Saga of the Old City (3 page)

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 Beggarmaster 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.”

“This little rat is now your pupil, Furgo,” said the fat man. “Send him to me if he needs correction. Otherwise, I wish never to see him again unless he becomes one of my money-earning operatives.”

With the one bright eye that bulged out of his lean and leathery face, Furgo peered intently at Gord for a moment. Then he took him firmly by the shoulder and led him behind an arras, where a short passage led from the grand salon to a dozen rickety rooms that constituted the remainder of the first storey of the building. In one of these rooms his new instructor seated the boy on a stool while he looked him over closely.

“Not bad, not bad,” Furgo chuckled as he examined Gord’s bleary eyes, his runny nose, and the “pox sores” Gord had created for his escape from workhouse labor. “Pretty sharp for an untrained boy-and such a stupid-looking one at that!” he said as he steered Gord out of the seat and over to a flight of creaking steps that wound upward.

“Where are you taking me?” Gord asked the thin beggar timorously.

Furgo prodded the frightened boy with a finger, urging him up the steps. “Never mind, laddy-boy, never mind. You are Furgo’s charge now. You just do as you’re told, and you’ve nothing to fear-save my anger, or Master Theobald’s….”

They proceeded to mount the stairs until they came to the top floor, several levels above the ground. The place consisted of one large, open area and a warren composed of many cubicles. Furgo led Gord to a cubicle in the middle of the maze and told him to remember its location. This was to be his home until he was told differently. Whenever he wasn’t receiving instruction, he was to be in his cubicle. Failure meant punishment-or death, depending on the Beggarmaster’s whim. The one-eyed man didn’t have to explain to Gord that the outcome would most likely be nasty either way, given the propensities of the lord of this place. Gord merely nodded to convey his complete understanding.

Furgo then led him to the kitchen in the cellar. There the greasy cook, whom Furgo referred to as Batcrap, gave him some boiled vegetables and broth-not very tasty, but more nourishment than Gord had taken at one sitting in a long time. His gulping and slobbering over the mess made both Furgo and Batcrap laugh loudly. Both agreed that Gord was likely to do okay here if he was as quick to learn and obey as he was to wolf down the chow. That made Gord grin in agreement-whereupon Batcrap smacked him on the ear and chided him, in a gruff but pleasant tone, for insolence to his betters.

Emboldened by the good feeling in his belly and the comradely buffet, Gord asked: “Where’s everybody? This huge mansion has plenty of room for lots more than us!”

“Us? So it’s
us
now, is it, m’lad?” Furgo said with a mixture of humor and threat in his voice. Then he turned and spoke to his chum. “See that, Batcrap! That delicious swill you feed these worthless apprentices is too good fer ’em-gives ’em delusions.”

Gord didn’t know what to do or say at that point, so he shrunk into himself and tried to be invisible. Furgo noticed the effort, and apparently appreciated it.

“That’s the ticket!” said the one-eyed beggar as he clipped the boy across the back of his head. “You keep practicing that, and you’ll be a good addition to our group.” Then recalling what Gord’s original question was, Furgo grinned and told him: “There are dozens of others who stay in this… mansion.” At that word, he and Batcrap both guffawed at Gord’s use of such a lofty word to describe the decaying place. “They’ll be comin’ in between dusk and dark, turnin’ over their earnings, then gettin’ fed and doin’ their trainin’ before sleep time. You’ll meet ’em all soon enough-don’t fret about that. Come on now, laddy-boy. This day is all over for you.”

After being escorted back to his room and kicked in the rear by the departing Furgo, Gord lay down with a sigh upon the heap of dirty straw and old rags that was his pallet. Not bad at all, he thought. After all, he wasn’t dead. There was no muscle-wrenching toil to be done now. His belly was full. The rags and straw were as good a bed as he’d ever known. He shut his eyes and, although it could not have been more than midafternoon at the latest, fell asleep instantly.

He dreamed of fat, bald ogres and trolls dressed as guards, but they didn’t trouble his slumber at all. In his dreams, Gord was always able to break out of their grasp, steal what they had, and slip away.

Chapter 4

Pain was the only sensation that could penetrate his brain. It was at least a sign that he was alive, and Gord accepted it as such. How long he could hold his position he did net know, but he was determined not to admit defeat and to persevere until Furgo said he could stop. That there were several others undergoing the same torture was indeed consolation to Gord. Perhaps if one of them broke first, he would follow, but until then he was determined to endure.

What the youth was suffering was simply training. Training to be a contortionist, to be able to assume the guise of a maimed and hopeless cripple. Part of the education necessary to field a corps of beggars each so pitiful and pathetic that the hardest-hearted passerby would have ruth and drop a drab or two into one’s bowl.

Each morning Gord began the day with exercises, calisthenics that kept his young body lean and supple. If he did well, he was then allowed to break his fast with the dozens of other apprentice and journeyman beggars quartered in the Beggarmaster’s building. Failure to please meant no food, at best, but Gord preferred not to think about that. Following the meal came lessons in the secret sign of the beggars-a means of communication that was supposedly unknown to the uninitiated, an amalgam of the Thieves’ Cant and the secret speech of the Merchants’ Guild that had been perverted to the ends of the lowly Beggars’ Union. Thereafter came more physical training and then mental disciplines once again-usually memory training and then lessons in assessing people. Gord was quick to learn, and the lessons gladdened his heart. The skills and knowledge he was gaining were tools that would enable him to break out of the prison of the Slum, the Old City, and become something far greater than a successful beggar, let alone a beggar’s apprentice. The actual goal was a secret, one kept closely among the chosen of the Beggarmaster-and Gord had earned his way into that select group! As he fought with body and mind to keep the pain from getting the best of him, Gord began to silently recall what he had learned and experienced in days recently gone by….

Those who dwelt with the Beggarmaster were unlike other members of the Beggars’ Union. The latter simply paid a tithe to the master in return for a select location and the promise of aid when in trouble. But those indentured to the Beggarmaster had to turn over every iron drab, bronze zee, or food scrap they garnered. After two months of service, and general instruction inside Theobald’s “mansion,” Gord had been sent out with a group of other apprentices and journeymen under the watchful eyes of a pair of master beggars. Since he did well in his efforts to swell the Beggarmaster’s coffers, he was allowed to go on more of these field trips, and he soon developed a well-deserved reputation as a good scavenger. Whether he went out in morning or evening, to New City or Old, Gord had managed to come back with more coins and food than any of the others. Of course, sometimes he had had to resort to theft when soulful pleading for alms had failed to net what he felt would be an acceptable take. Early in his “career,” Gord had been beaten once for failure, and he vowed to himself that such would never happen again.