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.
Chapter 15
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?”