if the immobile fellow would like to see some "tricks." The assessment took but moments, then Gord leaped into action. Literally.

"Ungh!"

The man Gord landed on fell from the force of the heels driven into his shoulders. The fellow was large, but he collapsed, and the fall knocked his breath from him with a whooshing sound. The sword he was trying to swing spun from his grasp, and Gord grabbed the blade in mid-air. In a single, smooth motion, the young adventurer threw himself upward in a back-flip, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, and landed behind the four men threatening Summer. He was just in time, for one was yelling and stepping toward the woman.

There was no time to think, Gord acted instinctively. With a quick toss, he sent the long sword between the fellow's legs, kicked the nearest man in the ankle, and jabbed his dagger into the rump of Maust As one man tripped, another hopped in pain, and Maust howled in indignity at the outrage just perpetrated upon his posterior, Gord shot through the gap his furious activity had just created, grabbed the blonde spell-caster by one arm, and headed pell-mell for the exit.

"Wait! Let me nail them with my wa-"

"Run, blast it! Gord shouted at her. Jerking Summer along despite her protests, Gord managed to get them both out the front door of the inn of the Seven Quills. Dragging her still, Gord and Summer bulled through a gathering throng of students and other folk attracted by the noise. "Come on. hurry!" he urged as he towed her into a dark, narrow passage between two buildings. "I can't see!"

"Neither can I." Gord said, "but it's better than being caught!"

Just then he smacked into a wall, for the passage turned at right angles. Gord rebounded and Summer tried to catch him. Both fell in a heap, the young thief landing atop the woman.

"I’ve dropped my wand," she cried in despair.

"Oh shit! Forget it We have to get out of here." Gord said, struggling to his feet and wiping his forehead where a trickle of blood ran into his eye.

Summer was on her hands and knees, desperately feeling around the dirty pavement for the lost wand. "The hells, you say!" she shot back grimly. "I'm not going anywhere until I find my wand!"

Gord fairly danced, torn between the desire to get as far away as possible and the strong urge to never desert a comrade-in-arms in time of trouble.

"Hurry, dammit!" he nagged as the sound of a mob grew louder. Maust and who knew who else, had probably whipped a group of locals into a frenzy. They'd soon be coming into the gangway in search of the fugitives.

Scrabbling sounds came from nearby. Then the woman cried, "Got it! Stop your silly fretting, Gord, and lead us out of here!"

Seconds later, lanterns and torches illuminated the narrow passage. Somebody shouted that they saw blood, but of the two who were the quarry, there was no sign save that. The group of pursuers stormed around the neighborhood chasing shadows for nearly an hour more before The Watch broke them up, sending bits and clusters of the mob this way and that. Maust was arrested for disorderly conduct after soundly pummeling a member of The Watch who had kicked the scholar in the rear in an attempt to get him moving. Maust, who was already in pain from the wound Gord had inflicted earlier, turned on the unfortunate fellow and pelted him with his fists.. The students threw an impromptu celebration thereafter, but there was no rioting.

"What now, Gord?"

The young adventurer shrugged, still uncertain of Summer. They had retrieved his clothing and sword after successfully escaping the angry mob. It was a simple matter for Gord to lead the woman safety from the University District to the last sure place of refuge he had. They had gone through the maze of underground tunnels, sewers, and ancient forgotten buildings upon which the new cily of Greyhawk stood, to get to Old City. Now they rested in a tiny cellar apartment that Gord had set aside as a hiding place after he first returned to Greyhawk well over a year ago. "Perhaps you should find a place to stay, Summer. There's no reason for you to be involved in this mess any further."

The woman looked hurt. "I’ve already risked my life. I've helped you get information you needed. I'm probably being hunted by Maust and his boys and the killer too. Now you tell me I'm on my own?"

She looked like she was close to tears. Gord stepped close to her and embraced her buxom form. "Hey! That isn't what I meant at all, Summer. I was trying to keep you from further danger, but I suppose I was mistaken. It would be too dangerous out there if you were alone. Stay and we'll work out what's to be done next."

Summer hugged him happily. Thanks, Gord," she said gratefully, and then she kissed him.

Gord assumed the caress would amount to no more than a gesture of alliance, but Summer's lips responded with fervor to his gentle insistence to continue the kiss. For the first time since his brief affair with Ageelia, Gord felt the passion within him beginning to stir. The young rogue rewarded the woman's favorable reaction to his continued probing with a strong embrace and then, gently lowering her to the goatskin couch, he began to run his " hands over the soft curves that were well-defined even beneath two layers of garments.

"Is this the time for-" the woman started to ask. Gord's fingers worked their way down the length of her body and her sentence was cut off by her own sharp intake of breath. After that all bets were off!

Summer returned his exploratory actions with appreciable skill. The couple was sprawled out on the couch. Summer on top, laughing. They teased and wrestled each other, neither in any hurry to consummate the encounter.

After several hours, although the pair on the couch would have guessed mere minutes, their bodies began to thrash about with a frenzy. There was nothing gentle about the way Gord handled the woman now. Soon only murmurings and gasped words were heard.

"I guess we're partners in this now," Summer giggled, coquettishly twirling a strand of blonde hair around one finger.

"What can I say?" Gord responded. "But just remember, I did try to keep you out of it!"

"I'd never dream of trying to keep you out of it!"

"That's. . never mind. This is serious. I'm the next target for extinction by some unknown killer who destroys the very soul of his victims when he murders them! Now you're probably marked, too."

"What are you going to do? Can you figure out who's doing this?"

Gord sat up and fumbled around until he found a scrap of paper and a stick of pressed charcoal. He scribbled several words before answering. "Summer, I think I know who is involved. I don't know how and why, but I'll find that out soon enough."

"Don't keep me in suspense, love, tell me!" she begged.

"No, not just yet. First I’m going to take a little trip across town to look up an old associate. Then I’ll have the answers I lack now. When I do, I’ll tell you everything."

"How about letting me go along? I’m pretty handy in a tight situation, you know."

"That's fair truth, woman," he replied, with appreciation on several levels. "However, this little jaunt won't require any dweomer casting. Just plain old work common to the craft of thievery. You stay here and wait. Don't go out for any reason. I'll be back before mid-morning."

The old associate Gord referred to was an old assassin named Albin. Gord quickly traveled across town and entered Albin's apartment with ease. After surprising the man, quickly overtaking him and trussing him up, Gord stood leaning on his sword, a look of determination plainly written across his fiace.

Albin was no hero. He might be able to bring death to others casually, but where his own demise was concerned, Albin was far more deliberate. "The orders came from the top, the very top. That's all I was told. I do what I’m told. Gord, you should know that," he finished in a whine.

"Sure, Albin, and you attend services every Gods-day like your mommy told you when you were just a nipper," Gord retorted in a voice heavy with sarcasm. He knew the old devil too well.

"Come on, Gord," the assassin wheedled. "We've known each other for a long time. I would never set you up or even finger you. All I knew was that a mark had been set up, and that everyone would make a big score."

"What about the murders? As a master of the council, you must have been informed," Gord said as he leaned on his sword. The weapon didn't actually threaten him, but the killer knew that the young man holding it would not hesitate to run its sharp-edged length through his gut if he thought Albin was stringing him along with lies. Albin didn't like that thought at all.

"What I said about that before is gospel, Gord. I can't tell you anything else."

"Okay. You're lucky, old chap. I believe you so I’ll allow you to live. See you around, Albin."

"Don't leave me here tied up! They'll know when they find me. You know what'll happen then. . "

"Take your chances, chump. You should have thought of who you were playing with before you joined the assassination game. Bye!",

Next came someone from the distant past. Albin had given Gord enough to enable him to find who he was looking for without any problems. As if reliving past actions, Gord was back in the Enclave, not far from the dwelling of the dead fence, Basil. Among the trade buildings he looked for a tall, rectangular one set back off the arteries, as if a storehouse. There was just enough light from the false dawn's milky paling to discover the place desired. It was of old brick and quarried limestone. Weathered and deserted-looking.

Gord rubbed his palms together briskly and began to climb. He pressed himself against the rough surface, becoming one with the stones and bricks. Fingertips here, boot there, always three firm holds before moving upward. The roof projected about three feet from the wall. That didn't bother Gord in the least. Keeping a firm hold, he reached up and back with his right arm. His fingers felt the edge, slid around, located a rough, steady place along the edge above. He let go with his left hand and feet, swinging by one arm fifty feet above the pavement, the wind whipping his cloak in a flapping streamer, almost as if he had wings. With his left hand Gord explored until he found another secure hold. Then he pulled himself up to the steeply pitched slate roof.

Now came the most difficult part, for the slates were not firm, and he had to press flattened palms and squirm upward with shoulders, chest, belly and thighs. His feet were used more to check any slip than to propel him up the slope. Bits of slate slipped but none fell. As difficult as the last part of the climb was, Gord managed it rather quickly and without mishap.

The slanting roof ended abruptly. It surrounded a shaft about twenty or so feet deep. Around this shaft were windows and doors. The upper two stories of the building housed a penthouse of sorts, sheltered from view. There was a little garden in the depression and Gord could hear the splash and tinkle of a fountain playing in the darkness yet unpierced by the coming sun. There was more splashing, and what sounded almost like a soft hooting, several giggles, and a man's laugh. Gord didn't hesitate. Grabbing the inner edge of the roof, he somersaulted, slowing the tumble by holding on a moment, then plummeted down the remaining distance into the enclosed garden.

The soft thud of his landing and the sound of his roll and slapping contact coming erect alerted the man depositing himself in the fountain's pool. He jumped out, trying to reach his sword, the two girls with him shrieking and getting in his way as they reacted to the noise and the man's evident fear. "Who the hells dares to enter here uninvited?" the man blustered in a deep voice as he managed to get his weapon in hand.

"I thought it acceptable to drop in on an old associate, Sunray. … Or do you prefer to be called Raynald these days?"

"Gord? How did you escape the Prae. .." His question died for he could think of nothing to cover the slip.

"Don't concern yourself. Sunny-boy. Lies won't save you, I know the whole rotten truth," Gord lied, sure that Sunray would have no way of knowing any differently. "I’ve come to even the score."

"That's a laugh, you cheap little rogue," the tall, handsome man said without humor. "You just got what was coming to you — or you will soon. You couldn't take me before, and you're no better now. "You're dead if you try to get away, and if you stay I’ll kill you!"

Now it was Gord's turn to mock, but his laughter was real. "A blowhard and a braggart still, Raynald! You were a worse thief than I always. A fumble-fingered, blabber-mouthed egoist. Worst of all for you. Sunny-boy, you can't use a sword worth shit"

The taller man backed toward an open door fading into the penthouse. The doxies who had been entertaining him had disappeared through it as the two antagonists fenced with words. Raynald now seemed intent on retreating there himself.

"Running inside won't save your fat ass," Gord said, sliding forward rapidly, eyes never leaving his opponent.

Raynald never replied. He turned and dashed into the doorway, pulling a drape across the opening. Gord followed in leaps and bounds as a cat moves. With a slash of his dagger, the drapery was gone. Gord then crouched low, instinctively. A buzzing above his head made him glad he did. The crossbow bolt's wind ruffled his dark hair in passing.

Still low, the young thief dashed inside, moving quickly to the right, for the bolt seemed to have come from the left. Such a weapon took too long to reload, and Gord knew that his enemy would be waiting with sword once again. It was a pity that the first rays of the sun were now coloring the cloud-dappled sky overhead with touches of carmine and magenta. In a minute the fiery reds and oranges of full dawn would replace the darker hues. Gord would have no advantage of magical vision in the dark.

"Now I am ready, mite, to face you on more even terms," Raynald said as he advanced toward Gord. The taller man held his falchion and a second weapon now, a long, dark-bladed misericord as main gauche. "You thought I'd fight unequally armed?" he demanded, using his chin to indicate Gord's own long dagger.

That moment almost did Gord in, for he was distracted by the gesture and inference of fair play. His eyes went to his dagger for a split-second, and in that time Raynald launched himself into the attack. Gord managed to catch the descending falchion in time to take nothing more than a nick. He managed to parry Raynald's dagger thrust, too. The taller man had the advantage, however, and now he pressed it, forcing Gord to back up and stay in a constant posture of defense.

"You. . see. . weakling. . runt!" Raynald said as he struck with a flurry of hammering blows and backhand slashes in an attempt to beat Gord's defense down. "I … told. . you … I'd … aackl"

Gord had slipped under a backhand sweep of the falchion and struck with his shortsword. The point stabbed into the taller man's thigh before he could step back. There!" Gord shouted as he slashed and cut the returning right arm with his dagger. "A double lesson for a second-rate swordsman. Now save your wind for gasping your last breath." Just then the very tip of Raynald's poniard caught Gord's own right arm, and the scratch thus inflicted burned tike molten fire.

"A kiss in return!" the bigger man panted, with a wolfish smile and gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

"You filth!" Gord screamed at him. "You use venom on your dag!"

"Isn't that tough turds, you whining cheat! You'd have used two weapons to my one — or none, I’ll wager. Now I’m the better armed, and you cry foul. Poor little Gordy," Sunray mocked.

The wash of anger that coursed through his body seemed to lessen the fiery numbness that filled his arm where the poisoned blade had cut it Gord allowed the rage to grow, but he checked it short of the point where it would blind him to his situation. The young thief fought carefully but fiercely, defending, countering, and slowly the feeling returned to his right arm again. "Now, Raynald. we come to the last test!" Gord called to his opponent in cold fury, and he matched the challenge with a combination of attacks that sent the taller man back in panic.

A hit scored! Another!

"Rot you. Gord!" Raynald cried in a fury of his own. "How do you resist the venom?" he demanded, for both wounds he had received came from the shortsword wielded by Gord's poison-touched right arm.

"My anger, you vile snake, countered your rotten venom. The blood flows freely and cleanses the wound." Even as he gave his enemy the truth. Gord laid to with blinding speed and power, sending the falchion flying as his shortsword slashed Sunray's arm in the process. Closing as quickly, Gord pinned the man's poisoned dagger with his own while he pressed his sword to Raynald's belly.

"Spare me." the taller man pleaded.

"Why? You would not have granted me mercy!"

"Because I can tell you the whole plot!"

"I told you, scoundrel, I already know everything there is to know."

The man Gord had once known as Sunray nearly whined in his eagerness to save his life. "Not quite everything, I’m sure. There's no way you could know everything. I'm an assassin now, you know." he hurried to explain before Gord cut him off — literally! "And because of that I’m privy to everything. If you grant me my life, I’ll tell you all. Look, Gord, I’ve even got secret papers hidden …" As he said this Raynald made a move toward something.

Gord wasn't sure exactly what Sunray had intended to do, because in the next instant the man's head simply vanished!

"Gods!" Gord exclaimed.

"Oh, Gord! I saved you!" Summer cried. Thanks be that I managed to get up here quickly," she added, panting.

"What the devils are you talking about, woman?" the young thief demanded in angry confusion.

The blonde woman looked stricken. "The poisoned dagger, Gord. I saw him shifting it to strike as he distracted you with his talk. I managed to cast my dweomer just in time. I simply pointed my wand, uttered a certain word that shall remain my secret, and sent the man's head into another dimension — one in which there is no such thing as air. Your friend here died of suffocation. But better him than you!"

"What are you talking about? I had everything under control. Summer! Sunray was about to give me-"

"Sunray was about to give you the point of his terrible blade — right in the intestines!" Summer interrupted.

"Shit! I had that blade pinned; Sunray couldn't have struck, could he?"

"He could have, and would have. Gord. Why are you being so difficult? I just saved your life!"

Summer looked like she was about to cry. . again. "She seems to do that real well." Gord mused suspiciously to himself. Aloud he said. "How did you find me?"

"I followed you, of course," she said, now sporting a warm smile. "I didn't think you should take the risk alone. Your scaling of the wall took me by surprise, though. You can climb, Gord! Anyway, I wasn't magically prepared to follow, so I fretted and waited below, wondering what was happening. Suddenly, two shrieking trollops flew out the door I was near. They left it open, so I simply went inside and climbed the stairs until I found you."

Gord nodded. "Sounds sensible." He decided to change the subject "Let's search this place as quickly as we can. Summer, and then we'll get out of here and back to where I can do some thinking."

Half an hour later the two were heading back into the Old City. Summer said she had to find a friend in the Foreign Quarter, someone who had books of magic spells, for hers had been left behind in the inn of the Seven Quills. Gord didn't argue. He had things of his own to take care of, and time was running out. Half of his time was gone, and he seemed no closer to learning the truth than he was before. He had obviously lied to Sunray about what he knew. And their search of Raynald's apartment had turned up a blank — almost.

"I'll see you at dusk at your safe place, Gord." Gord looked Summer in the eyes. "Be careful." He followed her with his eyes until she was out of sight. Then he turned and quickly made his way to the cellar hideout. Changing into garb not typical of the attire he usually wore, and selecting false papers, the young thief headed for the eastern gate of Old City. Sleep would have to wait. Perhaps he’d sleep permanently otherwise.

Passing out the tall portal, Gord crossed the Long Span that bridged the western channel of the Gray Run to form the upper of the two links to the Bastion. Rather than continuing on along High Road, he turned into the courtyard that served the garrison of the huge fortress. The island was covered with the mighty stoneworks and structures that protected the city from the east and housed half of its regular soldiery. Swarms of peddlers, traders, and suppliers of goods and services came daily to the Bastion. Gord was easily lost in this throng. Merging with the press, he was soon deep inside the fortress. It was as simple for him to emerge later and return the way he had come.

After getting something to eat at a run-down tavern in the Labor District, Gord returned again to his hideout. After taking his usual precautions, the young adventurer stripped, washed himself, and settled down to catch an hour or two of sleep. He had to be up and ready when darkness fell. Until twilight he could rest.

"How can you sleep?"

"Quite well when I don't have you yelling at me!" Gord answered in a laconic voice, remaining prone, eyes closed.

Summer came over and sat down on the bed. "Here I’ve been working hard to gain magical powers to help you, and all the while you do nothing but sleep! I can't believe it!"

Gord sat up and patted her leg. "One must get a little rest now and then. I'd hoped to be able to come up with something. I'm sure that somewhere in the back of my mind I have a key which could unlock this mystery. No matter how I try it eludes me. I fell asleep trying…"

"Do you have a plan for this evening?" Summer asked with a worried expression.

Gord pressed his lips together in a thin line, and his brow furrowed in thought for a moment. "Yes and no. Sunray, or Raynald as he called himself these days, said he was an assassin. I can only presume that he meant he was a guild member. Before I was convinced that the Thieves Guild was behind the whole thing, but now I realize I might have been trying to slit the wrong purse. What I aim to do is find out if I’m right by Founding up a few of the assassins I know and questioning them — painfully if necessary."

"And then?"

"If I draw a blank there, too, I think I’ll simply try to get out of Greyhawk before my time is tip. There is a connection, though. Raynald was scared, begging. He didn't lie when he told me that he knew everything about the scam run on me and the whole series of murders. There are powers and planes involved — I know that!"

Summer seemed taken aback at the last assertion. "What do you mean? Is this some struggle for supremacy between thieves and assassins? I think it so too. Gord, but neither side would dare invoke any of the lower planes for such a contest. That would surely alert the oligarchs and bring ruin upon the contending parties."

"What makes you think this is so petty a quarrel? If great clerics of evil are involved — those of Asmodeus, for example — and are leagued with some powerful organization outside Greyhawk, then the guilds or guild involved are only instruments in some larger scheme."

"That sounds pretty far-fetched. Six murders and a deception worked on a rogue thief. You are building castles of sand to stave off an invasion of wind!"

"I saw the ruby mark of Asmodeus on Raynald's breast"

"So he worshipped the arch-fiend? Many of his sort do," the woman said with flat practicality. You should be seeking a murderer, not looking for convoluted machinations of monumental proportions. Your life is at stake, Gord!"

The young thief looked unconvinced. "If I am right, the whole city — and more — is at stake here. Perhaps I am an addlepated fool, but I must follow my hunch."

"All right," Summer said with resignation. "How am I to help?"

"Raynald was near the top in the organization of assassins. How else would he have had access to the information he spoke of?"

"He could have been lying, you know," Summer offered softly.

"I don't think so. Anyway, there are thieves helping, but I am sure that the whole show is being run by the guildmaster of assassins under the direction of the chief priest of the cult of Asmodeus." Summer gave a sign to ward off diabolical attention. Gord ignored the implication and went on. "If my inquiries prove fruitless, and I have to get clear of here, I’ll leave a complete rundown on what I've learned. . and what I suspect. The Praefecture will keep that sort of bone in its teeth, and one way or another the truth will come out then!"

"You still haven't told me what to do to help you."

Gord took her slender hands in his, pressed them together, and then kissed her gently. "Summer, I want you taking no more risks than are necessary. As a magus you are adept at scribery. Stay here and write a full report of what has occurred so far, including what I suspect. We'll need such a document right or wrong. Pen, ink, and parchment are in that drawer," Gord added, pointing to a compartment in an old traveling desk standing nearby. Summer seemed unconvinced. "But- "

"No buts! If I succeed in discovering the truth, I'll come back to get you and the written report. If I fail to return by the third hour after dawn, then you must see the papers get to Magistrate Vatman. I'll have sent another message too … If I’m able. . before disappearing."

"If you do flee, Gord. where can I meet you? I can't bear the thought of never seeing you again!"

"I’ve thought of that too, but don't worry. If I am alive, I'll be at a place called the inn of the Brothers of One and a Score, a small drinking house just west of the village of Gawkes Mere. Ask for a man known as Hop the Savant. He'll lead you to where I hide. Come at once though. Summer, for I’ll not linger so near Greyhawk for more than one or two days."

As the blonde spell-worker sat down with pen and parchment, Gord slung his sword, donned his cape of dark blue velvet, and departed.

As soon as the young man went through the door and shut it behind him, Summer slipped a curious ring onto her finger and disappeared from sight. Invisible, cloaked in total silence, she followed Gord through the underground tunnels and up onto the deserted streets beyond. She followed him still, going undetected behind him while he traversed a broad thoroughfare, went up a narrow lane, and then stepped out onto a busy street leading to the Foreign Quarter. From her vantage point at the mouth of the lane. Summer observed a squad of gray-clad soldiers marching toward him. Gord appeared uncertain as to what to do; then he turned and started back for the lane from where Summer watched invisibly. But before he could come near, a pair of officers with red tabards and twice as many sergeants came out of a doorway and were upon him.

"You are under arrest, Gord the thief." one officer said sternly. "Come with us now! Magistrate Vatman has changed his mind."

Gord slumped noticeably at the statement. A sergeant relieved him of his sword and dagger, and in a moment he was marched away, surrounded by troops in gray and red. "Poor Gord," Summer whispered with genuine sorrow in her voice. Then, invisible still, she returned the way she had come to finish her task.

The Mayoral Palace was ablaze with light. So were many of the attendant buildings that flanked it. A special meeting of the oligarchs, rulers of Greyhawk, had been called, and the Citadel was a beehive of activity because of this unusual occurrence. Ranks of gray-uniformed regulars and their officers moved to form a line to receive the incoming masters of the city. Here and there were the black and gold clad members of the Praefecture, hurrying to make certain that all was secure, or to handle special duties.

Various leaders arrived, adorned in rich robes and fur mantles of state, wearing their chains of office. The appearance of a phalanx of black and white colors announced the coming of the general of The Watch. Arentol, Guildmaster of Thieves, arrived in company with Thaddius Jenk, Guildmaster of Assassins. Leaders of the trade, craft and merchant factions had come already. The Chancellor of the University came with the usual group, leaders of the savants, sages, and scholars, plus certain clerics. Other clerics came, and last was the ancient man who was Magistar of the Society of the Magi. All were greeted by the constable, provosts, and His Solemn Authority, Nerof Gasgol, Lord Mayor of Greyhawk, First Oligarch and Keeper of the Citadel.

"I demand to know the reason for all this!" Nerof Gasgol was nearly shouting as he said this.

The candelabra made the High Chamber seem warm and beautiful, with its polished floors of marble, glowing wood, gilt trim, and walls adorned with paintings and pieces of artwork looking regal and filled with import. The long table could seat up to a score. Its inlaid top was mirrorlike, the carved chairs silk-cushioned treasures. Eighteen of these seats were taken by the oligarchs, each with a gold and crystal goblet and a wine ewer before him, each looking to the others in consternation at the statement the Lord Mayor had just uttered. All save a few, that is.

"I speak not only for myself," Arentol, Guildmaster of Thieves, said as he arose to command all attention. "I speak for Murtagh your Captain-General, Thaddius jenk, and certain others who do not wish their names used at this time."

As the leader spoke, Nerof let his eyes roam the circle of faces. A twitch here, a stiffening there, and Gasgol had a fair idea as to just who the guildmaster represented. In bygone years, Nerof Gasgol had himself been Guildmaster of Thieves, but he had long since broadened and grown to concern himself with the greater needs of Greyhawk. Having lost his narrow perspective did not mean he had lost his abilities and keen eyes. His assessment was that Phildorf Gelbbeek, leader of the merchants and the most wealthy man in the city, was with Arentol. So was Archdeacon Elohideus, chief cleric of those who served the Hells. Gasgol was uncertain about it, but he thought Constable Lord Thistleby seemed too tense also.

"Speak then, Oligarch Arentol, for all those for whom you serve as mouthpiece." He used the insulting term deliberately to see if he could draw the man out as quickly as possible.

"Thank you. sir." Arentol said with a smooth, mocking tone and a slight bow that failed to conceal his smirk. The slight had only amused him. "Intelligence has come to me this very day of a terrible series of events here in our beloved city. Fellow oligarchs," he said, turning so as to look at each in turn, "these events are of great import, but no word of them came from the Citadel, no warning for us from our palace. Think on that!"

"What are you driving at?" the ancient archmage known to all only as Darksign asked querulously.

"Have patience, I beg you, lords all," the Guildmaster of Thieves said to the assemblage. "I'll come quickly enough to the heart of this, but please allow me uninterrupted speech." Here he stared squarely at the old spell-user. Darksign rubbed his long nose with crabbed fingers, nodding his assent.

"Six murders there have been. Not unusual, you might say. Not so, I would reply. All the acts were unlicensed. Each was done so as to so completely destroy the life of the victim that no spell could evoke any clue as to the murderer, let alone revive the corpse! All save one of the slain were important members of a group represented here. The assassins lost the woman most likely to succeed as their leader. The Watch lost its most promising young captain, the second most successful merchant prince of Greyhawk was laid low in this fashion. Mine own guild lost three of its own men — a master of great skill who was rising rapidly and two lesser personages as well."

The lords of Greyhawk looked at each other with concern. They shifted uneasily. Arentol allowed this pause to continue for just enough time to make the anxiety build to a point where it would spill out. Then he spoke again in his booming voice. "Each crime was reported to the Citadel. Why didn't the Citadel inform you? In fact, if I had not spoken with those of my fellows and learned by chance that they too had been attacked, my guild would even now believe that it was the only group to suffer such slaughter!"

Nerof Gasgol stood, his voice seeming less powerful, but still managing to overcome that of Arentol. "Are you insinuating that I have a part in these killings?" he demanded with a menacing tone.

"Insinuating? Nay Gasgol, I am accusing you and your henchmen of insidious murder and a plot to become sole ruler and tyrant of our city!"

There was an uproar at this, with oligarchs shouting and babbling at each other. The guards surrounding the great chamber didn't make any move, however, and the constable's shout for order brought quiet again. "I call for Guildmaster Arentol to finish his statement," the constable said to the now-silent gathering. There were a few nays and shakes of the head, but the murmurs of assent and demands from Arentol's allies drowned out the opposition. Lord Mayor Gasgol sat down heavily, and the Guildmaster of Thieves smiled.

"Yes, I accuse Nerof Gasgol and his Praefecture of plotting the elimination of the oligarchy to allow him to become the single ruler, the lone despot over all the lands of our city. I give you his plot:

"The murders were committed both to test the method and to weaken Gasgol's strongest foes. All of you know that I, and my associates, have staunchly opposed many of his schemes over the last year. The next step planned was the elimination of all oligarchs, strongest first. My guild, however, with the aid of the assassins." and here he looked at Thaddius Jenk who nodded solemnly back in agreement, "uncovered this awful plot. We began closing in on the one used as a tool by Gasgol, and then he was snatched from our grasp by Gasgol's soldiers. Even now he is held in dungeons beneath this place!"

"What purpose to confine one's own agent?" asked the Chancellor of the University.

"To throw us off the trail that led all too directly to Gasgol. If he could have tried and executed his own man quietly, then Gasgol could claim to be savior rather than the plotting murderer and would-be despot he is. I ask you all to now support me. Name me as Lord Mayor and First Oligarch. I will root out every last one of the treasonous plotters, reveal their machinations in open trial, and have those dogs executed in due course. To do so, and all of this is no easy task, I must have your confidence, your loyal support, your full cooperation!"

"And what of the army?" asked Archdeacon Elohideus.

"To this, Constable Lord Thistleby shouted in a stentorian tone. "I can speak for our loyal troops." he cried. "The soldiers of Citadel and Bastion stand firmly behind the Oligarchy and the one whom we designate as first!"

"I say we must name Arentol as Lord Mayor — now!" roared the florid-faced, bulky merchant Phildorf Gelbbeek.

"Yes, yes!" called several voices above the confusion. "Vote, vote!"

"Order!" The call came from Nerof Gasgol. The oligarchs grew quiet. He spoke to them softly. "Besides Arentol, who accuses me of these crimes? I have that right — the accusers must stand forth!"

There were nods of agreement. One or two cries of "Hear! Hear!" came forth. The Guildmaster of Thieves folded his arms, a grim smile of triumph on his harsh face. "Stand forth, my brothers, so Gasgol can count his accusers!"

Jenk arose, then Gelbbeek and Elohideus. Captain-General Murtagh shot upright. Lastly, and quite unexpectedly, Constable Lord Thistleby and Magistar Darksign stood. Seven of the eighteen oligarchs stated their accusations against Gasgol — each echoing what Arentol had already said.

"Now the vote," Arentol said directly to Nerof Gasgol.

"You seven are under arrest," a steely voice shot out from behind Arentol, and its sound brought pandemonium to the gathering.

The hour was past midnight. The windows of the Mayoral Palace were yet ablaze with light. The Grand Courtyard was still a hive of activity. Troops marched here and there in squads, going on missions directed by the new Assembly of Oligarchs. Inside the palace, in the upper meeting chamber, a final scene, the culmination of the night's excitement, was taking place. Arentol was the chief person, the center of the drama's final act.

Magistrate Vatman spoke first. "It was thanks to Gord, here, that this whole vile scheme was uncovered. Their mistake was to involve him, for he is a tenacious hunter, once put on the scent. His work enabled me to set the stage. It brought the plotters into the open. It enabled us to prepare so that they could not try force once guile failed them."

"I see. Please let this young fellow speak for himself. I would hear what wit he used to perform so great a service for Greyhawk." Lord Mayor Gasgol commanded.

Gord stepped before the assembled dignitaries and officials of the city he knew as home. He felt very awkward, for if the full extent of his regular activities were known to these persons, he would certainty be subject to scrutiny of an altogether different and worse sort. He cleared his throat nerously, then began. "At first I thought it was all a scheme merely directed at me. A plot to take from me my hard-won gains, to discredit me, and possibly to have me killed in the process. After all, the sum of one thousand orbs is one that is sufficient to arouse avariciousness in most hearts."

Magistrate Vatman interrupted. "These noble authorities are sufficiently apprised of the background of the whole affair not to need details, Gord. Please proceed from the point where we discovered you in Basil the Lock's quarters with his corpse."

"Ahem. Yes, thank you, sir. What you said, magistrate, made me think. No thief or assassin can kill another so utterly without the aid of some greater power, a magic or special dweomer bestowed by supernatural means. Another thing: A thief enlisted as a guardsman? Powers in the plot indeed! I had to find Basil's lover and learn from him just who the fence saw or talked about during and after the operation that involved me. He implicated the Assassins Guild indirectly, but it was the magus, Summer, who really put me on the right track."

"How so?" demanded the lord mayor.

"It was pretty fortuitous running into her at the inn of the Seven Quills, but I could possibly swallow that. When she said she didn't believe my story because I hadn't told her everything, but that she would help me in any event, I still thought she was possibly all right. But when she blasted Raynald's head to nothingness, I thought her a ringer for sure. I know enough about magic to know that knowing truth is not particular to that art but to that of the clerical persuasion. She didn't know it, but I was watching her all the time we were searching Sunray's — Raynald's — apartment. I saw her slide open a secret compartment and take out a sheaf of papers. I couldn't take them from her, but I did manage to get a good look at them later. When she returned to the apartment we were sharing for a time, I saw her stash them with some of her other belongings. When she left the room at one point I quickly scanned their contents. The division of the treasure taken from me was shown on one of those sheets. There were twelve shares total, and half of those went to persons outside the Thieves Guild and the Assassins Guild."

"Why didn't you simply take this evidence and give it to Magistrate Vatman?" the chancellor asked sharply.

"That would alert Summer, and those above her in the plot, that someone was on to them. They could have struck too soon to allow the magistrate to act — killing him would have been easy, and the evidence could then have been destroyed. They could even have tried a physical coup. No, I had to play along, so to speak. While she was busy telling her masters that I was stepping into their trap, I was actually setting up the mechanism which would bring them all down in ruin. A friend of mine in The Guard was intelligent enough to get my message to Magistrate Vatman, and he ordered the army to go along with my idea. The squad that arrested me actually enabled me to get safely to him and explain the whole matter. You see, the six other shares went to the leaders of the merchants, magi, watch, army, and the archdeacon. If those seven could have acted in concert to overthrow the government of the city, they might have succeeded! I had to get the news to Vatman here so he could have me arrested and use me as bait for the trap."

"You planned the setting that could make Arentol think he could use his guile to take over Greyhawk?" an incredulous voice asked. It belonged to San, now the acting Guildmaster of Thieves.

"Yes, San, in a way you might say that although the magistrate did the actual work of setting things up. So did Summer, by running off to tell everyone they had arrested me to take the fall for the murders done by assassin followers of Asmodeus."

"What was the motive for those killings, anyway?" This came from the Craftmaster of Artisans.

"Basil was done for just to make certain that he couldn't give me any clues as to what was going on. In fact, I was watched pretty closely for some time, I suppose. They let me get to San, probably hoping that i'd fight with him and slay my old comrade, thinking that he was connected with the scheme — sorry. San, I know Arentol is your father-in-law, but he didn't care about you or his own daughter, only power. The other victims were nothing more than loyal citizens of Greyhawk. They either had, or were near to, the truth of the whole treasonous plan. From what I could tell, it's been hatching for some time now. Elohldeus just joined it — why he came in I can't guess, because he didn't stand to gain much in the whole deal as far as I can tell. Anyway, it was his part that enabled them to really move, for the means of totally destroying the victim came from him."

Magistrate Vatman couldn't restrain himself "How do you know that?"

"Like I said, it's a special power, one that could only come from some really strong being, a deity of the lower planes for instance. When I saw the Mark of Asmodeus on Raynald's chest, I started thinking. I checked Basil's body — the magistrate was there when I did. A similar mark, only in deep purple, was there on the fence's tongue. The mark was very small, though, and it was on the underside with an oval encompassing it. I'd say that you had better be on the lookout for a high-level assassin with a ring bearing Asmodeus's staff as a seal! He's probably hiding in Elohfdeus's temple somewhere. …"

There was a stir at that and Vatman hurried from the hall to take care of that matter. Lord Mayor Gasgol smiled at Gord as he asked. "What have you gleaned from all of this? You questioned the cleric's part for this reason, now I ask it of you."

"At first I was in this for revenge. It hurt to be taken, to lose a woman so beautiful as Ageelia. Actually, it felt better when I was sure she had been a part of a bigger operation — under other circumstances she might have really loved me. . " Here Gord's voice trailed off as a look of pain played across his handsome features.

"Well, who knows?" he continued, making a small gesture to dismiss his earlier thoughts. "After I found out about the bigger plan, it was more than merely saving my ass from extinction that drove me on. I'm not the one to march under the banner of authority, but Greyhawk is my city, dammit all, and it isn't a place to mess around with. It's free, lord mayor and oligarchs and all to the contrary. Pardon my words, but I will speak forth now. When I knew that Arentol aimed at tyranny, I had to do everything I could to stop him and his cronies or die trying. I guess I’m alive, at least for a bit yet, and he and his pack of curs are slated for another existence beyond human ken!"

"Is that all?" Gasgol asked in a dry tone of voice.

"Yes, Lord Gasgol."

The lord mayor sat straight in his chair of state. He looked at the oligarchs, then at Gord. "Recently I heard Arentol claim to speak for others of this august body." There were a few snickers and hummings at this statement, and Gasgol himself smiled briefly. "I know now that I can speak for all of us when I say that you have our thanks and gratitude for your part in foiling the coup. If you have committed crimes against us in the past, Gord. you are free of all onus therefrom. You have pardon. Because you have done so much, you are granted Lifelong High Citizenship of Greyhawk City, free entry to all its lands and territories, and exemption from all taxation. . not that you’ve ever paid any taxes." Gasgol added as an aside.

"More than this we cannot grant under the circumstances," the lord mayor continued, "but I can give you advice in addition. This community might not be a healthy place for you to linger in for a season, young man. Too much has happened, and too many skeletons have come out from concealed chambers because of you. As a friend, Gord, I think it is my duty to suggest that you might find a journey to other climates more salubrious. A year or two from now, who knows? And do take a sennight or two to consider it. No sense in traveling without proper planning!"

Gord bowed low, stepped back a pace, and was led from the chamber by a pair of grinning Praefectors. "This'll make our jobs easier for quite a time, kid," one of the two veteran enforcers said to Gord as they left the hall.

Just before they took him out of the palace, Magistrate Vatman caught up. "Hold on there, you!" he ordered. The escorts complied instantly, all wisecracks swallowed in the presence of the man now likely to become Provost of the entire Citadel, one step short of the post of constable and membership in the oligarchy.

"Gord, what's this? I thought you would be veted inside for hours yet. No matter, I'm glad you're not being entertained, because I have something that might interest you."

"The lord mayor suggested-"

"Later, later. What I have is of immediate importance to you. It seems that one of my operatives has uncovered an old file with a clue that might connect the Scarlet Brotherhood with Arentol's group of plotters. Now if you will agree to join us, I’ll-"

It was Gord's turn to cut the little policeman short. "Sorry, Vatman, but as I was saying before you interrupted me. His Solemn Authority has suggested that I take a holiday from Greyhawk for a while. Right after I return I'll look you up, though, and we can discuss the matter then." With that he walked on with a brisk stride, and his escorts had to hurry to keep up.

Magistrate Vatman stood scratching his head. Well, he thought, I suppose the matter can wait for a few days while the young fellow takes a little time off. …