The Companions: The Sundering, Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Oh, heavens no, my friend,” Pericolo said, however, and in such a lighthearted tone that Eiverbreen settled back once more—until he feared the words and tone were just a ruse to put him off his guard.

  Oh, he didn’t know what to think!

  But Pericolo kept talking. “You think small because you live small,” the Grandfather explained. “Whatever goals and hopes you might possess are pushed aside for the sake of one immediate goal, eh?” Again he lifted his cane and tapped the glass, then motioned for Shasta to refill Eiverbreen’s.

  “Perhaps that is the difference between us,” Pericolo said. “You are small and I am not.”

  Eiverbreen didn’t know how to answer that. He felt the insult keenly—all the more so because it was obviously true—but of course, to say such a thing would leave him dead on the floor, and that wasn’t where he wanted to be.

  “Ah, I have wounded your pride, and I assure you that such was not my intent,” said Pericolo. “Indeed, I envy you!”

  “What?”

  Pericolo glanced at Shasta Furfoot as Eiverbreen blurted out the question, and he laughed, for her expression clearly reflected that it might have come from her as well.

  “Ah, but to be done a day’s work when the sun sets,” Pericolo explained. “To think small, to live small, perhaps, is to live contented. I am never that, you see. Always is there another treasure, another conquest, to be found. Complacency is not a vice, my friend, but a blessing.”

  Not understanding whether he was being mocked or complimented, Eiverbreen took another deep gulp from his glass, and no sooner had he placed it back on the bar than Pericolo had motioned to Shasta to pour another one.

  “The world needs both of us, don’t you think?” Pericolo asked. “And likely, we need each other.”

  Eiverbreen stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Well, perhaps not ‘need,’ but we can surely profit from an … arrangement. Consider, you have goods and I have the trade network for such goods. What does the fishmonger pay you, a few pieces of copper, a silver or two perhaps, for an oyster? Why of course she would pay you so, because there is competition here for the things—your boy is not the only diver, although, admittedly, he seems to be quite good at it!

  “But there are places, not so far from here, where an oyster from the depths of the Sea of Fallen Stars could bring a gold piece, and I know how to get to those places,” Pericolo explained. “You cannot do it without me, of course, but, so it seems, neither can I without you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He means that your life’s about to get a bunch easier, from what I’m hearing,” Shasta Furfoot dared to say.

  “Indeed, my lovely,” Pericolo agreed, and to Eiverbreen, he added, “Do we understand each other?”

  “I give you the oysters my boy brings in?” Eiverbreen asked more than stated, for he did not really understand what was transpiring here.

  Pericolo nodded. “And I reward you,” he said, and he tapped his cane on the bar to make sure he had Shasta’s attention. “My friend here eats and drinks and resides here for free, this day forward.”

  The halfling woman’s face dropped in a protest she dared not utter aloud, but Pericolo took care of it anyway, by adding, “I will pay all his bills henceforth.”

  He motioned to his glass, which Shasta moved quickly to fill. Pericolo stopped her short, though, with a thrust of his cane. “But just for Eiverbreen, yes,” he warned in no uncertain terms.

  The blood drained from Shasta Furfoot’s face. Pericolo moved his cane aside and she poured the brandy into his glass. Pericolo pushed it with his cane in front of Eiverbreen. With a tip of his fine beret, Pericolo Topolino took his leave.

  “Seems to be Eiverbreen Parrafin’s luckiest day, eh?” Shasta Furfoot said as Eiverbreen stared over his shoulder at the departing Grandfather.

  Eiverbreen, who had lived day-to-day, often eating dead rats he found in the alleyways, even licking puddles of others’ spilled liquor, couldn’t really argue, but a nagging fear inside of him put a lump in his throat.

  “Generous,” Donnola remarked to Pericolo, the two of them walking down the street from the tavern where Pericolo had left Eiverbreen. Donnola Topolino was the Grandfather’s actual granddaughter, a promising young thief, and more importantly, a well-heeled socialite. Her primary function in Pericolo’s organization was to keep abreast of the whispers behind the power structures in Delthuntle, something the brassy and lively seventeen-year-old halfling girl truly enjoyed, and at which she truly excelled.

  “He has something I want,” the Grandfather answered.

  “Indeed, but you could have garnered that favor much more cheaply, don’t you think?”

  “How much can one halfling drink? Or eat? And he’ll not eat much if he’s drinking excessively, eh?”

  Donnola stopped, and after a couple of steps, Pericolo, too, paused in his walk and turned to regard her smiling face, a perfectly smug expression.

  “And sleep?” she said knowingly. “Not just the drink he craves, but lodging as well? No, Grandfather, this is about more than Spider. You feel sympathy for Eiverbreen.”

  Pericolo considered the words for a moment, then scoffed. “He disgusts me. He is weak. There is no place among our people for such reinforcement of prejudice!”

  “Generous,” Donnola said in a leading voice.

  “To Spider, then,” Pericolo agreed and he started on his way once more, “for I have surely hastened the death of his worthless father.”

  In all his life, even his previous life, Regis had never felt freer than in these very moments. He slithered around, almost weightless, enjoying the crags and valleys of the uneven sea floor. He didn’t even bother to keep his guide rope, tied to a buoy above, in sight because he knew that he would have no problem in slowly ascending from the watery depths.

  So entranced was Regis by the multitude of small fish swimming around, the eels ducking backward into their caves, and the waving sea grasses that he had barely begun to fill his pouch with the valued oysters.

  It didn’t matter, he knew. In all of Delthuntle, there weren’t five others who could get down to this depth, with nearly fifty feet of water between him and the air, and none that he knew of could stay down here for any length of time, or come back down after a break. The others, of course, had to rely on magical spells with typically short durations, whereas Regis, for whatever reason, had little trouble swimming along the depths and moving around for a long, long while, or in coming right back down after a quick breath up above.

  Even worse for those venturing to these depths under magical spells, they had to take great care in ascending, or be wracked with sometimes fatal pains. But Regis didn’t have that problem. He could swim right up with few ill effects.

  Even if he lingered too long, he never felt that drowning sensation, the terror of an immediate need to gulp air. Never. No, as he considered his time underwater, it seemed more like he was getting some air from the water. He couldn’t actually breathe down here as well as up above, of course, but he could still draw some tiny sustenance, enough to keep him alive, if not entirely comfortable.

  There were dangers under the dark waters of the Sea of Fallen Stars, but he knew them well enough and knew how to avoid them. His fears could not outweigh his sense of adventure, the feeling of freedom, and the extraordinary beauty all around him.

  He had come out early this morning, giving himself all day to swim and enjoy, and to fill his pouch—for indeed, Eiverbreen was not forgiving when Regis returned without a full pouch.

  The sun was low in the sky when he walked the broken cobblestone ways of Delthuntle’s lower section. Eiverbreen was not at home in the alley with the lean-to, but that didn’t much bother Regis, for he was fairly certain of where he might find his poor, afflicted father.

  Shasta Furfoot smiled widely at the young halfling when he entered her establishment, and Regis returned the look, but only briefly, his expression shifting to one of concern
as he glanced around the common room.

  “He’s upstairs in his room,” Shasta remarked.

  “His room? Whose?”

  “Your Da.”

  “His room?” Regis asked, puzzled, for he and his father lived in an alley, with only a few boards leaned up against a wall to call their home.

  “Aye, and your own, too, I’m guessing.” Shasta nodded toward the staircase. “Third floor, third door on your right.”

  “His room.”

  Shasta merely smiled.

  Regis bounded up the stairs, not slowing until he came to the appointed door. He started to knock, but paused and crinkled his nose, for inside, he heard the sound of someone violently vomiting.

  He had heard this sound many times before.

  He gripped the doorknob and slowly turned it, slipping quietly into the room. Across the way, before a dirty window, Eiverbreen kneeled, hunched over a bucket, choking and spitting. Eventually, he became aware of Regis’s presence, for he turned and looked at his son, and began to laugh crazily. Only then did Regis notice not one, but two full bottles of whiskey standing by the wall behind the kneeling halfling.

  “Ah, but she’s the finest of days, my boy!” Eiverbreen tried to stand, but he overbalanced, staggered, and pitched headlong into the side wall, crumbling to the floor and laughing maniacally all the way.

  “Father, what …?”

  “You got a bag full?” Eiverbreen asked, his tone suddenly changing to one of grave importance. “Good dive, was it? Tell me so! Tell me so!”

  Staring at Eiverbreen, Regis lifted his bulging pouch. He had seen his father drunk before, of course. Indeed, many times. But night hadn’t even fallen, and this level of drunkenness took him aback. The two bottles of whiskey just sat there, promising to keep Eiverbreen glowing until he finally passed out.

  “How?” he asked. “Where did you get the coin?”

  Eiverbreen began to laugh. “Good that you filled it!” he said, spittle flying with every word. He staggered toward Regis, veering wildly across the floor, sliding down near the unopened bottles. “Can’t disappoint that one!”

  “What one? Father?” Regis moved over and grabbed Eiverbreen’s arm, just as the older halfling reached for one of the bottles.

  Eiverbreen yanked free of his grasp and fixed an angry stare on him. “You give me the pouch,” he demanded.

  Regis hesitated.

  “Now’s not the time to get stupid, boy,” Eiverbreen scolded and he thrust his hand out at Regis. “You need to sleep—”

  “The pouch!” Eiverbreen shouted, thrusting his hand forth again. “And you get back out there in the morning and fill another one—no, two! We can’t be disappointing him!”

  “Who?” Regis asked, but Eiverbreen had apparently forgotten him and shifted around to grab a bottle instead, fumbling around with the cork.

  Regis knew better than to try to take it.

  He left the room in a hurry and rushed downstairs, jumping up onto a stool right before Shasta Furfoot.

  “What have you done?”

  he demanded.

  “I?” the woman innocently replied.

  “We’re not paying!” Regis shouted.

  “Who asked you to?”

  “But … but …,” Regis stammered.

  “Been paid, little one,” Shasta calmly explained. “Paid evermore.”

  Regis tried to sort it out, shaking his head helplessly. “Who?”

  “Don’t you bother yourself with such details,” Shasta said. “You get your oysters for your Da, and do as he tells you.”

  “He’s too drunk to tell me anything worth hearing.”

  One of the patrons near him snickered at that remark, and Regis resisted the urge to walk over and punch the human in the nose.

  “None of my business,” Shasta Furfoot replied.

  “And you gave him two more bottles,” Regis protested. “He will be drunk for—”

  “Not my problem!” the barkeep emphatically interrupted, coming forward threateningly as she did. “Now go away before I paddle your backside.”

  Regis slipped down from the stool and backed away a step. “Who paid, is all I want to know,” he said quietly. “I have to give these to him.” He hoisted the pouch. “Me Da says so, but couldn’t tell me who before he fainted away.”

  “Ye just give them to me,” Shasta explained, holding out her hand. Regis hesitated.

  “Grandfather,” said the nearby patron when Shasta hesitated. “Those will be Grandfather Pericolo’s oysters, then.”

  “Aye, and I’ll get them to him,” Shasta Furfoot insisted and she tried to grab the pouch from Regis, who proved too quick for her.

  Regis swallowed hard. He had never met the famed Pericolo Topolino, though, like everyone in this section of Delthuntle, and surely every halfling in the city, he had heard many stories of him. Mostly stories ending with someone’s untimely and violent death.

  He kept backing away and before he had even realized it, he had backed right out of the tavern and onto the street. He looked up at the top floor of the building and pictured Eiverbreen, pouring another bottle down his throat, probably vomiting as he drank.

  Giving him so much whiskey would prove to be a death sentence, Regis knew, for he had seen many such walking corpses in his previous life in Calimport. The Grandfather hadn’t done Eiverbreen any favors, surely, whatever deal they might have made.

  Regis chewed his lip and considered the anger simmering inside him. He had to do something, had to take some action.

  But what? And how?

  This was Pericolo Topolino, after all, the Grandfather of Assassins.

  Regis wandered the streets that night, using oysters to bribe the halflings he found milling around, and soon enough found himself in the alleyway beside the house of Pericolo—Morada Topolino, it was called—a beautifully appointed, modestly sized home with sweeping balconies and railings decorated with hand-carved balusters. It stood three stories high, but halfling-sized, which made it about as tall as the average two-story human house. In the middle of the roof was another room, a fourth story, known as the widow’s walk, for it looked out, far down the hill, over the vast Sea of Fallen Stars, affording a long view to those desperately searching for returning vessels, a constant, mournful reminder to those whose spouses never returned.

  He moved around to the main street and the house’s gate, which was locked. He looked around for some doorbell, a horn, or a large clapper, but found none. He thought of going over the fence, but shook his head, remembering the identity of the owner.

  He looked up at the structure and thought to shout out. It was late, but no matter—what did he care, after all?

  In that moment, he noted movement in one window, and watched as the lovely form of a young halfling lass drifted past it, half-dressed at most. The image stunned him, though through the lace curtains the woman seemed more like a ghost, a mirage, a fantasy.

  She blew out the candle in the room and there was only darkness, breaking the spell.

  “Grandfather,” the halfling diver whispered derisively, shaking his head and wondering what he might do next. He thought to toss the bag of oysters over the gate, but stopped himself, and wisely, for they would be ruined laying out there before morning, surely, and would probably be gathered up by a raccoon or some other nighttime scavenger. With a sigh, Regis realized that he’d hand them over to Shasta after all.

  “Grandfather,” he said again, and began to plot.

  Within a tenday, Regis found himself delivering his satchels directly to Shasta Furfoot on a regular basis, for his father was too drunk to handle the task. Constantly too drunk.

  Eiverbreen grew thinner before Regis’s eyes. Regis pleaded with Shasta to stop supplying drink to his father, but she simply brushed him away. “It’s not my place to become a Ma to my customers, now is it?”

  “He’ll die, and then where will you be?”

  “Right where I am now,” she answered curtly. “Except I’ll
have one more room back to rent.”

  Her callousness struck the halfling profoundly, and sent his thoughts spiraling back to Calimport, many decades before. He had seen this attitude, prominently, among the poor of that southern city, and from people—humans and halflings alike—he knew to be of good character. That was the thing about the destitute. They had so little that they couldn’t offer much, even compassion. Ever were the rich folk, the pashas of Calimport, praised for their philanthropy, when in fact, the gold they so charitably gave actually cost them nothing in terms of their own standard of living. A poor woman might take in an orphaned boy, without fanfare, though the proportional cost was surely much higher.

  But, heigh-ho, all must cheer for those philanthropists!

  “I will stop fetching the oysters,” he declared to Shasta, and he ended with a snarl.

  “Then you’ll be talking to Grandfather Pericolo about that.”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  Shasta looked down at him from behind her bar, her smile growing in a mocking manner.

  Regis found himself swallowing hard.

  “Boy, you’ve got it better than you’ve ever known,” Shasta said. “You’re not living in a box anymore, and you’ve got food aplenty. You love your work and your work’s giving back to you now more than ever.”

  “Have you seen my Da?” Regis asked. “More than just to give him your bottles of whiskey, I mean? Is he even eating?”

  “He’s eating.”

  “And vomiting it all over your room!”

  For the first time, Regis caught a hint of sympathy in Shasta’s expression. She leaned forward and bid him come closer, then very quietly said, “It’s not my business, little one. Your Da’s got his own mind and his own way, and none are to tell him different. None—not even yourself. You be smart now, and think about yourself. Eiverbreen’s been walking downhill for years now, since before you were born. I’ve seen this too many times to count. You can go and yell at him all you wish, but you’ll not change his path to the grave.”