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 frank about his reservations.

“No matter what, I can’t manage to get the little bugger out of the workhouse-not without arousing a whole lot of suspicion!”

“Relax,” Markham said. “Neither you nor I will be required to do anything stupid or dangerous. You just have your friend at the prison keep an eye on the kid… Gord, is that his name? Be sure that he isn’t worse off than any of the rest of the lot there. Sooner or later an opportunity to get him out of there might come; then your associate is to see to it that the boy gets it.”

“Gord’s the name all right, Markham,” the nondescript man said. “Sharp Clyde is my contact there. The warden doesn’t realize he’s a member of the Thieves’ Guild, and the guild doesn’t know he’s an agent of the Balance.”

The fat trader knew everyone who Worked for Tapper, whether or not they were dedicated members of the organization or knew not a whit about the Balance and merely performed small services for the money paid to them. Markham was careful and thorough, and kept tabs on everything. That’s why there was a lot more to the fat man than met the eye. “Right, then-look up Sharp Clyde now, and give him the word.”

“That alone isn’t going to guarantee that the boy survives.”

“I know that,” Markham said with a sigh. “My instructions are to give the lad whatever help can be given without revealing it is being given.” Whatever those who run things were thinking, Markham didn’t know, but his own orders could be interpreted, on the surface, in only one way: The organization’s interest in the boy was not to be exposed, even if refraining from this meant that he might not survive. When Markham tried to reason one step deeper, he ran into speculation and uncertainty. It seemed that whatever value was placed on the orphan, it was only marginal, and not worth risking the organization in any way. Or possibly, the reason that no attention must be focused on the boy could be that his value to the organization was actually much greater than Markham could perceive. That made for a whole different set of probabilities…

“Just a moment. Tapper, I want to read something again.” Markham pulled out a small sheet of thin paper, unfolded it, and read the tiny markings on its surface again, very carefully this time:

“The loop of fate may pin some small part of our web squarely on this urchin’s dirty collar. Then again, he might stem from those who seek to disturb the scale, tip it a bit one way or another. Watch for him, assist without being evident, but do not actively interfere. His value is uncertain, and better to lose him than imperil us in any way.” Markham decided to share his information with Tapper. “Here, take a look at this and see if you notice anything.”

Tapper took the letter and peered intently at it for a long time. His lips moved as he went over the passage a second time.

“…loop… pin… web, that’s it!” Tapper looked at the fat trader with a grin of pride. “The parts of a key are named in the first two sentences, Markham! See? Loop, stem, collar, pin, web-that’s even named twice, ’cause bit is another name for the web part of a key. Hells, I make enough of ’em myself!”

“Very perceptive, Tapper, very perceptive indeed!” Markham looked at the semi-retired thief with new respect. Tapper was still a member of the Thieves’ Guild-one big reason why he was so valuable an operative. The guild allowed him to be semi-retired because he operated a locksmith shop. Only the few who ruled the guild knew that Tapper was a still-active part of the organization. In fact, most thieves had no idea that the man had ever been a fellow of theirs. “I’ll take that piece of paper back now,” said Markham with a smile, “and here’s a lucky for your work.”

The coin spun through the air, and Tapper plucked it from space with an easy move of his hand. “Thanks, Markham,” the thief replied as he handed over the paper, regaining his composure but finding it hard to suppress his pride and excitement. “I’ll inform Clyde to keep an eye on the kid.” Tapper had a clear idea that Markham’s masters were in fact taking special notice of the urchin boy Gord, notice beyond what either of them had perceived before Tapper discovered the hidden message.

“Do more than that, Tapper,” said Markham with new vigor in his voice. “Tell Clyde that there’s a lucky in it for him, too, if he gets the boy out of the workhouse without attracting attention. Wait a minute,” the fat trader added as Tapper started to leave. “Perhaps I should speak to Clyde myself. You two meet me at the Four Pots tonight.”

“About nine,” Tapper said as he left. He knew the little tavern well, and knew that Sharp Clyde would have no objections to going there either, for it was out of the way and safe for meetings of this nature, since thieves seldom went to it.

When the nondescript Tapper had gone, Markham took the note and burned it, then broke up the ash into powder.

Finding the parts of a key in the message told Markham all he needed to know. No matter what the note seemed to say, the boy was very, very important to the Balance. Of course, this fact could not be conveyed directly in writing, in case the paper intended for Markham found its way into the wrong hands. But it was now obvious that, for some reason, the skinny little urchin from Old City’s slums was thought to be so vital that no hint of his importance must be revealed even if the boy’s life was at risk.

Markham knew that his duty was to do everything possible, short of revealing the organization’s interest in him, to get Gord out of the workhouse and located elsewhere, preferably in a place where he could be overseen and would not be so vulnerable to other sorts of outside influences and threats. No, that last was too much of an assumption… Markham decided that before the meeting tonight, he would seek more detailed instructions as to just what he should do in this matter. Cursing himself for not having deciphered the message without Tapper’s help, the fat trader hurried out to atone for his stupidity.