R. Salvatore - The Companions

The two looked to each other and shrugged, clearly oblivious, then turned back to the dwarf, brandishing tw, and had see

The Year of the Grinning Halfling (1481 DR) Elturgard

The wagon bounced along the trade way, more than a hundred miles northwest of the town of Triel, and five times that distance, still, from Waterdeep.

Regis sat in the back, huddled under a heavy winter blanket, for the season grew late. His legs dangled off the tailgate, peeking out from under his cover and showing fabulous high black boots that had miraculously escaped the dirt of the road thus far.

“Smoke in the west!” came the expected call from one of the riders flanking the merchant caravan, and the halfling nodded at the confirmation of their location. Regis had been this way before, though many decades had passed since then. By his estimate, they were approaching the river called Winding Water and the famous span known as the Boareskyr Bridge.

The sun lowered before them, and looking back beyond the Forest of Wyrms and the Reaching Woods, Regis noted the aptly named glistening peaks of the Sunset Mountains, far in the distance. The halfling nodded again, taking measure of the journey that had begun on a dark late-summer’s night in Delthuntle.

On the far side of those mountains in the distance, their eastern foothills reached down to the westernmost banks of the Sea of Fallen Stars, the great sea that had been in his sight for every day of his second life until this very journey. He had sailed from Delthuntle to Procampur in the kingdom of Impiltur on the northern banks of the sea, and from there to the city of Suzail, seat of power for the great k sensationIes;font-weight: bold no less ingdom of Cormyr. Regis could only sigh now as he thought of that grand and bustling place, with its fine markets and the stirring parades of the armies of Purple Dragons. Thousands of people called Suzail home; truly Suzail stood among the greatest of Faerun’s cities.

And the palaces! Ah, but Regis could only smile and nod and pat his belt pouch, wherein rested his housebreaker harness, as he thought of those gilded mansions. He had seen the interior of many of them, though usually in the dark of night and without use of a torch.

He nodded more confidently, assuring himself that he would return there someday. Indeed, Regis would not have left Suzail so abruptly, except that a particular lord of the city also happened to be an accomplished wizard. If only Regis had known that before paying a visit to the man’s house one night …

Disguised as the gnome Nanfoodle-for indeed, his wondrous beret could even make him appear as a different race-a friend from another time and another life, Regis had departed the city by the end of the summer of the Year of the Grinning Halfling, buying passage on a caravan bound a hundred miles down the western road to Proskur and a hundred more after that on to the town of Irieabor, the very western edge of the kingdom of Cormyr.

And there Nanfoodle had simply disappeared, and so had come into being the dwarf Cordio Muffinhead. Cordio had traveled the length of the kingdom of Elturgard, riding the Trade Way to Triel, where again, it had been time for a change of identity.

And so, with the tip of a blue-speckled beret, Spider Pericolo Topolino, great nephew of the Pericolo Topolino of Aglarond, had been born.

What a year it had been, Regis mused! What a journey, full of sights and sounds and smells and foods any traveler would envy. He had lived as a street orphan, a gnome potion-maker, a dwarf adventurer, and now a halfling dilettante, dabbling in artwork, overpaying for all, then, of course, retrieving his spent coins in the dark of night.

He had traveled a thousand miles as the crow flies, and likely twice that distance in his meandering but enjoyable western journey.

Enjoyable, but only when he wasn’t looking back to the east, as he was now, images of beautiful Donnola Topolino so clear in his thoughts. When he closed his eyes, he could see her more clearly, and could feel her touch, her gentle fingers brushing his skin, her warm breath whispering into his ear. He could smell her sweetness, taste her …

“Runt!” he heard loudly, shattering his memories, and Regis nearly fell off the wagon as he wheeled around to regard the shouter, the dirty man driving the wagon.

“Get me some water, and be quick!” the man, Kermillon by name, ordered. “Or I’ll slap ye in the mud and suck the water out o’ yer ears!”

“Aye, and might be taking a bit of your brains with it, then, eh?” said Kermillon’s co-pilot, Yoger, a burly man who was dressed and bathed a bit cleaner, but by all accounts remained no less a ruffian than the other.

Regis climbed fully into the wagon and inched his way along the right-hand rail to the back of the driver’s seat, where Yoger handed him a waterskin. He quickly filled it at the tapped keg, then handed it back.

“Ye listen better and move quicker!” Kermillon warned.

Yoger took a deep drink, but never stopped staring at the halfling.

“You know my namesake, I t a long while to realize eesquonrust,” Regis said.

“Can’t say that I do,” said Yoger.

“They call him Grandfather Pericolo.”

“Thought he was your uncle.”

“Everyone calls him Grandfather,” Regis said slyly, but he could only snort and shake his head, for the obvious reference to Pericolo as the head of an assassin’s guild was clearly lost on this ignorant peasant.

“Get back and sit down and shut yer mouth,” Kermillon told him. “Ye paid for a ride to Daggerford, and ye might be getting there, but if ye’re too much the bother, I’m dropping ye in the mud and leaving ye.”

Regis was more than happy to comply. He started to turn, but paused just long enough to view the smoke of campfires rising above the trees not far ahead. He nodded, remembering the Boareskyr Bridge, and the merchant encampments perpetually set on either side.

“It is a good place,” he said, hardly thinking, and only realized he had spoken it out loud when both men turned to regard him curiously.

Regis just tipped his fabulous beret at them and moved to the back of the wagon.

The white tents dotted the sides of the road long before the mouth of the bridge, a virtual city of merchant kiosks and open markets. The ten wagons of the Daggerford caravan pulled up into an open field along the right side of the road, where corrals had been set up and smoke rose from blacksmith fires. This place was well-suited for resupply, for shoeing horses and even buying new ones if necessary, thoughads were empty for scores of miles on either side of the bridge, such services and goods did not come cheap.

Regis was glad to be away from his thuggish drivers, and glad to be wandering around the bustle of a marketplace. Dressed in silken finery, all purple and blue, with blue-dyed lambskin riding gloves, and with his beret and bejeweled rapier both prominently displayed, he played the role of halfling aristocrat perfectly. Donnola had trained him well, after all, and that after decades of his previous life in the palaces of the pashas of Calimport. Many of the merchants around Boareskyr Bridge were from the kingdom of Amn, and Regis knew the traditions and customs of that land very well.

He was the perfect blend of experience and seeming innocence, floating around the tents with smiles and tips of his beret. He wandered from kiosk to kiosk, feigning approving looks at many trite trinkets and baubles, but then stopped at one table, his eyes locked on a square piece of whitened bone.

“You fancy the ivory?” said the chubby merchant dressed in the white robes and colorful vestments common in the southern deserts. “Very rare. Very rare! From the great beasts of Chult!”