City of Hawks

“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 do

“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 Rhe

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.