Free D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch by Robin Wayne Bailey
Authors: Robin Wayne Bailey
said, rising to his feet. “He doesn’t have a shop front. He works the streets and the street corners.”
“Just find him,” Garett repeated. “Blossom already has her assignment. I want to know everything about these Old Town murders. 'You’re right; we haven’t really done enough to check them out. You get me the details, and get me those watchmen.”
Burge uncrossed his legs and stood up. “What about me, Cap’n?”
Garett put on his best false smile. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said slyly. “You and I are going to take a little walk down to the Slum Quarter.”
Burge put a hand dramatically to his chest. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“Rip something,” Blossom suggested helpfully.
“Like a stomach muscle,” Rudi added with a caustic note
as he opened the door and exited.
“Nice kid,” Burge commented as his eyes met Garett’s. “Were his mother and father by any chance brother and sister?”
A high wall, so ancient it was blackened with stone-rot from the heat of old fires, separated Old Town from the New City, and the Black Gate, as it was called, was the only entrance or egress. Beyond the Black Gate lay the Slum Quarter and the Thieves’ Quarter, and the guards kept a careful record and a sharp eye on those who traveled back and forth, for no one did so on honorable business.
Garett and Burge took a single lantern from the gatehouse, and after exchanging a few pleasantries with the guards on duty, they passed under the gate’s imposing arch and into the Thieves’ Quarter, the most dangerous part of Greyhawk.
There were no street lamps in Old Town, and the darkness was oppressive. The Processional became an ill-kept road, full of ruts and holes, littered with refuse. Even the buildings in Old Town looked tired and weary. They leaned at odd angles on settled foundations. Shutters hung on broken hinges, and chimneys pitched precipitously, as if at any moment they might crumble and slide into the street below.
A few taverns were still open. This close to the gate, few businesses flourished. A bored young noble with a taste for adventure—but not too much adventure—might wander this way for a drink and brag about it afterward to his friends. Some of the lower quarter’s citizens sometimes preferred to take their pleasures on the south side of the Black Gate, rather than venture into the River Quarter, where their poorer clothes might subject them to scorn and prejudice.
And of course there was the usual assortment of thugs and ruffians and low-life characters one would expect to find in the most impoverished section of the city. Men could hide in the labyrinth that was the Thieves’ Quarter and never be found again. Indeed, most of Greyhawk’s criminal element did just that. This quarter was home not only to the city’s powerful and devious Thieves’ Guild, but to the Assassins’ Guild and the Beggars’ Union as well.
The sound of raucous laughter spilled suddenly into the street. A door crashed open unexpectedly, and somebody sprawled face down in the road at Burge’s feet. A large man, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight, suddenly appeared in the doorway, his hands curled into fists. Several others crowded quickly behind him, expecting the fight to continue.
The man at Burge’s feet gave a moan and rolled over. He stared upward in confusion for a moment, his panicked gaze swiftly raking over the two men above him before he shot a glance toward the door. Then he gave another moan, scrambled to his feet, and disappeared up a narrow alley.
The large man and his comrades directed hard stares at the two City Watch officers before returning to their drinks and gaming tables. Someone closed the door, shutting in the light that had spilled onto the street. Garett and Burge both felt the surreptitious eyes that watched through the cracked shutters as they started down the Processional again.
“Wonder what that was all about?” Burge said
“Just find him,” Garett repeated. “Blossom already has her assignment. I want to know everything about these Old Town murders. 'You’re right; we haven’t really done enough to check them out. You get me the details, and get me those watchmen.”
Burge uncrossed his legs and stood up. “What about me, Cap’n?”
Garett put on his best false smile. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said slyly. “You and I are going to take a little walk down to the Slum Quarter.”
Burge put a hand dramatically to his chest. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“Rip something,” Blossom suggested helpfully.
“Like a stomach muscle,” Rudi added with a caustic note
as he opened the door and exited.
“Nice kid,” Burge commented as his eyes met Garett’s. “Were his mother and father by any chance brother and sister?”
A high wall, so ancient it was blackened with stone-rot from the heat of old fires, separated Old Town from the New City, and the Black Gate, as it was called, was the only entrance or egress. Beyond the Black Gate lay the Slum Quarter and the Thieves’ Quarter, and the guards kept a careful record and a sharp eye on those who traveled back and forth, for no one did so on honorable business.
Garett and Burge took a single lantern from the gatehouse, and after exchanging a few pleasantries with the guards on duty, they passed under the gate’s imposing arch and into the Thieves’ Quarter, the most dangerous part of Greyhawk.
There were no street lamps in Old Town, and the darkness was oppressive. The Processional became an ill-kept road, full of ruts and holes, littered with refuse. Even the buildings in Old Town looked tired and weary. They leaned at odd angles on settled foundations. Shutters hung on broken hinges, and chimneys pitched precipitously, as if at any moment they might crumble and slide into the street below.
A few taverns were still open. This close to the gate, few businesses flourished. A bored young noble with a taste for adventure—but not too much adventure—might wander this way for a drink and brag about it afterward to his friends. Some of the lower quarter’s citizens sometimes preferred to take their pleasures on the south side of the Black Gate, rather than venture into the River Quarter, where their poorer clothes might subject them to scorn and prejudice.
And of course there was the usual assortment of thugs and ruffians and low-life characters one would expect to find in the most impoverished section of the city. Men could hide in the labyrinth that was the Thieves’ Quarter and never be found again. Indeed, most of Greyhawk’s criminal element did just that. This quarter was home not only to the city’s powerful and devious Thieves’ Guild, but to the Assassins’ Guild and the Beggars’ Union as well.
The sound of raucous laughter spilled suddenly into the street. A door crashed open unexpectedly, and somebody sprawled face down in the road at Burge’s feet. A large man, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight, suddenly appeared in the doorway, his hands curled into fists. Several others crowded quickly behind him, expecting the fight to continue.
The man at Burge’s feet gave a moan and rolled over. He stared upward in confusion for a moment, his panicked gaze swiftly raking over the two men above him before he shot a glance toward the door. Then he gave another moan, scrambled to his feet, and disappeared up a narrow alley.
The large man and his comrades directed hard stares at the two City Watch officers before returning to their drinks and gaming tables. Someone closed the door, shutting in the light that had spilled onto the street. Garett and Burge both felt the surreptitious eyes that watched through the cracked shutters as they started down the Processional again.
“Wonder what that was all about?” Burge said