City of Hawks (18 page)

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.

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 officer 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.

“I submit that we have somehow erred in what we did. Sometimes the Balance allows us too much latitude, and I fear that this is a case in point. Instead of a poor, Ignorant, and useless slum-youth, Gord is a knowledgeable, skilled, wandering thief and ne’er-do-well. He shows no loyalty, no concerns for aught but his own pleasure, acts on mere whims, and now companions recklessly with Attloi gypsies, squandering ill-gotten gains and increasing his efficacy at finding more such wealth by association with those shiftless cheats and liars!”

“Thank you. Lady Risteria, we-” Before Bru could say more, the wizardess cut him off. She had more to say and would say it!

“Why didn’t you act, Markham, to see that he remained at the university? And you, Zarten-as a priest, it was your duty to encourage him to study and follow useful paths in order to reach a better goal than that he has attained. Far better a cleric, even, if no suasion could be found to turn his mind to dweomercraefting! Yet you all, each and every one of you, served to keep him on course so that now he is nothing more than a wretched thief!”

“Madam!” Tapper sputtered, red-faced. Clyde was too angry to even manage a sputter, and the Beggar-master, Thadeus, better known as Chinkers, had great difficulty controlling his ire as well. If Risteria spoke thus of thievery, what would she say of thiggery? The very thought of her sharp tongue dissecting his profession made the plump fellow wince.

“Who here is so perfect?” It was Bru, speaking for them all, who asked that. The wizardess opened her mouth to reply, but the big, bearded man pressed on. “The Balance makes no such value Judgments, lady, so by what right do you place your craft-or that of Zarten-above any other? There is no answer, lady, for there is no right. Neither you nor I may sit in judgment of Gord, or of those above us who directed our actions in this regard. We did as we were asked because we accept the guidance of the Enlightened. Shall I now contact them and state your dissent?”

The wizardess’ face grew pale. “No, Master Bru, I think that will be quite unnecessary. I must apologize to you all for losing my composure and not checking my speech. It’s just that I thought the boy had so much promise…”

“And still does-or has even more so!” It was Clyde, finally able to voice his opinion. That one is a man now-and never has a finer practitioner of the art of thievery existed, to my knowledge! As a stripling he outshined most adults. Full grown, Gord must be a match for the masters of the guilds both east and west. Why, In a decade or two his name might be legend amongst all who-”

“Who know of the rankings of speculation and depredation,” the priest filled in. “Yet we aren’t here to discuss Cord’s merits, either-and it needn’t be said that I happen to side with Lady Risteria in regard to deploring thievery, on grounds too self-evident to go into here.”

“Get on with it, man!” Markham was beginning to grow weary of this conclave. Bickering should be reserved for trading and kept out of council. His look said that plainly enough.

“Of course, of course,” ahemed Zarten. “I suppose I assisted the lad’s course by supplying him with the lightstone, after all… To the point, then. Good lady mage, please intelligence us on young Gord’s whereabouts and likely prospects now. You mentioned that he was part of a band of gypsy folk, as I recall.”

“Quite right,” Lady Risteria said. “When I was notified of this meeting, I took the trouble to scry out the subject, and thereafter I sought advice arcane from certain powers favorably attuned to me.” She paused to allow comment, but not one of the six others present spoke, so the wizardess resumed her account.

“Gord is a very able young man, of that there is no doubt. Since leaving our city he has grown in skill, both at his… craft, and with the weapons of warfare as well. The Attloi he now accompanies are artful instructors, and young Gord practices diligently at gymnastics and acrobatics, rope walking, tumbling, the whole useless lot common to jugglers, wandering performers, and the rest of the gypsy lot who employ such feats to further their own-”

“Ahem!”

The loud clearing of his throat and the accompanying look from Markham sufficed to put Risteria back on track again. “…livelihood,” she finished, doing her best to remain unruffled. “It seems he will become more able than ever to succeed, yet there are many dangers ahead for Gord, and many clouded areas. Someone, something, a power perhaps, still interposes itself if his skein is examined too closely.”

“I too encountered such interference, lady,” Zarten said solemnly. “I think it was no evil one who interfered, though. I cannot be sure, of course, for I dared not pry too strongly,” the cleric added for the benefit of the others. “It seemed evident that he will be in peril often. One of ours should be near just in case.”

“And that is why we are met here this very hour,” the bearded leader of the council said. “Your words are well. taken. Before nightfall I will be departing Greyhawk, and I will pass along the opinion of this group to those above me. Is that the voice of us all, then? Gord should have full attention in the near future because of impending peril?”

Nods of assent to this came from Tapper, Clyde, Markham, and Chinkers. “I concur,” said Lady Risteria. The priest spoke last, saying, “It would seem to be the most prudent course for the Balance, assuming that he is still considered to be important to future events-for Gord does go into danger, of that there can be no question.”

“Then that is the message I shall give to my superiors,” Bru said, concluding the meeting.

At about that time Gord awakened. He had had a bad dream, and the sudden jolting of the wagon brought him out of it abruptly and thankfully. Wiping the sweat from his face, the young thief went to the back of the vehicle and swung open the little door at its end. It was no feat to jump out and run along beside the slowly moving wagon. His two friends were on their steeds up ahead someplace, and Gord would seek them out now. Soon camp would be made for the night, and he wanted to see what plans were afoot for the evening.

“Hey, Channos! Elo! Wait for me!” The two young Attloi gypsies had been his friends, and instructors of a sort too, since last summer. It was early spring now, and Gord was no longer a pupil. If anything, he could show the two of them a trick or two at acrobatics, but boon companions they were still.

“Where have you been hiding?” Elo demanded as he turned his horse in Gord’s direction.

Channos was less patient than that. “Hurry up! Get your horse and join us. We won’t wait, you know! There’s an inn at Karrish, the village just ahead. If we don’t get there soon, the rest of the men will be there to get the best pickings before us!” With that Channos rode off and Elo followed him, leaving Gord to run back for his own mount and catch up as best he could.

Perhaps the two thought the village’s only inn was a splendid place to be. In a sense it was, considering the long distance their band of wagons had traveled before coming to such a place, and the relative quality of similar places found in this part of the Flanaess. Gord, however, comparing it to the many establishments he had patronized from Greyhawk to Radigast City and beyond, found it disappointing. Even the girls here were plain or lacked vivacity, or both. Although the folk here kept a sharp eye on the visitors, they at least seemed ready enough to accept their temporary presence, Gord noticed.

Even his two friends seemed deflated after spending a time drinking at the place. “These women have no life in them,” Channos observed at large.

“Shall I start a fight?” big Elo asked, a smile lighting his face.

“No,” Gord said, grabbing the bigger man and steering him toward the exit. “Come on, Channos. The three of us have some thinking to do.”

Hardly a fortnight later Gord rode away from the Attloi encampment in the vast prairies where the gypsies spent the summer raising, training, and selling horses. With him went his two friends, Channos and Elo. All three were heading northward to see if perhaps they couldn’t find excitement and riches in a kingdom none of them had ever been to before.

Elsewhere, some distance away, a very important man was concerning himself with the young thief. “How closely can you monitor him?” the one-eyed man asked.

Three hooded figures, unbleached linen cowls shadowing their faces, sat in tall-backed chairs. The central one spoke in reply to the one-eyed man’s query. “He seems to be unwatched by any others… at this time, at least, so we are able to follow him closely, Lord Gellor. We watch now, and will do so later too. You are needed.”

“There is trouble, then?”

“Always, constantly. This young man Gord is a difficult subject!”

“Show me, please, the course you have foreseen. I will do my utmost to serve as you direct. Enlightened Ones.”

The air shimmered as the three figures made small gestures in unison. A transparent set of images appeared in the air, as if the one-eyed Gellor were viewing a faint mirage or a ghostly vision. He knew it was neither, but rather what he saw before him was a projection of the future of the youth, a series of scenes that flashed past rapidly, an hour’s time but a minute, with sudden blurs where the trio of Enlightened Ones caused the events to go by even faster. At one point Gellor called “stop” without thinking. The three made the images halt and didn’t go on again until the one-eyed man politely, and rather sheepishly, asked them to.