The guard’s eyes widened at that, just for a moment, and he looked back and whispered to someone unseen behind him.
“Never heard of them,” he said, turning back to Spider.
The halfling vigilante shrugged, hardly believing the man and hardly caring.
“And your business?” the guard demanded.
“Passing through,” said Spider, “to the north. I’ve family in Lonelywood, in Ten-Towns. The last caravans of the season will be leaving soon, I expect.” From his past life, he knew the schedule here well enough to know that he was speaking the truth, for the eighth month, Eliasis, of 1483 had just begun, and the pass through the Spine of the World was often closed by snows before the end of the ninth month. He should have come to Luskan a couple of tendays earlier, perhaps, but leaving the Grinning Ponies had proven a difficult thing. He had left two full lives behind, both that he had come to love, and now approached a third existence, and one he could only hope would prove no less full of such love and friendship.
“And you’ve the gold to get a caravan to carry you?” the guard asked, a bit too slyly for Spider’s liking.
“Since I wish to travel north in any case, it is my expectation that the merchants will have the gold to afford my company,” Spider answered.
The guard gave him a skeptical look.
“Pray open your gate,” Spider said. “This rain has gone to the bone, I fear, and I would dearly love to find a warm hearth and a fine meal before retiring.”
The guard hesitated and looked down on him from above. The halfling sat up straighter and loosened his cloak a bit, shifting his left arm so that the covering fell back behind his hip, thus revealing his rapier in all its bejeweled glory. Clever Spider made sure to turn his pony a bit to the right to afford the guard a good view.
The man finally glanced back and said something Spider could not hear, and the gates began to creak open soon after.
Spider Pericolo Topolino sat up very straight as he walked his pony through, his cloak off his left shoulder, his left arm hanging easily at his side while he guided his mount with his right hand alone. He tried to project an air of confidence—competence was the best deterrent against would-be robbers and murderers, after all.
As far as he could tell at first blush, and from the information he had garnered over the last months riding in the south, the city had changed very much for the worse in the century since he’d last been here. Luskan was still ruled by five High Captains and their respective “Ships,” pirates and cutthroats all, and thoroughly unpleasant sorts. She was a city of scurvy vagabonds, where a body lying on the side of the road was not an uncommon sight.
Spider could see the masts of the many boats in the harbor over to his left. Most would be sailing for the south soon enough, likely, and so their crews might be willing to take greater risks within Luskan, figuring that they would be out of port before the magistrates could catch up to them.
With that thought in mind, Spider moved along the right-hand, eastern lanes, the inland sections, staying in sight of the eastern wall as he made his way toward the city’s northern gate. Much of Luskan lay in ruins now, and when he came in sight of the Upstream Span crossing the River Mirar to the city’s north gate, he saw that the bridges, too, were in heavy disrepair, so much so that he had to wonder if caravans even left from Luskan any longer, bound across the river to the north.
One compound on the riverbank just south of the Upstream Span caught his eye, and he breathed a sigh of relief to learn that Baliver’s House of Horses was still, apparently, in operation. He walked his pony over to where a pair of young men and a woman loaded hay into the back of a wagon.
“Well met,” he greeted, dismounting, and he was glad to see the three smiling—and was surprised at how much a little thing like a smile could brighten up this thoroughly miserable ruin posing as a city.
“And to you, goodsir,” said the young woman, a handsome lass of less than twenty years. “Stabling or renting, or both, perhaps?”
“Stabling,” Regis replied, and he handed the reins to one of the men who came forward. “Name’s Rumble, or Rumblebelly to his friends. Handle him well, I beg. He’s been a good and loyal pony.” He pulled his saddlebags from Rumble’s back and flipped them over his shoulder, then dug into his pouch. “Three silver a night?” he asked and offered.
“Aye, that’ll do.”
“Then here’s a tenday, though I doubt I’ll be in town that long, and a bit of extra for special care to my always hungry pony.” He handed the young man four pieces of gold. “And a bit more when I collect him,” he added as the happy man led Rumble away.
“I’ll need to find an inn, and a caravan to Icewind Dale,” Regis added, turning back to the woman. He looked to the north, to the structures along the northern bank, and pointed. “Is the Red Dragon Trading Post still in operation?”
It was clear that they had no idea what he was talking about.
“Might mean One-Eyed Jax,” the remaining young man remarked.
“There is a tavern over on the north bank,” the woman explained. “Comfortable enough, so I’ve heard.”
“He’d be better sleeping in our hayloft,” said the man. “Well, which is it?” Regis demanded.
“Comfortable,” the woman replied. “And the place you’d best find any news of caravans to the North, surely, but …” She looked to her doubting companion.
“I see you wear a sword,” he said. “Can you use it?”
“Will I have to?”
The young man just shrugged.
“It’s the safest place and bed he’ll find,” the woman told her companion, and she turned to Spider. “Drow are not uncommon about One-Eyed Jax,” she explained. “But Ship Kurth claims ownership of the place, and none in the city are about to cross Ship Kurth. One-Eyed Jax is as safe a bed as you’ll find in Luskan.”
“Not saying much,” said the man.
“I was not expecting much,” Regis assured him. He looked to the bridge, the Upstream Span. “Will it fall out from under my feet?”
“They are repairing it,” the man replied. “Have been since before I was born. Safe enough if you’re careful where you step, but if there’s a gang working it, they’ll ask you to reach into your purse for a toll.”
Spider of the Grinning Ponies just smiled and shook his head. That grin hid a true sorrow, though, for what might have been in once-proud Luskan. For he, Regis, had been here in 1377, when Captain Deudermont had tried to wrest control of the city from the Arcane Brotherhood and the High Captains. If Deudermont had won, Luskan might now stand as a smaller version of mighty Waterdeep, a shining jewel on a coast full of thriving ports. But alas, Deudermont had failed, and had fallen.
And so had begun the fall of Luskan.
The halfling flipped a silver piece to the woman, thanked her for the information with a tip of his beautiful hat, and then started off toward the bridge.
He picked his path carefully as he stepped out onto the Upstream Span, for the stones were crumbling all around it, and in places he could see down through it to the filthy waters of the River Mirar. More than filthy, he realized, for they shone inky black and their foul smell drifted up to assail him. So focused was Regis on carefully marking his steps that he was more than a third of the way across before he even noticed that there were indeed others on the bridge, a trio of dirty men sitting beside a pile of stones and wooden planks, wearing the colors of a Ship’s crew he did not know.
The group stood as he neared, each reaching for a shovel or pick, and a fourth appearing from behind the pile.
Regis fought his instincts, reminding himself not to slow, not to show any concern.
“Now, what’ve we got here?” asked the nearest of the group.
“A visitor to your fair city, bound for One-Eyed Jack in search of a room,” Spider answered pleasantly.
“Jax, you mean,” the man corrected. “Jacks, then,” the halfling agreed.
A second man came up beside th
e first, holding his shovel like a battle-axe diagonally across his chest.
“Have ye enough coin, then?” the first asked. “Would I seek a room if I did not?”
“Enough for the room and for the toll?” asked one from the back, and only then, at the sound of her voice, did Regis realize that it was a woman.
“I see no signs for any toll, nor was any mentioned by the guards at the southern gate,” the halfling answered casually.
“Don’t need no signs and don’t see no guards, eh,” the first man said, and he hoisted his pick-axe up over his shoulder, and moved near enough to bring it down onto Regis’s head.
“Aye little one, open yer purse and we’ll let ye know if it’s enough to get you across,” said the brute with the shovel.
“Hmm,” Regis mumbled as he considered his options. He had some coins in his pouch, and many more in the secret compartment below it, which this crew would never find. It probably wouldn’t cost him more than a few silver to get across.
A few silver and more than a bit of his self-respect.
“No,” he said. “I do not think I will pay any toll.”
“Wrong answer,” said the woman from behind.
“Kindly move aside,” Regis said, and he lifted his left arm, throwing his cloak back over his left shoulder and revealing his fabulous rapier. “Ah, ye runt!” said the first, moving to strike with his pick-axe.
But Regis was quicker, his right hand sweeping across to grab his rapier and draw it in one fluid motion, and his left hand coming across the other way right behind the lifting blade, moving just under the right fold of his cloak, where his third weapon sat ready just in front of his right hip, the holster angled back toward his center for an easy and quick draw.
Out went the rapier and out came the hand crossbow, unfolding as it went, and as Regis’s rapier tip went against the throat of the man with the pick-axe, just under the chin, his hand crossbow aimed out perfectly toward the man with the shovel, leveled for his face.
“Once I politely asked, but now I insist,” Regis said. “Move aside.”
The two men glanced to each other. Regis prodded with the rapier, drawing a bit of blood.
“Ye know what Ship ye’re threatening, do ye?” the woman protested.
“I know that one High Captain might find his crew short three men and a woman,” Regis answered. “Unless any of you survive the fall, of course, and the swim in those most-unappetizing waters below.”
That last part seemed to have a great effect, he noted, with the blood draining from the woman’s face.
“I’ll not ask you again,” Regis assured them.
They moved aside and Regis crossed the river, his grin from ear to ear.
Bolstered by his bravery, the halfling confidently strode into the tavern known as One-Eyed Jax a short while later. He was surprised by the spelling of the name, thinking, of course, that the place had been named after the two particular cards in a standard deck, but he just shrugged it off, realizing that few up here could even properly spell, likely, and fewer still would understand the difference between “Jacks” and “Jax.”
Barely inside the door, many eyes turning to regard him, he threw back his cloak and swept the water droplets from his beret. He knew that he cut a heroic figure, quite dashing, and didn’t try to hide that in the least. Boldness would get him through, he reminded himself continually, as it had on the bridge. He could not, would not, appear the least bit vulnerable.
He wore three weapons on his belt, which had been looped with a blue sash to match the color of his hat. His rapier sat on his left hip, the hand crossbow in front of his right, and his dagger in a new scabbard just behind the hand crossbow at the side of his right hip. He wore a black leather sleeveless vest and a white shirt, unbuttoned in the front just enough to reveal an undercoat of soft cloth lined with glistening mithral strands. His breeches were light brown and his boots, high and fashionable, shined of black leather to match the fine material of the vest, and indeed, had been crafted by the same leatherworker, one considered, and certainly priced like, the finest in all of Baldur’s Gate.
As he pulled off his riding gloves—leather, but dyed blue to match the hat and belt sash—he scanned the room, nodding politely at those who seemed most interested. Tucking the gloves into his belt, he moved to the bar to order some wine and inquire about a room.
“And how long might you be staying, master?” asked the barkeep, an attractive young woman with gray eyes and rich brown hair just a shade lighter than the halfling’s.
“Master Topolino,” he answered, and he tipped his beret to her. “Spider Topolino of Aglarond. And I would like the room until I find an appropriate caravan setting out for the North.”
“Mirabar? Auckney?”
“Icewind Dale,” said Regis. “I am bound for Ten-Towns.”
She put the glass of wine before him on the bar. “And what business might you have in that forsaken place?”
“My own,” he answered, thinking it strange that anyone living in Luskan at this time would label anywhere else in all the world as “forsaken.”
“Good enough for ye, then,” she replied. “Just making conversation.”
Regis offered her a smile. “My apologies,” he said. “I am unused to friendly conversation. The north road has precious little of it now, I fear, where more oft must I speak with my blade than my charm.”
“Then might be you need to be more charming,” said a man beside him, but rather playfully, he noted, so he laughed and told the barkeep to buy the man a drink on his tab.
“You’ll not need your blade in here,” the barkeep explained.
“You are the owner?”
“Me?” the woman said with a laugh, one that was shared by all others near enough to hear. “No, no. Just a drink-maker and coin-taker.”
“And a pretty eye-full to be enjoyed by the crews,” the man beside Regis added, lifting his glass in toast to her.
Others joined in and the barkeep curtsied and gave a little smile, then moved to the other end of the bar to the call of some other patrons.
“But you beware, little friend, that it’s just an eye-full,” the man warned. “Serena’s spoken for, by One-Eye himself, and he’s not one you’re looking to anger, no matter how well you can work those pretty weapons you carry.”
“One-eye is a man, then?” Regis asked. “I had thought it a card in a deck.”
“Not a man,” the other patron said cryptically, and the others nearby chuckled.
The halfling left it at that. He moved to a table near the blazing hearth and ordered some food, and was quite pleased at the quality, as he was at the quality of his room when he went up to the second story to retire for the night. He found the posting board at the foot of the stairs, but there was only one caravan listed, and it was bound for Port Llast in the south and not to Icewind Dale.
“They’ll be another before the season’s turn,” Serena called out to him when she noted his disappointment as he stood before the board.
He smiled at her, tipped his hat, and bowed gracefully, then climbed the stairs, knowing full well that more than a few patrons were likely talking about him in the common room below.
He set a trap upon his door, using a shim stuck into the top crease of the jamb to hold a vial of acid he had brewed. Anyone coming through uninvited would be in for a painful surprise.
He moved his small bed to the corner across the room that would be most sheltered by the inward swing of the door, then laid his hand crossbow out in easy reach. He re-coated the loaded dart in poison, and set another nearby, nodding approvingly at his handiwork. He had served the Grinning Ponies in many capacities. He was their finest housebreaker when they needed to gather information in places like Baldur’s Gate, and also served well as the group’s alchemist, providing potions of healing and speed and heroism, and this poison he had learned to brew. It was not as effective as the drow sleeping poison it had replaced, for he had no access to the mushrooms uniq
ue to the Underdark, but he had found a substitute fungus that grew in the forests around the Crags. The poison might not put anyone of considerable constitution to sleep, but it often made an enemy’s movements sluggish, and as an added benefit, the clever Spider had added some particularly nasty pepper juice that made the small puncture wound of the tiny bolts feel as if it were brought about by a hot poker.
Quite a fine distraction, and thus an advantage, he had learned in fights against those so bitten by his clever weapon.
Before he settled in, the halfling scanned the room, peering closely at every crack in the wall through the magnifying prism of his ring in search of secret doors or murder holes.
Still, despite his thoroughness and precautions, he didn’t sleep much that night, fully expecting an ambush, and more than that, trying yet again to reconcile himself to these two very different identities, Spider and Regis. In the south and the east, he had been Spider Parrafin and then, after his flight from Delthuntle, Spider Pericolo Topolino, and hadn’t he made a grand name for himself!
But with Ten-Towns looming before him, not so far and not so long, was he to remain Spider? Or to be Regis again? He laughed as he considered that he had given his pony the same name Bruenor often used for him.
“A little of both and neither of one, then,” he decided, and he tried to sleep. But of course, moving from his contemplations only reminded him of his vulnerability and the potential for an ambush, and with that unsettling thought in mind, his sleep came in fits and starts.
No ambush came, however, and the halfling went downstairs the next morning to find a smiling Serena and a fine breakfast set out for guests of the inn.
What a collection those guests proved to be; ragamuffins, one and all, road-weary, or more likely sea-weary, cast-offs looking for work wherever they might find it. Regis sat in the far corner of the common room, near the hearth and close enough that he could leap through one of the few windows in the place if need be. He had his back against the wall, and kept his head up while picking through his food, his eyes scanning.
It occurred to him that any of the dozen others in the room would kill him for the price of a few pieces of silver.
The Companions: The Sundering, Book I Page 38
