"What if the members decide not to obey?"
Gasgol smiled broadly at that question. "They will be killed." he said simply. "Any thief found acting outside the strict confines I have just outlined will be subject to instant execution."
"The other guilds — assassins, beggars ..."
"Either concur or care not a bit. Arentol. After all, most have suffered loss because of your inability to find and end the career of a single rogue."
"Bah!"
Again the lord mayor smiled. "Perhaps you prefer that Blackcat not be caught."
"Are you suggesting that I somehow support the depredations of a rogue thief? That threatens my leadership and weakens—" and with that Arentol snapped his mouth shut grimly.
"Yes, that result is evident now, isn't it? Whether or not it occurred with your approval or participation, we shall soon learn, shan't we?"
"Be damned, Gasgol!" the guildmaster said forcefully but so softly that only the lord mayor could hear. "I am no fool to risk such an undertaking."
"No? Perhaps the lure of such rich hauls and an underestimation of my response prodded you into being, ah, less than prudent, shall we say?"
Guildmaster Arentol sat back and stared at the lord mayor. "So now this matter of Blackcat is out of my hands and in yours alone?" he demanded with anger evident in his tone.
"Correct," Gasgol replied. Just as forcefully.
"Very well. I shall inform the guild immediately, just as you have commanded. Guildmaster and guild bow to your wishes."
Nerof Gasgol stood. "Of course, there could be no other way. I depart now. My men, Blonk and Jenkin, will remain here to see that all goes as I wish. You, guildmaster, are to come with me to the Citadel until the matter is fully resolved."
When the lord mayor, guildmaster, and various servitors had gone. Blonk and Jenkin seated themselves comfortably at the big table. "You over there!" Blonk said to a shadowy figure hovering in the gloom. "Bring us a flagon of good ale." In a moment the attendant was back with a big beaker, and Jenkin grinned. "Out with the rest of you," he laughed, filling his tankard with the foamy, amber fluid. "This one stays to see that our drink doesn't run dry!"
Eyes as hard as pebbles stared into those of the mayor's two flunkies as the other thieves and varlets left.
"Have a care how you speak to me." The words were uttered with unmistakable warning.
"Ah, Viper. We meant no harm," Jenkin assured him. "Blonk and I just wanted to be sure none suspected - right, Blonk?"
The square-headed Blonk nodded vigorously at his partner's words as the tall man continued to eye them both emotion lessly. Finally, after both men were visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Viper spoke again.
"Watch the young one named San. He's very good. Smart, too. A loyal man of Arentol's. None of the others seem to have the stuff in them to be anything but common thieves, but be on guard anyway. If you are suspicious, use the pigeons to send word to the Citadel. Someone will take care of things after that. Understood?"
"Sure, Viper," Jenkin said unctuousty.
"So, whaddya gonna do?" Blonk blurted out before he could stop himself.
The tall man leaned close and spoke softly, his flat eyes as expressionless as his hard, lined face. "Not that it's any of your affair, but I have no intention of remaining here to observe you two bumbling around," he hissed. The man's resemblance to a venomous snake — and a serpent ready to strike, at that — was uncanny now indeed. Blonk quickly drew back a considerable measure and Jenkin seemed to shrink in his seat. "Lord Mayor Gasgol has personally charged me with the handling of this matter, and I intend to bring Blackcat beneath my blade," Viper spat. Without another word he turned and left so quietly and swiftly it almost seemed like magic.
"Wheesh! No wonder they call him Viper," Jenkin said, loudly exhaling in relief. "I thought he was about to bite you!"
"Shut up." his comrade replied, still shaken. "One day that snaky bastard is going to catch his own, and I want to be there to see it"
"Tush. Blonk," Jenkin said with a little laugh. "That killer is the best in Greyhawk — probably the whole of the bloody Flanaess. He'll get the fool who calls himself Blackcat, Gasgol will take the credit, and the Thieves Guild will pay the reckoning."
Blonk scowled at his associate. He hated to admit it, but Jenkin was right. With Viper the assassin on his trail, Blackcat hadn't a prayer of surviving. And life would be easier for all of them when the thief was dead and their boss was in better spirits.
The one who was the object of all this, the unlicensed thief, the rogue who had come to accept the name he had been given by others, Blackcat, was quite unaware of the machinations of those who ruled the city of Greyhawk. He sat in a noisy tavern, ate, played quoits, and drank. Many called him by name and stopped to chat a while with this small, dark young man. Though plainly dressed and lacking a fat purse, many of the women present flirted with him, too. He had a certain quality that caused them to be attracted to him.
"Gord! Let's you and I go to my place" a bronze-haired girl called seductively over her pretty shoulder as she headed for the door.
"Not tonight, love." Gord called back. "You nearly wore me to a frazzle last night. I have to sleep sometime!" There was raucous laughter at that, and the girl flounced out into the night.
"Come over to our table, Gord," one of the patrons said when the laughter died down. "We need another for plaques."
Shaking his head sadly in declination, the young man smiled ruefully. "Helga would use me up, and you three would empty my already slender purse. What's an honest man to do?"
"Let us know when you find one." the game-players called in reply. "I can't recall you ever losing at a game of chance!"
"Maybe so." Gord said as he rose and headed for the exit, "but tonight I'm for home and bed. I'll be back soon enough to test your skills, my friends, so save a few nobles for me."
Outside, the streets and alleyways of the Craftsmen's Ward were either but dimly illuminated by sputtering flambeaux or small lanthorns or else in total darkness. It was near midnight, and even here near the wall of Old City, which separated the ward from the Foreign Quarter, most of the residents of the district were asleep. Revelry and nlghtlife were for other, rougher places. That was, in fact, the very reason Gord frequently spent his time hereabouts.
Who would look for the notorious thief Blackcat in so straight and plain a place as the Craftsmen's Ward? Gord hadn't been plying his rogue thievery long before he became aware that he had to be very careful — even more careful than he had been in past years before he had left Greyhawk to go adventuring in the lands around. Now the city seemed especially attuned to breaches in its own codes. Unlicensed thievery was a serious crime, punishable by death.
Gord had no intention of meeting an untimely end. But he had no intention of joining the hated Thieves Guild, either. Therefore, he had to ply his art. but cautiously, if he was to maintain the high level of spending he enjoyed. The fact was, he did occasionally lose at the tables, and his preferences in women and drink cost plenty. Every now and then he found it necessary to reconnoiter a place and call back late at night swathed in black, hooded with a cat's-ear hood, and armed with sword and dagger. Then he would take some store of gold orbs or coffer of jewelry as his own. The few who happened to see him could not tell who or what he was. Those who didn't try to interfere with Gord's work described him only as a black, catlike figure. After a brief time, the name of Blackcat grew. Now it was almost legendary.
In his current guise, Gord maintained a small apartment in the upper story of an old building nearby. The young thief walked swiftly from the tavern and went directly to his own place. Had anyone been watching, he would have observed a lamp's warm glow showing high above the narrow lane. In a few minutes it was extinguished. No one saw the sablelike form that subsequently emerged on the rooftop, using the aerial route as a highway to rapidly move away from the dark district toward the rich area of shops opposite the city's High Quarter. Later. Gord slipped down and used the maze of sewers, conduits, and passages under Greyhawk to traverse still more distance without being seen.
"A hundred orbs, that's what they're now offering for his head!" Old Farley Fastfingers had exclaimed just the other evening during a lull in the conversation.
"Who's offering what?" This came from Morgos, a sometimes sell-sword, now respectably employed as a household guardian. That sum of gold would enable him to retire comfortably for life.
Gord pretended complete disinterest as Farley replied, "For the head of Blackcat, the rogue thief, of course. The Thieves Guild will pay a round hundred orbs!"
"Might as well look for the pot of gold at the rainbow's end," Gord drawled.
There was agreement at that, with Morgos adding, "Oh, they'll get the bastard all right, devil take 'em all. It won't be little chaps like us, though. Some high-powered spell-binder will snare the outlaw, or else he'll be trapped by the assassins. Mark my words. Forget the gold, lads. What our sort gets has to be earned."
As he recalled that conversation, Gord had to smile. Those comrades would, indeed, have turned him in for such a reward, had any of them the least inkling that he was Blackcat. Gord wouldn't blame them, either. There was a lesson in all that, and a warning to be heeded in the words spoken. He was safe from no one — not even his friends. Each potential target had to be viewed as a possible set-up, a trap cleverly laid to catch him. Gord thought he had better redouble his caution henceforth. Perhaps it was time to retire Blackcat after today's foray.
"Left here," the young thief murmured to himself. He used no light to discern his path through the pitchy darkness of the labyrinth, yet he saw clearly. Thanks to his dweomered shortsword, Gord could move easily in total gloom. "That iron ladder takes me to where I must go," he added, and then he scrambled up the rungs. Starlight was visible now, and soon he had slipped through an opening in the drainage grate and was abroad on the streets of Greyhawk once again, a deeper bit of blackness in the shadows.
Gord had been making expeditions of this nature for some time now. There had been rich hauls and close calls. The bet he'd lost with the Lord of Cats had been one of the latter, as had been the slip when Blackcat had foolishly attempted to loot the city's treasury. Earlier, it had seemed to Gord that it was mainly his friend Chert's profligacy that had kept him chronically short of coin. Now that the great barbarian was gone, however, Gord had to admit to himself that his own bad habits were primarily responsible for his needing to frequently replenish his dwindling purse.
"Two hours o' the clock, and all's well!" The cry sounded from the street nearby. The sound of the tramping feet of the soldiers of the watch as they marched through their rounds faded to the north. Gord clambered swiftly upward to the tall, narrow building's sharply peaked roof of slate. The place was the headquarters of a syndicate that gathered up rarities from everywhere, gaining them by means fair or foul. This secret group then disbursed its stock here and there in Greyhawk — exotic poisons to the Assassins Guild, rare scrolls to mages or collectors, jewelry to the rich, and so on.
Not many minutes later, the black-garbed young thief was again below, this time returning the way he had come. Skill, intelligence, and not a few magical devices assured Blackcat that neither deadly trap nor enchantment would detect his presence or protect the valuables he intended to pilfer.
This time Gord had taken only a small portion of the treasure that was stored in the building. Ancient funerary pieces, gold and gems worn by a Sulolse king ages dead, were stored safely within his felt-lined pouch. Gord chuckled, thinking how Lord Mayor Gasgol would rage when he was informed of the loss, for these very trinkets had been his share of the profits from the secret operations of the syndicate. News of this theft, at least, would not be broadcast throughout the streets of the city, for Gasgol himself had been criminally involved in the matter. Not that this fact would lessen the hunt for Blackcat. . . .