Gord gave her his best boyish grin, grabbed her around her narrow waist, and planted a kiss full on her pretty lips. “I love you, darlin’ girl, but you’re right as always! It’s time I was off to see the lands about this great world. I’ll seek my fortune—and myself, too. When I come back a rich man you’ll marry me, now won’t you, Meg?”
“That’ll be the day,” Meg said, pushing him away with mock anger. “You’ll be back here tomorrow, drinking that nasty wine again and trying to seduce every lass with a well-turned leg,” she snapped, and then hurried off to attend to her work.
Meg didn’t allow Gord to see the moisture in her eyes. She knew he wasn’t just talking—indeed, he wouldn’t be back. That she had sensed the moment Gord had come into the tavern this evening. He was going away, possibly never to return, and Meggin truly cared for the young man, scoundrel though she believed him to be. She would have preferred him to stay, under different circumstances, but Meg was no fool. Gord could never love her, or any other, until he came to some decisions inside, found something he sought after. That was why he drank the black wine of the Pomarj. “Goodbye, Gord,” she whispered as the young man strode out of the Man in the Moon.
A minute later the three nondescript men left the tavern also. They didn’t bother finishing a nearly full pitcher of ale that was at their table. Meggin wondered about that later as she cleared their place, but she thought nothing further of it.
The trio followed the young man as he headed toward the southwestern portion of the quarter, with every step taking him deeper into the dark, quiet byways of the district.
“See, he reels like a sodden sailor,” hissed the pig-eyed man.
“Better still,” the man with the thick neck and the scar on his cheek said with a tone of satisfaction, “he goes to where there will be none to witness what is about to occur!” It was evident that the bull-necked fellow was the leader, and he made a point of letting the other two know this by his words. Scarface had the last and best always.
“As usual?” The query by the hawk-faced member of the trio brought a quick nod in affirmation from Scarface. Without further instruction the questioner strode purposefully across the narrow street. He walked quickly, paralleling the path of their target, and was soon ahead of Gord on the opposite side of the way. The drunken young man paid him not the slightest attention, intent as he was on simply making his journey home without falling.
“As near as I recall…” Gord sang softly to himself as he went, occasionally using his right hand to steady himself against the front of one building or another. “ ’Twas an evenin’…” he caroled out, loudly now, as If pleased with his performance, “…in the fall….”—and at that point he actually lost his balance and toppled to the ground in the darkness beside a building.
“Take him now!” Scarface called out to the man with the hawk face as he and the pig-eyed fellow ran toward the fallen youth. The lead man was already crossing to get to the victim when the command was shouted, for he had been watching and waiting for the right moment. The three thugs converged on the prone victim as vultures swoop down to feast upon the carcass of a dying animal.
The hawk-faced man was the first to arrive, his dagger poised to strike—and an instant after he lunged toward the fallen figure, a scream sounded along the lane. No shutters flew open to shed light on the happenings, no doors cracked to allow the inhabitants of the street to see. Nobody cared to investigate late-night events in the Foreign Quarter. Even the watch patrolled only the main thoroughfares and the streets along the walls. Those who dwelled within or dared to walk through this neighborhood were fair game.
“That blaster is already looting him!” This came from Pig-eyes as he and his companion ran up to where the two shapes were mingled in the deep shadows. They had seen their comrade fall upon the prone fellow, and assumed he must certainly be going for the victim’s purse even now.
“You’ll get yours!” Scarface growled at the hawk-faced man through his panting as he lumbered up to where the assault had taken place. The threat was obvious and certain to be carried out. The thick-necked leader would brook no attempt at grabbing spoils without his approval. Scarface bent over the two bodies, grabbed his comrade by the collar, and flung him off the victim. A second too late, he realized what he had done.
“He’s already gotten It, friend!” Gord said loudly as he lunged upward to a kneeling position and rammed his short sword into the man’s paunchy gut. Now it was Scarface’s turn to yell. He let out a roar of pain, for the blade had sunk into his vitals. Clutching his belly with both hands, the bull-necked man reeled and staggered away, moaning.
Pig-eyes had been a few steps behind when his boss got to the scene, which gave him time to stop and pull out the weapon he hadn’t thought he would need. The momentary delay did Gord some good as well. The man cursed as he ran at Gord and drove a wickedly aimed blow at him—but the curved blade of his knife sank into the back of his dead associate instead. At the last instant, Gord had pulled the hawk-faced fellow’s corpse between himself and his attacker, using it as a shield.
“Gods—” Pig-eyes began to sputter another oath as his blade sank in, but he got no farther, for the body suddenly sailed upward and outward, striking him. As the would-be mugger stumbled backward, trying to get free of the sprawling corpse and pull out his knife at the same time, Gord sprang up and went over to press a full attack.
Drunk he was, but not so much as he had put on. Further, this trio of thugs was inexpert. Gord had figured them for bandits when he had first entered the Man in the Moon, before he had fully sunk into his black mood and black wine. His young age and heavy purse had made the three incautious. That pair of mistakes, taking him for an easy mark and having overconfidence in their own ability, had cost two of them dearly. Now the third member of the group had to face the same possibility. As Gord advanced toward him, sword held before him in his right hand, the man had finally figured out how to get the leverage he needed to yank his curved blade out of his comrade’s body.
“Free your knife,” Gord said to him, “for this must be a fair contest.” He laughed as he said that, for such sport made him forget his own discontent.
“Help me, Baldor!” The fellow called to his bull-necked leader, but that man had no more stomach for the fight… in more ways than one. Seeing that. Pig-eyes crouched low, knife before him. His stance was good; it was evident that he had fought this way often enough to feel comfortable and act instinctively. His renewed confidence showed as he addressed Gord. “Fair? You lying little shit! Sword against knife is never equal.”
As a mugger the man left much to be desired, but Gord sensed his opponent to be a skilled fighter as he cautiously edged closer to the small-eyed man. “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Gord replied, flicking his blade out to observe how his adversary reacted. He knew that the contest was not as unequal or unfair as Pig-eyes would have him believe. A good knife-man was a terrible opponent, if he could close.
Pig-eyes saw his opportunity when the tip of the short sword moved slightly to the young man’s right as Gord edged around the body he had thrown at the small-eyed thug. To make matters even more promising, the young punk had thrust his left hand behind his back at the same time, leaving his torso virtually unprotected.
“Yaah!” the man shouted to distract his enemy as he swung his left arm outward to knock the sword wide and away. As he did that he leaped forward, and in a second Pig-eyes was almost upon his target, his sharp-edged knife held before him to sink inward and slice upward in a killing stroke.
Then Pig-eyes was shocked by a sudden movement, and the sound of steel on steel! Gord had met his knife with a dagger—a weapon that until an instant earlier had been concealed behind the young man’s back.
“Not so easy…” Gord grunted, needing all of his strength to fend off the stroke of the pig-eyed attacker. The man was full-grown, bigger, and far heavier than Gord. As they met, Gord pivoted on his right heel, turned his body, and allowed the attacker’s
own momentum and straining to carry him away to Gord’s left. He stumbled, off balance, as Gord completed his turn. The sword’s blade arced upward as he spun, then came slicing down, and the fatty neck of the pig-eyed man was nearly severed.
“…for you!” Gord finished as the cut went home. Then he turned to look for the third of the trio, the one named Baldor. He was nowhere to be seen, and Gord didn’t bother to look for him. In fact, he didn’t even bother to see what the purses of the two dead men contained. From his assessment of them at the tavern, he judged that the men wouldn’t have more than a few coppers between them. After wiping his sword clean of gore, he hurried on. This was no time to have attention drawn to him.
Gord’s chambers were in a tall, narrow building that housed an apothecary. The man and his family lived just above the shop, while the three upper floors were rented out to tenants. As usual, Gord had happily taken the uppermost floor. From there he could enter and leave via the rooftop, unnoticed. This night he did just that, ascending to the top of a nearby warehouse and from there gaining his own rooms silently and unseen. Although he intended never to wear his present clothing again, Gord packed all of his belongings into a leather traveling case. When he was finished, nothing remained behind. Leaving by the same means he had used to arrive, Gord worked his way back along the steep rooftops, balancing the baggage case carefully. Soon he was back in the warehouse, and there he took a few items from the case before closing it up again and hiding it in a corner. It would eventually be found—days, weeks, or months later. Someone would be a few coins richer, and nobody would care enough about the mystery to inquire.
By now he was familiar with virtually every secret route that allowed egress from the Foreign Quarter without passing under the eyes of the city’s guards. His choice this time was a secret tunnel under a tower above Safelock Portal, a place where the inner wall of Old City met that which bounded the Foreign Quarter. It was too close to the active patrols on the street and the wall to appeal to clandestine parties of folk from Greyhawk’s underworld community, so it was especially safe for him. Avoiding the watch had never been a problem for him, and this time was no exception. Gord found his way below the streets, passed quickly along a corridor there, and emerged just as rapidly on the other side of the wall.
Early the next day he purchased a new cloak and a large chest. Then, with hired porters in tow, he acquired a larger wardrobe, commenting that it would not do for a stranger in the city to be garbed in outlandish fashion. Because he shopped in the trade district adjacent to the High Quarter, the merchants who profited from his free spending made no note of it. Many a rich traveler did the same there, and the young man was no different from the rest.
Later that same day, as the sun was beginning to sink, Gord sallied forth again, this time without bearers. Here he purchased a hat or two, and there gloves and gauntlets. A doublet for a pair of electrum coins, a short cape of superior tailoring for a like sum. Several times he went back to the little villa he had rented, dropped off his parcels, and set forth again. By dusk, as shops were closing their doors and shuttering their fronts, Gord had completed his work. The armoire in his bedchamber was filled, as was the trunk. Clothing of many styles and of varying degree of material was on hand. He could now go forth as a noble from some nearby kingdom, an ordinary youth traveling to seek his fortune, or in any one of a dozen other guises.
“This city is always ready to fleece the unwary, to use the weak, and to pay respect to the rich and powerful,” he said aloud as he donned the rich apparel typical of Velunese aristocrats. “Let them think me, then, a noble young lamb, rich and foolish, ready for shearing, too weak to even bleat a protest should I discover what is being done to me.
“In turn,” he said with a hard smile after a short pause, “I shall fleece the shearers, use the strong, and employ wealth and position to gain the upper hand. By their own dishonesty and greed I’ll play them for dunces, and none will be the wiser until it is too late.”
With that he set off into the evening, whistling a jaunty air. The poor had no cause to fear, nor even the wealthy but honest. But woe to any of the rest whom Gord the rogue might encounter. He had come to grips with himself and decided it was time to redress his status even as he changed his attitude.
Now he still was only what he was, but the “he” of now was vastly different from the “he” of before, and the prospect of a satisfying future gave him purpose and confidence.
Chapter 15
The creak and groan of oaken axles and roan-wood planks made soft music to Gord’s ears. As the Attloi gypsy wagon rolled along the old road heading north, he lay on a narrow cot built into its side and dozed. It was pleasant here, good to be off the water, splendid to be away from Greyhawk, far away. Flashes of memory came to him as the caravan trundled along….
The years he had kept up his masquerades in the gray-walled city of hawks were well past now, although he could recall his duplicity and daring there as if it were yesterday. As gambler, swindler, and confidence man he had been successful indeed; so successful that the city now paid keen attention to al! strangers who were for the least reason suspicious. A chance encounter with his old friend San, now son-in-law of the Grand Guildmaster of Thieves, Arentol, prompted Gord to decide it was time to travel. San, perhaps, had saved him from being brought into the Citadel for official questioning—Arentol was, after all, an oligarch as well as the chief of Greyhawk’s thieves.
Rather than being disgruntled about his need to get out of the city, Gord took it in stride and even welcomed the change. His rakish pose and devils-may-care attitude had been naught but a bluff face anyway. In truth he had become sick and disgusted with the poses of Grand Count Sir Margus, Poffert Tyne the jewel merchant, and all the other guises he had affected. After two years and more of high living in the city, his desire for revenge on the city of hawks had been assuaged, and it was high time to get out into the wilds of the wide, wide world.
He had spent nearly a year sailing the Nyr Dyv in the barges of the Rhennee. At first this had seemed a leisurely way to broaden his experiences, but now the recollection of that thought nearly made him laugh aloud. Perils and dangers there had been aplenty, whether aboard the barges or In one port of call or another. He had faced several sea monsters during that year, fought duels with Rhennee bravos, and gone with them on forays into water’s-edge communities to rob and steal. With all of that, though, nothing had compared to the risks involved with courting and winning the affections of one of their dark-eyed and beautiful women. He’d done that, and then had the devil’s own time getting rid of the scheming bitch! Wondering what had become of the hot-tempered Adaz, Gord drifted back into his doze, and the wagon creaked slowly on.
* * *
As Gord dreamed of his past adventures, there was, in Greyhawk, a discussion of him. The individuals concerned, and their talk, would have surprised the young thief indeed had he overheard the scene; but he was hundreds of leagues distant, asleep, and totally unaware.
“I can’t tarry here long,” the plump lord of beggars said to the other six individuals in the small room. “There are drawbacks to having headship…. Who’d have supposed that!?” Chinkers looked from one to the other, as If expecting an answer to what he well knew was a rhetorical question. He smiled when the tall priest of Fharlanghn chuckled. Then another figure spoke.
“You have kept track of him, then?” It was Markham, merchant and chief agent of the Balance in Greyhawk. His deferential tone indicated that the man he spoke to was his superior. Gord would have been amazed to see that man—flabbergasted indeed, for it was none other than the one he had called Uncle Bru more than a decade past.
“To a certain extent, yes,” the big man said slowly. His face was heavily lined, and his beard grizzled, but his eyes still showed a youthful gleam and twinkle. “He was being watched by our friends amongst the bargefolk, but we’ve lost him now….”
Clyde, now a member of the Lord Mayor’s Own Guards, and an office
r at that, shot a glance at his companion, old Tapper. That worthy too was a respected community member, having risen to one of the council of presiding masters of the Craftsmen’s Guild. He didn’t comment either, however, but turned to look at the cleric as that man ventured a question.
“Lady Risteria, is there something you can add?” The priest wondered why the wizardess had been silent all this time, for although the bearded Bru was nominally the leader here, there could be no question as to which of their number was the most powerful and most easily informed.
She had been holding off just to see what the others might have to say, and because she wanted to be asked for her rede instead of volunteering facts and opinions like the other members of the group. Now she decided to take her turn.
“Thank you, Zarten. There is Indeed something for me to say here.” The wizardess settled comfortably in her chair and took a moment to adjust her long gown of plain gray. “We have helped the lad…. I’d say we have meddled, save for the fact that wiser heads than my own have directed us In the course taken… but to what purpose?” She took a breath and answered her own question. “Well, he Is no longer a weakling, no more a coward, not a misfit dweller in the poorest places of Greyhawk. But just what is this man called Gord?”
This question was not entirely rhetorical. Lady Risteria paused to look at each of the six men in turn. Some of the expressions she saw showed the wizardess that the minds behind them held definite opinions, but none of the six spoke. She nodded, satisfied with their continued deference, and went on.
[Gord the Rogue 05] - City of Hawks Page 18