Jeff Crook - The Thieves’ Guild

The Spring Dawning Festival was also one of the few times of the year when the Knights of Takhisis relaxed their control over the city’s traffic. Flow into and out of the Old City was usually carefully watched at the seven gates, but on the day of the Spring Dawning Festival, when many thousands were crowding their way to the Great Plaza, not even the formidable Dark Knights could track every person passing through. Over thirty years had passed since the Dark Knights had wrested the city from the hands of the Knights of Solamnia, but the city continued to prosper. Indeed, some people thought business prospered because of the Knights. It seemed their greatest concern was maintaining an iron-fisted rule over the city. Though the Knights’ laws were more strict than any the city had ever known, and their punishments more ruthless than civilized folk were used to seeing, there were not a few citizens who were glad of it. The level of lawlessness was at an all-time low. The city’s jails were filled, and the ancient and seemingly untouchable Thieves’ Guild had been destroyed. In the last ten years, the Spring Dawning Festival had grown from a civilized celebration to a veritable carnival.

Although the Knights maintained a show of force at the seven gates, this day. they did more gawking than guarding. The Spring Dawning Festival was a holiday for them as well. Many looked forward to a magnificent feast to be held that evening in their barracks’ mess halls, while their officers prepared for the social functions to be held throughout the night in the homes of nobles or aboard yachts anchored in the bay. All through the day, discipline was relaxed for one and all. Officers and soldiers laughed and joked among themselves as they lounged around the gates, leaning on their pikes, pointing out colorful characters in the crowd or sneaking cups of wine behind their shields. They kept only a casual watch for weapons and other contraband. The strict policy of checking identification papers was relaxed.

Cael and his dwarven companion eventually found themselves squeezed into the crush at the Horizon Road Gate. Cael’s leg had tired him a bit, so his coppery hair clung damply to his pale flushed face, but the old gray-bearded dwarf fairly panted. His bucket of beer was empty, and his dwarven patience was as thin as the hairs covering his flushed pate. He cursed and shoved, trying in vain to hurry the crowd through the gate. While they waited, a tremendous boom shook the buildings, and looking up, they saw beyond the city walls a fireball hanging in the sky.

“Reorx’s beard! We’re late! That’s the signal for the joust,” the dwarf snarled. As though to reinforce his words, a fanfare of trumpets floated to them on the fine spring breeze. A second fireball exploded in the sky, shaking them to their bones, but a third, appearing as a point of light streaking up from the center of the city, sputtered and failed.

“Look at that!” someone behind them commented. Turning, they saw a small group of young men and women, all dressed in robes of red, pointing at the failed fireworks. “It is as I said,” one hissed. They huddled together, whispering.

Cael looked at the old dwarf with a puzzled expression.

“Magic,” the dwarf spat. “Not to be trusted, I always said, and now I’m proved right. There’s a rumor that magic is failing, that magicians’ spells and incantations are losing their power. And it not thirty years since the new magic was discovered after the old spells ceased to work, after Chaos stole the moons of magic. Good riddance, I say. They’d do better to use real gnomish fireworks, dangerous as they may be.” He snorted, waving his hand at the failed fireball’s pitiful smear of oily smoke now shredding in the breeze.

They inched their way toward the gate, passing finally beneath its massive arch into a ‘short roofed passage between the walls. It was pleasantly cool and dark after the warm spring sun and the close air of New City’s streets and alleys. However, the drums of a fife corps thundered within it, while the dancers jumped up and down like pistons in a gnomish engine. People grabbed the dwarf by the shoulders and dragged him into their dance, and in the crush Cael lost sight of his companion, though he was able to track the dwarf’s progress by the occasional bellowing curse heard above the pounding of the drums. However, it was not long before he was himself caught up by the dancers and dragged into the fray. He was jostled, pummeled, pinched, pressed, elbowed, poked, and finally spun like a chip on the flood out the other end of the tunnel into the open air of the Old City. Somehow, he’d managed to keep hold of his staff. The old dwarf was nowhere to be seen.

“You there! Hey you!” a voice shouted. Looking around, Cael spotted a contingent of Knights of Takhisis standing in the shadow of the gate’s southern tower. One Knight motioned for the elf to approach. Cael slowly hobbled through the streams of people. As he neared, the Knight who had hailed him winked. “Come over here,” he said.

“May I be of service, Sir Garrud?” Cael asked of the winking Knight.

“I thought that was you, Cael,” the Knight said. “Going to the party?”

“Eventually,” the elf answered as he watched for his companion.

“Here, try a little of this, “ the Knight said. He proffered a small brown bottle behind his shield. Grinning, Cael stooped, took the bottle and tilted it to his lips. Immediately, a fine silver mist erupted from his lips, filled the air with a potent odor of pure alcohol.

“Dwarf spirits,” the Knight laughed. “The best.”

“Indeed,” Cael gasped.

“What’s all this then?” shouted a voice behind them. The old dwarf appeared from the crowd. “Cael! So here you are. Confounded idiots! I thought they’d be the death of me.” He stopped beside his friend and, planting his heavy dwarf boots wide apart, glared up at the Knight.

“You, what are you up to?” the dwarf demanded of Sir Garrud. “Why pick Cael out of the crowd? It’s because he is an elf, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be wanting to see my papers next. Do you know who I am?” he said, wagging his finger at the Knight’s nose.

“We have orders to arrest someone fitting Cael’s description, Master Hammerfell,” the Knight said sternly. “Fortunately, his documents are in order. I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest an old friend. Cael and I are old friends, aren’t we Cael?

“Friends we are,” the elf smiled tolerantly.

“Yes, yes. That’s all good and well,” the dwarf growled. “If you are finished with him I’d like to go. We have a place on stage for the joust and the unveiling.”

“You’re already late. The joust has begun,” Sir Garrud said as he clapped Cael on the back, sending the chuckling elf and the old dwarf, sputtering with curses, on their way.

In the center of the Great Plaza, a white knight lay on his back, wearily waving his hand in supplication, as a triumphant green-clad knight bowed to the raucous crowd. The Spring Dawning joust was symbolic. The white knight represented winter, while the green knight was the coming spring. Their mock battle celebrated the defeat of winter and the annual renewal of spring. Of course, the green knight always won, but the people enjoyed the event, and cheered wildly when the green knight at last overcame his white-clad adversary.

Master Hammerfell was angry at having missed the show. He and Cael made their way hastily onto the stage built upon the steps of the Lord’s Palace, overlooking the Plaza. An attendant showed them where to stand, as the crowds continued to cheer. Nobody noticed their late entrance, for Master Hammerfell’s place was far from the dignitaries and nobles surrounding the Lord of Palanthas, the Lord Knight of the Knights of Takhisis, and the city’s senators. Among these latter personages sat Bertrem, head of the order of Aesthetics of the Great Library of Palanthas, as well as, numerous wealthy merchants, courtiers and courtesans, nobles, and prosperous captains of the city’s merchant fleet Near them, a powerful contingent of grim-faced guards huddled around a small, weasel-faced man dressed in robes of gray. He glared at anyone who approached too closely.