Merchants’ Cant? Gord had never heard of that before! He knew that thieves had a secret language, as did certain others, but the merchants? This was stunning news indeed. Meanwhile, the amazing conversation continued:

“So you think that qualifies him to be an apprentice to the Beggarmaster? Bah! Perhaps you can peddle him to some lesser person, robbing the customer of his money in the process, but not to one so wise as I. Again I say, take the vermin away! Bronze would be too dear for the likes of him!”

Gord suddenly realized that Clyde and the obese monster seated on the couch were bargaining over his price! He was about to be sold into virtual slavery. He started to open his mouth to shout that he was a free citizen of Greyhawk, but the memory of the workhouse sprang unbidden to his mind. Gord shut his mouth again and remained quiet. Perhaps apprenticeship to this notorious creature was better than servitude or death in the prison workhouse…. Perhaps.

“Done, then,” said Clyde, reaching out and slapping the palm of the Beggarmaster with his own open hand. “He’s yours for only ten commons.”

Muttering darkly, the Beggarmaster dug a bulging purse from the worn girdle of faded purple leather that somehow encompassed his vast girth. One at a time, caressing each, he counted out ten copper coins for the outstretched hand of the man before him. Clyde, more sure of himself now that he had coins in hand, grinned ruefully, shook his head, and said, “You’ve had me again, you miserable, fat bastard of a skinflint. This dirty waif will turn out to be your most profitable purchase yet, or I’m a half-orc.”

The Beggarmaster eyed him coldly. “If you weren’t of small use to me, Clyde, I’d have you killed for the sport of it. Get yourself and your money out of here, and don’t come back for a long time, or I will overlook your usefulness.” This was spoken slowly and softly, but the guard reacted with haste. His arrogance gone as quickly as it had come, Clyde left hurriedly, without formality or even a good-bye. It made Gord shiver to see the burly guard humbled so abruptly.

“Come here, boy.” The voice sounded fat and soft like the man speaking, but the tone was similar to that which had sent Clyde flying off. Gord hastened to obey. And then…

Smack! The huge, fat hand of the Beggarmaster was not as soft as it looked. Gord was knocked off his feet by the open-handed swat to the side of his head. He saw bright flashes of light before his eyes, and his ears rang. When his head cleared he looked up and saw the man who was now his master staring at him without expression.

“Now you know exactly where you stand, boy. I paid hard copper for you, and you are now my property, as certain as you belonged to the workhouse-only the guards there are kinder than you will find me to be.”

Gord couldn’t help trembling even as he was trying, out of pride, to keep from showing his fear. He instinctively drew himself into a huddled heap on the floor, watching and waiting for a kick in the ribs or another slap across the head. The fat man saw Gord’s terror, and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Gord could not tear his eyes away from the blubbery lips, and he watched as the smile was transformed into a cruel leer.

“You understand, don’t you, boy? You have escaped the cooking pot but now lie amidst the coals. But you might have a little promise at that. On your feet, boy, and tell me your name and all you know!”

Gord’s session with his new master had been long and grueling. At the slightest faltering or hesitancy on his part, the gross monster had calmly struck him again. Gord soon realized that the Beggarmaster actually enjoyed hitting him and seeing him suffer as a result. When he understood this fully, Gord made no further effort to hide his fear or his pain, so as to keep the fat man in as good a humor as possible. But, at the same time, he was careful not to overdo the display, nor to allow sniveling and weeping to interfere with prompt and complete replies. After an hour or so, the Beggarmaster seemed to grow bored with the sport. By then, Gord had told him details of his whole existence. Surprisingly, the fat man had seemed to relish parts of it, especially the story of how he’d gotten rid of his foster mother’s body and the episode when Gord had wet his pants in fear of Snaggle. The session was ended with a handclap that brought a one-eyed man scurrying into the main chamber of the weird “palace.”

“This little rat is now your pupil, Furgo,” said the fat man. “Send him to me if he needs correction. Otherwise, I wish never to see him again unless he becomes one of my money-earning operatives.”

With the one bright eye that bulged out of his lean and leathery face, Furgo peered intently at Gord for a moment. Then he took him firmly by the shoulder and led him behind an arras, where a short passage led from the grand salon to a dozen rickety rooms that constituted the remainder of the first storey of the building. In one of these rooms his new instructor seated the boy on a stool while he looked him over closely.

“Not bad, not bad,” Furgo chuckled as he examined Gord’s bleary eyes, his runny nose, and the “pox sores” Gord had created for his escape from workhouse labor. “Pretty sharp for an untrained boy-and such a stupid-looking one at that!” he said as he steered Gord out of the seat and over to a flight of creaking steps that wound upward.

“Where are you taking me?” Gord asked the thin beggar timorously.

Furgo prodded the frightened boy with a finger, urging him up the steps. “Never mind, laddy-boy, never mind. You are Furgo’s charge now. You just do as you’re told, and you’ve nothing to fear-save my anger, or Master Theobald’s….”

They proceeded to mount the stairs until they came to the top floor, several levels above the ground. The place consisted of one large, open area and a warren composed of many cubicles. Furgo led Gord to a cubicle in the middle of the maze and told him to remember its location. This was to be his home until he was told differently. Whenever he wasn’t receiving instruction, he was to be in his cubicle. Failure meant punishment-or death, depending on the Beggarmaster’s whim. The one-eyed man didn’t have to explain to Gord that the outcome would most likely be nasty either way, given the propensities of the lord of this place. Gord merely nodded to convey his complete understanding.

Furgo then led him to the kitchen in the cellar. There the greasy cook, whom Furgo referred to as Batcrap, gave him some boiled vegetables and broth-not very tasty, but more nourishment than Gord had taken at one sitting in a long time. His gulping and slobbering over the mess made both Furgo and Batcrap laugh loudly. Both agreed that Gord was likely to do okay here if he was as quick to learn and obey as he was to wolf down the chow. That made Gord grin in agreement-whereupon Batcrap smacked him on the ear and chided him, in a gruff but pleasant tone, for insolence to his betters.

Emboldened by the good feeling in his belly and the comradely buffet, Gord asked: “Where’s everybody? This huge mansion has plenty of room for lots more than us!”

“Us? So it’s us now, is it, m’lad?” Furgo said with a mixture of humor and threat in his voice. Then he turned and spoke to his chum. “See that, Batcrap! That delicious swill you feed these worthless apprentices is too good fer ’em-gives ’em delusions.”

Gord didn’t know what to do or say at that point, so he shrunk into himself and tried to be invisible. Furgo noticed the effort, and apparently appreciated it.

“That’s the ticket!” said the one-eyed beggar as he clipped the boy across the back of his head. “You keep practicing that, and you’ll be a good addition to our group.” Then recalling what Gord’s original question was, Furgo grinned and told him: “There are dozens of others who stay in this… mansion.” At that word, he and Batcrap both guffawed at Gord’s use of such a lofty word to describe the decaying place. “They’ll be comin’ in between dusk and dark, turnin’ over their earnings, then gettin’ fed and doin’ their trainin’ before sleep time. You’ll meet ’em all soon enough-don’t fret about that. Come on now, laddy-boy. This day is all over for you.”