Saga of the Old City

Chapter 6

Life aboard a gypsy barge was strange to Gord. Not that he minded the change, but it was odd. The group had managed to get through the River Quarter and through the Cargo Gate to the wharves beyond. Instead of seeking some ship, however, they had gone up toward Shack Town and met friendly Rhennee bargemen there-just what their instructions had told them to expect. Before dawn the still-unconscious thief had been bound, gagged, and rolled into an old carpet. A pedlar’s wagon would soon have the prize moved to a place from where he could be spirited into the Beggarmaster’s mansion.

And a prize he was indeed! Gord and his cohorts had learned, from a knowledgeable barger, that the fellow was none other than Ladav Idnorsea-a great thief, swindler, con artist, and impersonator. Some said that he was a likely candidate for Guildmaster one day soon. Score one for Theobald-and for Gord!

Now the two boys and three sellswords were housed aboard a small fleet of barges sheltering in a small backwater between the docks and the sprawl of Shack Town. This was now to be their base of operations, according to new instructions received by Gord from the pedlar who had picked up their “merchandise.”

When he found that the new orders were addressed directly to him, Gord was flattered and a bit flabbergasted. He was just entering his thirteenth spring, he guessed, and was not used to being treated as anything other than a lad. Now the Beggarmaster was having orders passed on to him as if he were an adult, and an important minion of the Union at that! In the deepest voice he could muster, he had told the three fighting men of the change, and they accepted his instruction without a blink. Perhaps this was because of the new dirk that swung openly from his belt in this relaxed surrounding. But, the trio of mercenaries did actually treat both Gord and San with some respect-not considering them equals, perhaps, but at least worthy associates with skill in their own callings. San reveled in this exalted status, and Gord felt much the same way-but, as befits a leader, he kept his feelings more to himself.

The Rhennee were a puzzle to Gord. They were smallish and dark, much as he was. They seemed enthusiastic and bashful all at the same time. They spoke loudly yet in a self-effacing manner, but they were quick and very quiet when they wished to be so. That they could fight and steal, Gord knew. The mercenaries showed these folks healthy respect, and Gord had heard many tales extolling their virtues as thieves. Fortunately, they were not allied to the Thieves’ Guild. Gord realized that they were too free-spirited and independent to accept such an arrangement, and this was apparently why they had chosen to cast their lot on behalf of the Beggars’ Union, which was also resisting the pressure of the Guild in its own distinctive way. Somehow, Gord felt, there was more to these Rhennee than met the eye. Without committing himself to any firm conclusion, Gord suspected that the Rhennee were quite unusual and something to be reckoned with.

If the men were interesting and capable, their womenfolk were doubly so. The girls were mostly breathtaking in appearance and bold in behavior-to a point. But the elder females seemed to be something mystical, a cross between seer, witch, and clerical matriarch. The young women deferred to the men with respect and downcast eyes, while the old women were deferred to in turn by the toughest of the men. That circle appealed to Gord. He’d happily have a lovely and submissive concubine while seeking guidance and wisdom for his actions from a grand matron. But then, Gord was young and understood little of life….

When they weren’t making excursions into the city, all five of the Beggarmaster’s agents were dressed as bargefolk. Brightly garbed in satins and gaudy accessories, they moved freely among the two dozen interconnected barges. No watcher would suspect that they were anything other than Rhennee. They had been here for more than a sennight now, and three other trips to The Strip and neighboring districts had netted them little in the way of hostages for Theobald. Several dead thieves could be credited to their activity, however, and all of them had acquired a fair amount of spoils from their efforts on behalf of the cause.

But Gord had the feeling that their luck would not hold for much longer, and he had begun to yearn for a change of scenery. Although staying on the barges was interesting and exciting, and this had certainly proved to be an effective base from which to carry out further raids on the thieves, he was eager to get back to find out what was happening in the Thieves Quarter. Besides, he had a fair stash of coins hidden there, and a score to settle with Theobald.

Gord was feeling confident now that he would somehow be able not only to get revenge on the dirty, fat bastard who had slain Violet, but also to profit big in the process. He was willing to trade his independence on the fringe of things for the chance to again be in the heart of the action, even if that meant being at someone else’s beck and call. Anyway, he had promised a young girl named Adaz that he would go with her to the waters of the Nyr Dyv one day soon, and he really believed deep inside that his fate would eventually return him to the Rhennee. Now it was time for other activities, however.

“What’s the matter, Gord?” San inquired forcefully. Gord was becoming irritable and restless. He’d just told his partner to bugger off for the third time in about fifteen minutes, and San was having no more of it.

“Oh, crap! It isn’t your fault, San… sorry. This just isn’t right.”

“Hell, yes, it’s right!” San shot back truculently. He was thoroughly enjoying the freedom and independence of their present position.

Gord shook his head and explained. “The Beggarmaster is a good… tactician-that’s the word-but he’s a bad… strategist. Spreading everyone around Greyhawk-putting us here to operate against The Strip-was smart. It’s paid off.”

“So what’s wrong? You arguing with yourself?”

“Naw… San, the action is going to shift. Buggermaster Fatty has made the big mistake. I don’t think the Guild will ever allow itself to be flummoxed just because Theobald has kidnapped a handful of its members, bigshots or not. The Guild has to beat Theobald and destroy the Union, or the thieves are through. And I want to be around Theobald when that happens. I want to be there when that rotten scum gets what’s coming to him-or do it myself.”

San shivered a little at the vehemence of Gord’s statement and made no reply.

For Gord, the timing was right. Word came later that day: They were to leave their current base and return to Theobald’s house. Every good man was needed there for a final confrontation, it seemed. They left immediately, after changing from Rhennee garb to their more mundane apparel. Entering Greyhawk from this area was no problem. Each paid his iron drab and passed through the great gate. Without difficulty, all five made the trek from the dock area to the Foreign Quarter. There they separated, agreeing that each would find his own way back to headquarters to avoid attracting attention in a group.

The mercenaries’ stride never faltered as they passed through Black Gate into the Old City, and the guards there never even looked up as they went by. San went in just as easily a few minutes later, and then Gord went last, after San had disappeared from his view. Despite the hostilities that had erupted, it was evident that those not obviously serving one side or the other were of no interest to anyone. Gord did not slow his step, emulating the fighters he had recently spent so much time with, for he felt himself as important now. He was coming home, more or less, to settle things.

The northernmost section of the Thieves Quarter was the locale controlled by the Beggars’ Union. The beggars’ territory actually spilled over into the Slum Quarter, but Gord avoided that area, assuming that it would be watched closely. He would attract little attention where the Thieves’ Guild felt secure, he reasoned, so he strode up Haven Street and turned left on Redcobbles Lane, not bothering to avoid anyone. Sooner or later, though, he would have to pass through the area between the opposing headquarters. When Gord turned north and began to follow Cleaver, a street that passed near Theobald’s domain, he was accosted.

“Hold it there, laddy,” a voice said. A thin, black-clad fellow stepped out of a nearby doorway, hand on sword. He eyed Gord suspiciously.

Gord didn’t feel intimidated at all. This surprised him a bit, for he still had memories of his “Gutless” days. “What do you want?” he inquired firmly.

“I want to know what you think you’re doing, strolling around in a battle zone! Don’t you know that this is the boundary between the thieves’ territory and those dirty beggars yonder?” It was more of a warning than a challenge.

Dressed as he was, Gord could have been an apprentice thief, some ally, or just about anything except a beggar. Gord certainly didn’t want to cause a scene-who knew what backup this sentry might have?

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard about the trouble, and I thought I would take a look to see for myself how badly we’ve frightened ’em. In broad daylight, and armed”-here Gord patted his side where his belt knife was secured-“none of those feeble cowards would dare bother me.”

“Cocky bastard, ain’t you?” the man retorted. He looked closely at Gord and added, “Where you from, anyway?”

“Who the hell appointed you my master?” Gord spat back. He found himself actually incensed at this fellow’s questioning. “I go where I choose and need no permission from you, sir!”

At that the sentry laughed. Before him was a youngster of tender years and scant size, armed with a knife no bigger than that with which the thief used to eat his joint of beef, daring him to contest his passage!

“Well, you’re no beggar, anyway. If you want to get your throat slit, it’s your affair, bandy-boy. Have at it.” With that, the fellow retreated into his doorway, and Gord passed by without giving him another glance.

Although the area immediately beyond looked deserted, Gord felt a prickling sensation at scalp and spine when he passed gaping doorways and empty windows. There were eyes watching him, he knew. Then, a couple of blocks farther north, the streets began to show some signs of life again. Not much, but here and there a figure was out walking, a handcart being pushed, some tiny shops still open and doing business. All told, however, this portion of the quarter was virtually closed. If this dearth of economic activity was any indication, Theobald and his associates were in deep trouble.

As he thought about the impressions that this scene was creating in his mind, Gord realized that he no longer considered himself one of Theobald’s servants. True, he was still officially bound to the fat creature who commanded the army of beggars, and in fact he was now on his way to report to Theobald. Still, Gord knew that he was now something more than a tool of the Beggarmaster….

Abruptly, six young toughs appeared before Gord, breaking his thoughts. Now, as he had expected, he would have to contend with sentries in the employ of the Beggars’ Union. The leader of the group swaggered up to him, hands on hips, and surveyed him. Gord knew that had he been a full-grown man with a longsword at his hip, the six never would have shown themselves-unless they could have ambushed with rocks from above. Now they felt confident that they had an easy prize.

“Take me to Theobald, and be quick about it!” Gord ordered before the chief bully had spoken. The fellow’s mouth dropped open at that, then clamped shut.

“Screw you, ya li’l pimp! Who in hell ya givin’ orders to?”

“You, fool!” Gord replied. “I am Master Gord of the Beggars’ Union, and my orders are taken direct from the Beggar-master. Now either accompany me to the headquarters of Theobald, or get out of my path. I don’t care which you do, but unless you act quickly, you’ll regret it.”

Gord had all he could do to suppress a smile as he watched the spectrum of expressions that passed across the young tough’s countenance. Astonishment, fury, fear, and uncertainty paraded openly before Gord’s gaze, as plainly as if the words themselves had been written on the oafs forehead.

“How in hell do I know that you ain’t a spy for them thieves?” the leader finally asked, groping for some way to gain the verbal advantage. Although his five associates had crowded closer behind him during the exchange, their proximity did not reassure him, and his tone of voice now contained a tinge of whining.

Gord felt like calling him an asshole, threatening him further, and making all six of them sweat some more. How often had he had to suffer the humiliation of fear and cowardice? But instead, he simply said, “Take me to Theobald, and if I am a spy, he’ll deal with me.”

When the leader heard those words and saw the hard-eyed stare that accompanied them, he broke. “Naw… you’re okay. I just hadda check, see? Them’s my orders….”

By the time these last words were out of the sentry’s mouth, Gord had already marched around the group and continued on his way. His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he heard the leader’s final, plaintive cry: “Tell Master Theobald that Bugbear and his boys is doin’ a good job… okay?”

In stark contrast to the rest of the neighborhood Gord had seen, the area around Theobald’s place was a beehive of activity. When he was in sight of his destination, slowly strolling along, Gord was taken aback to see a squad of the Watch parade past in the street off to his side-and even more surprised to see a group of city officials entering the building! What was happening?

He stayed back to observe more and was soon further mystified by the sight of several of the beggars he knew openly entering and leaving the place. This was not at all what he expected. To be on the safe side, Gord went carefully around the area, checking everything out. The whole place was filled with the same sort of activity: open comings and goings, and many important-looking folk mingling with the beggars and their ilk, all under the aegis of groups of the Watch.

Gord decided to make his way into the headquarters by means of a secret underground passage that began in a building a bowshot distant from the place. He was not about to take any unnecessary chances despite the seeming security.

Nobody was in the hidden sub-cellar of the house when he entered, and Gord moved quickly through the place and up onto the main floor. There was action there aplenty, with beggars and their allies coming and going. Furgo noticed Gord, approached him briskly, clapped him on the back, and congratulated him for the success of his group’s mission.

“Master Theobald’s strategy was perfect!” Furgo exclaimed. “And Ladav Idnorsea was the key to our success,” he continued. “The other teams met with mixed results. We lost a couple, and took several other thieves prisoner. Even killed a fair lot of ’em, too!”

“What’s happening now?” Gord asked.

“With Idnorsea and the others in the bag,” explained Furgo, “the master called for a truce. Both sides are still armed and waiting, but we’re negotiating a settlement now.”

“But what are the Watch and the city officials doing here?”

“His Lordship the Mayor doesn’t want the warfare to continue… and that’s a fact. Who knows what old rivalries would come up if it did? His emissaries told us that to avoid a possible division of the city into warring factions, they’d mediate the dispute and make certain that the Thieves’ Guild settled things on terms just for both sides.”

Something rang false in this explanation; it sounded like something Furgo had rehearsed, or someone else’s words that he was repeating. But what could Gord say? At best he was a youngster, even if he was a least master and a relatively successful servant of Theobald. Furgo and a score of others here outranked him, not only in status but in age and experience. He did not openly question or contest what Furgo had told him, feeling that this was the truth as far as Furgo knew it to be.

“I’m heading for the audience room now to report. If he has time, I’ll see if Theobald wishes you to appear. Get something to eat, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” So saying, Furgo turned and scurried off to see the head of the Union.

It seemed a good idea, that. Gord was feeling peckish, and something from the kitchen might not hurt, even if the stuff was slop. Better something than nothing. He’d come a long way, Gord thought, recalling how a rat-sullied chunk of grease-coated bread had once seemed a feast to him… and how that vegetable swill had seemed to be nectar and ambrosia when he had first eaten in the Beggarmaster’s kitchen. Things had changed.

Nobody was in the kitchen, so Gord helped himself to the best provisions he could find-cheese, a fatty sausage of scant size, and a stale bun. No wonder the place was empty-it certainly didn’t have much to offer. After finishing the meager meal and waiting for a half-hour, Gord decided that Furgo would find him if the Beggarmaster commanded his presence, so Gord headed for the upper loft. He said hello to some of the apprentices who were loafing around there, and then went to his own quarters. He was hardly surprised when a brief inspection revealed him that someone had searched the place in his absence. Everything had been put back in its place so he supposedly wouldn’t notice, but whoever had done the job hadn’t discovered that he’d set things up just so as to be aware of rifling. A hair placed here, a strand of cobweb there, had been displaced.

Gord decided to check his cache of money, not in the least worried that it had been disturbed. He pulled the old crate that served as his table and dresser over to an empty corner of the room, stood upon it, and removed a splinter from the rafter overhead. The beam was old and dry, and the piece had been loose when he was assigned the room. Gord had carefully worked it free and used his knife to gouge a space behind it, a place large enough to hold a handful of coins. Being more careful still, he had used the blade to drill and peg the beam and the splinter. When he replaced the broken piece, it stayed firmly in place, and his most careful scrutiny satisfied Gord that nobody would guess that the piece could be taken off without breaking it. Inside he had first stored his few brass bits; now the trove held far more than that.

Gord took out the coins quickly, replaced the chunk, and moved the crate back where it belonged. He added the bronze zees, copper commons, silver nobles, and one shining silvery-gold electrum lucky to the purse he had tucked under his belt. They clinked against the pair of coins and the ring he already had in there. He stretched out on the lumpy cot, relaxed, waited for his summons, and dozed off….

Gord, always a light sleeper, came awake instantly at the sound of a noise he did not know. What was it? The old building was full of noises. It creaked and settled by itself, and there were always other noises, too-the voices and comings and goings of the many beggars who stayed here. But what had awakened him was something else.

There, again! It was a muffled thud from the chamber next to his. The wall between was thin, and Gord could hear more faint sounds through it now. It sounded unmistakably like a near-silent struggle to Gord, and he reacted swiftly, hoisting himself up soundlessly to the rafter above his cot. Then, a furtive footstep outside his door told him that his decision had been wise. From his perch on the rafter, Gord watched the door. The latch moved quietly upward and the portal swung inward with barely a creak. The dim light of the guttering tallow candle on the crate glinted off the reddened point of a sword. The hand and arm that held the blade swiftly followed it inside. Gord saw a leather-armored man scan the room quickly, noted the rumpled cot, and the apparently empty room. The swordsman stepped in, felt the place where Gord had dozed only moments before, and grinned evilly. He stepped back from the bed, stooped, and thrust the short, bloody weapon into the place under the bed where he imagined a frightened beggar-thief was hiding. As he did so, Gord pounced.

The force of his fall sunk the long dagger Gord held before him through the thick hide and padding so that its full length buried itself into the would-be killer’s back just beneath his left shoulder blade. Gord’s weight and the momentum behind his plunge felled the fellow as if he’d been pole-axed, and as he flattened on the floor with a whoofing noise, the tip of the dagger bit into the wood and pinned him to the floor.

This foe was a tough one-no run-of-the-mill thief, to be sure. Without outcry, the man tried to turn and get at the weight on his back, but the dagger held him immobile long enough for Gord to take out his second weapon, the short knife, and strike again. His wild swing slashed the killer’s right forearm as the fellow tried to ward off the blow. The wound caused him to gasp and reflexively drop his sword. Gord tossed away his shorter blade and, by lunging out and away from the man’s body, managed to snatch up the invader’s weapon. Even as the man freed himself from the floor, Gord was up and attacking again. The third time was the charm.

The sword rose and fell twice more before Gord was satisfied that the enemy was finished. Had he not taken him totally unawares, and then had him pinned down, Gord knew that the man would have slain him. Gord was shaking and sweat-covered. He stood absolutely silent, holding his breath. Had anyone heard the fight? Was another murderer coming? No footsteps indicated this, and no outcry arose. Whatever was going on, apparently no one but Gord knew about it.

With actions born more of instinct than intention, Gord searched the body of the dead thief. There were a few coins in the man’s girdle, and Gord pocketed them without thinking. He returned his knife to its sheath on his right hip, drew out the great dagger, wiped it clean, and replaced it in the sheath between his shoulder blades. Finally, he took the belt and scabbard from the corpse. The belt was too large for his slender waist, but he used it as a hanger, slinging it over his right shoulder, and sheathed the sword on his left hip. Softly, Gord crept from his room and into the unlit corridor beyond to discover what was going on.

He passed several open but dark doorways before the glow from a flickering lamp within one room allowed him to determine what was happening. The bloody truth was there before his eyes. Jenk lay on the floor of his room in a pool of congealing gore. His corpse was covered with wounds, and his throat was cut. He had been the first of the masters, and the first renegade thief to enlist with the Beggarmaster.

Further examination of a few more of the apartments told the whole story. Somehow, a band of thieves had penetrated the place and set about killing the beggar-thieves and beggars inside. Gord felt that it would be pointless for him to go higher in the building. They had probably started from above, assaulting the beginners and apprentices first after gaining entry from the rooftop, and worked their way down. As the least of the masters, Gord had been assigned the smallest room and the one farthest from the stairs. He was most thankful for that. Gord surmised that the man he had slain was the only one left on the floor, the one given the job of cleaning up the last bit of work before moving on. He decided he had better do something fast, for the killers would certainly be finishing the floor below by now and readying themselves for the final encounter-the settling with Theobald.

Gord ran to a secluded back stair that was hardly ever used and silently bounded down the steps all the way to the bottom, where the passage opened into the pantry of the kitchen. Gord saw light around the edges of the ill-fitting door that separated the storeroom from the commissary area beyond. Cautiously, he peered through a large crack to see what was going on. There was the gross Beggarmaster, lantern in hand, followed by San straining under the weight of a metal box he carried, heading for the concealed entry to the subcellar. Gord jerked the door open and stepped out. The suddenness of his appearance made Theobald utter a startled gasp and nearly caused San to drop his burden.

“What? Oh, it’s you, boy! Don’t ever do anything like that again, or I’ll have you flayed and impaled, damn your eyes!” All that was said in the Beggarmaster’s usual falsetto, but the threat was real. The fat man took a breath and continued in a slightly more rational tone. “Don’t stand there like the fool you are! Help this weakling carry my chest. We must leave now!”

Gord said nothing and moved quickly to take one of the handles of the iron box from his small friend’s grasp. Together they managed its weight easily, the box held between them. The Beggarmaster had moved on ahead to the hidden portal, glancing back a couple of times to make sure that the boys were bringing the chest as he’d ordered. Theobald got the door open and stood aside as the pair struggled through. He then followed, shut the portal, and pulled a bar across it.

“That should keep them out for a bit,” he observed. Then he spun to face the two boys again. “Fortunate for you two rats that you’ve survived this debacle…. I have been betrayed by none other than the Lord Mayor himself!”

Gord nearly snickered aloud at the rage and hurt in Theobald’s tone. It seemed incredible to Gord that the fat idiot hadn’t expected something like this to happen. What other result could have occurred, given the circumstances and the power of the two quarreling groups? As members of the ruling elite of Greyhawk, surely the thieves counted for far more than the lowly beggars, even with their associated fellows-all of them deserving of whatever vengeance the Directors chose to mete out. How could that blubbery clown ever have imagined that a handful of hostages would tip the balance in his favor? It had always been but a matter of time before the Guildmaster of Thieves and his henchmen would strike.

“How did you escape?” Gord whispered to San.

“I heard a fight in the room next to mine, and I ran for my life,” San whispered back. “I stopped to alert the master, and as a reward he made me carry his treasure box,” he concluded sarcastically with a cold look in Theobald’s direction.

The Beggarmaster did not overhear any of this because he was occupied. He had gone to a corner of the chamber and uncovered the mouth of a hidden well-yet another exit from the place, and one Gord had never seen.

“Bring that box here,” Theobald grunted. Gord and San complied, then stood waiting for what would happen next.

“Put it on the floor, you little oafs,” the Beggarmaster said imperiously. “Can’t you see that I need assistance in getting down the first part of this wretched ladder?”

They rested the heavy chest on the stone flags as commanded and helped the obese man to carefully find the first rung of the ladder that descended the side of the shaft.

Theobald’s pudgy fingers closed around Gord’s shoulder, sending pains shooting into his neck, as the fat man nervously felt with his foot for the next step down. “Be careful now, you idiots!” he blustered. “One slip is all it takes… it’s a hundred feet to the bottom of this cistern.”

When he got low enough, the Beggarmaster released his grip on Gord’s shoulder and grabbed the topmost rung of the ladder. Gord watched him slowly continue to climb down, moving forward to see into the shaft. Some eight or nine feet below the floor level was a narrow ledge beside the iron rungs protruding from the stone blocks of the well. The Beggarmaster stepped off the ladder onto this projection, and the light of the lantern that swung from his belt revealed the mouth of a small opening that led off to the side. Theobald looked up at the pair above, once again completely sure of himself.

“I suppose I’ll save you, too-you’ve been faithful servants and can be useful still.” He stretched his arms up and said, “Pass me the chest, and then get your arses down the ladder-and be sure and close the trapdoor as you come down!”

Gord motioned San to one side, lifted the weight of the iron box by himself, and knelt beside the opening with the coffer in his arms. The Beggarmaster peered up expectantly as he saw the coffer come into view.

“Give it to me, dolt!”

Without a word or a glance downward, Gord let the box drop. There was a brief scream, a meaty sound of metal striking flesh, and then a long, drawn-out shriek that echoed off the walls of the old well before being cut off by a faint splash.

“That was the bugger’s treasure box, Gord!”

“It was worth it,” said Gord quietly, with a smile.