City of Hawks (14 page)

“Landgrave,” the sage muttered.

Gord understood instantly. Landgrave College was the oldest of all the schools that made up the university. It had originally been located in what was now the Labor Quarter of the Old City. Centuries ago, when the New Town had begun to take shape. Landgrave had acquired the land and buildings of a monastery whose sect desired seclusion, not inclusion in a burgeoning metropolis. The college was moved to the place where once monks had been and now stood in the very heart of the whole district of learning. “That is a most respected institution, doctor. As a mere student at Grey, I’ll never be allowed to enter Landgrave’s library.”

“Don’t be hasty, and don’t say ‘never’-too negative and restricts the thinking accordingly. There is always a way.” Doctor Prosper looked around, found a clean sheet of paper, and began scratching away with a quill pen, pausing only to dip the instrument into a pot of sepia ink now and then. “Should your chum… San, is it?… have access to the facility as well?”

“Ah, no, Doctor Prosper. You must have forgotten, but he has left college.”

The elderly sage shook his head, covering his irritation at having forgotten. He hated to face the fact of declining memory. “Yes, yes, of course. No matter. You alone will have the means, then.” He added a few more words to the letter, signed it, and sprinkled sand on it to dry the ink.

“You can give me a letter which will enable me to use the library of Landgrave College?” Gord’s tone was properly deferential, and his awe, though subdued, was genuine.

“Of course,” Prosper said, concealing his pride in his status. “You are a student engaged in research on my behalf-I’ve stretched things a bit by telling an old associate of mine at Landgrave that I am no longer able to manage such strenuous work myself.” He gave the missive over to the boy with a bit of a flourish. “Go right over to the college and seek out Doctor Bizzell. He is a senior don, you know. He will take care of all you need.”

“Thank you!” Gord was excited and eager to be off on his new quest. “I’ll remember this always, doctor, and you can bet-”

“I can bet you’ll forget it almost as soon as you’re outside my door,” the sage interrupted, saying what was probably true but which Gord would never admit. “You’ll stay right here for a while yet, boy. I have a few chores for you to do, and then you can fix me some eggs for supper. While you’re at that, I intend to ask you some questions. As a former pupil, and one for whom I have just done a considerable favor, I am entitled to at least that much.”

Grinning, Gord acquiesced to the old fellow’s demands. He did the work as instructed, whistling as he went, then started preparations for a special meal. It was an honor to be able to serve the good old sage thus, after all, and despite the quizzing that he knew Prosper would give him afterward. Time was always precious, but he could certainly put off his plans for a few hours.

It took longer than he had anticipated to find the facts he needed. Gord had entered the sanctum of Landgrave’s ancient library thinking that it would be a simple matter to find what he sought. Many days, many pages, and much dust afterward, he finally discovered the drawings he was looking for bound into a great, flat book. That tome, along with similar works, was stored in a section of the library that probably had not been visited in years. That was no surprise. Not even scholars had much interest in the aqueducts and cisterns beneath old Greyhawk. The boy was happy to have it remain that way. Only San would know the real reason for Gord’s interest, if he had been aware of the young man’s current search for knowledge.

Gord recalled the whole incident from his past with crystal clarity. It was one he would never, never forget. The young lad paused a moment, reflecting on what had taken place nearly three years ago to the day. He and San had been part of the roving force of the Beggars’ Union that had brought the war to the Thieves’ Guild. In one of their “illegal” thieving excursions, Gord had obtained his cherished ring by slaying a vicious killer in hand-to-hand combat. Thereafter, he and San had roamed the Low and River Quarters, hidden among the Rhennee bargefolk, and done everything else they could to defeat their enemies, even though both young boys had despised Beggarmaster Theobald. It was a matter of sheer survival, and despite their lack of years, both of them understood that all too well.

Suddenly a summons had come to them. The war was over, a peace was about to be negotiated. Gord and San had no choice; they returned to the vast old warehouse that Theobald had made his headquarters and palace. Gord laughed inwardly at the term. Palace, indeed! The building was a gross exhibit of shabbiness and decay, a monument to the sick and perverted mind of the beggarmaster and his hubris.

The slaughter of the beggar-thieves and all who associated with them occurred the very night of the boys’ return. Perhaps Chinkers had been in the old building, but Gord doubted it. He imagined that the chubby rascal had slipped away beforehand. Considering his current position, there was no doubt in Gord’s mind that Chinkers had served as a spy for Arentol and the Thieves’ Guild.

Gord and San had been very lucky indeed not to have been murdered in their beds when the assault came. Fortunately, San had fled his quarters on the top floor of the building when he heard noise from below. Gord, who had been sequestered on a lower floor, was assaulted in his room and had been forced to kill a man who was bent on stabbing him to death. That brush with death still gave him nightmares occasionally. It had also earned him a superb short sword to complement the dagger he had won from his very first fight to the death.

Gord had tried to escape by going into the bowels of the building, where he met up with San and Theobald, who promptly forced the boys into carrying out a load of treasure for him. It had been poetic in a way… Gord had driven the fat devil to his demise with his own metal strongbox-a coffer containing coins of unguessed value, used to smash a disgusting monster of no worth whatsoever.

What had been the beggarmaster’s plan after commandeering the two boys to assist him in his flight? Gord thought there could be no doubt. Theobald certainly would have stabbed or strangled both of them, dumped them into the cistern, and pleasurably gone on his way. Ironic, then, that the gross murderer had gone to his end in the very place he had intended to dispose of Gord and San, the hundred-foot-deep well hidden beneath the secret subcellar of the beggars’ headquarters.

The scene floated before his eyes, the memory clear enough even now. “Give me that box!” Theobald roared. He had been poised, waiting, just a little below the rim of the cistern’s mouth, expecting Gord and San to ease the heavy coffer down to his waiting hands. Instead, Gord had hefted the great metal box all by himself. It took all of his strength for him to raise it all the way up to his scrawny chest-not the muscular torso he now had; in that respect, as in most others, the change in him had been great. The uncomplicated but difficult act of lifting the chest, Gord thought later, had been part of a catharsis for him, part of the purging of boyishness to make way for the man to develop.

Why did he do what he did? A flurry of thoughts had raced through his mind as he staggered with the chest over to the rim of the cistern. Gord had despised Theobald. But beyond that, he feared the man, as one would fear some ravening demon-only more so, for this monster was there to threaten the boy day and night. The beatings and torture of his early days as a beggar-boy had not been repeated after Gord’s skills had become noticed and appreciated, but Gord always knew that the gross beggarmaster could resume such punishment at will, and the likelihood was strong that he would do so one day when the mood was upon him.

As his way of proving this assumption to himself, Gord recalled the day that Theobald had killed Violet. Like himself, she was a young member of the union with much promise. But she had incurred the wrath of her master and had paid the ultimate price-not that anger had been the man’s only emotion at the time of her murder. Gord was sure that Theobald had actually enjoyed the act.

In retrospect, Gord found consolation by telling himself that the girl had been unworthy of his admiration, which may actually have been love. That assessment was not meant to fault her; “unworthy” was a poor choice of word. It was simply that her mindset, her ethos, everything about Violet was very different from what he had become. At the time when they worked together, though, the difference had been less sharp. She had erred in greed, possibly helped to undo one of Theobald’s schemes-unwittingly, Gord was sure-and the beggarmaster had killed her for it, strangling, beating, and assaulting her slowly, methodically, with relish. Oh, yes, he remembered that all now… and then. It was for himself, for San, and for Violet too that he did what came next.

As Theobald demanded his cache of money, Gord had hurled the heavy chest down with all the force his puny arms could muster-quite enough to do the job. The fat man’s outstretched hands could not absorb the force of the downrushing iron box. The metal struck his bald head, hitting it sufficiently hard to cause the beggarmaster to topple off his precarious perch and plunge to his death in the depths below.

Only Gord and San knew of Theobald’s fate, and that fact they kept strictly to themselves. To speak of it would be to implicate themselves as part of the organization that had been expunged from Greyhawk. Even this much time thereafter, it was likely to mean a death warrant if the thieves or city officials should learn of it. So afterward they almost never discussed the execution even between themselves. Perhaps San still thought about it, but Gord knew his former companion was not the sort to take unnecessary chances. To San, he suspected, a chest full of coins was not sufficient reason to risk one’s life when plenty of less perilous ways existed to make an income. Gord had other thoughts, however.

Since becoming a trained thief, Gord had utilized his skills to make his livelihood. In fact, he and San had managed both by exercising and by putting their talents into play, as it were, not to just retain their skills but improve upon them too. Now his former comrade had gone off to become a member of the Thieves’ Guild, and Gord recently had worked strictly alone. He rationalized that he had to be an independent thief, a rogue, since he had no other means of supporting himself as a student.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Gord said aloud, startling himself out of his reverie temporarily by the sound of his own voice. Fortunately he was alone in the little storage chamber that housed the plans he was memorizing. He didn’t dare try to copy them here, but at his own place he drew from memory each night, carefully duplicating the information gained that day.

He tried to refocus his concentration on what was before him, but his mind wandered once more… Gord knew he had become a thief by force of circumstances, and he also realized that he remained one by choice. Other avenues, such as that Tapper had offered, were open to him. Gord wasn’t interested in such opportunities, though, partly because he liked the thrill of illicit thievery, the excitement of planning and executing a theft. He felt that the city owed him much while he owed it, and particularly its Thieves’ Guild, nothing but his revenge. Perhaps this was rationalization, but he thought not.

Once, shortly after the incident, San had wondered out loud why Gord had wasted the treasure in the strongbox. Gord explained that it had been his only weapon under the circumstances. He had simply utilized the best tool at hand to accomplish a much-desired result-and that was that. The ledger wasn’t closed yet, though. To be fully even with the ghost of Theobald, Gord needed to do one more thing. He intended to recover the chest of coins from Theobald’s wet grave and have the treasure for himself.

It was a challenge in many ways, and the gathering of the information was by no means the greatest. Finding where the cistern was required a lot of research, but Gord was steeling himself for a far more exacting demand than that. He had to face the dangers of the subterranean maze under Greyhawk by himself. He had to go where the bones of the beggar-master lay and take from them their treasure. The very thought of what he would have to do made the boy shudder, but the man in him was determined to see it through in order to prove that there was no longer a weak and frightened child in his body, no more gutless coward. Alone he would prove that once and for all time, and in the proving he would gain much more than monetary reward.

With that, Gord finally forced his mind clear of such thoughts and returned to his study of the ancient drawings. A vast complex of tunnels and drains was shown on the maps, but repeated exposure to the information had made Gord a virtual expert in deciphering the different features. Sewers were singled out easily now, and drainage tunnels too. The cisterns and aqueducts stood out clearly in his mind as he scanned the map. Tonight his own map would be complete, and his adventure ready to begin.

The hand-drawn re-creation spread out before Gord showed the deepest layer of tunnels beneath Old City. A network radiated from a place under the old citadel, with ducts running to it from the far reaches of what then had been the whole of Greyhawk. From the notes he had managed to decipher, Gord knew that the whole system had been carved out of the solid rock that lay under the place. Beneath the upper layers of the limestone, the stuff that the higher tunnels ran through, there was harder rock. Into this the original builders had cut shafts and passages for water. But most of the old collection points had long ago been filled and cemented over for other buildings to stand atop.

The reason for this was that times, and needs, had changed. The sprawl of the city now was so great that getting water during time of siege was of no concern. When Greyhawk had stood far from the Selintan, and the damming of the Grey Run by enemies was a possibility, then the need had been a real one. Far beneath the surface was a huge cavern intended to hold a reserve of water against an. eventuality that would never occur now. The ducts that once had brought rivers of rain from above down into the deep pool two hundred feet below the surface sent only a trickle of liquid that way now. The rock was not permeable, yet the reservoir was not dry-of that Gord was certain. The splash that Theobald and the chest had made when they fell had told Gord that.

He studied his carefully made map again. Four main channels sloped gently down to the place where the big cavern was. A dozen smaller ducts fed into each of the underground canals. Each of those ducts, in turn, was fed by a half-dozen conduits from collection points. The place where the strongbox lay was in the western canal. All Gord had to do was to find one of those old openings that wasn’t fully closed up. He couldn’t use the secret subcellar of the Beggars’ Guild to gain access to the canal, but one of the conduits would do as well.

What seemed an easy matter proved to be quite the opposite in practice. Gord spent most of his free time during the following three weeks searching the streets of Old City for one of the places where the drains had been. Changes made over the centuries were difficult enough to determine, so that locating the correct areas in itself proved most trying. The task was complicated by new layers of cobbles, plazas, dwellings, and all forms of other things that had been built upon what had been there before. Perhaps a collection conduit still remained somewhere, but Gord couldn’t find it. He was only temporarily stymied, however. Giving up was not in his nature.

Returning once again to Landgrave College’s hallowed repository of scribings, Gord managed to convince the doddering old custodian that he was still involved in the project for Doctor Prosper and that the good sage desired him to garner more from the dusty archives the librarian warded. Again with the great folio before him, Gord located and studied successively higher layers of the works beneath Old City. He had to go back several times to find what he was looking for, but it was eventually uncovered. Then Gord had to search through yet more of the old plans to get what he wanted. That was the military plan of the subterranean complex.

When he finally thought of the answer to his problem, he was astounded by his own stupidity. It was simply this: Well openings alone weren’t sufficient to manage the reservoir-there had to be passages leading to it for maintenance!

These ways would be regarded as secret, naturally. But somehow the college had gained copies of the military plans despite their secrecy. That probably had happened in that long-gone time when the masters of the complex that was spreading forth to become a major metropolis of the Flanaess, instead of the out-of-the-way trading center that the city had been, realized that the former concerns of the community were no longer applicable. Gord imagined the long-dead officials of the college receiving the gift of the plans from the equally long-deceased city officials with great ceremony; and sometime shortly thereafter, the lad mused, the whole batch had been quietly consigned to the oblivion of an ordinary storage room. Surely that was as good as, if not better than, locking them in a strongroom that every spy would seek to penetrate to discover what it held.

Once he knew what to look for, Gord quickly found what he needed. The plan wasn’t identified as a secret military one, but he recognized it as such immediately. Routes for movement of troops beneath the city were shown, and so were the means of getting to the reservoir. All he had to do now was to get to the passages that lay about midway between the sewers and the drains, and the rest would follow.

Because of his own experiences, especially his apprenticeship as a thigger-thief, Gord was familiar with the maze that existed just beneath the streets. From deep cellars, sub-basements, sewers, and the like, one could enter a network of hidden pathways that could be taken to bring the adventurous individual unseen from place to place within the entire city. Beggars used this lowway, as it were, and thieves and assassins also utilized it frequently and extensively. Wild cats, huge rats, all sorts of vermin, and who knew what else made the complex their home. Gord had heard stories of desperate and mad individuals who dwelled in the subterranean realm under the city. Recalling that thought made him shudder. Such an environment would make men into something different and more terrible in a short time, for to survive there would mean that an individual would have to become more ferocious, more vicious, than the other beasts that resided there.

What equipment would he require to get through the upper labyrinth, find a means of penetrating deeper to the ancient military complex of passageways, and eventually go all the way from there to the western canal wherein the coin-filled strongbox lay? The list was not difficult to make.

First, he needed dark-colored, old clothing that fit snugly so it wouldn’t get in his way when he had to climb or go through a tight place; solid boots, well-greased to keep out water; and, of course, his weapons-boot knife, long dagger, and short sword.

Then he’d have to have a strong line for help in climbing up or down sheer surfaces, plus a spike or two to use as an anchor for the line; a pair of small pouches to carry the money he would remove from the iron box; and a waterproof container to hold his map, some spare sheets of parchment, and a charcoal stick for writing on them.

Next, a couple of good pieces of chalk for marking the walls with. That, and the rough map he would have along, should assure he wouldn’t become lost in the black mazes. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take along a little flask of brandy too, and a bit of food. It might take longer than he thought to find his way down and get back up again.

That was just about it. He had or could easily obtain everything he needed except for one thing: What would he do for illumination?

If Gord had comrades with him on this expedition, he would certainly have opted to bring some good, long torches. These would have provided both light and protection from whatever lived down there. The things dwelling there would not be accustomed to light or flame; they would shun the former and fear the latter. But this was a solitary endeavor, and he could not carry a supply of torches by himself. And, a regular lantern would also be of no use. It would require him to hold it or affix it to his body. That arrangement would be too cumbersome, the lantern too likely to fall or break.

He decided that what he needed was an object en-spelled by a cleric, one that the priest had treated to make it give off strong light for a long time. Gord had seen such things occasionally. Wealthy people used them to light their dwellings and the areas around them. Rushlights, fat lamps, and candles were also used for this purpose, but only the poor folk had to employ such expensive and temporary means of illumination exclusively. Expensive, indeed… Perhaps the priest-lights were more dear than he supposed. He had to find out.

Temples and similar places of worship were absolutely foreign to the boy. He had studied theology in school recently, but outside that, he had no experience at all with religion. The small amount of knowledge he possessed allowed Gord some advantage in selecting a potential place to seek one of the special lights. He went to a little chapel of Fharlanghn nearby. The wanderers who tended to profess the deity were few in number in any city. The sect was broad-minded, accepting all sorts of folk. It also seemed likely that the priests there would be less oriented toward money. There were possibly other reasons for preferring this sort of place somewhere in the back of his mind, but Gord didn’t take time to ponder them. It was time to get on with his work!

“Pardon, good priest, but may I speak with you a minute?” he asked politely upon entering the small building and seeing a brown-robed man therein.

“You may, boy. I am here to help all the faithful.”

Gord was forthright. “I am no follower of your god, sir, just an inquiring student seeking something.”

“If you seek knowledge of Fharlanghn, then this is certainly the place. If there is something other than such knowledge which you expect to find in this chapel, I fear I cannot help.” The priest looked steadily at the boy.

“I am here to ask if it is possible to obtain an item which your clerics are known to fashion with your powers,” Gord said plainly, looking the tall man in the eye as he spoke, returning the priest’s gaze without blinking, but with a friendly expression. This was not difficult, for the cleric seemed a good fellow.

“Then perhaps I’ll be able to serve after all, young scholar. What manner of thing do you seek?”

“A light of the sort you priests enspell on things. The kind that the gentry encompass in stout cages and employ to make yards well-lighted and their homes as bright as day.”

The tall priest smiled. “So, the demands of your studies require much reading and scribery at night, do they?”

“Well…”

“Never mind the reason, boy. I am able to provide such an object as you wish-a small stone, smooth and regular, with the powers granted to me from my service to Fharlanghn employed according to his desire so as to make the stone glow as bright as day, and for a long time too. That is possible, if that is what you wish.”

“Yes,” said Gord with a sigh of gratitude, and his relief evident on his countenance. “Please give me one of those stones you just described, and I shall give you whatever coin you require for the favor.”

At that the cleric actually gave a gentle laugh. “Of some of the students at the university I could believe it-but that you’d be able to simply reach into your purse and count out the money is doubtful. You are no rich young noble, that is evident. You are likely the son of a merchant or a military officer from the look of you, boy. Where would you get so large a sum as three thousand zees to pay for the item?” The fellow chuckled again, but in a kindly way.

Gord resisted the urge to reach into the secret place in his belt and take out three of the gold coins he had there. The tall cleric was right. A lad such as he would have no business possessing that sum of money. “Perhaps I could give you some now, and then pay the rest in weekly installments until the whole were delivered.”

“What? And have your irate father down upon me? Not likely. I think you had better settle for candles and lamps, boy. They are bothersome and have to be replaced, but you can purchase many of them for the cost of the lightstone you seek.”

The priest was about to leave, but Gord was by no means ready to admit defeat. “Wait, sir!… Ahh… Please, good priest, may I have yet one further word with you?”

“Be brief,” the fellow said politely but firmly.

“If I became a student of… Fharlanghn, studied the teachings you profess, and became a member of your faith, would you then perhaps make the light-stone available at a price less than that you named before?”

Now the cleric stopped and assessed the boy before him more carefully. There was more to the lad than he first thought. This boy wanted the thing as more than a novelty, for some other reason than a light to study by.

“Perhaps you and I should go into my personal apartment and have a chat. If you explain to me exactly why you have need of the lightstone, we may be able to strike a bargain. What say you…?”

“Gord, sir,” he supplied without thinking. “I have my reasons, and I’ll be honored to speak further with you, but I don’t think I will actually be able to explain fully.”

The tall man smiled again, taking a closer look at the lad. “Well, Gord, you are certainly honest in your statements. Perhaps I won’t have to hear a full explanation. Still, let’s you and I have a chat to see about this matter.” With that the priest led the way to the rear of the place where various administrative offices and lodgings were located.

After perhaps an hour the two emerged again, the boy talking as they did so. “… and you see, sir, that I have reason to search out this thing because of need!”

“It is a foolish undertaking-typical of youth!”

“With or without your help. I will do it.” Gord’s voice was firm, his face a study in determination, but he was neither wheedling nor imploring. The youngster simply stated fact.

The cleric was a good judge of character, and he read Gord easily.

The lad had admitted no details, but did tell the cleric that he planned to seek treasure in a place where difficulty, not danger, was the major obstacle. Wise in the ways of the world, the tall cleric knew that where one factor was present, the other would likely be encountered as well. Still, he was not inclined to belabor that point. And there was something about this boy…

“You shall have my help,” the cleric said after a brief pause, “in the form of a lightstone and a blessing too. Give your contribution over for those in need, and both will I then bestow. When you return with your treasure, you will pay the agreed-to fee and also again contribute to the needy.”

Gord presented his hand. The cleric noted ink stains, a sure sign of bookish pursuits. He also found the hand calloused and hard. The lad did physical work as well! There was certainly more to the small student than first met the eye.