D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch Read online

  At the end of the Processional loomed the Grand Citadel. It was a tall, intimidating structure, apparently win-dowless to outside appearances due to the way the stones had been cut. Officially it housed offices for the mayor and members of the Directorate, as well as some of Greyhawk’s military leaders, but these days it primarily headquartered the City Watch.

  A flock of birds calling to each other as they flew overhead made Garett look up. Briefly they crossed the moon and were gone. The cries faded shortly after, and the night was still once more.

  Garett sighed and wondered what it would be like to be curled up on the bank of the Selintan with a soft woman in his arms, listening to the purl of the river as it flowed between its banks from the great lake called Nyr Dyv southward to the Azure Sea, with nothing over them but the stars and the moonlight. That would be nice, he figured.

  But he had given up such pleasures. He was captain of the City Watch’s night shift. Night after night, he walked this same route, to this same building. He dealt with the same kinds of scum and solved the same kinds of crime. Or didn’t solve them, as often as not. It was easy for a man to murder in the darker streets, or along the wharves, and disappear in Greyhawk. And it was just as easy to steal in a city where half the politicians were openly members of the Thieves’ Guild.

  Still, someone had to try to keep order. That was his job, to try. Not to solve every crime or catch every criminal. Just to try. Though he was damned to explain why, he bore a strange affection for this cesspool of humanity, this city of his birth, and figured as long as any honest men walked its streets, the gods would let it stand one day longer.

  Sometimes, though, he felt as if he were the last one.

  Four more guards stood duty watch at the Citadel’s entrance. They snapped a smart salute as he approached. He paused to exchange a few words with them. Drawing out his two apples and his dagger, he divided the fruits and gave a half to each man. They relaxed a bit and accepted his offering gratefully.

  “I assume His Lordship Korbian Arthuran has departed?” Garett commented as the four munched their apples.

  “Has the sun gone down?” one of the soldiers rejoined, casting innocent-faced glances over both his shoulders, as if looking for the shining orb.

  Garett didn’t bother to rebuke the man for his mockery. No one cared much for Korbian. The captain-general was never about his post, leaving his duties instead to junior officers. As a minor noble, he considered his title purely ceremonial. Each afternoon, he put in an appearance at the Citadel and hung around until sundown, playing at his office and attempting to “chat the men up,” as he put it, claiming it raised their morale, while in reality every soldier on the watch sniggered behind the old man’s back.

  Maybe it was good for morale after all.

  After a few more pleasantries, two of the soldiers opened the great doors, and Garett passed inside. Torches sputtered in sconces mounted on the walls and poured a black, oily smoke into the air. The main hallways of the Citadel had never been fitted with proper lamps or cressets, and the city was too cheap to pay the Wizards’ Guild for any of the en-sorcelled globes of light that lit the better offices and richer streets of the High Quarter. Thus, the air constantly reeked of burning rags and stale smoke.

  Garett wrinkled his nose. It was always worst when he came in from the outside air, but he knew from experience that his delicate senses would quickly adjust and push any awareness of the foul stench to the back of his mind.

  He made his way to his office, returning without enthusiasm the salutes of soldiers who passed him in the halls. He mounted a set of stairs and climbed them wearily. He just wasn’t in the mood for this place tonight. Its thick walls oppressed him as much as the smell. He seemed to feel their ponderous weight on his shoulders.

  He pushed open the door to his office. At least here the light was better. He paid for new lamps himself, out of his own pocket, and he kept the oil wells filled personally. It was a ritual with him to fill them each night, just as some merchants watered flowers and plants in their shops. He went straight to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and removed the pot that contained his precious supply of galda oil. It was an expensive luxury. The oil had to be squeezed from the pulp of the fruity galda tree in the Cairn Hills. But it produced a sweet smell that invigorated the otherwise drab atmosphere of his small space.

  “Evenin’, Cap’n.”

  Garett didn’t jump. He knew the voice. Burge spent as much time in his captain’s office as he did his own, no doubt because he, too, preferred the better light. Garett straightened, his pot in hand, and turned toward his lieutenant. Burge was draped languidly over the chair behind the door. His violet eyes, which betrayed his elven blood, were dulled with boredom, as was his entire expression.

  “Welcome home, Burge,” Garett answered, not because his friend had been on any trip. It was their not-so-private joke that the Citadel was really the only home either of them had ever known. They frequently greeted each other so at the beginning of a shift.

  Burge rose, stretched his lanky form, and took a new seat on the corner of Garett’s desk. Garett turned to refill the first of his five precious lamps. “Anything interesting on our docket tonight?” he asked. Burge was always the first night-shifter to arrive, and he always had the day’s gossip for his captain.

  “The day’s been reasonably quiet,” Burge reported as he picked up a stylus and began to play with it. “No leads yet on the dock robberies. Korbian says he’ll try to get to it just as soon as the new mayor and magister are installed in office.”

  Garett looked up briefly from his refilling and mentally counted the days until the summer solstice. On that day, Ellon Thigpen would be made mayor by the Directorate. In turn, Thigpen would invest Kentellen Mar, his personal choice for magister, to run the city’s judiciary.

  “Has Kentellen returned yet?” Garett asked offhandedly as he returned to his task. The soon-to-be magister had decided to take a vacation before assuming his new duties. Rumor put him somewhere in the north of Furyondy.

  “Not yet,” Burge answered. The half-elf crossed his long legs, leaned back on the desk, and studied the ceiling. It was then that Garett realized his friend’s boredom was only an act. Well, he’d just laid it on too thickly.

  “You’re holding something back,” Garett said, setting his pot down, turning to face Burge. “You want to tell me, or you want to walk double-shift with Blossom?”

  Burge leaped up in mock alarm and held his hands out before him pleadingly. “No, Cap’n, sir. Please not that, sir.” The half-elf put on quite a show, pretending to swallow hard as he wrung his hands. Then he dropped the act and turned serious again. “The day watch found another body floatin’ in the stream down by the Old Town wall this mornin’.”

  Garett frowned as he bent over his desk. That made five in the last two weeks. “Same as the others?” he asked.

  Burge leaned against the wall and picked at a nail as he nodded. “Not a pretty sight at all. A woman this time. Nice lookin’, too. And there’s been reports of several more disappearances in the Slum Quarter.”

  Garett pulled out his chair and sat down, digesting the information. A piece of his dream fluttered through his brain again, but it was gone as soon as he tried to grasp it. For some reason, he thought of the birds he’d seen above the High Market Square.

  “Was it a patrol that found her?” he asked sternly.

  Burge shook his head, and a flicker of irritation showed on his face. “A couple of merchants on their way to set up shop in the Petit Bazaar. You can’t keep this quiet, sir. Rumors are already beginnin’ to spread. People in the lower quarters are gettin’ nervous.”

  “Exactly what we don’t need with a big citywide celebration coming up,” Garett said, his mind working. “Double the patrols in the Artisans’ Quarter, the Slum Quarter, and the River Quarter. The Foreign Quarter, too. And alert all the watch houses to keep a sharp eye out.” He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk
as he thought, and turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “I’ve got this strange feeling.”

  “A woman would take care of that,” Burge quipped, rolling his eyes. “I’ve told you, a night down on the Strip is what you need. I could show you some places that would straighten your chest hair.”

  Before Garett could make his usual excuse, his door opened. Blossom ducked her head as she passed under the jamb, and a cascade of blond hair spilled forward. The woman stood nearly seven feet tall. That was the first thing a man noticed about her. The second was her startling beauty. The third was the hard gleam in her cobalt eyes, which said she didn’t take dung from anybody.

  “Trouble, Captain,” she reported crisply. “We’ve got a patrolman downstairs. He says Acton Kathenor has been murdered.”

  Garett and Burge exchanged looks. Garett hissed an unintelligible curse and rose from his chair.

  A swift walk down the Processional brought Garett, Burge, and Blossom to the Street of Temples in the sector of Greyhawk known as the Halls. It was in this part of town that most government offices were located and where most of the day-to-day bureaucratic activities took place. Greyhawk University was also located here, as well as most of the city’s major religious institutions. It was a refuge for intellectuals and scholars, clerics and priests.

  Rudi, the fourth member of what Garett considered his personally selected, elite team, was already on the site, blocking entrance to Acton Kathenor’s inner sanctum. He was short, a mere five feet, two inches, and sensitive about it. He was as cute as the proverbial bug, too, almost cherubic, being a mere seventeen years old. His size and his looks had made him the victim of a lot of teasing in his earlier years. No one teased him anymore, though. Not unless they were damned good with a sword.

  Two men from the patrol that Rudi led had a big, rough-looking character at sword-point between them. A score of

  acolytes and novitiates crowded the narrow corridor from the main hall to Kathenor’s sanctum, demanding access to the chamber, shouting questions and accusations and demands in very unpriestly language.

  “Shut up!” Garett yelled at the top of his lungs, and to his surprise, the priests fell silent. “All of you, back out into the main hall. Boccob alone knows what evidence you might have trampled on, pressing back here like this. No one gets into Kathenor’s sanctum until I say so!”

  One of the priests stepped forward. Garett didn’t know him, but from the red sash the man wore around his waist, the captain guessed he was a priest of some rank. “This is our temple,” the man said gruffly. “Your orders have no weight here.”

  Without a word, Blossom stepped next to the priest and glared down at him. He looked up, finding himself suddenly eye-to-cleavage, and his cheeks began to redden, but whether from embarrassment or anger, Garett couldn’t guess. Nor did he care.

  “If it’s weight that concerns you,” he said dryly, “I can order her to sit on your chest. That ought to keep you out of the way.”

  The priest sputtered and threw up his hands. Turning, he pushed the acolytes out of his way as he stormed back into the main hall. Most of them followed. A few others lingered, but Rudi drove them off with a scowl.

  “Who’s this?” Garett said, indicating the tough Rudi’s patrol had nabbed.

  “Not sure, Captain,” Rudi answered, returning to Garett’s side. “We found him wandering around outside. Definitely foreign. He had a sword, but couldn’t produce a license. We haven’t had time to question him further.”

  Garett stepped closer to Rudi’s prisoner and looked him up and down. “Ratikkan, I’d say, by the look of him.” He pursed his lips and nodded, content with his assessment. “Mercenary?” he asked, expecting no answer other than the stubborn glare he got. Ratikkans were like that: too stupid to know when trouble was worth getting into.

  Garett shrugged and turned his back. “Bring him along,” he said, pushing open the door to Kathenor’s sanctum.

  Boccob’s high priest was bent over the cauldron, which was slowly filling with blood that leaked from countless deep lacerations on the old man’s face and throat. Blood had also spilled down the outside of the cauldron. A pool had formed on the floor around the iron tripod’s legs. Something crunched under Garett’s boot, causing him to look down. Shards of glass were scattered everywhere.

  “Has anything been touched?” Garett asked Rudi.

  The diminutive patrolman shook his head. “Not since I got here, sir,” he said. “My patrol was working up the street when one of the novitiates came screaming out, calling for help. We got here pretty quick.” He rubbed his chin as he spoke. “One of the other priests might have touched something, though.”

  “This torch was burning?” Garett probed.

  Rudi nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring it closer.”

  Burge took the torch from the sconce and carried it to the cauldron. Garett bent down to see better and frowned. Steeling himself, he grabbed a handful of the old priest’s white hair and lifted the corpse’s head. Bits of glass, embedded in the skin, caught the torchlight and sparkled. Kathenor’s throat had been multiply sliced along the strategic arteries. His eyes were bloody holes, and his face looked like tenderized meat. Even so, it wore a look of horror that sent a chill up Garett’s spine.

  Garett let the head fall forward against the inside of the cauldron, and straightened, resisting the urge to vomit. It was a holy place, after all, and he wouldn’t defile its floor— or the cauldron, either—with Almi’s bread and gravy.

  He moved away and examined the walls, finding bits of glass embedded there as well. “I think we can let your prisoner go, Rudi,” he said, turning slowly, running a thumb

  thoughtfully over his lower lip. “He had nothing to do with

  this.”

  “How do you know without questioning him?” Rudi asked, too surprised to add his usual “sir.” “We found him right outside the temple.” He cast a sidewise sneer at the Ratikkan. “And he’s obviously the type.”

  Garett continued to rub the ball of his thumb over his lip as he walked back toward Kathenor’s body and bent near the cauldron. With the toe of his boot he pushed at three half-burned sticks of incense, which lay on the floor. “First of all,” he said, peering down into the bloody cauldron, “the outer door was locked until one of the priests called for help. Even if the Ratikkan could have gotten inside the temple, how would he have found this room? The main hall was absolutely dark, and the entrance is hidden behind arras.” Garett straightened, circled the cauldron, and took up a position behind Kathenor’s doubled body. Slowly he looked over both his shoulders.

  “Assuming he did manage to get in somehow, if you wish to press the point,” Garett said, continuing, “do you think he killed Kathenor by smashing his head down through the glass?” He winked at Rudi and shook his head. “No. In fact, this is the most fascinating part.” He beckoned to Burge, who held the torch. “Stand in front of me with the light,” he directed.

  Burge took up a position on the opposite side of the cauldron and held the torch steady.

  “Look at the wall!” Blossom exclaimed, pointing.

  Tiny spears of mirrored glass glittered, embedded deeply in the wood paneling of the east wall and a portion of the ceiling. Yet there was a space where no glass at all sparkled.

  “Kathenor must have bent over like this,” Garett said, imitating the position he surmised the old priest had taken just before his death. “That’s why you see him slumped so. The mirror exploded outward. The area on the wall without glass roughly corresponds to the shape of Kathenor’s body. His flesh intercepted those fragments.”

  “But if the mirror exploded outward as you say,” Burge interrupted, “then the fragments would be randomly dispersed about the room.” He looked at Garett with a puzzled expression. “From the looks of things, though, the force of this explosion took a specific direction.” He pointed at the south wall.

  “How about that?” Garett said with a vague smile. Rudi harrumphed. �
��That’s impossible.”

  “Not for magic,” Blossom responded, low-voiced.

  The room fell silent. Even the torch seemed to cease its sputtering. At last, Garett spoke again, turning to the Ratikkan. He should have gotten rid of the man earlier. He had no doubt the adventurer would soon spread the story of Kathenor’s murder through every tavern in the city. “There’s a tax on mercenaries in Greyhawk,” he told the man. “No foreigner carries a sword unless he’s paid three gold orbs for the license. You have three gold orbs?”

  “He was probably coming here to steal them,” Rudi commented rudely.

  The Ratikkan sneered down at the little soldier. Then he looked at Garett and shook his head.

  Garett sighed inwardly. At least he could delay the spread of this tale for a few hours. Maybe he could find something out in that time, though he had precious little to go on and little appetite for stepping into something involving magic—and, inevitably, wizards.

  “You’ll be our guest for the night, then,” Garett told the Ratikkan. “We’ll confiscate your sword, of course.” He waved to the pair of Rudi’s men who held the mercenary at sword-point. “Take him to the Citadel.”

  As the man was led away, Garett turned again and studied the room, imprinting every last detail in his mind.

  “Who could have the power,” Burge whispered, coming to Garett’s side, “to strike at Boccob’s high priest through his own scryin’ glass in his own private sanctum?”

  “Magic,” Rudi muttered to Blossom. “I hate magic.” “But it does lend itself to interesting crimes,” Garett said

  with a touch of sarcasm. Actually, he hated magic as much as his small sergeant. He shook his head as he turned slowly, studying the room one last time. “Tell the priests they can clean up here if they want. We’re done.”

  Garett left Blossom and Rudi to deal with the priests while he exited the sanctum and pushed his way through the crowd of white-robes now gathered in the temple’s main hall. He made his way quickly to the outer door and stepped into the warm night air. From the top of the temple stairs, he gazed down into the empty street.