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!”on of a son of a son of a son of a captainan on either sideim
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.