shirt were revealed. Snaggle abruptly straightened his other arm, and Gord flew sprawling into the alley, stunned.
“Listen, you little shit,” Snaggle said as he stepped to where his helpless victim lay, “holdin’ out on the Headsmen ain’t healthy!”
Gord, terrified, shut his eyes tight as Snaggle grabbed for him again. Then he felt himself being raised into the air, and he was sure the end had come. He felt the warmth of his own urine as his bladder, beyond his control, voided itself. The yellow trickle caught Snaggle’s attention and, ironically, saved Gord from a worse fate.
“Aw, haw, haw! Pissed your pants ’cause of me!” Snaggle laughed with real pleasure at the thought, and dropped the small boy with disdain. “Gutless piss-pants ain’t worth smashing anyway… too much fun to have around.” Still mirthful, Snaggle merely kicked Gord a couple of times, and not hard enough to break ribs at that. Gord lay still, too frightened to move.
“Listen, chicken-piss! I let you off easy this time. You made me laugh. Next time, I won’t be so nice, so you better watch out! When I see you ’round here again, if you ain’t got nothin’ better than a broken toothpick and a pair o’ drabs, I’ll bust you up good-an’ slow, too, so’s all us guys can enjoy it. Now get your yella ass outta my face, ’cause I hate gutless little punks!”
Gord scrambled away on all fours, clambered to his feet, and ran as fast as he could. As he fled, Gord heard: “Make it a handful o’ copper next time, piss-pants, and I’ll make ya our jester! Haw, haw, haw!”
Gord’s face was flushed with shame-a hot tingling that washed away the feeling, but not the memory, of the chill, pale fear he had just experienced. In the back of his mind Gord heard Leena cackling and screeching at him in her hag’s voice: “Gutless little runt, you ain’t even any use to yerself!”
It was true, for now he had nothing, no one. There was no place for him to go, nowhere to hide. His mind darted here and there, skittering from thought to thought like a mouse trapped in a box. The voice in his head kept cackling and berating him, though, underlying his frenzy, and this kept Gord from totally giving way to panic and despair. He was weak and lacked courage, but there was hatred to drive him!
What had just happened was too much for even Gord to pass off as merely another episode in a rotten life. Gutless or not, he had some bit of pride remaining. Somehow, Gord had to restore himself in his own eyes and settle with Snaggle in the process.
Fully returning to reality, Gord looked around and got his bearings. He was at the edge of the worst part of the Slum Quarter, near the better sector where menial laborers and others of that ilk lived. This was unsafe territory for an urchin; these working people didn’t want Gord’s kind around, knowing that they were there only to steal what little these poor folk possessed. He turned to retrace his steps and then stopped: At this point, he had nothing more to lose.
Gord slid into the shallow space of a boarded-up doorway and scrutinized the area, not knowing what he was looking for but willing to settle for anything promising. The narrow alley he was in gave onto a wider lane just ahead. He saw occasional figures passing the mouth of the passage. Anything else? Glancing up, Gord saw a series of moving shadows. It took only a moment or two for him to figure out that someone had a line of washing hung out to dry on the rooftop across the way.
“Now here’s a stroke of real luck,” he thought, as he ascended the gap by pressing his feet against one wall and his back and palms against the other.
A few minutes later, a shabbily dressed boy entered Killcat Lane from a disused alley. From the look of him he could have been one of dozens of lads who traveled in this vicinity, a link-boy or bound-boy of some sort on an errand for master or mistress-perhaps even the son of a local resident. A closer look might have brought a question to the observer’s mind, however. Although the worn blouse and baggy trousers were clean, the wearer most certainly was not. And where were the lad’s sandals?
Aware that his disguise was not perfect, Gord was feeling confident nonetheless. He had managed to steal a set of clothes better than any he had ever worn before. Although there had been nothing on the laundry line worth taking for sale somewhere, at least he could now move freely through this part of the quarter to the Foreign Quarter nearby. This opened up a whole realm of possibilities to him, and Gord’s mind raced over the more exciting ones. An unattended cash box would make him rich enough to live comfortably for months-and enable him to afford a ruffian to assassinate Snaggle. Perhaps he’d manage to find a jeweled weapon, a dagger or a small sword, left unguarded for a moment. After a grab and a fast getaway into the Slum Quarter’s byways, Gord figured he would be on easy street for life-and he would hire a personal attendant to dispatch all of the miserable Headsmen. The visions indeed were dancing deliciously in Gord’s mind as he skipped into the heart of that portion of Old Greyhawk City set aside for strangers.
At the Petit Bazaar, near the Black Gate, Gord came out of his wishful reverie and back into the real world. The worn cobbles of the rectangular plaza were crowded with colorfully draped and awninged booths, and rickety wagons and carts from which produce and handmade goods were hucked. The stone and brick buildings that walled the Petit Bazaar made the din of pedlars’ shouts and craftsmens’ calls, mixed with bargaining and insults yelled at the top of customers’ voices, fairly dizzy his head. Worse still, the sight of so many good things to eat-the aroma of broiling meat, bubbling soup, freshly baked bread, ripe galda fruit-caused Gord’s stomach to contract in waves of hunger. What should he do? Steal something to eat? Starvation was only a step behind-as always! Gord paused for a moment, invisible in an eddy where a buttress diverted the stream of human traffic elsewhere, a small, insignificant boy who was of no interest to anyone.
The place was thronged with the usual motley array of beings. Mixed with the typical city dwellers were all forms of outlanders-farmers and serfs from the surrounding area, dark and swarthy Rhennee bargefolk, half-orcs, unemployed mercenaries from Hardby and the Wild Coast, merchants and teamsters from all parts, and demi- humans from who knew where. Gord slipped into the wake of a group of tallfellows a half-score strong. The halflings were intent on some business and didn’t notice Gord at all. In turn, others around might easily mistake him for one of their number. Thus camouflaged, Gord worked his way along with the group, past the cheap goods to where the valuable merchandise was offered. As the party of small folk passed close to a booth offering silver jewelry, Gord could restrain himself no longer. The opportunity was there, and he acted partly out of instinct and partly out of desperation. A dart of the hand, and a beautifully wrought piece of armware was missing from the counter and safely within Gord’s blouse. It was easy! No hue and cry went up, so Gord continued to pace the tallfellows until they reached a place where a side alley wandered away from the market square. Just as they passed this place of safety, Gord spun left and made his dash.
He ran squarely into the arms of a large, mail-clad Officer of the Watch.
Chapter 2
Justice was swift, punishment sure to follow. The bailiff stared down at the small figure held firmly before him by a brawny man-at-arms. The dirty, narrow face showed a mixture of fear and defiance. However, the body’s posture was one of hopelessness. The bailiff could tell that the scrawny little guttersnipe knew he was guilty.
“Gord, dweller in the Slum Quarter of the Old City, I find you guilty of grand theft. You are fortunate indeed that the goods were recovered, for otherwise you would suffer flogging and then the axe… or worse. Lucky too, thief, that this is your first time caught, else I’d see your hand forfeit. Low justice prescribes your fate: I sentence you to three years in the workhouse in penal servitude,” the bailiff concluded, pointing his ceremonial mace at Gord. “Take the scum away!”
Shaking his head in disgusted bewilderment over how such creatures could be allowed to survive for a dozen years, the bailiff prepared himself for the next case.
Gord wasn’t surprised at being punished, nor was he particularly upset by the official’s harsh words. In fact, he was pleased at the result.
“Luck!” Gord thought. “I’m lucky for once!” For stealing as he had, Gord could have lost a hand. But the bailiff had ruled that all he had to do was work for a bit-and he’d be fed for it! Somehow, Gord reasoned, the powers above had seen him as fit and useful for something-no matter that his lot was to be a convicted criminal and workhouse slave. Gord was jubilant at the thought of being seen worthy of something, even penal servitude.
“With something in my belly, I’ll show them,” Gord thought. If only it had been as easy as that….
