[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City Read online

  The workhouse was grim. It was a prison converted from its original use as a guard barracks, back when the city was smaller. It was centuries old; damp and must permeated the place, as did the stink of unwashed bodies. Lice and vermin thrived inside its walls, but prisoners did not. Sunlight scarcely entered so foul a structure—and if the prisoners were the dregs of Greyhawk, then the guards, to judge by their demeanor, were worse still. Fortunately for Gord, inmates were sorted by size and strength so as to assign suitable work to each group. Had he been thrown in with the larger and stronger prisoners, he wouldn’t have survived the bullying, sodomizing, and worse. As it was, put in a group of prisoners more or less his peers, Gord imagined that the denizens of the hells could learn a lesson from this place. He and his fellow sufferers were roused every morning at first light, given dirty water and a moldy crust of bread, then put to some back-breaking or painful task such as clearing narrow sewer drains or scrubbing acid vats. At least there was a brief march to the work area, which provided a short dose of sunlight and fresh air. The crew was worked for six hours, then given a half-hour to consume their main meal of the day—porridge or gruel containing rancid fat and bits of fortunately unidentifiable things.

  At dusk, all outside labor ended. Groups from various parts of the city were quick-marched back to the workhouse and re-deposited in their respective common cells. If they cleaned these places up properly, they would then receive watery broth and a bit of weevil-ridden bread for supper. If even one member of a group of cellmates made any trouble, all went hungry. A troublemaker didn’t live long unless he was the biggest and strongest in the lot. Even then, the guards soon saw to it that his work and discipline wore him down, and the inmates themselves did the rest, until the malcontent was eventually carried out one morning with the night-soil buckets.

  Nights were the worst time of all. There was little light in the small, damp cells even when the sun was high. As darkness fell, the place became a lightless hell. Shrieks and cries echoed through the corridors, mingled with insane laughter and the groans of the sick and dying. There were activities going on in other places within the workhouse, things that Gord had heard of but didn’t want to think about, and he was glad enough to be in even so small a place, a cell for some of the weakest and most harmless residents.

  He found a small space for himself, scraped together a bit of moldering, stinking straw for a bed, and stayed there whenever he could. Gord kept to himself and spoke to nobody unless he had to. The vermin were hungry and aggressive, but they were an inconvenience, not a threat. Rats and huge centipedes were another thing altogether. He learned to sleep very lightly and to jump up, fully awake, at the slightest rustling. Each new prisoner quickly learned to make himself a small weapon to employ against attacks by rats or centipedes. Gord had a sharply pointed stick about a foot long. This weapon kept him safe, even though he could not usually kill anything with it, for any wounded predator was promptly attacked and devoured by the other scavengers—or sometimes by the occupants of the cell!

  After a few days of imprisonment, Gord had completely overcome his initial shock and horror, and he began to think: If actual escape was not possible, then how could he better his condition? The others confined with him were a mixed bag indeed. Old women, children, even an ancient gnome seemingly near death. In the time he had been in the workhouse, only one sickly boy had died in the cell, and some stringy-haired girl had been incautious and was killed by a fall into an acid vat. That wasn’t exactly encouraging to Gord, no matter how he turned it over in his mind. Gord wasn’t robust, and who knew when fatigue would make him careless? Something had to be done, fast!

  He considered his world—fellow prisoners, the cell room, the guard. Only one prospect seemed to offer any possibility. If he could somehow be assigned to a still weaker group, the one composed of the nearly feeble and the maimed, then he thought his work would be lighter and certainly not dangerous. Gord had seen the line of shuffling, hopping, crutch-supported workers from the floor beneath his cell being led to and from a workroom within the prison itself. This idea offered promise!

  Gord did not seriously consider maiming himself to get into the group, but his aversion to pain and infirmity was not the main reason. He had heard that self-inflicted disability brought a whipping and consignment to a dungeon cell for the condemned, where neither food nor water were to be had. Supposedly, the rat-gnawed bones of the former tenant were removed by the newcomer as part of the final lesson to be learned. Gord shuddered at the thought of slow death by thirst and starvation, while rats nibbled off toes and fingers. So, injury was out. Likewise, weakness couldn’t be feigned, and neither could age. That left only sickness. But in the workhouse there was no care for the ill—no cleric, no physician, no medicine, nothing. Prisoners either got better or died. Those unable to work were not fed, although a companion might share water and a morsel of food—a stupid thing to do, thought Gord, for it only increased the benefactor’s chance of being the next to go.

  To be safe he had to be sick in a special way—still able to work, but so sick as to be unable to do anything but the least strenuous sort of labor. He thought for a while longer, and then Gord had his plan.

  The turnkey came at dawn as usual, heralded by the sound of his huge iron key grating in the massive lock, while the waiting guard thumped his truncheon against the oaken door. Everyone would be awake when the portal swung open and food was doled out. A large man carried the water butt, while a crone parceled out the bread from the sack she toted. Nobody noticed Gord, the last in line, until he came near the trustees. The old woman lurched back with a shriek, and the water-bearer looked pale at the sight of the boy. Gord’s eyes were red-rimmed and watering. He sniveled and wiped absently at the mucus dripping from his nose. His face, body, and extremities were marked by scabby sores.

  “The little bugger’s got the plague!” the hag screeched.

  “Keep ’im away from me!”

  The turnkey and the guard looked at Gord, who smiled weakly at them, shrugging, then looked at each other. Yarm, the turnkey, scratched his head and offered a diagnosis. “It do look kinda like bloodpox, Clyde, but he ain’t wobblin’ an’ twitchin’ like they do.” He scratched his head again, knocking his steel cap awry.

  “C’mere, boy!” commanded Clyde, the guard. He watched Gord approach hesitantly. Gord was careful not to wobble or twitch, because bloodpox was a serious malady indeed—too serious for his purpose. He advanced slowly to within a couple of paces of the men. Without touching him, both guard and turnkey looked closely at him. Now, Yarm was stumped.

  “Sure as shit it’s sumpin,” he ventured, “but I’d say it ain’t bloodpox—”

  Clyde cut off the turnkey’s observation in mid-sentence, motioned Gord out of the cell, and pointed toward a niche in the corridor with an upended crate nestled in it.

  “Sit there, and don’t move, else I’ll club you!” said Clyde, and then he gave his attention to getting the miserable lot of prisoners lined up and ready for coffling into the morning work party. In a minute or two a pair of guards carrying a set of chain and leg irons appeared from around the corner. They snapped the restraints in place on the prisoners as Clyde informed them that “the little punk,” as he called Gord, would be going with him. The other guards hustled their charges down the corridor and around the corner. In the meantime Yarm had moved on, as had the crone and the water-bearer. Gord and the guard were alone.

  Although he had not moved his body, Gord had watched every move that Clyde made. Did anything in his bearing hint that he suspected Gord’s deception? It hadn’t been easy to make himself look sick. Finding a mold that caused his eyes and nose to be irritated and runny was not too hard, but the sores had been another thing altogether. His head had ached with concentration and he had nearly given up in despair before the idea of bedbugs struck him. Gord had had to spend half the night carefully feeling around for them and placing them in the desired locations on his face and body. Their bites
didn’t hurt much, but he had to fight to keep from crying out in pain when he rubbed the irritating mold-stuff into the wounds the vermin had left. Gord had hoped that the trick would work, but he hadn’t suspected that the ruse would be so effective as to resemble bloodpox! Few survived that disease without clerical attention.

  Gord had a feeling that the guard had not paid any attention to the turnkey’s opinion that the disease was not bloodpox—yet, at the same time, he was puzzled by the guard’s lack of concern about possibly being exposed to that terrible disease. All the others in the vicinity had hurried away as quickly as possible, murmuring prayers to whatever deity they adhered to. Gord’s thoughts turned from excitement to apprehension; he was now really afraid that he had gone too far. If they thought he actually had anything like bloodpox, he’d be killed and his body burned. No argument, no reprieve. The end. If he admitted to his deception, then the end would come just as certainly, but more slowly: Starvation in the dungeon would be his fate.

  Clyde took a seat on a bench nearby and began scratching with a quill on a bit of parchment, only bothering to glance at Gord once in a while. Gord was amazed that the guard knew how to write. After several minutes of scratching and peering at the parchment, Clyde seemed satisfied with what he had on the scrap of material. He tucked it back in his jerkin and let out a shrill whistle. In a couple of moments another guard appeared from around the corner.

  “What’s up, Clyde?” the new fellow inquired.

  “Mornin’, Roak. Nuthin’ much. Just need you to stand my station for an hour or two, whilst I take care of getting shucked of this sickie.”

  “Zork!” cried the startled Roak as he got a good look at the huddled boy in the niche. “That bird gots bloodpox!”

  “Naw,” Clyde drawled reassuringly as he arose. “It looks a lot like bloodpox, but the little chump has a plague that’s only catching if ya consorts with corpses—if ya get my meanin’, Roak.”

  “No shit! That creep got that from messing with a stiff? Wow!” Shaking his head and looking at Gord with utter disgust, the fellow plopped down in Clyde’s spot. “Glad you have to take care of the slime-bucket. See you in a coupla hours or so, pal.”

  Clyde motioned for Gord to get up, throwing him a cruel wink that indicated he should be afraid of what was in store for him, and then gestured for him to head down the corridor while he followed. “I’d bash his brains in m’self, Roak,” said Clyde over his shoulder as they moved away, “but that might infect my club. I’ll just leave it up to—” and by then they were out of the short corridor and heading down a set of stairs, and Clyde didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

  Gord thought about trying to run away, but there was no way he could have succeeded. In spite of himself, he began to quiver with fear. His eyes darted from side to side, and he even began to take small steps away from the guard. Clyde saw that his charge was near complete panic, so he muttered softly: “Stop it, you stupid punk! In a minute you’re gonna blow the whole thing for both of us!”

  Now Gord was more puzzled still, but the utter fear that had been washing over him subsided enough for him to remain in control of it. Soon they were at the front gate of the prison. Clyde handed over the document he had scratched out moments earlier, and the sentries passed them through without word or question. Gord could scarcely believe what was happening! In a few minutes the workhouse was lost from sight as they walked briskly into the Thieves Quarter.

  Gord tried to find out what was happening and where they were going. His first set of questions was ignored, and when he tried again a couple of minutes later he got a slap on the side of the head for his effort. Obviously, the guard was not going to tell him anything more, and from moment to moment Gord’s confused emotions vacillated between optimism and apprehension. After a walk of some distance, they came to a stop in front of a huge, old, dilapidated building. And still the guard said nothing.

  Chapter 3

  The inside of the old building was a marvel of decayed, rococo splendor. Aside from the dilapidated, filthy anteroom, the whole place was furnished in grand but shabby style. It was the mansion of Theobald, king of rag-pickers, sovereign of scavengers, lord of… junk. No other term could describe the welter of ragged, tattered, damaged, and defaced articles that filled the place to overflowing. Amid this incredible collage sat a huge, fat man on what was possibly once the divan of some Baklunish potentate. The tattered fabric of the sofa seemed to complement the stained and worn-out finery of the gross man who rested upon its broken frame. For a moment, he listened while Clyde paid him proper homage and began to state the reason why he and Gord had invaded the man’s domain. Then Theobald waved a great, pudgy-fingered hand, his cheap rings and gaudy bracelets flashing and jangling as he did so, and Clyde immediately fell silent.

  “What qualifies this little gaol-louse for my consideration, Clyde-the-Sharper? How dare you bring such before me and demand payment in good silver!” The fat fellow virtually shouted the last few words, and the wattles of his neck were reddened by such exertion. “Take him back to your miserable workhouse, or have him tossed into the lime pits, it’s all the same to me. I won’t buy him!”

  Clyde didn’t seem too disturbed by the outburst. “Great Master,” he said soothingly, “I don’t dispute your needs, but I crave your pardon with respect to the analysis of this fine young chap’s worth.” The fat man snorted at that, but Clyde continued as if he hadn’t heard. “He is an urchin from the worst part of the Slum Quarter, one clever enough to steal clothing and make it all the way into the heart of the Petit Bazaar. There he actually managed to make off with a finely wrought silver bracelet, pretending all the while to be part of an entourage of tallfellows. And had the Merchants’ Cant not alerted the Watch, he’d likely have escaped, too!”

  Merchants’ Cant? Gord had never heard of that before! He knew that thieves had a secret language, as did certain others, but the merchants? This was stunning news indeed. Meanwhile, the amazing conversation continued:

  “So you think that qualifies him to be an apprentice to the Beggarmaster? Bah! Perhaps you can peddle him to some lesser person, robbing the customer of his money in the process, but not to one so wise as I. Again I say, take the vermin away! Bronze would be too dear for the likes of him!”

  Gord suddenly realized that Clyde and the obese monster seated on the couch were bargaining over his price! He was about to be sold into virtual slavery. He started to open his mouth to shout that he was a free citizen of Greyhawk, but the memory of the workhouse sprang unbidden to his mind. Gord shut his mouth again and remained quiet. Perhaps apprenticeship to this notorious creature was better than servitude or death in the prison workhouse…. Perhaps.

  “Done, then,” said Clyde, reaching out and slapping the palm of the Beggarmaster with his own open hand. “He’s yours for only ten commons.”

  Muttering darkly, the Beggarmaster dug a bulging purse from the worn girdle of faded purple leather that somehow encompassed his vast girth. One at a time, caressing each, he counted out ten copper coins for the outstretched hand of the man before him. Clyde, more sure of himself now that he had coins in hand, grinned ruefully, shook his head, and said, “You’ve had me again, you miserable, fat bastard of a skinflint. This dirty waif will turn out to be your most profitable purchase yet, or I’m a half-orc.”

  The Beggarmaster eyed him coldly. “If you weren’t of small use to me, Clyde, I’d have you killed for the sport of it. Get yourself and your money out of here, and don’t come back for a long time, or I will overlook your usefulness.” This was spoken slowly and softly, but the guard reacted with haste. His arrogance gone as quickly as it had come, Clyde left hurriedly, without formality or even a good-bye. It made Gord shiver to see the burly guard humbled so abruptly.

  “Come here, boy.” The voice sounded fat and soft like the man speaking, but the tone was similar to that which had sent Clyde flying off. Gord hastened to obey. And then…

  Smack! The huge, fat hand of the Begg
armaster was not as soft as it looked. Gord was knocked off his feet by the open-handed swat to the side of his head. He saw bright flashes of light before his eyes, and his ears rang. When his head cleared he looked up and saw the man who was now his master staring at him without expression.

  “Now you know exactly where you stand, boy. I paid hard copper for you, and you are now my property, as certain as you belonged to the workhouse—only the guards there are kinder than you will find me to be.”

  Gord couldn’t help trembling even as he was trying, out of pride, to keep from showing his fear. He instinctively drew himself into a huddled heap on the floor, watching and waiting for a kick in the ribs or another slap across the head. The fat man saw Gord’s terror, and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Gord could not tear his eyes away from the blubbery lips, and he watched as the smile was transformed into a cruel leer.

  “You understand, don’t you, boy? You have escaped the cooking pot but now lie amidst the coals. But you might have a little promise at that. On your feet, boy, and tell me your name and all you know!”

  Gord’s session with his new master had been long and grueling. At the slightest faltering or hesitancy on his part, the gross monster had calmly struck him again. Gord soon realized that the Beggarmaster actually enjoyed hitting him and seeing him suffer as a result. When he understood this fully, Gord made no further effort to hide his fear or his pain, so as to keep the fat man in as good a humor as possible. But, at the same time, he was careful not to overdo the display, nor to allow sniveling and weeping to interfere with prompt and complete replies. After an hour or so, the Beggarmaster seemed to grow bored with the sport. By then, Gord had told him details of his whole existence. Surprisingly, the fat man had seemed to relish parts of it, especially the story of how he’d gotten rid of his foster mother’s body and the episode when Gord had wet his pants in fear of Snaggle. The session was ended with a handclap that brought a one-eyed man scurrying into the main chamber of the weird “palace.”