Gary Gygax: Saga of the Old City

“The little bugger’s got the plague!” the hag screeched.

“Keep ’im away from me!”

The turnkey and the guard looked at Gord, who smiled weakly at them, shrugging, then looked at each other. Yarm, the turnkey, scratched his head and offered a diagnosis. “It do look kinda like bloodpox, Clyde, but he ain’t wobblin’ an’ twitchin’ like they do.” He scratched his head again, knocking his steel cap awry.

“C’mere, boy!” commanded Clyde, the guard. He watched Gord approach hesitantly. Gord was careful not to wobble or twitch, because bloodpox was a serious malady indeed-too serious for his purpose. He advanced slowly to within a couple of paces of the men. Without touching him, both guard and turnkey looked closely at him. Now, Yarm was stumped.

“Sure as shit it’s sumpin,” he ventured, “but I’d say it ain’t bloodpox-”

Clyde cut off the turnkey’s observation in mid-sentence, motioned Gord out of the cell, and pointed toward a niche in the corridor with an upended crate nestled in it.

“Sit there, and don’t move, else I’ll club you!” said Clyde, and then he gave his attention to getting the miserable lot of prisoners lined up and ready for coffling into the morning work party. In a minute or two a pair of guards carrying a set of chain and leg irons appeared from around the corner. They snapped the restraints in place on the prisoners as Clyde informed them that “the little punk,” as he called Gord, would be going with him. The other guards hustled their charges down the corridor and around the corner. In the meantime Yarm had moved on, as had the crone and the water-bearer. Gord and the guard were alone.

Although he had not moved his body, Gord had watched every move that Clyde made. Did anything in his bearing hint that he suspected Gord’s deception? It hadn’t been easy to make himself look sick. Finding a mold that caused his eyes and nose to be irritated and runny was not too hard, but the sores had been another thing altogether. His head had ached with concentration and he had nearly given up in despair before the idea of bedbugs struck him. Gord had had to spend half the night carefully feeling around for them and placing them in the desired locations on his face and body. Their bites didn’t hurt much, but he had to fight to keep from crying out in pain when he rubbed the irritating mold-stuff into the wounds the vermin had left. Gord had hoped that the trick would work, but he hadn’t suspected that the ruse would be so effective as to resemble bloodpox! Few survived that disease without clerical attention.

Gord had a feeling that the guard had not paid any attention to the turnkey’s opinion that the disease was not bloodpox-yet, at the same time, he was puzzled by the guard’s lack of concern about possibly being exposed to that terrible disease. All the others in the vicinity had hurried away as quickly as possible, murmuring prayers to whatever deity they adhered to. Gord’s thoughts turned from excitement to apprehension; he was now really afraid that he had gone too far. If they thought he actually had anything like bloodpox, he’d be killed and his body burned. No argument, no reprieve. The end. If he admitted to his deception, then the end would come just as certainly, but more slowly: Starvation in the dungeon would be his fate.

Clyde took a seat on a bench nearby and began scratching with a quill on a bit of parchment, only bothering to glance at Gord once in a while. Gord was amazed that the guard knew how to write. After several minutes of scratching and peering at the parchment, Clyde seemed satisfied with what he had on the scrap of material. He tucked it back in his jerkin and let out a shrill whistle. In a couple of moments another guard appeared from around the corner.

“What’s up, Clyde?” the new fellow inquired.

“Mornin’, Roak. Nuthin’ much. Just need you to stand my station for an hour or two, whilst I take care of getting shucked of this sickie.”

“Zork!” cried the startled Roak as he got a good look at the huddled boy in the niche. “That bird gots bloodpox!”

“Naw,” Clyde drawled reassuringly as he arose. “It looks a lot like bloodpox, but the little chump has a plague that’s only catching if ya consorts with corpses-if ya get my meanin’, Roak.”

“No shit! That creep got that from messing with a stiff? Wow!” Shaking his head and looking at Gord with utter disgust, the fellow plopped down in Clyde’s spot. “Glad you have to take care of the slime-bucket. See you in a coupla hours or so, pal.”

Clyde motioned for Gord to get up, throwing him a cruel wink that indicated he should be afraid of what was in store for him, and then gestured for him to head down the corridor while he followed. “I’d bash his brains in m’self, Roak,” said Clyde over his shoulder as they moved away, “but that might infect my club. I’ll just leave it up to-” and by then they were out of the short corridor and heading down a set of stairs, and Clyde didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Gord thought about trying to run away, but there was no way he could have succeeded. In spite of himself, he began to quiver with fear. His eyes darted from side to side, and he even began to take small steps away from the guard. Clyde saw that his charge was near complete panic, so he muttered softly: “Stop it, you stupid punk! In a minute you’re gonna blow the whole thing for both of us!”

Now Gord was more puzzled still, but the utter fear that had been washing over him subsided enough for him to remain in control of it. Soon they were at the front gate of the prison. Clyde handed over the document he had scratched out moments earlier, and the sentries passed them through without word or question. Gord could scarcely believe what was happening! In a few minutes the workhouse was lost from sight as they walked briskly into the Thieves Quarter.

Gord tried to find out what was happening and where they were going. His first set of questions was ignored, and when he tried again a couple of minutes later he got a slap on the side of the head for his effort. Obviously, the guard was not going to tell him anything more, and from moment to moment Gord’s confused emotions vacillated between optimism and apprehension. After a walk of some distance, they came to a stop in front of a huge, old, dilapidated building. And still the guard said nothing.

The inside of the old building was a marvel of decayed, rococo splendor. Aside from the dilapidated, filthy anteroom, the whole place was furnished in grand but shabby style. It was the mansion of Theobald, king of rag-pickers, sovereign of scavengers, lord of… junk. No other term could describe the welter of ragged, tattered, damaged, and defaced articles that filled the place to overflowing. Amid this incredible collage sat a huge, fat man on what was possibly once the divan of some Baklunish potentate. The tattered fabric of the sofa seemed to complement the stained and worn-out finery of the gross man who rested upon its broken frame. For a moment, he listened while Clyde paid him proper homage and began to state the reason why he and Gord had invaded the man’s domain. Then Theobald waved a great, pudgy-fingered hand, his cheap rings and gaudy bracelets flashing and jangling as he did so, and Clyde immediately fell silent.

“What qualifies this little gaol-louse for my consideration, Clyde-the-Sharper? How dare you bring such before me and demand payment in good silver!” The fat fellow virtually shouted the last few words, and the wattles of his neck were reddened by such exertion. “Take him back to your miserable workhouse, or have him tossed into the lime pits, it’s all the same to me. I won’t buy him!”

Clyde didn’t seem too disturbed by the outburst. “Great Master,” he said soothingly, “I don’t dispute your needs, but I crave your pardon with respect to the analysis of this fine young chap’s worth.” The fat man snorted at that, but Clyde continued as if he hadn’t heard. “He is an urchin from the worst part of the Slum Quarter, one clever enough to steal clothing and make it all the way into the heart of the Petit Bazaar. There he actually managed to make off with a finely wrought silver bracelet, pretending all the while to be part of an entourage of tallfellows. And had the Merchants’ Cant not alerted the Watch, he’d likely have escaped, too!”