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 ton of a son of a son of a son of a captainan on either sideimask. 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.”
“Stop giving him the liquor, then,” Regis pleaded.
“He’d get it anyway, if not from me then on the street. Are you to tell every tavernkeeper in Delthuntle to stop? And what of those allies he finds on the street to come in to places like my own and buy the bottles for him?”
“If he doesn’t have the coin, then he can’t get the bottles,” Regis said. “Back to refusing your work, then?”
“If that is what it takes,” Regis said, and he snorted and turned and started away.
Shasta’s strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him back to face her, pulling him back roughly to the bar in the turn.
“Now you hear me good, Spider,” she said, “and only because I’ve taken to liking you that I’m even telling you this.” She paused and glanced left and right, as if to ensure that no one might be eavesdropping, and that, of course, added weight to her words as she continued. “You’re not for understanding Grandfather Pericolo, so let me tell you. Don’t you cross that one. Don’t you ever cross that one, or you’ll pay in ways you cannot begin to understand.”
Regis looked at her curiously. “I’ve seen you with him,” he replied. “Full of smiles and lighthearted banter.”
“Aye, and I’m meaning to stay on his good side. And you should, too, for your own sake, and for your Da’s.”
“My Da cannot continue like this!”
“His end will come swifter and so will your own,” Shasta warned. “You work for Pericolo now. When you work for Pericolo, you always work for Pericolo. Forevermore. Get that in your head now before you go and do something stupid.”
Regis stared at her hard, but had no answer. She thought him a neophyte in such matters as this, no doubt, but he had grown up on the tough streets of Calimport, where characters like Pericolo Topolino ran rampant.
He silently cursed. For a few moments, he allowed himself the fantasy of being older, in a mature and trained body, where he could take on the likes of Pericolo Topolino!
But what would he really do, he wondered? He thought of Bregnan Prus and of how he had faced his fears and gone to battle with the older and larger boy, and had done so fully expecting that he would take a beating. Yes, it had been a brave action. This, though, was something entirely different, something far more dangerous.
“You have to be upon Kelvin’s Cairn,” he reminded himself under his breath.
“What’s that then?” Shasta asked.
Regis shook his head and walked away. He was heading for the door when a shout on the stairway caught his attention. His father entered the common room, calling out “Drinks all around!” to the cheers of the other patrons.
Shasta Furfoot was quick to tamp down that enthusiasm, though, loudly reminding Eiverbreen that his tab was only good for his own libations. That brought some jeering, and a few half-hearted insults thrown Eiverbreen’s way.
Regis moved near the door. For a brief moment, he locked his gaze with his father, who smiled widely as he climbed onto a stool. Then Eiverbreen turned away from Regis, to Shasta, and he slapped his hand down on the counter.
She was already moving to fill a glass of whiskey for him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Regis told himself as he departed the tavern. None of this mattered. He was only here to prepare himself for his journey to Icewind Dale and his return to the Companions of the Hall. And he would be ready, he silently insisted.
Nothing here mattered.
But he glanced back at the tavern and a wave of emotions rolled over him. Eiverbreen was his father, and had been kind enough to him-in his own broken way. He had never beaten Regis, occasion to show him tenderness. Eiverbreen had lived a miserable life, more miserable still since his wife had died in birthing Regis. But only once in his decade with Eiverbreen had Regis ever heard his father place blame upon Regis for his miserable predicament, and on of a son of a son of a son of a captainan on either sideimeven in that instance, a sober Eiverbreen had tearfully apologized the very next day.