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

  “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.

  Chapter 7

  It was a quiet night in the Roc and Oliphant. Sometimes the little tavern at the end of Burnbook Lane would be packed to overflowing, but not this time. Gord was the only customer. The young man sat at the back table where the senior students congregated when they were around, a half-empty pewter flagon of wine before him. He was at ease in the wooden chair, his mind lazily wandering through what had transpired in his life after he had slain the Beggarmaster with his own iron treasure box….

  He and San had then made haste to get away, taking the side tunnel off the well-shaft that the fat tyrant had planned to use for his own escape. They had found a way out easily enough, for the drain had long been sealed off and prepared as a route in case flight was ever called for. Thoughtful, that fat bastard was, mused Gord. At the far end, near a manhole, they had found a large trunkful of gear stashed for possible need. He and San had both found much usable in its contents—some clothing, a sack to carry it in, materials for use in disguise that they took for later, and a pouch containing a pass that allowed unquestioned exit and entry through the various gates of Greyhawk for whoever presented it. Gord wondered about the origin of that benison as they opened the manhole cover and emerged into a closed courtyard in an abandoned building; once they got into the outdoors, stealing away into the night was a simple matter. Gord had not dared to use the gate pass right away, fearing that its employment by one so young might arouse suspicion as to how it was obtained. But it had come in handy several times in the more recent past.

  Best of all in the booty they had found were the coins hidden in the folds of a leather wallet—an even half-dozen each of orbs and plates. Neither lad had ever seen real gold or platinum currency this close up before, and they took a minute or two just to look at them in wonder. Gold orbs were equal to a thousand bronze zees each, and the rectangular platinum plates were equal in value to one thousand, one hundred zees—an orb and a lucky combined. Wealth beyond their highest hopes, a great boon indeed, but Gord remembered that when he had first held the coins, he could not help but wonder about the fantastic contents of the iron box…. Perhaps it hadn’t been worth it after all. Well, too late now.

  The first few months afterward had been trying for both of them. They had gone to the Foreign Quarter, supposing that the anonymity afforded them by that sector of the city would allow them to get settled and decide what they should do. Neither was certain if the Thieves’ Guild was looking for them or not. There could be a price on either or both their heads for all they knew.

  The Foreign Quarter had soon proved to be a poor choice. Two small boys, even lads who appeared competent and wore weapons, were something of a novelty. They were too noticeable. Some thought them prey, others curiosities, and so forth. They moved from place to place, seeking to avoid these unwanted intrusions on their privacy. A shabby inn here, a waterside boarding house there, and even a deserted shanty made into a secret den. Nothing seemed to suffice for long. Compounding their problems, both boys knew they must continue to exercise and practice, even though this ran counter to their desire for seclusion, for neither had a thought about abandoning the pursuit of their skills in the arts and crafts of thievery. Hate the thieves of the city they did, but not their profession!

  They found themselves forced to give up the Foreign Quarter when they bungled a job of pocket-picking on some foreigner whom both managed to underestimate. He set up a hue and cry after them as they fled, and the pair were lucky to escape that incident. That night they moved out and into the Quarter of Craftsmen just beyond the south wall of Old City. The place was safe enough, as long as they kept a very low profile. They stayed in a dull hostel
there for about two months, hardly ever venturing out. They paid promptly, and the ostler didn’t ask any questions. However, staying low didn’t make for fun, and they were young and fun-loving. It wasn’t a place to work at thievery, either. They did, discreetly, a few times, but the returns were hardly worth the risk and effort. Dreariness and confinement led to pacing and short tempers. After several senseless arguments and exchanges of blows, Gord and San knew that they had to find a real place for themselves in this big city.

  Funds were not a problem. It turned out that San also had a reserve of coins he’d managed to sequester. Even without the orbs and plates provided so thoughtfully by “Buggermaster Fattybald,” the boys had been happily surprised by the size of their combined stack of coins. The worth of that hoard was near a thousand zees. And they had augmented their cash by clever applications of their mutual profession, so that they had not been forced to touch their reserve.

  Although it seemed probable that there was no active search for them, and that no bounty was posted for their heads, they would be in trouble if any thief recognized them. This was very obvious, for there were still few beggars on the streets. Knowing full well that the upper part of New Town was closed to the likes of them, they tried to determine what viable territory remained for them to inhabit. After careful discussion and debate it was agreed that the Low Quarter, The Strip, and the River Quarter were not conducive to their continued liberty and life. Either they could remain where they were—perish that suggestion!—or try the Clerkburg. And while the latter thought had little appeal, staying put had less.

  Clerkburg was the district of the bureaucrats and the bookish. The upper end was filled with clerks, administrators, scribes and the like, for it was near The Halls—the government sector of the city and the location of many of its religious edifices as well. The lower portion was given over to the colleges of Greyhawk’s university, with attendant housing, shops, and minor schools as well. There was no choice other than this, and off the two went as soon as was practical.

  As they soon had discovered to their mutual surprise, Clerkburg was a wonder unto itself. The great stone colleges and imposing cathedrals lining The Processional hid another world behind them. This area was dotted with mazes of interconnecting buildings, small, walled parks, and other such obstructing physical features that formed a second line of defense between the world of academia and the rest of the city. Inside Clerkburg were hundreds and hundreds of students, many of them nearly as young as Gord and San. This was just the place for them.

  It was an easy matter to find an out-of-the-way place to stay. Their new digs, as they later learned to call their chambers, were in an ancient inn called The Acorns, near the great wall that surrounded the New City. Their host, Calvert, an elderly, red-faced man full of good humor and jokes, told them that his family had run the inn since before the wall was extended to encompass it. A narrow stone stairway led up to the rooms above the ground floor, which contained the bar, the dining room, the kitchen, and the hosteler’s own apartment. Gord and San arranged to take the attic above the guest floor, and although it needed attention, they were delighted with it. Not only was it large and complete with several windowed gables, but a gnarled oak lifted its stout branches from the rear yard to the windows that looked over it—an unobtrusive means of egress and entry whenever they wished to go undetected. The rent was one copper common a week, four a month if they paid that way, in advance. Gord had paid a month’s price immediately, and they had stayed there at The Acorns ever since…. Could it truly be almost three years already?

  Making good on their supposed reason for coming to the Clerkburg promised to be more difficult than finding quarters had been. When they first took up residence in the academic area, the college term was over, and most students were elsewhere for several weeks until the new one began. But if Gord and San were to be seen as students, they had to be students—the boys had to find someone to accept them as pupils. From his lessons in Theobald’s hall, Gord had developed fair proficiency with the pen, and he could read Common speech as well as the basics of the modern Oeridian and Suel languages. He could read maps, building plans, and some small amount of the writings used in spells. He could skillfully use the silent speech of the beggars and understood much of the patois of both the Rhennee and the Thieves’ Cant. San had about half this much skill, all told, and both initially had felt rather confident at their prospects for entering some college.

  They hit upon the idea of becoming acquainted with an old sage by the name of Prosper who dwelt nearby. The fellow grew herbs and puttered in his workshop when not reading. Since Calvert had once introduced them, the boys felt free to approach the old man. Their vast ignorance in all subjects was quickly made obvious to them, as the ancient scholar deluged them with what he claimed were simple questions, and neither lad could answer one in twenty.

  “What are the nine known dimensions of the multiverse?” the good doctor demanded.

  San managed the three obvious ones—length, breadth, height.

  “Astrality and ethereality,” Gord added proudly, but he was stuck after that.

  “Time, probability, extra-conceivability, and nonconceivability,” Doctor Prosper finished, and both boys squirmed.

  “From whence came the Common Tongue?”

  “When was the Empire of the Aerdi overthrown?”

  “What is leverage?”

  “How can you explain technology?”

  Gord took a shot at that one. “It is a myth of the ignorant used to fool gullible folk and frighten children!”

  “Nonsense!” the elderly scholar retorted. “It is the counterpart of magic within the dimension of probability and works in inverse proportion to it.” Then he resumed firing off questions.

  “What was the Invoked Devastation, and when did it occur?”

  “Of what use is basilisk blood in alchemy?”

  “Enumerate the Inner Planes—there are twelve. Name them.”

  “Relate the major deities of Oerth to the minor ones, and explain how they relate to the forces of the Lower Planes.”

  “What is the largest tree known?”

  “Roanwood,” San shot back with relief.

  “Good,” said Prosper. “And what vegetation and creatures are typically found in association with roanwoods?”

  There was no reply forthcoming, so the sage continued his barrage.

  “What are the characteristic differences between the races of men? Do they make us into different species, or merely indicate variations? Likewise, explain the racial differences of demi-humankind, and relate them to humans.”

  “This is most unfair, Doctor Prosper! You are a renowned sage!” said Gord, a twinge of desperation in his tone.

  “Come, come, lads,” the white-bearded chap said, shaking his head. “What authority have you that I am renowned? No, no. Quite the contrary. I am but a minor scholar now put out to pasture, seen as being too old to have anything worth teaching today’s students….” The old man paused and fixed first San, then Gord with his stern gaze. “That’s not to say you both aren’t abominably ignorant, though it is surprising that you know your letters so well.”

  The boys looked at each other, but before either could think of any reply, the old man concluded the interview.

  “I’d have mistaken you both for a pair of cleaned-up urchins from Old Town way, but where would you find funds to be here, and how could you be staying in that loft you’re furnishing at The Acorns? Then I supposed that you were a pair of precocious thieves, what with the funds you have and the sort of weapons you tote about, but then why would thieves be wishing to become educated?

  “Therefore, I must conclude that you are a pair of bright lads from the back country sadly in need of edification and instructions. Lessons begin next Waterday, and you’ll get only Godsday free from them each week—that is, if you can afford the tuition.”

  Again Gord and San looked at each other in blank surprise.

  “Well, come no
w! Can you? It’s the standard charge—six zee per week, each, you know, and you must bring enough lunch to feed your teacher as well as yourselves.”

  Studies were hard under the crotchety Doctor Prosper, but he was a mine of information. Although it was surely known to Calvert that his tenants attended no regular school, but were instead tutored by his neighbor, the good man never made mention of it. The drill continued for the whole time of the university’s sessions. The sage worked both boys hard, and they found that they had to do more than pay tuition to him and bring extra food. There were always things to buy—quill pens, parchment, blank scrolls and books, and occasionally even a scribed text of some sort, although Prosper would usually allow the boys to utilize his personal library under his keen-eyed surveillance.

  Although studies, homework, and occasional carousing took most of their time, both boys had promised themselves that they would not allow their more nefarious talents to grow rusty and forgotten. Things had quieted sufficiently so that they felt comfortable outside the district. On their one day of the week free from lessons, Gord and San would walk with the stream of students drifting toward The Strip. There, and in the fringes of the River Quarter and Low Quarter as well, they worked at picking pockets, slitting purses, pilfering small items, and even the planning of mock burglaries, robberies, and executions. By these activities they didn’t profit much, but enough, and neither was detected.

  One day San brought two old locks back to the loft. He’d picked them up at a locksmith’s for a small price, for both were old and in need of work. It became a game for them, first to repair such old locks, then to pick them open. Soon the place was littered with heaps of repaired and oiled locks, of all sizes and descriptions, that the two had mastered. Gord made a fair profit by peddling them back to the same locksmiths who had originally got rid of them. San was pleased, talked Gord out of the money they’d made, and went out to find the best locks that their money could buy. In this fashion—studying, practicing, carousing, and lock-picking—the boys passed nearly a year, and generally had a good time in doing so.