flotsam and jetsam of the city. If the local economy ever began to flourish again, then the Slum Quarter would shrink as laborers increased and property was rebuilt, refurbished, repaired for those who contributed to the city’s wealth. In truth, the slums were a preserve, a place for the misfits and useless to dwell within the walls of Greyhawk, but the place had not been intentionally provided for that purpose. They existed simply because nobody cared about the area at the time. Many of the constructions therein were abandoned now because of slow trade, a weak economy, and lack of demand. No one stayed there if he could go elsewhere, unless he was a crazy person or a wanted criminal.
Of course there was an economy, of sorts, within the quarter. There were food shops, peddlers, stores selling old clothing and used things, places to buy small beer and sour wine, and all that. There were three relatively thriving places within the Slum Quarter, but they were the haunts of those forced to dwell there because of being wanted criminals, or else the territories of those who chose to deal with the slums for some related reason. If a denizen of the slums had money to spend, he could enter these three islands of activity, but when his coins were gone he had to leave. There was no safety in these places of activity, no safety anywhere in the quarter, unless you bought it or were strong enough not to be threatened by roving gangs of boys, muggers, crazy men, and the rest of the feral folk of the place. Needless to say, Gord stayed well away from the active parts of the quarter.
Three gangs claimed territories that virtually surrounded the place where the boy dwelled. It would be no use to go elsewhere, for no other place would necessarily have fewer threats. Gord had to deal with the threats, the predatory neighbors of all sorts, as a matter of course. Without Leena to frighten off the gangs, Gord was in trouble. Although he had become very clever and wise from having dwelled in the slums since infancy, the prospect of his staying alive was dwindling. Without allies or a protector, he was nothing more than prey for the other boys.
Not only was he small for his age, but Gord was also not very strong. It was more a case of late development than innate weakness, but the harsh environment made no allowance for that. Because he was subject to being bullied by virtually any gang boy, Gord was an undesirable potential member as far as the gangs were concerned. He might be clever, but that threatened the leadership of the gang. He might be fast, but speed and agility weren’t considerations in the society of a group of homeless boys, unless these characteristics were associated with toughness and fighting ability.
Gord’s nature denied him membership anyway. He was a loner, and the very idea of having to be the lowest on the scale, the butt of all others in a gang, was sufficient cause for the boy to stay away from a gang even if he would have been accepted. He was known to many of the other lads in the area, and because he fled from them or was caught and trounced by them, these boys despised and derided him. He was never simply called “Gord”- gutless, chicken, or a similar term always accompanied Gord’s name or was used in place of it. The nature of the slums was for the strong to pick upon the weak, and there was no question that Gord was physically weak.
“You live in our fief now,” a member of the gang called the Headsmen told him at the start of low summer. “You give us half of everything you get, or else we’ll take everything-and beat the crap outta you in the bargain.” Gord told the boy he would do as he was told, but he didn’t actually comply unless circumstances compelled him to. He could be physically bullied, and he cried from the pain of being beaten, but mentally Gord had plenty of courage. Threats and beating made him agree then and there. But once he was away, it was an altogether different matter. He did try cooperating once or twice, voluntarily going to the gang’s headquarters to split some haul with the other boys-only to discover that they took all of his loot anyway. After that, he never sought them out and decided to take his chances instead.
The Headsmen soon caught on to Gord’s defiance and lurked in ambush for him. Whenever they caught him, these bullies seized whatever Gord had, pummeled him, and then let him loose again. It was diversion, amusement, and profit all in one, for Gord usually had something worth taking. The gang profited, but Gord grew weaker still, for he could manage to amass no store of things against the future. Each day he had to find enough to eat, devour what he found immediately, and then attempt to carry anything remaining back through the hostile territory to his own den, without revealing the location of his hideaway either coming or going. Most of the time the return was a disaster. Gord would throw his prizes away, if the opportunity allowed, to avoid being beaten; or else he would be caught, his booty taken from him, and then he would be hit and kicked in the bargain.
There was no other place for him to go, so Gord had no choice but to put up with it. It was a humiliation and a shame. It began to prey upon his mind even as the conditions ate away his strength and stamina. The very names of Chopper, Jot, Snaggle, and the others of the Headsmen were enough to make the boy furious Inside. Finally, after living this way for the better part of a year, Gord decided he had to do something. If he were still in the same area when another winter came, the lad knew that he’d die as Leena had.
“I’ll never manage here in the slums,” he said to himself as he gathered up what little he owned. Not wishing to risk the well-crafted box with the parchments inside, the only thing he possessed that had any real and lasting value, Gord hid it away in a place where no one but him would ever find it. Carrying his few remaining items, the boy went off, headed for the workers’ district. Although he was nabbed in the process and stripped of even what little he held, Gord remained determined. He would leave the Slum Quarter regardless.
Wearing clothing that was barely presentable, and feeling frightened inside, Gord managed to make his way from the upper part of Old City all the way into the Foreign Quarter, a far-off and exotic place he had only heard of. Nobody seemed to notice him or, if they did actually see Gord, pay any attention to him. That bolstered his spirits and encouraged the boy. There were riches everywhere in this fabulous place. With his skill and daring, Gord was certain he could take some of the readily available wealth and soon be set up for life in such a place.
But self-confidence and speed weren’t enough. The experience of stealing in the slums was certainly in-, sufficient training for this place, where real artistry was required to defeat the guardians and sharp-eyed protectors of goods displayed for sale in the Foreign Quarter’s marketplaces. Gord tried, of course, and then he was caught, taken before the authorities, and sentenced to penal servitude all in the same day. The boy didn’t realize it at the time, but that calamity was a turning point in his life.
Chapter 8
“You saw him?”
“I think so. He fits your description pretty well. Who can tell for sure? All those little guttersnipes look pretty much alike.”
“He’s been sent to the Old Citadel?”
“For three years-imprisoned and working off a theft.”
“Will he survive it?”
“Not very likely. The boy’s too small and weak to manage there for more than a few months. Between the labor, the abuse, and the food, I’d say that the coming of winter solstice should see him dead.”
“That can’t happen.”
The nondescript man scratched his leathery cheek. “I never did understand this whole business anyway, Markham. If one little urchin is important, why in the hells didn’t we pull him out of the slums long ago?”
Markham was a fat trader who made his living buying and selling goods brought into Greyhawk from foreign parts. He didn’t really care about politics or meddling in affairs of states and governments. Matters of tariffs and taxation interested him, as did profits and costs.
Still, the obese trader had some other concerns. He was an agent for an association that covered the whole of Oerik, from the Flanaess to the distant West. Markham was a small cog in a complex organization that sought to keep the balance between Evil and Good while promoting the status of the neutral group that viewed all as a necessary part of existence. If the trader was a small cog, then the shabby-appearing Tapper, to whom he spoke, was a mere tooth on the gear.
“Who can say. Tapper? I don’t make the decisions, I just carry out the directions given to me. Now I’ll give you yours.”
It paid to listen and follow instructions. Markham got cash from someplace and passed it on to Tapper and others. Tapper was one who believed in balance, of course, but he believed in seeing to himself first, too. The coins were worthwhile, and the strength of the group was persuasive too. Although the group didn’t flaunt its power, incurring the enmity of the shadowy organization would mean trouble indeed. Tapper knew that his life wouldn’t be worth a drab if he crossed Markham. Still, after hearing just the beginning of his instructions, he couldn’t help being
