D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (31 page)

But why did he say he had no voice on the Directorate? Yes, he was the newcomer to that body, but was he truly so ignorant of its workings? Or did he think Garett was the stupid one? The investiture was a formality only, a show put on for the people of Greyhawk. The moment Ellon Thigpen had named him magister-to-be, the mayor had filled Kentellen’s hands with power.

“I just want you to know,” Kentellen went on, “that I’ll do everything I can to reason with Korbian. You are not without friends on the Directorate, Captain. Try to relax and let us do what we can.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Garett answered cautiously. Something is not quite right here, he thought, trying to hide his true reaction. He couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. He had never met Kentellen Mar personally. He didn’t really know the man from a pimple on Boccob’s backside. Why was the magister here offering to see Garett reinstated?

Something brushed against Guardian’s hilt. As if snapping awake, Garett shot out his hand and caught the wrist of the little blond boy, who looked up suddenly with terrified, wide eyes. Garett hadn’t even seen him move! The boy had been standing beside Kentellen Mar. How had he made it all the way around Garett’s desk without Garett seeing?

“Cavel!” Kentellen Mar shouted sternly, snapping his fingers and pointing to the floor by his side as he glared at the boy. “Get back here! You know better than to bother adults when they’re speaking!”

The boy, Cavel, jerked his arm free from Garett’s grip and ran back around the desk to his appointed spot. His two fists clutched at Kentellen’s velvet robes as he sidled up to the old man. Safe there, he dared to turn a glare of pure, unchildlike anger on Garett, and his lips curled upward in a soundless snarl. Only then did he hold out his wrist for Kentellen to see where Garett had grabbed him, and clutch it to his chest as he mimed a look of pain.

“There, there,” Kentellen said paternally as he patted the boy’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Grown men don’t like little boys—or anyone—touching their weapons. Now he didn’t hurt you, so be a big boy and don’t make such a face about it! ”

Garett watched it all with subdued interest. “The boy can’t speak?” he ventured.

Kentellen Mar shook his head. “Not a word,” he affirmed. “I apologize for his bad manners, but he was fascinated by your sword. It’s quite exquisite. I must confess, I don’t recognize its workmanship.”

Garett glanced down at Guardian’s hilt. He had left his old sword in the barracks with the ruins of his old clothes to be claimed later. “It’s just a sword,” he said with a shrug, peering at the pair as an uncomfortable sensation crept over him.

“May I see it?” Kentellen asked innocently, leaning forward in his chair and holding out his hand. His eyes locked with Garett’s.

But Garett hesitated, intrigued and startled by the power in the old man’s gaze, before he politely declined. “Forgive me, Magister,” he said by way of apology. “But, as you told young Cavel, a man keeps his weapons to himself.”

Kentellen Mar blinked and turned away a little. “Of course,” he said. “It is I who should ask your forgiveness. It was a stupid request.” He rose suddenly with a speed and ease surprising, considering how stiffly he had sat down. “Well, I must be going, but I did want to offer you what assurances of support I could. Greyhawk needs dedicated men like you, Captain. Now, Cavel and I must go home and see about some lunch, even though it’s a bit early. I’m afraid I have a full schedule for the day.” He did not offer his hand as another man might have, but moved around his chair and headed for the door with Cavel still clutching his robe.

“Where is Cavel from?” Garett called abruptly before they could get away. It was polite inquiry only. At least, he hoped it sounded that way.

Kentellen Mar gave a wry sort of grin that turned up one side of his mouth only. “Why, I found him on the banks of the Ritensa River,” he explained, “near where it joins the Nyr Dyv, His parents and family had apparently drowned in a barge accident, so I kept him and brought him to live with me.” He reached down and rumpled the boy’s blond hair as Cavel twisted around to face Garett once more. His small, round face was expressionless except for those dark, glittering eyes. Garett could feel it. The boy didn’t like him much.

“He’s going to like it here in Greyhawk,” Kentellen Mar went on, smoothing the hair he had just messed up. “Oh, yes, he’s going to like it here very much.”

The boy’s only response was to hug Kentellen and hide his face in the folds of the older man’s velvet robe.

Garett watched them go, feeling slightly cold inside. Then he went around to each of his lamps and turned the wicks down until the flames and the light died and left him in darkness. Then he pushed the door closed, pulled out his chair, and sat down. For a long time, he just sat there in the darkness, letting his thoughts lead him down whatever path they would. At last, he got up. The opening and closing of the door as he left his office filled him with a strange melancholy. Somehow, there was such a finality to it.

Once again, the halls were fall of faces he didn’t know, but that only made them easier to ignore as he worked his way down the levels and out into light and clean air. The sentries at the door saluted him, and without thinking about it, he answered their salute as he passed on.

Halfway across the Citadel’s courtyard, though, he paused and craned his neck to gaze upward. The sky above the Citadel was black with circling birds. He watched them until a pain in his palm grew acute enough to make him glance down. He opened his right hand, which had been clenched in a tight fist. A small, crescent-shaped wound, made by the bloodied nail of his middle finger, showed liv-idly in the center. With a silent curse, he wiped the blood on his trouser leg, gazed once more at the patient birds, and strode off across the courtyard and out the massive Citadel gates.

As usual, Vendredi was at her booth in the High Market. A small crowd was gathered around her baskets of fruit, but as if sensing his approach, she looked up as he came down the Processional.

“Hi, handsome!” she called cheerily, tossing him an apple. “That’s not your regular uniform. 'You get demoted?”

She’d meant it as a joke, so Garett allowed himself to grin as he answered, “You might say that.” He took a big bite of the apple and chewed noisily. With his mouth full, he couldn’t be expected to explain any further.

Vendredi’s brows closed in on each other as she regarded him, and her face took on a serious expression. She put her hands on her hips, and leaned toward him. “I can always use a guard around here,” she whispered so no one else could overhear, but she said it with just the right amount of lightheartedness, too. He could take her offer seriously or as just another joke, whatever his ego allowed. She left the option to him.

He looked down at her tenderly. Why couldn’t he reach out and stroke that fire-red hair, brush a finger along that rosy cheek? What would the perfume at the nape of her neck smell like if he dared to bend closer? he wondered. What would Vendredi say if she knew he had such thoughts about her? Now, more than ever, though, he dared say nothing, do nothing. Without a job, he had nothing to offer her.

“Pardon me,” she said abruptly, saving him the trouble of thinking up a witty remark to answer her with. She picked up a fat orange from a basket and hefted it on her palm. “Clear!” she shouted. As if they’d been trained to her command, the crowd parted. Just beyond the far end of her booth, a man sauntered innocently away. Vendredi drew back and let fly. The orange smashed against the back of the man’s head, pitching him unexpectedly forward. As he flung out his arms to catch his balance, half a dozen pears fell out of his sleeves. The man looked fearfully around, rubbed the pulp-smeared spot on his head, and ran off.

Vendredi had eyes in the back of her head when it came to thieves, and Garett was grateful for the distraction as he slipped quietly away. He would apologize to her later.

Walking along the crowded Processional, he finished the apple Vendredi had given him and dropped the core into the dirt. The street was decked with banners that were already beginning to look slightly tattered. Many of the lampposts, however, were garlanded with wreaths of fresh flowers that could only have been put there this morning, and colorful pennons, hanging from many windows, flapped gayly in the breeze. Personally, he was in no mood to celebrate. He wished all the commotion was over.

Garett made his way to Cargo Street, intent on reaching home while he still had ribs left, or before he lost his temper. The throngs were terrible, and he was bumped and jostled at every turn. It wasn’t just the citizens of Greyhawk that choked the streets, either. The town was filling up with folks from the outlying communities and provinces, all coming to take part in the celebrations as the day of investiture drew nearer.

As he passed the Low Seas Tavern, a group of six Rhennee bargemen pushed their way inside. A raucous blast of laughter issued into the streets as the door opened and closed, and Garett got a glimpse of the boisterous mob within. The Low Seas was usually a relatively calm place where customers checked their weapons. The tavern had changed owners recently, though, and Garett had no idea if the policy was still in effect.

A cart laden with goods from the wharves, bound for some warehouse, trundled down the street, forcing everyone to the sides. A lot of curses and insults were flung at the driver, and the driver returned them in kind. Garett waited, backed up against a wall, until the cart went past. Not everyone was celebrating, it seemed. For some, work still went on.

He made his way finally to Moonshadow Street. With a look of irritation, he observed a steady flow of traffic even here. As he drew nearer to his apartment, he saw that, for many of them, Almi’s tavern was their destination. His landlady had even hung out a new, brightly painted sign. “The Crusty Widow,” the sign announced in flaming red letters.

Despite all the hubbub, Almi still sat in her window. There was a big smile on her face, though, as she watched the customers file into her establishment. As Garett walked up to the window, he saw that she had moved a table and her cashbox there so she could work at the same time she watched the street.

Garett leaned on the sill, but before he could say anything, one of Almi’s customers, a dock worker, and quite drunk, leaned close and pinched the old lady’s bosom. Almi blushed and giggled like a young girl before she picked up an ash pan and banged him over the head with it. The docker reeled backward into the arms of his laughing friends.

“You’re open a bit earlier than usual,” Garett commented, leaning in through the window to tap her shoulder.

“Why, Captain!” Almi shrieked, pleased to see him. Then she giggled again. To Garett’s surprise, her breath bore the powerful odor of wine. Lots of wine. She put a hand to her mouth and gave a little burp. She got control of her giggles and put on a serious expression. “I couldn’t turn away business, now could I?” she told him as she burped again.

Garett raised an eyebrow. “'You mean, you haven’t closed at all yet? This is still last night’s crowd?”

She leaned one elbow on the windowsill and rested her chin in her palm as she shook her head. “Oh, it’s a different crowd. They come and they go from one tavern to another. And, nope, I haven’t closed.” Her old eyes glazed over for a second. She raised one hand in a futile effort to smooth down her wild forest of gray hair. For an instant, Garett thought she was going to fall asleep as her eyelids fluttered shut, but she snapped them open again. “I’m exhausted!” she said with sudden brightness. “But look!”

Almi reached out to the iron cashbox on the table beside her and briefly opened the heavy lid for Garett to see. It was near to overflowing with commons and nobles and elec-trum luckies. He even thought there was the wink of gold among all the coins.

“Damn it, woman! Shut that! ” He cast a worried glance around the inside of her tavern. There were plenty of rough-looking, suspicious characters among her customers who might be willing to snatch her box if the opportunity presented itself. This was the River Quarter, where that type hung out. The fact that Almi was being so careless was testament to how much she had drunk. And he had never known Almi to drink at all.

Almi slammed the lid down and smiled at him. “If I closed up now,” she cackled, “I might have to raise your rent to make up the difference.”

Garett gave a sigh as he left the window and hurried inside. Without another word, he caught Almi by her arm, grabbed her cashbox, and hustled her through the tavern, back to her private rooms.

The old lady spun suddenly away from him, did a little pirouette, and fell on the edge of her bed. Her eyes were wide and shiny, and her lips parted in a silly grin. “Why, Captain Starlen!” she sighed melodramatically. “I had no idea you were so forceful! What about our age difference?” Garett slammed her door and looked quickly around as

he hugged the cashbox under one arm. “Do you have a safe?” he asked, ignoring her comic attempt at seduction. “A hiding place? Where do you keep your money?” “Right here, honey!” she answered, jiggling her bosom with one hand. “It’s a treasure chest.”

Garett groaned as he set the cashbox down on a small table and opened it. There was more money in the box than Almi would make in a normal year. While his landlady watched, he took one of the pillows from her bed, stripped off its linen case, and emptied the coins into it, leaving only what he thought she’d reasonably need for operating capital. Then he tied a knot in the case, got down on his knees, and pushed it under her bed. When he got up again, Almi was stretched out on her back, asleep or passed out.

Garett couldn’t suppress a grin as he looked down at her. Almi’s daughters would just have to handle things on their own for a while. He picked up the box, slipped out of the room, and started to close the door.

“I don’t think you’re going to get much sleep upstairs!” Almi called out suddenly. Garett turned around just in time to see her slump back down like a limp doll someone had put aside. His grin only widened, and he shook his head with amusement as he quietly pulled the door shut.