Gritt's Tale, Part 2

The scribe returned to the bar early the next morning.  As he stepped through the door, his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he spied Gritt already sitting down at a table in the corner.  He was swirling a dirty brown liquid around in the bottom of a glass.

“Figured I’d need something to keep my throat wet, what with all the talking I’m going to be doing”,  Gritt growled.  The scribe sat down opposite Gritt, and readied his quill and papers.  Gritt cleared his throat. 

“So, it started like any other day  I’d been living for a while here in the Shingles – in West Dock.  Trying to earn a living while I tracked down Lamm.  Hadn’t been having much luck when I spotted a weird card that someone must’ve slipped under my door.  Had a picture of a bear on it.”  Gritt pulled out an old, battered card.  Even though it was besmirched with marks that looked suspiciously like old blood stains, it was still possible to see the bear riding a unicycle.  Gritt flipped the card over, and the scribe read the inscription.  Gritt continued, “Well,, made sense to check it out.  I headed there a little earlier than the card said, to check the place out.  It was some kind of fortune tellers.  There were some nice tapestries in there, a bit creepy though.  I wasn’t in there long before some other individuals started straggling in.”

“There was a woman with a bow and a quiver full of arrows.  Face like a smashed crab, and an angry attitude to match. Turned out she’d been raped by Lamm.  Her name was Sparrowhawk.”

“Next came a fellow called Justin Credible.  I’m guessing he kinda picked that name himself.” Gritt shrugged.  “Don’t know why he chose that name though.  Anyway, he was carrying something I’d never seen before.  A gun.  Don’t know if you’ve seen one of em.  A complicated chunk of metal.  I don’t know why, but there was something about it….  Just drew me to it.  I kinda felt like it was my destiny to carry one, and use it.  Strange feeling.  I still wonder why I got that feeling – just can’t seem to shake it.”

“There was a priest – a fellow named Sol.  Spreading the word of Abadar, so he said.  Can’t say Abadar’s the god for me – but I didn’t see the need to tell him that.”

“Then there was a man in fancy clothes - Mandraiv   Looked like one of his parents must’ve been an elf.  Can’t say it bothered me like it bothers a lot of the folks around here – a man’s parents are his business and no concern of anyone else.  Reckoned Mandraiv was some kinda wizard.  He had this real ugly looking snake with him – looked like it had just crawled straight outta the Abyss.  Still, the snake was pretty well behaved.”

Last to join us was a fella named Watson, and his trusty hound, Zeus.  He was young, and keen, but had a look about him like he’d been kicked while he was growing up – kicked hard and kicked regular.

Turned out that me, Mandraiv and Watson had all had similar experiences at Lamm’s hands – he’d used all of us as some of his little thieves.  Justin had been beaten as well by Lamm.  Sol mentioned something about being framed I think.  Anyway, he had a grudge as well.  So, looked like it was a regular little group of folks with a real chip about Lamm.

Then a woman came in.  One of them Varisian gypsies.  Name of Zallara.  Seemed she had no reason to like Lamm either – he’d wronged her as well.  Pretty bad.  Anyway, she wanted us to go get a special deck of cards – Harrow cards – like the one she’d left under my door.  Apparently, they had real sentimental value for her.

We were all mighty keen to oblige the lady.  She told us where he was hiding out.  Some dock on the East side of the island.  Before we left though, she did a fortune telling.  I hadn’t seen anything like it – there was something about it that was pretty eery.  I got the impression that she weren’t just makin’ it up – but that there was some truth to it.  There weren’t too much different between our readings, though we drew some different cards each.  Trouble was coming to Korvosa – that much was clear – and we’d be in the thick of it.  Apart from that, she had some words of caution for Watson.  Told him not to rush into things headfirst – wouldn’t do him too much good.  Also said he was unlucky.  Turns out she was right on both counts…”

Gritt took a sip of the alcohol.  As he returned the glass to the table, the scribe suddenly coughed as the fumes from the tumbler burned his eyes.  He realised he’d been leaning in closer and closer to hear the old man tell his tale.  Gritt continued…

“So, we headed to the docks.  We scoped the place out, and decided to sneak in the side door.  The building was an old, ramshackle dump.  We went down the side, and Watson opened a door using some thieves tools.  Guess he must have learnt a few things from Lamm.  Anyway, we went in. Around this time – don’t remember exactly – Watson must have kicked that damned dog so hard it ran off.  Never saw it again.

In the room, there were some kids – worn, thin and looking like they’d been beaten regularly.  Typical Lamm operation.  There was also a half orc there.  He was kind a creepy – not right in the head.  Kept giggling.  Looked pretty happy to see us – like he was spoilin’ for a fight.  Watson gave him what he wanted, and charged right in.  Watson had guts alright, and we damn near saw them spread all over the floor.  That puke smashed him a couple of times with a flail, and Watson went down.  Meantime, those kids were joining in – stabbing at us with pitchforks they’d pulled out of the vat of fishguts.  Can’t say I blamed them – if they hadn’t, Lamm would no doubt have butchered them.  I moved up right next to that half orc.”

Gritt paused, and lifted his gaze from the bottom of his cup, and turned it on the scribe.  “You ever killed a man, scribe?” , he grated.

“N, n, n, no” squawked the scribe, as he turned pale.

Gritt turned his gaze elsewhere, and paused thoughtfully.  He picked up the glass, and downed the caustic liquid in one gulp.  A frown creased his face.  The pause stretched, until the scribe thought that Gritt must have finished for the day.  Just as the scibe was about to interrupt Gritt’s reverie, he suddenly spoke again.

“That was the first man I ever killed.  I swung that sword at him and hit him in the mouth so hard his teeth came out the back of his head.  I think about him now and again.  I don’t know whether he deserved it or not.  Guess he did, being involved in something like Lamm’s operation.  That weren’t right.  Still, I’ve never forgot.  Killed a heap more people since them.  Some of them probly deserved it more, some less.  Doesn’t matter.  They all ended up the same.  Same as I’m gonna end up one day.  Dead.  Just dead.”

Gritt paused again, his eyes shadowed.  “Well, anyway, I got the feeling it ain’t gonna be today.”  He leaned back in his seat, and continued.

“There was another puke came into that first room.  Gnome, disguised as an orphan.  Shifty little bugger.  We captured him.  During the fight Sol had been healing, and trying to get the orphans to give up the fight.  Got Watson back on his feet, and kept me on mine as well.  Sparrowhawk’d been trying to get in a shot at the gnome or the flail-wielder.  The kids swapped sides, and joined us during the fight.  After it was all over, we let the orphans go.  Told them to find somewhere safe.”

The scribe gasped, and interrupted “You just turned little kids out on the streets and let them fend for themselves?”

Gritt’s expression turned harsh, and the scribe faltered, unnerved.  The scarred face softened after a moment.  “You’ve got a point.  It weren’t right.  Felt bad about it ever since.  Figured that, seeing as I’d known what to do, so’d they.  Realised since that not everyone’s as resourceful as we turned out to be.  Should’ve taken the little tackers to one of Lindsay’s  places.  They’d have been alright there.”  He paused again, introspective.  “Probably some of them ended up there though.”

“Anyway, we kept checking that warehouse place out.  Found there was a hidden walkway underneath, half over the river.  Led into a few rooms underneath the main building.   We opened the door up and there was Lamm, his gator, and another henchman.  Funny thing was, he looked a lot smaller than I remembered him.  Older.  Weaker.  Truth be told, he was limping, and kinda pathetic.  Still as much as a bastard as ever though.  Tried to weasel his way out, offering to come some kind of arrangement.  I said ‘Sure, arranging your head apart from your body’ll do just fine.’  He took exception to that, and we fought.  I managed to hit him once with my sword, before that big lizard got a hold of my leg.  That snake slithered up, and Mandraiv cast some kind of spell.  Knew he was a mage of some kind.  That snake grew till it was damn near as big as a horse.  Meanwhile, Watson was taking care of the henchman – they spent their time throwing sharp things at each other.  Then Mandraiv ended the fight.  Shot a crossbow bolt straight through Lamm’s head. Lamm hit the floor like a sack of manure.  I thought at the time maybe Mandraiv went to some kind of magic marksmanship school.  Realised later he was just damn lucky.  Still, that’s how the world works.

We checked out Lamm’s valuables.  He’d stolen plenty – there were some rich pickings.  Sure enough, we found that harrow deck.  Couple of other things though, we weren’t expecting.   There was a brooch.  Sol said it was the Queen’s.  More surprising though, was a box with a head in it.  Yep, a severed head.  Funny thing was, it looked damn near identical to Zellara, the gypsy seer, only in a state that suggested it had been in that box a while.”

The scribe’s eyes opened wide.  “Wait  - does that mean – you’d met a ghost?  Or, was it a twin sister?  Why had it been in there so long?  And why would Lamm keep it?  And, how did he get his hands on a brooch from the queen?  Did you return it?  Or sell it? Surely it was worth a princely sum!  Was there some reason that…”

Gritt lifted his hand and gestured for the scribe to slow down.  The gabbling stopped.  “You sure ask a heap o’ questions.  Hold your horses..  I’ll get to all that.  You were thinking pretty much what we were thinking, fer sure.  It raised a lot of questions…

Say, you hungry, scribe?  I’m feeling a might peckish.  Let’s get us some food, more drink and have a break from all that scraping with that feather of yours.

(to be continued…)