D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (13 page)

Already, though, water lines were forming. Hand to hand, buckets and containers were passed down lines extending from the two Clerkburg wells to the south, from the well at University Park to the west, and from the well near the Garden Gate. Men gleamed with sweat from their furious, determined labor, and their bodies reflected the heat and the fire’s glow. Women worked the lines as well, those who were strong enough, passing the heavy buckets with noisy grunts and shouts of encouragement. The weaker ones worked with children, using heavy rags and pieces of scavenged carpet to beat out the smaller fires and sparks before they could blossom into deadlier form.

Nearby, an old man danced and whooped excitedly, beating his arms up and down, hopping from one foot to another. He spied Garett’s red cloak and the gold embroidery on his tunic that marked him as a watchman and capered nearer.

“Biggest one I ever saw!” the old man sang, his eyes bright with shock or madness. “Biggest one ever! Knew they was here! Everybody said they was one here right amongst us! Whooeee!” He grabbed Garett’s sleeve.

"Did’ja see it, General? Didja?”

“Just how many dragons have you seen before, Grandpa?” Burge asked sarcastically, staring past the old man at the fires. Reflected in his violet eyes, the flames leaped and danced, giving him the appearance of a demon until he turned his head.

“First one!” the old timer cackled. “Always wanted to see one, too! An’ I got to see the biggest!”

Garett pulled his arm free and walked away from the old man. Another man, bald, with the flames reflected on his shiny scalp, caught his eye, a professor, judging from his scholar’s robes. The man was on his knees, weeping, holding his empty hands before him as he stared into the heart of the raging destruction. The captain bent down and put an arm around the bald man’s shoulders.

“Are you all right, sir?” he said as gently as he could over the desperate shoutings that filled the night. “Are you burned? Can I help you?”

The professor turned disbelieving, tear-filled eyes up at him. “My books!” came the barely audible reply. “Oh, my books! My books!”

Garett bent down and embraced him as tightly as he could. He shared the man’s despair and shook his head in sadness. He could read, too, and loved books, loved the feel of them, the smell of them, though he’d never been able to afford to own one. But there was more to think about now.

“Your books are lost,” he whispered sympathetically. “And we can’t save them. But, look, the university’s near. There are books yet to save. The university itself. We need your help, teacher.” Slowly, he urged the weeping man to rise. “Will you help us? We all need each other tonight.” The professor wiped at his eyes and leaned weakly into Garett as he let himself be lifted to his feet. Still the tears came, but he cast a glance toward the university, and a new determination settled over his features as Garett showed him a place in the water line. The first few buckets came to him, and he accepted them with slumped shoulders and a weariness of spirit. But by the third or fourth, curses were spewing surprisingly from his mouth and demands for the buckets and the water to come faster.

Garett glanced around again as he dipped his hand in one of the buckets and rubbed it over his face. His skin stung from the heat, and his eyes burned from the clouds of smoke that hung in the air. Burge had disappeared. He couldn’t see his half-elven friend anywhere.

By now, though, every watchman in the city was here. Red cloaks worked the water lines, and red cloaks beat at the smaller fires. The blue-shirted members of the private Guild of Night Watchmen worked right alongside them. From every corner of the city, more help came. Known thieves worked hand-in-hand with dockers and merchantmen. Pimps and prostitutes, still decked out in the gaudy costumes of their trade, labored good-naturedly beside priests and acolytes from every temple in town.

But, still, through all of it came the whimperings of the burned and the cries of those who had lost loved ones. On the ground not far away, the injured were being laid out on blankets or scraps of cloth in neat lines. The beggars of the city seemed to have taken it on themselves to care for these, though there was precious little comfort they could offer. They wetted thirsty lips, peeled away burned clothing from burned flesh, held in their arms children made suddenly orphans.

“Where are the damned wizards!” a wild-eyed woman shrieked, grabbing Garett’s arm and spinning him about with a strength that belied her tiny size. Her face was a mask of anger and outrage. “We need rain! They could make it rain! Where are the wizards?” Then she let go of him, stomped a few paces away, and shrieked again. Her fingers curled into claws as she whirled about, screaming at the mob, “Where are the wizards?”

Where were the wizards, Garett thought suddenly. Why weren’t they here to help with their spells and magic? They could make it rain. And even if that weren’t enough to extinguish the fires, their enchantments could at least ease the suffering of the injured. He almost found himself shouting, Where are the wizards?

A hand settled on his shoulder, and he turned to find Quisti, the half-giant owner of the Sea Willow pleasure palace standing at his side. Both of the brothel keeper’s huge, meaty hands were reddened with burns, as was his left earlobe, where the big gold loop he wore there had overheated. His bare scalp also looked tender, and the hairs of his mighty mustache were singed. His great body gleamed with sweat and stank of smoke.

“We’re in luck tonight,” Quisti said, and he licked his lower lip.

Garett stared stupidly at him. “How do you figure that?”

“The wind,” Quisti answered reasonably. He licked a finger and held it up. “It’s blowing the fire toward the city wall instead of back into the Halls or down into the Artisans’ Quarter. If it doesn’t shift, we can beat this.” He licked his lip again, and in the shimmer of firelight on the wetness, Garett saw he had been burned there, too. “It’s going to be a long night, though,” Quisti added.

“The dragon,” Garett muttered, realizing he’d never said two words to this man before. He had thought Quisti was just a pimp, albeit a wealthy pimp with high-class ladies and higher-class customers. But, now, Garett saw that he was more, much more. He looked at those burned hands again, and the word “hero” sprang to mind. The night would be full of such heroes. “The dragon,” he repeated, his mind seething with images of the beast. “Have you heard? Does anyone know? Who was it?”

Quisti rubbed a hand under his nose. “Chancreon,” he answered. Despite everything, there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“The poet?” Garett said in disbelief. “The one who lectured at Greyhawk College? That little old man?”

Quisti tilted his head, and one side of his mouth curled upward in a half-grin. “That’s what they’re all saying. And he lived right in the heart of this mess. And you know dragons. Always so intellectual and artsy. What better disguise to take if one of them decides to live among humans? I mean, who would have suspected Chancreon?”

“What I want to know,” Garett said through clenched teeth as he stared back at the fires, “is what forced him out of that disguise?” As if it were in pain, he remembered thinking as it rose above the city. As if it were in battle against an invisible foe.

“Well, we’d better get back to it,” Quisti said with a sudden shrug. The brothel keeper went toward the line of injuries, surveyed them, and bent down beside a woman who was cradling her left arm but sitting up. They exchanged a few unheard words, then the woman nodded and gave him her blanket. He watched as Quisti carried it to a bucket of water, immersed it, and lifted it out dripping, then went to join a team of workers beating out smaller fires.

Garett let go a sigh and thanked the gods that Greyhawk was flanked by two rivers. It was unlikely the city wells would go dry, and if the wind, indeed, forced the fire up against the city wall, they would be fortunate. Fortunate, he thought with a bitter inward smirk. What a word to use when measuring the size of a disaster.

With a curse and a sigh, Garett unfastened his red cloak and carried it to the nearest bucket to wet it down.

The sun had been up for an hour when Garett dragged himself back to the Citadel. His hands were scorched and reddened from fighting the fire, and his eyes were irritated from the smoke. He itched all over from the dried sweat and soot that clung to his skin. He knew he stank; he could smell himself.

He dreamed of a bath and a bed, but there was still work to do and reports to make. Korbian would want details of the dragon and the fire. And there would be questions about the deaths of the fortune-teller, Duncan, and the River Quarter’s watch house commander, Soja. He put a hand to his forehead and wiped at the sweaty grit stuck to his brow, leaving a filthy smear. The skin was tender from constant exposure to heat, but he ignored that.

Hells, he thought, remembering suddenly that this was also the morning that Kentellen Mar was due to enter the city. He cast a quick glance around as he entered Grand Plaza. The streets were still relatively empty, at least in the High Quarter. The fire had quelled a good deal of the city’s

enthusiasm for any celebration, but that wouldn’t last for long, he knew. As soon as people had a little rest and a bite of food, they’d be back in the streets again.

Over against the barracks, a group of weary watchmen huddled. Some leaned against the barracks wall while others slumped down to sit on the ground. Their uniforms were tattered and filthy with black ash, and their faces were streaked. Everyone had turned out to save the Halls.

Well, almost everyone, the captain reflected as he went inside and promptly ran into Korbian Arthuran, who was stalking the corridors with a scowl on his face. Garett couldn’t prevent the frown that formed on his face as the man glared at him.

“Come with me,” Korbian ordered without so much as an attempt at a greeting or pleasantry.

Garett shook his head wearily as his superior turned his back, but he followed Korbian up several levels. It took him by surprise, however, when Korbian did not stop at his own office, but continued on to the seldom-used chambers provided in the Citadel for the mayor and the city directors.

Garett nodded a greeting at Ellon Thigpen as Korbian ushered him into the room. Thigpen leaned over a large rectangular table and eyed Garett silently as the door closed. Korbian moved away and went to stand at the mayor’s side. The scowl had not left the officer’s face.

Garett glanced around at the other fourteen directors present. He knew them all, these representatives from the most powerful and influential guilds, unions, and temples of Greyhawk. There was ruddy-faced Sorvesh Kharn, the head of the Thieves’ Guild, whom most of Greyhawk had expected to become mayor, before unexpected political ma-neuverings among the directors gave the post to Thigpen. There was Dak Kasinskaia, the youthful patriarch of the Temple of Rao, and Axen Kilgaren, the silent, brooding master of the Assassins’ Guild. Beside Axen sat Greyhawk’s plump, bejeweled inspector of taxes, Rankin Fasterace, or, as the general citizenry called him, “Fester-face,” for in-deed he had the worst complexion of any man Garett had ever seen.

Garett quickly scanned the faces of the rest, recalling names and positions, and noted at once the two glaring absences. As the high priest of Boccob, Acton Kathenor should have been present. Under the circumstances, however, Garett could see why he was not. It was the second absence that most puzzled him. One of the most powerful men on the Directorate was Prestelan Sun. It seemed extremely unlikely that he would miss such a gathering. But there was no sign of the master of the Wizards’ Guild.

Garett felt the weight of all their eyes upon him. He gave a barely perceptible shrug and sighed. It was going to be a long and unpleasant morning. “Good morning to you, gentlemen,” he said with a lightness of spirit he didn’t feel, regretting as soon as the words left his mouth the hint of mockery that edged them.

“You’re a mess, man!” Rankin Fasterace sneered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I can smell you from here!” “Forgive me for offending your sensibilities,” Garett answered with a bow. More mockery, he realized. He was just too tired to care. He wiped a hand again over his forehead. “You may have heard: we had a small fire last night.”

“Is the fire out?” Thigpen asked, still standing over the table. There was an impatience in his gaze that put Garett on his guard and commanded a tautness in his posture. The livid veins in the little mayor’s neck stood out against his pale skin. His hands gripped the edge of the table tightly.

Garett drew another breath and nodded. “The worst flames are beaten,” he reported. “We still have teams stirring in the coals and ashes. Many of the buildings in that section were built with timber, and you know how wood can burn inside and cause a new fire if it’s not watched.” “We were lucky.” Axen Kilgaren regarded Garett with a quiet respect. Garett had had few encounters with Kilgaren, but he held a measure of respect for the man. Even though Kilgaren was an assassin, Garett had the feeling sometimes that he was the only one on the Directorate who truly had the city’s interests at heart—and not just his own.

“Yes,” Garett agreed, “because the wind blew the flames toward the city wall instead of into the heart of Greyhawk.” “Was the wall damaged?” Fasterace interrupted. The fat little man reached up to his chin with a heavily ringed finger, manipulated a pimple, and wiped a small trace of white puss on his expensive blue silk robe. “The city coffers can ill afford repairs,” he added.

Garett bit back a sarcastic remark. Greyhawk’s coffers were fat with the taxes levied against the trading vessels and cargo ships that daily anchored at the city’s docks. The city was, in fact, one of the richest along the Nyr Dyv, the Selin-tan River, or anywhere. If that wasn’t reflected in outward opulence, it was due to the notorious stinginess of the city leaders. “Tight as a Greyhawk director” was a running joke in the streets.

“Don’t let it trouble your sleep, sir,” Garett intoned. “We were able to get large barrels of water atop the wall to pour down upon the flames. It served the double purpose of wetting down the stone and preventing heat-cracking.” As slow-witted as he was, even Rankin Fasterace realized he was being mocked. “You have an insolent tone, Captain!” he charged angrily.