Saga of the Old City (4 page)
Continued success brought the reward of being initiated into the Beggarmaster’s inner circle. Each initiate swore an oath never to reveal, on penalty of death, the secret of the circle. When Gord was accepted as a member, he learned that the master was dissatisfied with his alliance with the Thieves’ Guild. The arrangement between the groups was simple: Each beggar kept his or her eyes open for any likely prospects, signaling a mark to a nearby thief or bringing back word about potential targets for burglary or robbery. In return, a thief always gave to a beggar he encountered on the street, and a successful escapade by a thief meant a tithe from the Thieves’ Guild to the Beggars’ Union. However, this tithe was only one-tenth of that portion of the take paid by the thieves to their guild. Thus, if one hundred silver nobles were lifted from someone’s strongbox, the thief would pay the customary one-tenth share to the guild, and of these ten coins the Beggarmaster got one. This was insufficient-Master of Beggars Theobald would have it all!
His scheme was simple. The Beggarmaster had enlisted renegade thieves, promising to pay them handsomely for their services. These professionals then trained the most promising beggars in the arts and crafts of thievery. Now there existed a cadre of beggars who were as skilled at cutting purses, picking pockets, and filching valuables as any of the rogues roaming the city under the auspices of the Thieves’ Guild. The original instructors had “disappeared” in the meantime, so now only those whom the Beggarmaster had in his palm knew the secret. It was whispered among the talented apprentices that someday they would be the leaders of a host of beggar-thieves who would vanquish the guild and make any surviving thieves swear fealty to the Beggars’ Union. For the time being, they must all bring in coins by the sackful so that assassins and mercenaries could be enlisted when the master decided the time had come….
“Rest!” Furgo shouted, and all of the apprentices but Gord collapsed on the floor, grimacing and gasping. With his reverie broken but his resolve intact, the youth slowly lowered his left leg from its position behind his back and brought his right arm as slowly down to his side, flexing both to restore full circulation, but without apparent effort or pain.
“You there on the floor!” said Furgo. “Observe Gord. He isn’t whining or wheezing. That’s how you should all be. On your feet for more exercise now! For a break, we’ll practice on the blade-dummy later.”
As they groaned quietly and darted hateful looks at Gord, the other boys and girls of the group arose and returned to training. Although all wore beggar’s rags, each was clean beneath the garments. Gord hadn’t liked the bathing at first, but it was not optional. At times they would be required to assume a role other than that of a crippled, maimed, or diseased beggar; looking dirty was easy, but pretending to be an honest citizen of standing was not. The light stretching and bending exercises were easy, compared to what they had been through before them, and they would help a lot when dealing with the test of the blade-dummy. The apprentices took to the calisthenics with vigor, for all feared what was coming and wanted to be as prepared as they could be.
The blade-dummy was one of many manikins used for training. The simplest was just a dummy for beginners’ practice. A different one was mounted on a pedestal and slowly turned, to make it difficult to approach. Yet another was covered with bells so that the slightest miscue by a would-be pickpocket caused a jingling.
The blade-dummy was the worst. Its robe, girdle, and tunic pockets were lined with razor-like blades positioned differently each time the thing was set up. As an instructor counted, each trainee had to take a turn at testing sleeve, breast, pocket and-worst of all-the purse tucked into the girdle. While a slip in some other area would inflict a painful cut, the purse was a double challenge. To get it free without encountering the blades surrounding it was difficult, and if it was removed too hastily, with too much force, or clumsily, then a spring blade from the girdle would scythe upward. A hand slowly pulled away would be gashed-or even severed, if its owner was too hesitant. All of the apprentices were too quick to be seriously hurt, so long as they were careful, but it was hard to be confident about the blade-dummy, and the strain was terrible.
Eventually that exercise ended, and this time there was no blood shed at all-the students were indeed getting better. The subsequent practicing of stealthy movement, concealment, and lock-picking was just easy routine. Lessons in assessing the valuables of an individual, what was carried and where, how to observe a place for future burglary, and so forth filled the remainder of the long afternoon. Furgo was a hard taskmaster, and other experts who occasionally took their turns at instruction were just as demanding. After supper was time for letters-learning to write, spell, read, change hands to write with the other, and draw, and the seemingly endless copying of plans, maps, documents, and books.
Even more than he enjoyed all of this in-house learning, Gord liked the two market days, for then the apprentices were sent forth to put into action the skills they had learned. Tomorrow was a field day, and anticipation of the jaunt was uppermost in the minds of all the apprentices as they bade each other good-night at the end of the evening’s lessons.
“What’s the big deal about t’morrow?” asked Hoddy, a tiny fellow of only seven or eight years of age, as he dogged Gord’s heels while they ascended the stairway. The youngster was a newcomer and had not yet been on an excursion outside the master’s walls.
Gord looked wise and winked at the little waif. “Don’t you worry none about it, laddy-boy…. It’s soon enough you’ll be learning.”
Hoddy didn’t know whether to grin or not at such words, as close as they were to those he heard continually from Master Furgo. He started to ask more, but Gord waved him off, and Hoddy shuffled discontentedly to his own place above.
Gord liked the little fellow, and that was saying a lot, for Gord had but two other such comrades in the whole place. Hoddy thought him big, strong, and smart. As far as Gord knew, that made Hoddy different from all the others in the Beggarmaster’s decrepit “palace.” Of course, Gord was often congratulated for his cunning, stealth, and even good thinking. But somehow, he didn’t take such great pride in being praised for clever begging or thievery. Hoddy’s adulation was for Gord as a person, not for anything in particular he did.
Soon the massive old structure was quiet. The practice rooms in the loft were empty. The two floors beneath were filled with sleeping beggars. The first floor, the offices of the Union, and the sprawling quarters of Master Theobald were silent too; the obese Beggarmaster was anxious that everyone be rested and alert so that all would go well on the morrow.
Before dawn the next morning, Gord and a score of other special apprentices were assembled. Each received instruction as to what he or she was to be that day. For this mission Gord was teamed with Violet, a beautiful young girl of about sixteen. She was a whore. Gord liked her, for she had been nice to him from the first. Violet was a top earner and a favorite of Theobald, and Gord didn’t like to think about that. He supposed she had been put in the special group originally because the Beggarmaster liked her.
Gord was still naive at times. In reality, Violet was an accomplished actress and seasoned strumpet by the age of thirteen. Theobald simply knew talent, and that was why she was in the select group. She could pose as a pitiful young mother with a starving child, a vaguely pretty but crippled girl, an armless crone, or a striking doxy. Today she was the latter, posing as a courtesan from out of town-slumming, as it were, amid the merchants and artisans of the Garden Quarter’s sporting district. She shot Gord a smile, and his heart raced. Gord was beginning to feel new stirrings within himself of late, especially when he was around Violet.
Dressed in ragged cloaks, the teams slipped out of the building separately. Each group went its own way quietly, disappearing quickly so as not to elicit unwanted attention. Gord and Violet made their way quickly to an empty building nearby, slipping in through a side door. A beggar there accepted their hand signs and took them into the next room, where he moved a table and lifted a concealed trap door. Gord helped the girl descend the ladderlike stairway.
At the bottom, some twenty or more feet beneath the streets above, was a secret passage that led under the wall dividing Old Town from New. There were gates to pass through, of course, but the cost was more than an iron drab for each pair of legs. Spies and watchers were at these places too, and the Beggarmaster wanted no reports of beggars moving to places where thievery would be reported later-thievery for which the guild took no responsibility or paid no share to city officials. Already the guild was getting pressure to account for such activity, and suspicion of the thieves was rife. Neither could the new corps go in nonbeggar disguises, for obviously the whole scheme would come to light then. Thus, hidden ways and quick changes in secret stations were used to throw any observers off the track.
After a hundred or so paces, the pair came to a ladder. Violet ascended first, and Gord watched her from below, holding his candle so that he could view her shapely young legs. He began thinking of ways to be alone with her when they got back to their headquarters.
They changed in the room to which the ladder brought them. It was a small place hidden in the basement of the establishment of a pawnbroker. He was one of the Beggarmaster’s trusted henchmen and made a fat profit from the goods he fenced for the burgeoning group of nonguild thieves. Violet’s change was easy; she simply removed her cloak, revealing a fancy dress underneath, then took off her headwrap and shook out her hair. The soft, wavy, golden-brown tresses shone in the candlelight. Then she pulled several small items from the pockets of her cloak. An old, cracked mirror enabled her to apply pigments to darken her eyes and rouge her cheeks. Next came jewelry-fake stuff, naturally, but only an expert looking closely could tell that it was worth only coppers, not silver nobles.
In the meantime, Gord had shed his dirty garments and donned hose, pantaloons, doublet, and short cape. He was the serving boy of the courtesan Penora, lately of Dyvers, but now considering making her home in the more cosmopolitan City of Greyhawk. In his role, Gord wouldn’t be noticed, for Violet-Penora would certainly command all eyes. His mission was to pick as many pockets and sneak as many purses and other valuables as he could.
“This will be fun!” thought Gord. Then he remembered that Violet would also be plying her original profession, and the day seemed less appealing than it had. But… no matter. One had to work to survive, and this was work he enjoyed.
Exiting the basement from a back door and melting into the throng on the street was a simple matter for them; both knew how to avoid attention when they wanted to. Once past Odd Alley, they walked west to The Processional and then turned north. Gord was excited at actually mingling as an equal with the folk who strolled along here. This was the major north-south artery of the city. Southward it led to the Grand Square and the Citadel. They were going the opposite direction toward the Garden Quarter. In a short time they left the broad thoroughfare in favor of the narrower streets where the rich and famous commoners of the city dwelled. Blue Boar Street was renowned for its shops, its drinking and eating establishments, and the quality of the gentlefolk and rakes who frequented its curving length.
Pausing here and browsing there, they proceeded along as would a well-heeled woman of high station accompanied by her servant. Before they entered the Wizard’s Hat Inn, Gord had managed to pinch a spidersilk kerchief and an ivory comb, lift a small purse from an incautious gentleman fretting while his lady looked at material in a dressmaker’s, and filch two silver pieces from the tunic of a prosperous lesser cleric. He had missed an opportunity or two, surely, but he did so by choice. If the prospect looked too alert or too knowledgeable, the lad simply passed up having a go.
The Wizard’s Hat was a place of considerable reputation, and it was filled with people. The tavern area was crowded with all sorts of men, while most of the tables in the main room were clustered with ladies and gentlemen eating and drinking, for it was but a bit past noon. A haughty Violet accosted the sweating proprietor and demanded a table near the front of the room. One look at her, and from her, and he hastened to comply. Who knew whose mistress she was or what influence she had? Anyway, a looker like that near the front of his place would encourage custom!
Once seated, Violet ordered a goblet of cooled green wine from Celene-a place Gord had never heard of. She waved him to a position off to one side, and the ostler brought him a small beer. While she dined on the finest provender of the establishment, Gord was served a sort of slumgullion that the serving maid identified as “raw goo.” Violet struggled to suppress a smile when he asked her what it was.
“It’s ragout,” she said quietly with a stern expression on her face. “That’s one word-a foreign way of saying it’s a thin stew with more vegetables and the like than real meat. Slumgullion’s better, but don’t say that here, Gord! Now hush, or they’ll cop wise as to where you’re from.”
Gord wrinkled up his nose and was about to whisper a reply when a shadow moved across the table. Violet fell immediately back into character.
“Get rid of that sullen face, boy,” she snapped, “or I shall have you take your fare in the kitchen with the lackeys there! Have you no appreciation for my generosity?” As she spoke, Violet seemed quite annoyed and very much in charge in a mistress-servant relationship.
Gord bit back his words and obeyed her, for as displeased as he was about their relative meals and her imperious manner, he understood that she was now up to something.
“Pardon, Good Lady, but I noted your courage in allowing a serving boy to sup with you. May I be so bold as to suggest that you do so for lack of a proper gentleman escort, and to, ahem, offer my company?” With that he made a courtly bow and flourish, adding, “The Honorable Master Ralph, Elder of Seven Mile Mill, at your service.”
