As his feeling of unease grew, Gord wished more and more to have a minute to himself so he could find Violet’s group and see what she knew. The morning training session seemed to drag on interminably, but eventually the time for the noon meal arrived, and he hurried to the cellar to get his food and see his companion of the previous day. Violet wasn’t there, however. This wasn’t unusual; the groups did not always eat at the same times each day because there wasn’t room for all of them at once in the cramped lower chamber. Under the ever-watchful eye of Furgo, Gord could not duck away to look for her, much as he wanted to.

He spent his meal time idly eating while again going over everything that had happened the day before. Then it was time for drill again, and after a seemingly endless afternoon session, Gord found himself the beneficiary of a surprise that he received with mixed emotions. He was feted by several of the masters because of his great progress, and the celebration was one that Gord should have relished. The instructors informed him that he was being moved from apprentice to least master, bypassing journeyman status altogether. This was an unprecedented advancement, but there was no great singing in Gord’s heart at the news. He pretended joy and celebrated accordingly, but his mood was really dark and his spirit heavy. Something, he sensed, was wrong.

Dizzy-headed and reeling from the wine he had consumed, Gord was shown his new master-status room late that night. He fell into a drunken slumber and awoke the next day with a terrible taste in his mouth and an equally terrible hangover.

The news came early that morning: The Watch had found the body of the woman who was suspected of the murder of a man in the Garden Quarter. Whoever the victim was, the officials of the city were in an uproar over it. The newly found victim had been beaten, raped, and then strangled-obviously the work of some of the many muggers who roamed the Thieves Quarter.

The victim was Violet, of course. Gord had figured all along that Theobald would never countenance mistakes such as those she had made. Gord was also sure that the fat son of a bitch had been happy to perform the execution of the errant Violet, that the Beggarmaster had thoroughly enjoyed the whole process. With a heart hard as granite, Gord bent himself to the day’s activity. His vow to revenge Violet’s degradation was nothing he needed to think about further until the opportunity arose. In the interim, he would simply work harder and get better at each and every skill he was given the chance to gain.

There was no outing the next day, as had been scheduled. The word was that training was more necessary than the extra income gained from field operations. It was evident to Gord that this was a lie. After all, what better place to get true training and experience than in the field? Actually doing was much better than practicing with dummies and the like; no matter how clever the lesson, it was just exercise, not real thievery Could the monster Theobald be afraid that his plot had been jeopardized by Violet’s killing of that stupid thief? That he feared discovery was certain, or else he would not have killed Violet and left her corpse to be found by the Watch. That was a dual-purposed ploy. First, it would take the search for criminals in a different direction-and who actually cared if a murderess was in turn slain? Second, if the thieves thought that some daring beggars had overstepped their bounds, they might view Violet’s killing as an apologetic execution, intended to pacify the thieves. Accompanied by a temporary cessation of non-Guild thievery, this would indicate to them that the Beggarmaster had discovered the offenders and eliminated their leader, and all was once again in proper order.

The fallacy in this line of reasoning was obvious to Gord, and he fervently hoped that Theobald would not also see it. The Guild would not be concerned overmuch about the killing of a single thief-and a foolhardy one, at that. Gord could imagine the leaders of the Guild, upon hearing of Violet’s demise, spying to themselves, “Does fat Theobald really think we care about that?” They would bide their time, giving the Beggarmaster one last chance to change his ways. But if the beggar-thievery did not cease altogether…

When a week later the Beggarmaster’s corps was once again sent into action, Gord was jubilant. He did his best to steal everything valuable, and not so valuable, in sight. He brought in a record haul, and for it he was given hearty congratulations by all of the masters of the beggar-thieves. They said openly that another trip such as Gord’s today would certainly be sufficient to make him a full master, bypassing the interim rank of associate. Gord only smiled inscrutably. He knew what the results of the activities of the corps would bring….

The hall was in absolute chaos the next morning. During the night, a notice had been pinned to the front door by an assassin’s dagger. It read:

THEOBALD, AND ALL THOSE SCABS FALSELY TRAINED BY HIM AND HIS DOGS, ARE RECOGNIZED AND HEREBY GIVEN DUE NOTICE THAT THEIR LIVES AND PROPERTY ARE FORFEIT TO THE WHIM AND EXECUTION OF THE THIEVES’ GUILD. BEGGARS, SEEK A NEW MASTER! ALL THOSE LOYAL TO THEOBALD, PREPARE TO DIE!

ARENTOL

GRAND GUILDMASTER OF THIEVES

GREYHAWK AND ITS TERRITORIES

No one thought it a joke.

The beggars were immediately placed under a state of siege. It astonished Gord that Theobald managed to hold the loyalty of so many of the members of the Union. And it somewhat mystified him that there were persons around who were obviously something other than beggars. The hall swarmed with men in mail, robed clerics, black-garbed assassins, and even a handful of magic-users. The gross master of monstrosities must have thrown wide his coffer lids to pay for the likes of these, Gord mused. He was certain that there were few beggars plying their trade anywhere in the city. He would be willing to wager his small store of hoarded coins that none wore the wooden hand symbol of the Beggars’ Union around their necks if they did dare to appear. No more cash would flow into Theobald’s treasury until this matter was resolved, so the Beggarmaster had better have deep chests of coin for his hired swords and spell-casters.

The Lord Mayor and Directors of the city were turning a blind eye to the whole thing. After all, it was taking place in Old City’s worst area, where the beggars lay between the Slum Quarter and the Thieves Quarter. Besides, who among the Directors would object to a war between beggars and thieves? Even the Guildmaster of Thieves, who was a Director of Greyhawk, would favor this conflict-it would weed out the less hardy and the less skillful in the ranks of the Guild, as well as get rid of a lot of the miserable beggars. The result would be a bigger share of the spoils of the city for each of the thieves who survived, and a correspondingly larger tithe to the Guild from each of them. For once, the Guildmaster of Thieves and the Guildmaster of Merchants were in total agreement on something. And every honest citizen would only see good in such a struggle. With fewer to beg, fewer to steal, they too could but profit. As Gord considered all this, he began to wonder if the officials of the city wouldn’t wait until both sides were deeply enmeshed and then smash them both….

For the meantime, there was nothing to do but practice. The masters were in conferences and council meetings most of the time, leaving Gord alone to do as he wished. He took the opportunity to keep honing his skills, for he saw much benefit in the mastery of them. There was certainly a score to settle, but more importantly a livelihood to be earned. The easy life of thievery Gord had experienced was one that so far surpassed his dreams that no other goal had real significance.