That realization sent his thoughts back to the heady days of Captain Deudermont, when the goodly man tried to wrest control of the City of Sails from the pirates and the Hosttower of the Arcane. Deudermont had failed miserably, and his loss was Luskan’s loss, as was clearly evident by the decay in both structures and citizens. “Alas …,” Regis heard himself whisper.
All but a couple of the inn’s guests departed soon after the morning meal, but others entered, particularly after Serena took her place behind the bar.
Regis just sat back and watched. Knowledge was his most important ally. Information would keep him alive.
He was no less careful that night, no less attentive the next day, and no less careful the third night at the inn.
The following morning, soon after breakfast, One-Eyed Jax filled with patrons, all milling around.
Regis dared to move to the bar, where Serena warmly greeted him.
“Ah, Master Spider, but you’ve found the gumption to come out of your corner,” she said. “I told you already, you need not be afraid in here, and will not be needing your weapons.”
“I have learned the hard way to be vigilant,” he said.
“Aye,” she agreed. “And that would do you well in most corners of Luskan, and surely in Ten-Towns, when you get there.”
He tipped his blue beret, surprised and quite impressed that she had bothered to remember that little fact about his intended destination. “Busy day,” he said.
“Postings,” she replied, nodding to the board. “For crews, mostly. Many boats putting out to sea in the next tenday.”
“Any heading north?”
Serena laughed. “Might be one or two planning a stop at Auckney, but not to the dale, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Only asking in jest,” Regis replied. “I have been there before, and know well the ice floes floating about to scuttle any who dare sail there.”
“You’ve been there?” Serena asked doubtfully. “And you’re from Aglarond, so you said.”
“Aye.”
“Quite the traveler, then. Have you even passed your teens?”
The halfling laughed and lifted his wine. “I am older than I look, I assure you.”
“Still, I would have thought that one of your … cut, would have gained some notice in coming through Luskan before, yet I’ve not heard tell of Master Spider Topolino until four days ago, nor have any that I’ve spoken to.”
“You have told others of me, have you?”
Serena shrugged. “Luskan’s full of eyes and full of ears. You made an entrance not often seen. If you hoped to escape notice, then know that you failed.”
Regis shrugged and lifted his glass once more. He hopped down from his seat and went to the board, waiting patiently for the taller folk perusing it to move aside, then took his place. Several postings had gone up that morning, mostly for crews, and only one for a caravan, but alas, to Mirabar and not to Icewind Dale.
“It will happen,” Serena consoled him when he returned to the bar.
Soon after, Regis was back in the corner, enjoying his lunch, the common room bristling with patrons. All seemed in a fine mood, and indeed, most of the groups within One-Eyed Jax that day were sharing parting drinks before putting back to sea. Regis enjoyed the spectacle and the many toasts, and found that he was more relaxed in the place now. Indeed, he spent most of his time looking out the window, and held his breath on several occasions when he noticed dark elves strolling by. At one point, a pair of drow came into One-Eyed Jax—and how the other patrons offered deference to them!
They took note of the finely outfitted halfling, their stares lingering on him, making him wish that he had dressed a little less colorfully and less richly this day. Indeed, one of the drow went to Serena and began a quiet discussion, and pointedly looked back his way as he did, making no effort to hide the fact that he was inquiring about Master Spider Topolino with the barkeep.
“Wonderful,” the halfling muttered under his breath, and he pondered going over to join the discussion openly.
Any thoughts of that went away almost immediately, however, when a tall red-haired man entered the room, flanked by several capable-looking brawlers. Clearly, given the parting crowd, men stumbling quickly to get out of the way, this was someone of importance.
The redhead moved to the bar and Serena rushed to serve him, and the dark elves toasted him and drained their drinks, then hastily departed.
Regis noted it all, trying to sort out the hidden relationships. When the redhead moved to the posting board by the stairway, Regis dared to return to the bar.
“High Captain Kurth,” Serena whispered to him, bringing him a drink. “I think you have found your caravan, little friend.”
Regis stared at the man, who held a posting in his hand, but hadn’t tacked it up yet, as he was reading the others recently placed. He was still focused there when the crowd in the common room went quiet once more, then gave a common “huzzah!” Regis looked all around in confusion, seeking the source of the cheer.
And then he nearly fell off his bar stool, for he realized that the patron of the establishment had entered. A drow, and not one-eyed, Regis knew, though this one did indeed wear an eyepatch.
“Jax,” he whispered under his breath. “Jarlaxle?”
He noted with concern that the drow turned to him sharply upon mention of the name, and Regis huddled over his drink, silently berating himself for forgetting how keen drow ears might be, and how much keener still, likely, Jarlaxle’s would be.
Regis held his breath and didn’t dare look up as he heard the magically amplified sound of hard boots striking the wooden floor coming toward him.
“Do I know you, goodsir?” Jarlaxle asked, moving right beside him and motioning for Serena to bring them both a drink.
“No, goodsir,” Regis answered, not daring to look up into the face of that most dangerous mercenary.
“Spider Topolino of Aglarond,” Serena said, moving over with the drinks. “He came to us a few days ago, passing through and hoping to score a ride with a caravan to Icewind Dale.”
“Icewind Dale?” Jarlaxle asked with clear, though feigned, obviously, it seemed to Regis, surprise.
Regis dared to glance up at the drow, who was smiling. Jarlaxle was always smiling. “I have family there,” the halfling meekly explained.
Jarlaxle didn’t immediately reply, but he did stare, and seemed a bit surprised. Regis tried not to audibly gulp—was it possible that Jarlaxle had recognized him? It couldn’t be, the halfling silently told himself, for he hadn’t seen Jarlaxle in more than a century, by the drow’s accounting of time.
But still, that penetrating, knowing look …
“I told him that he might be in luck, since word’s that High Captain Beniago is posting a caravan to the dale this very day,” Serena said.
Jarlaxle continued to stare at Regis, looking him up and down.
“You are well-appointed for one looking to serve as a mere guard on a caravan,” he said quietly when Serena had moved away.
“I don’t wish to ride into Icewind Dale alone,” Regis said. “Yetis and goblins and such.”
“That is a fine hat.”
Regis swallowed hard, suspecting that Jarlaxle had already discerned its magical properties.
“My family was well-appointed,” he answered. “Perhaps you have heard of Grandfather Pericolo Topolino of Aglarond.”
“Grandfather?” Jarlaxle replied, his tone marking the title appropriately. “No, I have not … yet.”
Just shut up! Regis silently berated himself. He couldn’t get into a cryptic conversation with the likes of Jarlaxle. This master spy would know more about him than he knew about himself in short order!
“You have enjoyed your stay at my establishment?” Jarlaxle politely asked.
“Miss Serena is a fine hostess, yes,” Regis answered.
“Well then, good travels to you, sir,” Jarlaxle said, and he tipped his outrageously huge, wid
e-brimmed hat. “May you find a road worth riding, to a hearth worth watching, and with friends worth toasting.”
“And to you,” Regis replied, and he breathed easier when Jarlaxle moved along to other patrons, then soon after left the establishment.
Shortly after that, High Captain Beniago Kurth made his posting and similarly departed, and Regis was fast to the board, and was quite relieved that it was, indeed, a call for drivers and guards for a merchant caravan departing at the end of the tenday for the town of Brynn Shander in Icewind Dale.
As Beniago had expected, Jarlaxle was waiting for him a short ways down the lane from One-Eyed Jax.
“An interesting halfling, yes?” asked Beniago, the lieutenant of Bregan D’aerthe, magically disguised as a human and serving the drow mercenary band as High Captain of the most powerful Ship in Luskan.
“He will apply for your caravan,” Jarlaxle replied. “Give him passage, and see to it that he is not bothered while in Luskan.”
Beniago didn’t hide his surprise. “You know him?”
Jarlaxle shrugged. “He reminds me of someone, perhaps. I cannot place it, and could not be certain, in any case, given the beret he wears.”
“A hat of disguise?”
Jarlaxle nodded. “That hand crossbow on his belt is worth many thousands of gold, and there is no shortage of magical items about that one, the unusual hat included.”
“And that rapier,” Beniago agreed, and he seemed impressed.
Jarlaxle nodded, but couldn’t help himself as he looked back toward the distant tavern, musing.
“What do you know?” Beniago prompted.
“Little,” Jarlaxle admitted. “And I never enjoy knowing little.”
“I could inquire …,” Beniago started, but Jarlaxle shook his head, cutting short that train of thought.
“He is not to be bothered,” Jarlaxle ordered.
“But watched?”
The leader of Bregan D’aerthe nodded again. “Watched when he returns as well.”
“He intends to remain in the North throughout the winter, so he told Serena.”
Jarlaxle mulled that over for a bit. For some reason he could not sort out, some reason lost to distant memories, it seemed fitting for this one to be in Icewind Dale. “I would know where he settles, then.”
Beniago nodded, and assured his master, “His every move.”
On a warm autumn day, five tendays later, Regis reclined on the banks of the lake known as Maer Dualdon, his boots removed and set on the moss beside him, a fishing line tied around one toe. Behind him, nestled among some pines, sat the comfortable cottage he had purchased on the outskirts of the small town known as Lonelywood.
Little had changed here in a century, and Regis was glad of it. He had lived in this town for many years in his previous existence, and in a house barely a hundred strides away. Despite his regrets at the roads left behind, he felt as if he had come home.
He lay on his back and watched the puffy white clouds drifting lazily across the deep blue canopy of an Icewind Dale autumn sky.
He thought of Donnola, and how he wished that she could be here beside him, fishing and carving scrimshaw, living quietly and enjoying the passing of lazy seasons.
“He remained in Icewind Dale,” Beniago reported to Jarlaxle in the underground caverns of the ancient ruins within the city of Luskan, a place of ghosts known as Illusk, which Bregan D’aerthe had taken as its headquarters in Luskan. “It is possible that the little one is an outlaw—perhaps he double-crossed Doregardo’s Grinning Ponies, for he rode with them these past couple of years, I have learned.”
“They have come as far north as Luskan to inquire of him?”
“No. If Doregardo seeks him, we have heard no whispers.”
“But this one, full of wealth, full of magic, and with apparent skill, has chosen to retire to Icewind Dale?”
“To broker a deal?” Beniago reasoned. “Perhaps there are interests further south desiring trade with Ten-Towns.”
Jarlaxle shrugged. The one named Spider had mentioned a Grandfather, which was a title usually reserved for leaders of assassins guilds. Might this little one be an advanced scout? But then, how did that fit with him riding with the Grinning Ponies, a vigilante band, and surely no friends of an assassins guild?
“Keep an eye?” Beniago asked, correctly reading Jarlaxle’s expressions.
“Half an eye,” Jarlaxle ordered. “And send inquiries to Aglarond of one Grandfather Pericolo Topolino.”
Beniago’s eyes widened at mention of the title.
“Quietly,” Jarlaxle explained.
Beniago nodded.
CHAPTER 27
A CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS
The Year of the Narthex Murders (1482 DR) Icewind Dale
NOT A SMILE GREETED CATTI-BRIE WHEN SHE WALKED INTO THE LONE INN in the town of Auckney, a windswept, salty village nestled among the southern shores and high rocks of the Spine of the World’s westernmost peaks, overlooking the great ocean.
She moved to the main table and surveyed the menu items. “Lots of fish,” she said lightly to a nearby man, whose apron identified him as the cook or owner, or likely both.
“You get that when you live on the edge of the sea,” another man not far away answered, and with no warmth in his tone. Catti-brie turned to regard him, to find him staring at her body and surely not looking into her eyes.
“Three pieces of gold and take your pick,” the man with the apron said.
Catti-brie started a bit at the exorbitant price. “Three?”
“You came in with a caravan?”
“No, alone.”
“Three pieces of gold and take your pick,” the man repeated gruffly.
“I am not that hungry.”
“Three for a nibble, three for a stuffing,” said a woman’s voice from the other end, and Catti-brie turned to regard the speaker, who seemed a fit in age and demeanor for the owner and was likely his wife.
“Are there rooms for rent?” Catti-brie asked.
“Anything’s for rent, if you’ve the gold,” said the other man. He winked at Catti-brie rather disgustingly. “Yes?”
“Five gold a night,” said the owner.
Catti-brie held her hands up, somewhere between surrender and disbelief.
“Not many visitors to Auckney,” the man replied.
“There’s a wonder for a mage to unwind,” Catti-brie replied with dripping sarcasm. “Is there another common room in town?”
“You think I’d tell you if there was?” the owner replied.
“There’s not,” said his wife.
“But there are rooms to rent,” said the other man. “Though you’d be sharing!” He ended with a dirty laugh that followed Catti-brie all the way back onto the street.
She looked around at the passersby, all huddled under heavy cloaks against the chill breeze sweeping in off the water. There loomed a dourness around this place, a cold chill as palpable as the burgeoning wintry weather.
She moved to what seemed to be the town’s main avenue, a wide boulevard weaving around an open market. She meandered around that marketplace, inspecting the wares—late-season fruits and vegetables mostly, along with cartloads of fish. She pretended to be interested, but in truth, she could call upon her divine powers to magically create better food than she found before her. She had only inquired about a meal in the tavern to warm up the conversation in the place, for though she was only passing through Auckney, she held a lingering curiosity about the town.
Wulfgar had been here, and indeed had found quite the adventure here, one that had left him with an adopted child, though for a short time only before he returned the girl to her mother, Meralda, who was back then the Lady of Auckney.
“Don’t you be touching what you aren’t buying,” one woman merchant snapped at her as she reached for an apple.
“How am I to judge the freshness?” Catti-brie asked.
“You’ll know when you bite it, and you’ll bite it after
you pay for it.”
Catti-brie shrugged and retracted her hand.
“Pray, tell me, who is the oldest person in Auckney?” she asked.
“Eh?”
“Who has been here the longest? Who would know of days gone by?”
“Well, I’m older than you, so what’s your question?” the merchant asked.
“The line of Auck, back to Meralda …”
The woman began to laugh.
“Her daughter, Colson?”
“Lady Colson,” the woman replied. “Died when I was a child.”
“And her child sits on the throne now?”
The merchant shook her head. “Her children both died before her, and took the line with them.”
Catti-brie chewed her lip, wondering where to take the conversation next. “Do you remember Lady Colson?”
The woman shrugged. “Bits. Poor girl, born of rape and kidnapped by the rapist to add to the pain.”
Catti-brie wanted to reply to that misinformation, for surely Wulfgar had not raped Meralda. Far from it. He had intervened and stolen away the baby Colson to save her from the vengeance of the Lord of Auckney, for though Meralda was the lord’s wife, the foolish lord was not the child’s father. Nor was Wulfgar. Meralda had been in love with another man—Catti-brie did not know his name—when the Lord of Auckney had forced her to become his bride, not knowing that she was already with child.
“The Bastard Lady,” the merchant woman went on, and shook her head and sighed.
“And her father?” Catti-brie was afraid of the answer, but she had to know.
“Barbarian beast, curse his name, whatever his name might be. Not one spoken in Auckney, I warn you.”
Catti-brie closed her eyes and forced herself to settle down and suppress her need to set things straight here. She looked back at the woman and nodded, managing a smile before turning away.
“You buying that apple?” the woman said sharply.
Catti-brie turned back to regard the fruit, which was certainly past its prime. But she looked at the scowling merchant and reluctantly scooped it up.
“Four pieces of silver,” the merchant demanded, several times the value.
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