“Bort!” Jorin says with a grin. “Why don’t you go up to our room and bring down the materials to make some uniforms while we talk? We don’t want to keep The Boss waiting, now, do we?”
Bort is unable to completely mask his concern. “No. No, we wouldn’t want that.” He quickly leaves to go running up some stairs. Shaddar’s tentacles twitch in amusement and satisfaction at the fearful thoughts running through Bort’s mind.
Jorin tips back his ale and drinks noisily. When he sets the tankard down he leans in close to the gnome and says, “You’ll be very impressed with Bort’s handiwork. He’s really quite good with a needle and thread. Well, once I’ve given him all the design ideas he needs, of course!”
“Oh, of course,” sneers Cutt. Jorin is oblivious to the bite in the gnome’s reply and grins hugely.
It is clear to Shaddar that Jorin is dumber than Bort, yet he seems to be the leader. As is often the case with lower life forms, Jorin’s qualifications to being in charge seems to be a loud voice and a slightly more extroverted personality. Backwards from the proper illithid ways.
“How do these beings even function in groups at all?” Shaddar thinks. "They are so clueless as to how things actually work that it is a wonder that they are able to keep the city running." Shaddar peers at the frothy, dark ale in his tankard and wonders if perhaps the liquid was not carefully brewed, but merely formed accidentally via being left out in the sun by the cretins who live in this city.
Bort returns with his arms loaded with bolts of cloth, thread, and other materials. He immediately sets about taking measurements from the surly and unexcited thralls. While this is slightly amusing, Shaddar has pressing needs and begins to question the two humans to determine what kind of fish he has caught in his net. It is critical to know how connected these two are to the rest of the city before his plans can be finalized.
The conversation is frustrating, as the humans seem unable to grasp his desires and wander off onto meaningless tangents – bragging about their exploits and skills. They are such pompous, self-important, blowhards that it is difficult to know the truth of any of their statements. Unfortunately, almost every mind he has peeked into in this city has revealed similar thoughts of baseless superiority.
Shaddar is frustrated at such strange and foolish human customs! Their simplistic methods of showing prestige and power have clearly resulted in a city where everyone has the outward trappings of power, effectively masking those who really have it. Such things are crystal clear in an illithid city, but here? Bah! Shaddar wonders if this subterfuge is by design or if it is just an unintended consequence of the primates bumbling about in the dark, mimicking one another like the simians that they are.
Shaddar reins in his temper and puts on a show of outward patience.
“All very interesting, gentlemen! However, I must know who the leaders in the city are in order to properly bring our suit before them. Tell me, who is the most powerful person in your circle of acquaintances?”
Jorin looks slightly embarrassed, and it is Bort who answers, “We haven’t gotten around that much, really. I mean, Big City is, well, big.”
“That’s true. And we don’t exactly travel in high circles,” Jorin adds with a lazy wave of one hand.
Bort mutters, “We don’t travel in low circles either…” Jorin kicks him under the table to shut him up. Shaddar closes his eyes to mask the fact that they are rolling up into his head.
“These men are ignoramuses. But they are active ones – thus they must know others of equal, if low-grade, quality,” he thinks. Quickly he asks them about others like themselves, who live and work outside of either the streets or the slums.
Jorin and Bort begin naming off a rattle of people, becoming confused and repeating themselves many times. However it is a simple matter for Shaddar to keep track. They have 27 peers that they know how to contact. He is pleased – in order to form his own guild, he will need many more members like these two small-minded fools. He will draw these others into his sphere soon enough.
“How is it that the constables know you by name? You must have quite a reputation in the city! What kinds of activities do you normally do?” Shaddar asks.
“Oh, yeah. Constable Rydal worked this area and he bumped into us all the time,” Bort says with a slight frown.
Jorin immediately begins to explain that the two men make their living by doing muggings, trading gossip, spreading slanders, and delivering insult-o-grams. It is clear that both of them are very pleased with themselves, but Shaddar can mentally ‘hear’ that the barkeep/owner of the pub is not impressed with the muggers ‘accomplishments’.
“Losers,” Hawke thinks, “Picking up the scraps the Guild of Villains leaves behind and thinking they are masters of their fate? Ha! They don’t have any idea of what the Guild really is all about!” Shaddar is amazed as he listens in to the bartender’s thoughts. The man is clearly the most intelligent human he has met thus far in the city. He resolves to have a private conversation with the man later.
Jorin and Bort talk about activities that are illegal in the well-to-do part of the city: the streets. (“They have to keep up appearances, but they’re all such filthy hypocrites – they just come to the border zones or the slums to do the same things that we do”) Drinking, clubs, dancing, drugs, gluttony, and every type of vice are all banned in the streets. Pubs like the Jester and Hawk Meadhall that they sit in can be found in the border zones, but the ‘hard stuff’ is only found in the slums.
Jorin leans into the center of the table and says in a low voice, “In the slums they even have places with,” he voice goes an octave lower, “painted ladies in them.”
Bort, blushing furiously, sputters, “Jorin! How can you speak of such things? It’s not right.”
“Ah, you’re such an innocent, Bort!” he laughs while slapping his friend heartily on the back. But Jorin’s thoughts are not quite in line with his bluff manner: “Not that I’d even step foot in such a vile place. Bort’s got that true enough – it’s not right.”
Shaddar’s reaction to this interplay is quite justified, he feels. “I just threw up a little in my beak… Gah.”
Bort looks at the tabletop in sadness. “You know, it’s funny, but I’m going to miss that stuffy git, Constable Rydal. I can’t believe that he’s dead.”
“It still doesn’t seem real to me either, Bort,” Jorin confesses, “I mean it’s just so unlike the Guild to… to kill. Oh, sure! There’s rumors that sometimes constables will die: like when undead attack the town, but never this! What’s it called? What’s that term? Bort, you know? The legal term for when someone kills somebody else?” Bort shrugs.
Shaddar is amazed. These people don’t even have the vocabulary to discuss a murder? This is proof enough that such things are exceedingly rare in this city. A fact that, once again, causes Shaddar to wonder just how such tight societal control is possible. No matter. For the time being he has his answer regarding the social status of his two pawns: These two men are essentially bottom-feeders without contacts in either high or low society. They hope that they can make a living without attracting the attention of any authorities: lawful or villainous. Clearly, Jorin and Bort have no contact with the kinds of people who run the ‘vile’ facilities in the slums.
"This is a bit disappointing, but it still can work for me,” Shaddar thinks. “I must put together an organization that will act as a catalyst (either as legitimate competition or as a perceived threat) to bring the true power centers in this place into the open. Once they are identified, I can make specific plans on how best to use them or neutralize each one in a nasty illithid trap...”
Bort snips off the last bit of thread and smiles as he says, “All done! Let’s see how these outfits fit, shall we? We’ll need to buy you some boots tomorrow, because I can’t make them, but the shirts and mustaches are ready!”
Once the three thralls have gotten the new clothes on the effect is just what Shaddar had hoped for. They are hastily cobbled together and ill-fitting. The thralls put them on without verbal complaint, but it is obvious that they are not happy. Cutt is particularly livid – a constant litany of curses and insults is running through his mind. Loolipo has a sad, puppy-dog look on her face as she suffers yet another indignity at the hands of the illithids. Her mustache looks like it was designed to hide the frill of catfish-like whiskers that surround her mouth. It looks awful. The minotaur has a huge paper mustache (“So it balances your horns, sir”) and he keeps batting at it with his hands in annoyance and obvious anger.
Bort raises a critical eyebrow and clicks his tongue as he looks them over. “They don’t look very good do they? Maybe I can take them back, work on them for a day or two, and try to clean it up a bit.”
Shaddar tosses his head negatively. “Nonsense. They are perfect,” he turns to the thralls and commands, “All three of you: tell Bort how much you love your new outfits.”
Toothsnatcher grits his teeth and grinds them together audibly as he spits out, “I loves it. A lot.”
His upper lip twitching and jerking like a dying spider, Cutt responds, “It is simply glorious to be so clearly identified with the two of you. Now everyone who sees me will know that we are together as a group. I will be able to bask in the reputation that you have so richly earned and so selflessly shared. It is an unbelievable gift. I will never forget this, I promise you. Never.”
Loolipo, with her mournful, unblinking eyes, blubbers, “I’ve never been so happy.”
Bort is beginning to catch on that the obedience of the thralls is not quite natural. His nervousness and fear cause him to mentally resolve not to ever get on The Boss' bad side. Shaddar is pleased. Jorin is completely clueless and accepts the praise as his due – even though he did nothing to make the outfits.
Their personal feelings are irrelevant. Shaddar has heard enough and has formed a plan.
Chapter 1 < Chapter 6 Chapter 8 >
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