Chapter 9
It had been more than two years now since Gord had left the university and come to the northern portion of Grey-hawk, moving back and forth from High to Garden Quarter as his whim, or opportunity, dictated. In one guise or another, Gord had plied his profession as thief among the most wealthy and powerful citizens of the city without a qualm. Never once had he been detected, although suspicion occasionally had forced him to retire one persona and assume a new one.
By choosing carefully and striking infrequently, he had kept the officials of the city guessing as to what was going on. A great many of his operations had been so well-conceived and well-executed that the victims were left unaware that they had been swindled, cheated, or robbed. The game earlier this week, for instance: Three orbs could support a man modestly for a year, and Gord had virtually stolen more than ten times that much from the other players.
Teline, Sunray, and Gord were part of an active, loosely associated group who plied the arts and crafts of thievery without license from the Guild or acknowledgment of the Guild’s authority. It should go without saying that no portion of their illicit gains crossed the palms of the Guild leaders, and thus no funds from these operations came into the coffers of the city and its officials.
Thievery was at best a dangerous profession, for despite the influence of the Guild and the implicit sanction of its actions ,by the officials of Greyhawk, the laws were still the laws. A thief caught in the act was subject to a range of punishment going from bondage all the way to execution in various horrible ways. However, members of the Guild were safe from prosecution so long as they avoided discovery on the job, reported their activities afterward, and paid their tithe. Disgruntled citizens seeking retribution had little recourse against the Guild, save personal challenge or the hiring of an assassin. Vendettas involving the Thieves’ Guild were not healthy pursuits.
Outside the Guild, however, a thief had no protection. In fact, both victim and Guild, with the full cooperation of the city, sought to bring such “criminals” to “justice.” Of course, this just made things more exciting for the rebellious thieves who elected to operate outside all boundaries.
Most of the non-Guild activity was not robbery or burglary, although there was enough of that. The majority of these operations were of the sort that Gord had just enacted, involving impersonation, cheating, fraud, and the like. Few such swindles were detected, and few of those detected were talked about, but there was still plenty of heat upon the swindlers from both the Guild and the law-enforcement arm of Grey-hawk. The perpetrators were actively sought, their fences hunted, their accessories held as guilty as the actual perpetrators. This made the group a tightly knit fraternity—cautious, clever, and close-mouthed. Some operated only in the upper sector of the New City, some only in the lower, rougher districts, but all were aware of each other, by reputation at least. Gord’s favorite pseudonym was The Grand Count—a title that played on his size, his impersonation of noblemen, and the size of his gains—although lately he had been partial to his newly developed masquerade as one Sir Margus. In point of fact, the take from gambling was small compared to the profit from many of his other operations, and the proceeds from his recent triumph were enough to support Gord and his two associated thieves for no more than a month, living in the high style they favored.
Gord had changed but little since the day he’d quitted the pursuit of knowledge and resumed his profession. By then, at the age of sixteen, he had grown to some five and one-half feet in height, and his skinny frame had filled out with lean muscle. His beard had been heavy and dark then too, and his voice surprisingly deep for one with such slight build. His skill at disguise and acting enabled him to appear younger or older as he desired. Now, Gord could be a lad of fifteen or sixteen, or a young man in his early twenties, according to need.
Ever since his first introduction to disciplined physical exercise, he had grasped its vital importance to his continued success, and Gord never abandoned the routine of workouts and rigorous effort. And he had made an effort to keep improving himself in other ways as well, gaining instruction and information from whatever source was available. Gord was a quick study and a good student in all ways. His gray eyes showed that he took things seriously, and that he had purpose. He was never satisfied that he had learned enough about some subject, although he understood that he must sometimes abandon one course in order to examine another more fully.
Of all his studies in Clerkburg, Gord had most hated to give up the weapon work. Returning for regular sessions to the university district would have been impossible; but, of course, there were other weaponmasters in Greyhawk, so Gord had managed to continue his learning. The problem was that each change of identity required a change of tutor. Appearances might deceive, but never fighting style. Any swordmaster who had engaged in weaponplay with Gord would recognize his style blindfolded, in a manner of speaking. That he would soon run out of instructors bothered Gord not a little.
Teline had not committed herself to either Sunray or himself, and that bothered Gord far more. His concern came from the friction it caused between them as much as from his desire for her, and that was the truth. Gord had pondered the situation at length. There were plenty of other beautiful and talented women in Greyhawk. He wanted Teline, but if she chose Sunray over him, that would be an acceptable turn of fate, and he could look elsewhere for companionship.
It seemed that feline enjoyed the rivalry too much to make a choice, however, and the resulting strain upon the two young men was eroding the mutually beneficial relationship they had all enjoyed in the past. The three of them used to do everything together, but now either Sunray or Gord was alone half the time. Gord planned capers for himself and Teline, and Sunray likewise developed adventures that left Gord on the outside. Gord had been left alone on this night, actually, and had been none too pleased with the fact. Thus, he acted a bit rashly in once again donning his Sir Margus guise and venturing forth to see what delights the night might hold.
No linkboy was needed to light the streets in High Quarter. Cressets and lamps hung from its buildings made the streets bright enough. No escort was necessary either, for the broad thoroughfares were well-patrolled by the Watch and observed by many private guards in addition. Gord had no need for either torchbearer or protector, having grown up in the darkness and danger of the Old City’s worst sections, but as a Velunese knight of few years and unknown capabilities visiting the metropolis of Greyhawk, he would have been obliged to have them for show had the quarter been anything other than it was. He determined to stay within the warmly illuminated avenues of the place, and to stray neither into its more dimly lit, seductive byways nor beyond its boundaries. With him, as always, was the small sword of finest craftsmanship, which he had disguised with gold wire and gewgaws to appear the trapping of a dandy rather than a weapon, and his familiar old dagger and knife. The former, also embellished, hung at his right hip; the latter was nestled out of sight in his boot. His purse contained a total of five orbs value, in various types of coin—enough for fun and sportive gaming. The remainder of his winnings, and the rest of other successes too, was cleverly hidden as usual. Not even Sunray or Teline knew where he secreted this wealth. Damn them both! He would have his amusement without further thought of either.
Avoiding the Patricians’ Club, the establishment in which he’d outfoxed Lord Dolph, he walked away from The Citadel toward the less prosperous section where High and Garden Quarters met. There was more excitement to be had there, and less risk posing as a Velunese. It was unlikely that he’d run into anyone thereabouts who knew Sir Margus. He strolled toward the door of the Nymph and Satyr, selected it as a good place to begin, and in a minute was seated and quaffing his first tankard, casually observing the clientele.
“Sir Margus, how pleasant to find you here!” The voice from just behind his shoulder startled Gord, for he usually detected any nearby presence—a sixth sense, almost. He turned hurriedly to cover his confusion. It was
Arentol, and the guildmaster was smiling slightly.
“I was just speaking of your marvelous success the other evening,” he said. “Allow me to introduce my associate to you, for he was fascinated by the tale.” Arentol turned and beckoned. From the shadow of a nearby pillar stepped someone Gord knew well.
“Master San of Warwell, may I present Sir Margus of the noble Velunese House of Leewes. Sir Margus, Master San.”
Gord kept his eyes fixed on his old friend’s face, but San never showed a hint of recognition. Blandly, San responded, “An honor indeed, sir,” and gave a slight bow.
Arentol was not finished. “Come and join us at our table, please! We two are poor company, but we offer fine drink and a willing ear for your stories of far Veluna and your travels.” The guildmaster was all warmth and smiles as he touched Gord’s arm and gestured in the direction of his table across the room.
“It will be my distinct pleasure, Honorable Guildmaster—and master… San? Yes. Yes, by all means!” said Gord with equal friendliness, moving with them. “Let us share a cup or two, and I shall gladly tell you all about my wonderful homeland and the exciting adventures I have experienced since leaving that fair place.” Gord gave both fellows an ingenuous smile. “Serving maid!” he cried out as they reached the table. “We need your ministrations here!”
If the Lord of Greyhawk’s head thief thought to test Gord on his knowledge of Veluna and the lands around, he had not reckoned with that worthy’s previous schooling. While Gord had never been more than a mile beyond the walls that encircled the city, he had spent many hours reading history, studying geography, and hearing lectures on such faraway places. Perhaps Arentol thought San’s smiles were due to the elaborate lengths Gord went to in the near-monolog that ensued, or perhaps he attributed the cheerfulness to the young man’s ability to storytell. Gord knew that his old chum was secretly laughing deep inside as Gord related, nearly word for word, what both had heard from a particularly dry and windy professor. Gord intermixed a bit of his own fanciful creations withal, but the context was unmistakable.
Finally, after nearly two hours, and many draughts of the most expensive liquor the establishment offered, Arentol broke in. “And that ring on your finger? As I recall, you said it was a valuable family heirloom when you wagered it at the game.”
“Ring?” Gord allowed his gaze to move idly to the piece of jewelry on his finger as his mind raced. He had underestimated the guildmaster. A mistake.
“You mean this?” he said, holding up the chrysoberyl and moving it slightly so that the large green cat’s-eye winked back and forth in the light. “Great Pholtus, no! This trantlum is no family treasure, I mean.” Gord used his utmost duplicity to make the whole sound like indifferent and demeaning speech.
“Odd,” commented the Guildmaster, “I’d have sworn that you said it was a treasure. No matter…. But if it is no family heirloom, wherefrom came it?”
“Aha! You’re on to it, clever fellow. It is worth a bit of coin, and it does mean much to me. You guessed at the tale, so now I shall relate it for you!”
At first the guildmaster seemed interested, but after several minutes of preamble, he began to shift restlessly in his seat. He politely suggested that Gord get to the point. Gord assured him he was doing that, and then the young man went on to tell of a meeting with a devious gypsy and his band of sullen cutthroats, how they had tried to first dupe, then overwhelm him, and how he had finally slain the leader in single combat, thus gaining the ring.
At this, Arentol grumbled softly and abruptly excused himself to go to the jakes. After letting a couple of minutes pass in silence, San spoke.
“You’ve put him off, Gord,” he murmured with his flagon held before his mouth. “He’s suspicious of you now, and he’ll never stop until he finds out for sure, one way or another, whether you are who you claim to be.”
San cast a glance over his shoulder, checking to see if Arentol was on his way back to the table, while he waited for a response. Clearly nervous for himself as well as for his friend of old, he faced Gord again and with sad eyes gave him a last, whispered piece of advice. “You’d best get out of Greyhawk—while you can!”
Gord smiled but drained his cup instead of replying. The guildmaster returned, and within moments thereafter Sir Margus graciously took his leave.
Teline found the note first and read it aloud to Sunray: “My dear friends, I am so sorry I must leave without proper farewell, but a messenger from my family has brought me news that I am urgently required in Veluna. Do visit if you ever should come there! Your most loving servant, Margus.”
“What is this shit?” demanded Sunray.
Teline looked up from the note, her face contorted in anger. “The bastard has skipped with everything!” she shrieked.
That was a lie. Gord had left a pair of luckies next to the note.
Chapter 10
“Furl that sodomized sail, you mudsucking shitfoot!” The captain was not one to mince words, especially in the middle of a vicious storm.
“Aye, aye, cap’n!” Gord replied, tearing at the flapping canvas. He was near to being blown off the barge by the combined force of wind and sail, nearly blinded by the sheets of driven rain, and exhausted, but he obeyed as well as he could.
“Well, move your blasted buns then! How in hell can I save us all from visitin’ the bottom with the likes of you crewin’ this tub?!”
Gord had the sail in hand now, and several others of the Rhennee crew were helping him to secure it with stout lines so that it wouldn’t break loose again.
“Avast there, you blasters!” Gord heard the captain shouting in a bellow that managed to defeat the howl of the storm. “We need that gaff sail to keep her headed—” and then a shrieking blast of wind tore away the rest of the sentence.
Finished with the securing of the lug sail, he and the others hurried to the hatchway and ducked below deck. Gord didn’t envy the man on the tiller, the watch, or the captain during times like these. Conditions in the cramped, pitching below-deck area weren’t wonderful, but at least it was warm and dry.
After he left his farewell note at the Villa Noblesse, Gord had headed for the River Quarter. Without conscious effort, he took precautions so that his journey would go unnoticed and he would not be trailed by some agent of Arentol. After entering the district of sailors, longshoremen, and teamsters, he made doubly certain by taking specific measures designed to lose any follower, then he backtracked a bit just for extra insurance. He had left all of his fancy garments behind, and his current apparel was unremarkable. No sense in taking chances, he thought, and went one step further. A bit later, Gord strode through the Wharfgate clad as a riverman, sea-bag on his shoulder, soft cap pulled low on his forehead to help hide his features, ring nowhere to be seen.
It had been easy to locate a Rhennee “lord” willing to take on a working passenger. Gord simply approached a likely candidate, standing on the dock beside his barge, and made his request while gesturing in a signal from the secret language of the Rhennee folk. The bargemaster was surprised, but had not asked any questions, and overcharged Gord by only a few coppers. He introduced himself as Miklos.
The barge had sailed that same day, beating slowly up the Selintan River, headed for the ports of call of the Nyr Dyv and beyond. Going upriver on such a craft was easy, if somewhat tedious. The barge was some six paces or so wide and not quite four times as long. Although it had a shallow draft, less than a fathom unless heavily loaded, so as to enable it to navigate shallow waters and be easily beached, it was equipped with a pair of side keels that were lowered to stabilize the craft when it sailed in deeper waters. The freeboard was quite high, and the rails planked stoutly for protection. The roundish bottom was planked over, as was the beck, to provide a secure space for cargo and crew, the latter being the “family” of the captain. The master, being “lord” of the barge, dwelt in an abovedeck cabin abaft.
Smaller versions of this sort of barge had but a single mast. This
Gord had observed during his stay with the Rhennee years ago. Being one of the larger sort, however, the barge of Miklos had a small mizzenmast as well as the stout foremast. There were nearly two dozen souls aboard, only about half of whom were adults—but all but babes in arms had duties to perform, as Gord learned immediately. Everyone, it seemed, was expected to take a turn at the sweeps when the air was calm or the wind foul.
Eventually they had left the banks of the Selintan behind and sailed out onto the deep blue of the Lake of Unknown Depths. When they left the green shores of the river astern, Gord had seen the crew getting out their armament. From below came scorpions, heavy crossbows, and jugs of lamp oil. The scorpions, huge crossbowlike engines designed to propel heavy missiles as large as lances nearly two furlongs, were set into their sockets at bow and stern. The normal crossbows were stowed near swivels mounted on the scantlings, or planked side rails. Missiles for both were likewise kept in side lockers against the time of their need. Finally, the oil pots were secured in netting along both starboard and port beams. One of the crewmen had informed Gord that the oil would be used in emergencies only—such as when some sea monster attacked and could not be driven off by any other means. The oil would be dumped upon the attacking creature, and in the surrounding water, and a torch set to all. The fire risk to the barge was obvious to even so green a lakefarer as Gord.
At first the Nyr Dyv’s azure waters had been as calm as a tranquil pool. Gord had not known how fortunate he had been then. Cursing the lack of wind, he had taken his turn rowing, unaware of the possible alternatives. When the wind began gusting next day, he had first thought himself blessed, but by that evening the heavy pitching and rolling of the barge had made him awfully, terribly sick. The night had been sheer torture, but next morning was worse. The wind howled around him at near gale force. The cold was acute, which caused him to shiver and made him feel even worse.
[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City Page 9