Night Arrant (36 page)

"It was a fine bunch of goods, and I finally agreed to give them a thou' for the lot. Lucky for them I had most of it in plates. The Bakluni chap loaded it all into a case he had brought with him, and the two of them left in a hurry, him near staggering under the weight of the money."

"Did either say where they were headed?" Basil hesitated for only a second — time enough for the blade to send a burning signal to the nerves of his stretched-taut throat as the enchanted steel drew the red line longer. His face twitching, Basil babbled out. "A barge — she mentioned a waiting barge! He shut her up immediately, but I heard her say it!"

Gord was satisfied that he had heard the truth. "I will let you live, you miserable little rat," he hissed, "but remember I know you and your ways. If you seek revenge for this little incident, I'll come back and finish what I’ve begun."

Holding his blouse shut to cover the place where the dagger had cut him, Basil watched the young thief depart. Hate contorted his ratty visage, but stark fear gleamed in his eyes. He would never forgive Gord, but Basil would never dare to do anything about this incident, either. He knew Gord's words were no idle threat.

As he ran toward the waterfront, Gord thought about his next move. There were at least a dozen places along the docks to board a barge. Greyhawk sprawled along the bank of the broad Selletan River, and the east wall of the city was bounded by the Gray Run, itself a navigable body of water for several miles above Greyhawk. All sorts of rivercraft moored in these waters. But exactly where would the pair of scoundrels be going to gain their means of escape?

Time would probably not be all that important to them, for the drug should have kept Gord in a coma for hours and hours. Yet one thing seemed most likely. The weight of the coins Xestrazy carried would not allow a long walk, and passage on horseback or by litter through the city in the early morning would possibly attract unwanted attention. Basil's place was only a little way from Hillgate, where several barges loaded and unloaded cargo at the Bastion isle. Gord gave the guards at Hillgate a jaunty wave as he walked through the great portal, heading down to where boats and barges docked as the Gray Run divided to surround the Bastion.

Gord didn't worry about the eastern branch of the waterway. The water there was swift and broken by rapids and several little falls. Sawyers loved it, but no riverboats traveled there. The nearer channel, though, had been dammed off in three places to make the stream placid. Gates were placed in such a way as to allow entry by vessels, the water being raised or lowered by means of sluice gates. Thus a barge, for instance, could proceed past the Bastion if desired, or it could stop to unload its cargo either at Hillgate, the island Bastion, or up farther north at Mldgate.

"Those vultures will not want to travel upstream." Gord muttered to himself, "so their vessel will surely be moored in the lower lock just here by Bow Bridge."

Rather than going up the arched span. Gord went left to where a set of worn, stone steps allowed passage to the quay some twenty feet below. Eight or ten craft of one sort or another were lined up here, held fast by thick lines, awaiting some reason to float on their way again. The lines of one were just being cast off, and Gord, uncertain as to which barge to begin searching, made a quick decision not to let this departing one out of his sight until he was certain it did not contain his false lover and her partner.

Gord ran and leaped, clearing ten or twelve feet of water between the quay and the drifting barge. He landed lightly on the foredeck and drew his sword as his feet touched down. This caused a great stir in the vessel, and two cloaked figures seated in the waist of the barge turned in surprise at the sight. Gord quickly saw that he would need to search no farther.

"Fancy meeting you here!" he shouted at a horrified Ageelia and her equally startled companion.

"What? What are you doing here?" Xestrazy sputtered. The man was livid as he turned for a moment to eye Ageelia suspiciously.

"Watch out, you fool!" the girl screamed at him. "Can't you see he has his sword drawn?"

Gord laughed louder at this. "My dear friends, why the hysterics?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I merely thought to take a bracing little voyage to clear my unusually muddled brain this morn — something I drank, perhaps. How charming to encounter you here, too!"

Xestrazy drew a long, slender sword from beneath his cloak. Its curious shape told Gord it was some form of yataghan, with a needle point and wickedly sharp inner-edged cutting surface. The dark-faced Malik made no reply to Gord's taunting, nor did he look again at Ageelia. With economy of motion and no hint of fear. Xestrazy sprang up out of the low portion of the barge to confront the challenge. "You should have stayed sleeping, you stupid boy. Now I shall have to slay you."

As he spoke the man lunged, his foot stamping down to add force to his thrust. Gord managed to jump back, barely avoiding being skewered as the yataghan shot forth a foot farther than Gord thought possible. "You are a long-armed ape, old man!" he said with a laugh he didn't feel. "But you are so slow and predictable, too. Try this!"

Suddenly Gord was armed with both shortsword and dagger, and he whirled in to press a flurry of cuts and thrusts upon the taller adversary with the longer blade. Had the dagger not been in his left hand to serve as a parrying weapon, Gord would have been killed in the hot action that followed. The dark Bakluni was fast and a superb swordsman. In moments Gord was bleeding from several slight wounds, while Xestrazy had not a scratch upon him. Gord retreated, calming himself, and using all of his concentration now. Clearly, he could expect no help from the captain and the crew of the barge; several seamen had been drawn by the commotion but were remaining a judiciously safe distance away from the combatants. Gord realized this would be a long fencing match, and he would need every ounce of energy, every trick he knew, if he hoped to win.

"Not bad for a youth," Xestrazy said from between clenched teeth. His face was set with a look of confidence as the Bakluni again advanced. After several passes where neither man scored a hit on the other, Gord finally managed to pink the taller fellow. The wound was slight, but it was in his sword arm. Ageelia stopped calling encouragement to Xestrazy when that happened, but she resumed her urging soon enough after he spoke to Gord.

Ignoring her comments, Gord concentrated and attacked again. "And this?" he shouted as he moved into a lunge that he believed would catch the dark Malik unprepared. Instead, the tall Bakluni managed to twist aside so that the short, straight brand pierced nothing more than his baggy tunic. Xestrazy smiled broadly and laughed, revealing gleaming white teeth as he did so. His left hand shot out and gripped Gord's right arm with the strength of a vise. The yataghan rose, hesitated, then fell.

Ageelia cried aloud.

Xestrazy glared at his foe, looking down at the young thief with hate-filled eyes. They stood this way for several heartbeats. Blood ran from Gord's side where the yataghan had slashed it, but the wound was a minor one. The majority of the rapidly spreading pool of blood that now stained the deck of the barge came from the body of Xestrazy.

"How . . . ?" Xestrazy asked in a small, choked voice.

"You thought mail would save you from the long fang of my dagger?" Gord asked with a little laugh of his own. "Ah, but the blade is enchanted and bites through steel as easily as if it were butter. You were as good as dead when you first grabbed me and held me fast."

The paling Baklunlsh mountebank looked slowly down at his chest Gord's dagger had entered his body below the navel and cut upward to the breastbone, from where its point had pierced the man's heart. Chunks of silvery mail showed through rent tunic and blood. Without further word or gesture, Xestrazy fell dead at Gord's feet.

"This one would have been a boon companion under different circumstances," Gord mused aloud as he tried to catch his breath. Then a scream split the air.

Ageelia, witnessing the death of her lover and reacting in panic, grabbed the leather case filled with the ill-gotten coins. What she thought to do, Gord could not imagine. As he stood and watched for what seemed like minutes but was actually only a few seconds, she ran to the side of the barge, which was now in mid-channel. In one steady, swift motion, she flung her burden overboard and then attempted to leap after it. But the case struck the edge of the raised side, teetered, and then fell overboard. In the process, Ageelia's foot was caught in the long strap handle that held the container shut. The strap pulled tight around her ankle and pulled her into the water as the case fell, and the coins within it served as an anchor.

"No!" Gord screamed in agony, stumbling to where the girl had gone into the water. He thought he could make out the stream of Ageelia's long, black hair disappearing into the depths of the Gray Run just as the valves of the dam swung open and the barge shot forward in the rush of the water.

Some of the crewmen and the captain of the vessel now approached Gord. "What was that all about? Is your wound mortal?" the captain asked the injured thief.

"This? Nay, it is but a cutting of the flesh which will heal in a week, leaving naught but a slight scar as a trophy." Gord answered as he pressed a torn piece of the dead man's cloak to his side to stanch the flow of blood. "As to what happened, it was a matter of honor grown out of hand. The woman was the cause, and she has been served accordingly by powers greater than mine."

The captain shrugged and said nothing in reply. He gestured, and the crew members turned and headed back to their duties.

"Here," said Gord to the blank-faced master of the barge. Take this silver noble for your trouble, and drop me ashore at Longgate or the great South-gate Quay. I care not which."

The bargeman nodded and turned away to oversee his charge. Thus, he failed to see Gord staring back at the waters of the Gray Run with tears trickling down his face. It would be long and even longer still before that countenance would know laughter again.

Cat or Pigeon?

IN THE SOUTH CENTRAL PART of Greyhawk, at a point where the Halls District abuts the area called Clerksburg, there can be found a number of theaters and halls where plays and musical performances are staged on a regular basis. Surrounding these centers of culture are houses providing food, inns of good quality, saloons, and taverns where one can eat, drink, socialize and be further entertained before and after the staged performances.

In an out-of-the-way area where the maze of lanes, side streets, and alleys take the bon vivant away from the busy thoroughfare, there are cellars and cabarets where performers, artists, intellectuals, and other sorts of nonconformists gather. Many students can be found in such places, for the colleges are but a little way from this sector. Batwing Lane is one of these byways, and in a small cul-de-sac, just off the narrow passage between the tall buildings that loom over the lane like canyon walls, is a flight of steps, eight to be exact leading to a tunnel.

An oddly shaped wheel with varying scenes depicted around it hangs above a door in semi-darkness at the bottom of the stairs. Those ascending these steps after having been exposed to bright daylight must have sharp eyes to be able to discern the markings on this strange advertisement. An unusually keen observer, after having viewed it several times, would note that the sign's octagonal sides are periodically rotated in a clockwise fashion. The tunnel beyond the display leads to a cellar bistro named The Turning Wheel. It is at this location that one of Greyhawk's most infamous citizens unwittingly begins an adventure that will find him, before its completion, the principal participant in a dangerous mission on behalf of the city he loves above all others.

A pair of ruffians lurking along Batwing Lane heard steps approaching slowly and moved to positions where they could best take joint advantage of their approaching target. Only the drunk or foolhardy were abroad alone in such places at this hour, which was nearing midnight The unwary passerby should be an easy mark.

One thug went into the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the lane; the other took station in a recess just a little farther down the lane on the opposite side. A smallish man appeared around the curved way, walking slowly and humming a mournful tune. Faint glittering indicated he wore some valuable jewelry. Best of all, he was unaccompanied by friend or guard.

"Ho, stranger," the ruffian farthest down Batwing Lane called softly as he stepped from concealment. The lone man stopped still and peered at the big shape before him.

A soft sound, inaudible to any but the keenest ear, came from behind the wayfarer. The second bandit crept to a position behind his intended victim and raised his cudgel. The heavy oaken billet hissed through the air, but it failed to strike the victim's skull with the good, solid impact its wielder anticipated so fondly. Instead it continued through emptiness until it impacted with the only solid mass in its path — the thug's own shin! He howled, dropped the weapon, and grabbed his injured leg.

His startled partner was left to deal with the supposed victim who had somehow managed to appear directly in front of the big mugger. One moment he was a handful of paces distant, and the next instant this dark-clad stranger, sword in hand, was before the bandit who intended to waylay him. The ruffian tried to stab with a knife, but the lone man's move was far too quick. The blade went spinning out into the darkness, and the criminal yowled in pain from the cut he'd taken in the bargain. In a flash he was off into the night as quickly as his legs could carry him.

"Now for you," the lone night stalker said quietly, turning with his sword at the ready. But the thug who had wielded the club was already hobbling away. The lone man shrugged, not smiling at even so ludicrous a sight as the limping fellow presented as he disappeared. Sheathing the sword blade, the wayfarer entered the cul-de-sac, and in the dim glow of a lantern overhead, went down the steps and into the entrance to The Turning Wheel.