Clyde found out that Gord had been on the workhouse roll for only five days. “They certainly are keeping close tabs on this one, and acting fast,” he murmured to himself, thinking that he had good cause to ask for more than a hundred zees for getting the lad out. He’d demand two luckies for the accomplishment, twice the sum promised, and expected he’d get it, too.
It was just after sunup, so Clyde headed for the prisoners’ section of the massive old fortress. He wanted to get another first-hand look at the boy as he was marched off to work. Tomorrow was a day of rest for the prisoners, an opportunity for Clyde to pull the lad out of the cell and get him away. No really careful body count was kept, so it would be easy to forge a document saying that the child prisoner known as Gord of the Slum Quarter of Old City had died accidentally while serving his term of imprisonment.
Clyde was in for a surprise.
He arrived in time to see that the lad had taken things into his own hands, so to speak, by using what meager means he could devise to make himself appear stricken with some sort of contagious plague. The trick was one that any good thief or accomplished beggar would see through immediately, just as Clyde did. However, the stupid clods who were the regular guards at the prison were completely fooled.
“Now that’s very clever and considerate,” Clyde thought to himself. “He’s saved me a lot of work and taken away the risk, too!”
Clyde got the “body” out, and the records of the workhouse showed Gord dead of disease, type unknown. In reality the boy was indentured, just as his secret benefactor, Markham, had instructed. The fat trader was glad when he heard the news from Clyde (although he already knew the truth from his other sources), but not quite so elated when he heard what followed.
“You expect twice the pay I promised?” Markham asked with a tinge of angry incredulity in his voice, repeating the request so as to give his irritation a chance to die down.
Clyde smiled serenely. “Yes, Markham, I do expect just that.”
The fat trader paid, grumbling loudly, but was actually very satisfied inside. It was a cheap price to pay for the lad’s safety. Safety? Well, more like a better chance of survival. Markham knew well the master of beggars in Greyhawk, and the fat trader also was aware of the clandestine thieving activities of the group. One of the trusted masters of the place was also one of Markham’s agents.
Theobald’s ascension from leadership of the Beggars’ Guild to the head position of the recently formed Beggars’ Union made the already egotistical man full of hubris. Obscenely fat, lazy, and a dangerous psychotic, the Beggarmaster was not one to trust or cross. Now the guild of beggars had allied itself with peddlers, tinkers, actors, and similar riffraff to form the Beggars’ Union, and Theobald sat haughtily atop the entire organization.
It was an odd association, but one that actually worked. The beggars brought goods they found, expropriated, or were given and dispensed them to peddlers for sale, or to tinkers to repair and then sell. They also traded with these groups for goods. Actors, the lowest of society save the beggars themselves, were paid to assist the latter in their performances on the streets, and when out of work the actors could then likewise earn a living with a bowl. Certain street gangs were also brought into the association, as were wandering folk and traveling entertainers.
Theobald had forged the union In order to increase his own power, of course. It combined all of the elements that the Thieves’ Guild disdained. The gross master of beggars hated the thieves, for they had both respect and wealth. Theobald was bent on gaining both as well, and at the expense of the more prestigious guild of thieves.
Chinkers was as skillful a beggar as any in Grey-hawk. In the process of perfecting his art, Chinkers had learned petty thievery and the craft of convincing others to become part of a scheme that resulted in their being fleeced. Certain thieves would employ him as an assistant, a cloyer to enable them to pick pockets or cut purses more easily. These fellows taught Chinkers more skills. Soon the beggar could sham merchandise, switching real for fake or actually making the shoddy seem otherwise. He could counterfeit coins, forge, and cheat at games such as dice and plaques. Why, thereafter, he still chose to practice begging as well, even Chinkers couldn’t say, but he did.
Then Theobald decided to displace the thieves of the city with his own beggars, found willing teachers, and began to arrange instruction for his most trusted minions. Chinkers was one of those trusted souls, and in a short time there were a half-dozen trained beggars able to perform as well as any cutpurse or robber belonging to the Thieves’ Guild, with Chinkers better than the rest.
One day soon thereafter, the three outlaw thieves who had agreed to take the treasured gold orbs of the Beggarmaster in return for teaching his lieutenants the craft of thievery were invited to a banquet in Theobald’s own quarters.
“Chinkers, Furgo, Jenk!” It was the squeaky voice of Theobald summoning them to him next morning. They hurried to him at once. “Our dear friends are no longer with us,” the gross beggarmaster told them blandly.
“You mean they ran off?”
“Of course not, Jenk. Don’t be a bigger dolt than you are! We all supped together last evening. I think some vile assassin must have made an attempt on my life.”
“No!” The three lieutenants chorused disbelief at that.
“But yes,” Theobald retorted without force, his fat face still emotionless, jowls hanging placidly. “Fortunately, I had no taste for the wild mushrooms grown in our own cellar by Bellytimber Jane, so I passed the dish. The three instructors loved them-devoured the lot. When you have finished disposing of them-the old cistern will do nicely, I think-bring the cook to me.”
“Jane wouldn’t try to poison you, Theo-”
The greasy visage of the Beggarmaster instantly grew livid. “Never contradict me!” he screamed at Furgo, making the one-eyed man flinch. “Now get on with it, and make certain nobody knows about it, either. If anyone dares to inquire, you say the three simply moved on to some new city where the pickings were thought to be easier.”
Chinkers and Jenk managed to dispose of the stiff corpses of the dead thieves, and Furgo went off and brought Bellytimber Jane to her audience with Theobald. Chinkers made a point of eavesdropping from a place in the cellar where he could hear what went on above.
“Furgo seemed very nervous, Theo,” he heard the voice of the cook say clearly.
There was a high-pitched titter from Theobald. “Three stiff bodies are sufficient to make most men a trifle edgy.”
“I made the whole batch just as you ordered,”
Jane said slowly, “and those three will never be able to tell now. Are you pleased?”
“Of course, Jane, my dear cook and assassin. It turned out just as I had planned. But…”
“But?” Bellytimber Jane’s voice sounded strained. “What else am I to do?”
“Come here, my dear, and I shall whisper it in your ear.” Chinkers envisioned the woman approaching Theobald. She was youngish and rather plain, but she fancied herself a favorite of the beggarmaster. Suddenly a shriek sounded, but it was cut off almost immediately. He could hear a hammering sound accompanied by the high-pitched giggle of Theobald. After a minute or two all of the noise stopped, and then there was a thud.
The beggar made haste to leave the cellar then, for Chinkers had no wish to be discovered spying on Theobald-especially not now!
What happened to Jane’s body he could not guess. Theobald had taken care of that himself. Chinkers never said a word about it to anyone in the place, and the beggarmaster never spoke of the cook again except to say, “Find me a new chef, Furgo. Our old one is no longer with us.” Furgo asked no questions, either. Next day Bald Jim was made official cook. Soon his nickname was changed to Batcrap in honor of his cuisine, but despite the man’s seeming ineptness at preparing meals for the inmates of the place, Theobald seemed satisfied with the decision. Chinkers, and others, supposed that this was because the beggarmaster ate different fare from what they were forced to settle for.
Because Chinkers believed strongly in certain things, the beggar-thief served as an agent for the Balance. Everything that went on in the Beggars’ Guild, and the Beggars’ Union thereafter, was noted and duly reported to Markham. When the hews of the boy arriving as an apprentice was transmitted to him, Chinkers was pleased that he had been selected the safest bet for the child’s survival.
“I won’t actually work with him myself,” he assured the trader. “I’ll see to it that those who do are the best, though, and that young Gord is treated fairly. That’ll be hard, with that monstrous bastard to contend with, but I’ll manage.”
Markham was confident he would, and Chinkers did.
Most of those who pursue begging as a vocation are lean. Certain devotees of deities that allow the asking of alms by begging can be robust and rotund. But poor and hopeless individuals, or those seeking to give that appearance, are not well-fed monks or devotees. They are thin, starved-looking.
Chinkers was neither of these things. That is, the fellow was plump even though he was not a religious man but a master beggar. He sat now at the Silver Shield, an inn typical of those that bordered the street dividing the Beggars Quarter from the Thieves Quarter as it wound its way to New Town.
“And a bumper of ale for the mendicant cleric there!” A roar of laughter and many jibes were directed at the robed figure-none other than Chinkers, in the grimy attire of a wandering priest of Fharlanghn.
“Perhaps a bit or two for the good work as well?” The suggestion was made so piously, and with alms bowl so politely extended, that anyone who did not know the brown-robed man would have thought he was earnestly begging contributions for his deity. Of course, begging was indeed his trade, although as far as anyone familiar with him knew, the fruits of his religiously sought donations went only into his purse, with the requisite share to the beggarmaster and various barkeeps.
There were more rude jests and roars of mirth at this. “Here’s a drab, but I expects a special blessin’ fer it!” The bawd who said that then thrust out her rump suggestively.
“You are amply blessed already!” Chinkers said, giving her a loud whack. “Be off now, or there will certainly be lightning gathering above.”
The beggar-cleric quaffed his newly come tankard while the latest round of laughter ran its course, and then he rose. “I have more of the good work to do yet this night,” he announced. Then he headed for Theobald’s massive headquarters.
It was a fair hike from the Silver Shield to the central place where the newly created union had its headquarters, but no one he encountered along the way troubled Chinkers. This was the Beggars Quarter, and he was a prince among the folk dwelling here. In fact, a fair number of thieves and various sorts of other scallywags frequented the tavern he had come from, and all knew Chinkers well. He was one of the few of his kind who dared to pose as a clerical beggar or some sort of otherwise sanctioned raiser of donations and get away with it successfully for years. Thus, Chinkers could be plump and remarkably different from the vast majority of his ilk.
For a beggar, Chinkers was both renowned and respected. A good part of that status came from the fact that the Thieves’ Guild officially sanctioned his activities. Even though he was not a member of that group, Chinkers occasionally had to pay it a tithe too because his activity was of that class of operation that was normally performed by a member of that guild. As additional compensation for his unofficial license to “steal”, he fed information to Arentol, the master of the Thieves’ Guild.
It was a dangerous game, but Chinkers enjoyed it. He spied on both beggars and thieves on behalf of the Balance. Now he was Involved in yet more duplicity, for there was young master Gord to see to as well-and beggarmaster, thieves, and boy were all to be kept totally unaware of what was going on. That was a challenge.
“Top of the night to you, Emmit,” Chinkers murmured as he passed the hidden sentry guarding the rear entrance of the old building. “Get on with ya,” the fellow replied just as softly, moving to the side of the narrow door but not coming out of his shadowed alcove.
Chinkers entered and went directly to the narrow stairway nearby. He managed to climb the steps without a sound, despite his bulk and the decrepit condition of the wooden construction. He and a score of the masters who served the Beggars’ Union had quarters on the second floor.
Just as Chinkers did, each of the other masters knew well the craft of thievery. Unlike the normal thieves of Greyhawk, though, the beggar-thieves performed almost exclusively in broad daylight, the normal time of day when beggars ply their trade. The vast majority of their illicit thievery was performed when the sun was above, while the reverse was true for those serving Grand Guildmaster Arentol, who only robbed and stole with full sanction of the city’s governing officials. Thus, Chinkers could go to sleep each night without worry. The newly apprenticed Gord would be locked up fast until dawn.
The boy had been with them only about three months now. At first Chinkers had thought him hopeless; why anyone involved in the Balance should concern himself about such an urchin seemed inconceivable to the plump beggar. Gord cringed at the sight of Theobald, but that wasn’t the way he behaved at other times. Chinkers soon saw the significant difference in Gord’s makeup. The boy wished to excel, to prove himself better than, not just as good as, any of the other apprentices being trained.
“Here, you!” Chinkers had called to the lad one day after observing him for some time. The boy had looked at Chinkers uncertainly, so he reinforced the command. “That’s right, you. Come with me. I have a special drill for you.”
Gord had gone along without comment, and when they were alone Chinkers had grilled him on his past, what he thought of the present, and where the lad thought he would go in the future. That had been only a few weeks into the training. Then and there, Chinkers had been suddenly aware of the involvement of powers greater than he. The facts of Gord’s previous existence in the slums, his adaptation to life in the headquarters and the rigorous discipline and training, and the carefully veiled, evasive answers Chinkers received regarding the future the lad saw amazed the master beggar. Here was one to keep an eye on indeed.
Just months later, Gord had proved exactly what Chinkers had suspected. He was far and away the brightest pupil any of the masters had ever seen. The skinny boy, weak from deprivation and hunger, had turned into a lean little powerhouse, full of questions, brimming with energy and enthusiasm-all masked, naturally, so as to protect himself. The others who served in Theobald’s cadre suspected the true measure of the boy. Chinkers was very certain of it.
It was all he could do not to take a direct hand in the boy’s training. Somehow Chinkers resisted the urge. He kept back and even glowered at Gord now and then so that the lad would not suspect he had the favor that Chinkers was determined to employ on his behalf. It was also difficult to fool Theobald. The vile beggarmaster was none too fond of Chinkers anyway, for the beggar-thief was plump. That was the mark of an exceptional beggar. Perhaps that was the reason why Theobald had originally become fat. It applied no longer, of course. He was gross and obese and thoroughly given over to his appetites. Still, it did provide a remarkable contrast between master and beggar, save in a case such as Chinkers, where the contrast was not so extreme.
“What do you think of that skinny urchin I purchased, Chinkers?” the gross man asked.
He looked at Theobald and shrugged. “I see him at his work with the other apprentices, Beggarmaster Theobald. As you know, I work only with the journeymen these days, but it seems that the boy… Gord, is it?… shows occasional bursts of rebelliousness. I’d watch that, were I his master.”
“Hmm… A point which Furgo himself has mentioned. One-eye says the boy is quite superior to the rest, however. I told him to work or beat the rebelliousness out of him-or I would do so, with pleasure!” Theobald laughed at his own joke, and Chinkers had to smile as if he enjoyed it, too.
“Should the little upstart ever gain journeyman status, master, rest assured I’ll see to his discipline.”
“You are a good servant, Chinkers, despite your airs,” Theobald said then with a secret smile. “Your peculiarity won’t be so notable soon, and then perhaps you and I will become better acquainted once again.” He paused and stared into space for a minute, during which time Chinkers imagined Theobald was envisioning his soon-to-be-realized empire of beggar-thieves and a position high in the ruling oligarchy of Greyhawk. Then the Beggarmaster dismissed him, saying, “Don’t concern yourself with the apprentice boy, Gord. Furgo and the other masters who have him tell me he will not be a journeyman at beggary.”
That remark puzzled Chinkers all evening and into the night, the time when he usually forgot all concerns as he enjoyed drink and the companionship of other lowly rogues at the Silver Shield. First thing in the morning, he meant to get Jenk or Halfway aside and see if he could discover what was afoot. Surely they didn’t mean to drop Gord from his training! Then sleep overtook the master beggar’s thoughts, and Chinkers worried no more for the night.
***
“More of that tea, Batcrap,” Chinkers said as he broke fast with several of the other masters. “What were you saying about the apprentices, Jenk?”
The latter had his mouth stuffed with bread crusts soaked in stale beer, so Halfway filled in for him. “The latest lot is ’bout average, save for three or four.”
“Then I’ll be expecting those three or four soon for advanced work, I suppose.”
“Nope,” supplied Foxy Lon. “Furgo tol’ me all but one will be needin’ another few weeks o’ hard work afore he sends ’em on t’you.”
Jenk was about to say more, but Furgo himself appeared in the cellar kitchen and sat down. “Talking about the new crop?”
“Yeah, Chinkers wants to know how many to expect and when,” Jenk informed the one-eyed beggar-thief. “Lon just told him not to worry for a bit.”
“Who are you drumming out?”
“Drumming out?” Jenk shook his head at that. “Did I say that?”
Furgo was readying to eat, but he took a minute to explain. “That little one, Gord-he’s a real find for us. Never seen anyone take to either trade, begging or stealing, so well as him. A duck to water, and that’s a certainty. I’ve put it to the rest here, and we’re all agreed. It’s up to the master In the end, but the six of us who train apprentices all say that Gord should be promoted right on up to master as soon as possible. With what’s going on now, we could use an army of lads like that one!”
The pockmarked face of Halfway was serious. He saw Chinkers take on a concerned look and mistook the expression for doubt. “I know that’s unheard of, Chinkers, but we all agree with Furgo… even if he only can see half what we can!” Furgo was too busy with his breakfast to bother replying to the needling, so Halfway continued. “The boy is a whiz at things. Works his skinny little ass off to be the best at whatever we give him to do. You won’t be able to believe it until you see him in action.”
“I’ll do just that and then let you know,” the stout beggar said as he slid off the bench and headed upstairs. “Next time you take him on an outing, tell me beforehand.”
“Right.”
And soon enough the opportunity came.
For the next week or two, in fact, Chinkers made a point of observing Gord as he plied his trade, but being careful not to let the boy know he was under such scrutiny. Even Chinkers was surprised. Had he not known the boy, and been looking for him in a disguise as well, the master beggar-thief would never have recognized him.
The first time Gord was a one-legged cripple whose tale of woe was sufficient to cause an iron-bearded dwarf to part with a bronze coin. On the next outing he was a drooling half-wit-a fairly common sight, and one not likely to gain more than a few iron and brass coins for a whole day’s effort. But Chinkers was surprised to see that even while Gord was feigning idiocy, the boy was busily filching coins from the unwary. The lad was an excellent pickpocket, and the disguise made marks less conscious of the possibility of being had by a thief.
The third and last time Chinkers saw Gord in operation was the best of all.
Gord was obviously in charge of a squad of beggar-boys and girls who were probably meant to operate as a group to surround and harangue likely-looking folks. Sheer weight of numbers and the impact of the all-too-evident misery of so many hapless children was meant to melt the hearts of otherwise stolid individuals. It was a tried and true means, but it took careful control so as not to underwork or overdo it. The lad got the hang of it quickly after a few trial-and-error runs at passersby going through the Foreign Quarter. Then Gord worked the gang for several hours to near perfection. During one episode, however, Chinkers suddenly lost track of him.
“Now where has he gone off to?” he muttered, seeing all of the apprentices but Gord break from their whining, pleading knot surrounding a trio of well-equipped Outlanders, their actions indicating that the three men had broken down and tossed them coins.
A flinty-eyed merchant came into view, leading a mule-drawn cart whose cargo was secured under a sheet of canvas. Chinkers noticed that the two biggest of the lot, a gawky, stringy-haired girl and an even uglier boy, were watching a narrow alley nearby. Suddenly they rejoined the other children and rushed off in a pack toward the merchant. He was as unlikely a mark as any the pudgy expert could think of. Nonetheless, the band of urchins quickly crowded around him and began their begging. The hard-faced fellow simply ignored them at first. They persisted. He then cursed the lot soundly. The flock of filthy beggar-children was undaunted. This infuriated the merchant, and he began to berate them in earnest as he struck out with fists and feet to teach these guttersnipes a lesson.
“Eat shit!” the gawky girl cried, picking up a lump of horse dung and hurling it at the man. It was a well-aimed shot.
The merchant had a short, heavy whip, and he began to lay about him with that instrument. The urchins howled plaintively when struck, but those out of range threw more filth at the raging man. He was incautious with his whip and struck a passerby, who promptly punched the fellow. At this point a full-scale brawl erupted, with an eventual chase of the beggar-children as its climax. During the confusion, Chinkers was almost too distracted to keep watching for Gord-almost. But the man was, after all, a master in all respects of begging and thievery, so he spotted the boy just as Gord was setting knife to canvas at the back end of the cart.
With uncanny speed and deftness, especially for one so young, Gord slashed, grabbed, loaded the loot into a sack, and faded away at a casual stroll down the street without a backward glance. Best of all, Gord was no longer in the filthy attire of a beggar. Chinkers saw what appeared to be a typical apprentice boy of the lower class toting a heavy burden on some errand.