“Are you all right?” he asked.
“The road, my friend,” groaned Wulfgar. “I long for the road, and the orcs. It is safer.”
Drizzt helped him struggle to his feet, for the barbarian’s mind argued every inch of the way against standing upside-down under a bridge, with an invisible stream rushing above his head.
Bruenor, too, had his reservations, but a taunt from the halfling moved him along, and soon the companions rolled back onto the grass of the natural world on the other bank of the stream. Two buildings stood before them, and they moved to the smaller, the one Harkle had indicated.
A blue-robed woman met them at the door. “Four?” she asked rhetorically. “You really should have sent word ahead.”
“Harkle sent us,” Regis explained. “We are not from these lands. Forgive our ignorance of your customs.”
“Very well, then,” huffed the woman. “Come along in. We are actually unusually unbusy for this time of the year. I am sure that I have room for your horses.” She led them into the structure’s main room, a square chamber. All four walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with small cages, just big enough for a cat-sized horse to stretch its legs. Many were occupied, their nameplates indicating that they were reserved for particular members of the Harpell clan, but the woman found four empty ones all together and put the companions’ horses inside.
“You may get them whenever you desire,” she explained, handing each of them a key to the cage of his particular mount. She paused when she got to Drizzt, studying his handsome features. “Who have we here?” she asked, not losing her calm monotone. “I had not heard of your arrival, but I am sure that many will desire an audience with you before you go! We have never seen one of your kind.”
Drizzt nodded and did not reply, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this new type of attention. Somehow it seemed to degrade him even more than the threats of ignorant peasants. He understood the curiosity, though, and figured that he owed the wizards a few hours of conversation, at least.
The Fuzzy Quarterstaff, on the back side of the Ivy Mansion, filled a circular chamber. The bar sat in the middle, like the hub of a wheel, and inside its wide perimeter was another room, an enclosed kitchen area. A hairy man with huge arms and a bald head wiped his rag endlessly along the shiny surface of the bar, more to pass the time than to clean any spills.
Off to the rear, on a raised stage, musical instruments played themselves, guided by the jerking gyrations of a white-haired, wand-wielding wizard in black pants and a black waistcoat. Whenever the instruments hit a crescendo, the wizard pointed his wand and snapped the fingers of his free hand, and a burst of colored sparks erupted from each of the four corners of the stage.
The companions took a table within sight of the entertaining wizard. They had their pick of location, for as far as they could tell, they were the only patrons in the room. The tables, too, were circular, made of fine wood and sporting a many-faceted, huge green gemstone on a silver pedestal as a centerpiece.
“A stranger place I never heared of,” grumbled Bruenor, uncomfortable since the underbridge, but resigned to the necessity of speaking with the Harpells.
“Nor I,” said the barbarian. “And may we leave it soon.”
“You are both stuck in the small chambers of your minds,” Regis scolded. “This is a place to enjoy—and you know that no danger lurks here.” He winked as his gaze fell upon Wulfgar. “Nothing serious, anyway.”
“Longsaddle offers us a much needed rest,” Drizzt added. “Here, we can lay the course of our next trek in safety and take back to the road refreshed. It was two weeks from the dale to Luskan, and nearly another to here, without reprieve. Weariness draws away the edge and takes the advantage from a skilled warrior.” He looked particularly at Wulfgar as he finished the thought. “A tired man will make mistakes. And mistakes in the wild are, more often than not, fatal.”
“So let us relax arid enjoy the hospitality of the Harpells,” said Regis.
“Agreed,” said Bruenor, glancing around, “but just a short rest. And where in the nine hells might the barmaid be, or do ye have to get to it yerself for food and drink?”
“If you want something, then just ask,” came a voice from the center of the table. Wulfgar and Bruenor both leaped to their feet, on guard. Drizzt noted the flare of light within the green gem and studied the object, immediately guessing the setup. He looked back over his shoulder at the barkeep, who stood beside a similar gemstone.
“A scrying device,” the drow explained to his friends, though they, by now, had come to the same understanding and felt very foolish standing in the middle of an empty tavern with their weapons in their hands.
Regis had his head down, his shoulders rolling with his sobs of laughter.
“Bah! Ye knew all along!” Bruenor growled at him. “Ye’ve been takin’ a bit of fun at our cost, Rumblebelly,” the dwarf warned. “For meself, I’m wondering how much longer our road holds room for ye.”
Regis looked up at the glare of his dwarven friend, matching it suddenly with a firm stare of his own. “We have walked and ridden more than four hundred miles together!” he retorted. “Through cold winds and orc raids, brawls and battles with ghosts. Allow me my pleasure for a short while, good dwarf. If you and Wulfgar would loosen the straps of your packs and see this place for what it is, you might find an equal share of laughter yourself!”
Wulfgar did smile. Then, all at once, he jerked back his head and roared, throwing away all of his anger and prejudice, so that he might take the halfling’s advice and view Longsaddle with an open mind. Even the musical wizard stopped his playing to observe the spectacle of the barbarian’s soul-cleansing scream.
And when he had finished, Wulfgar laughed. Not an amused chuckle, but a thunderous roll of laughter that flowed up from his belly and exploded out his widethrown mouth.
“Ale!” Bruenor called into the gemstone. Almost immediately, a floating disk of blue light slipped over the bar, bearing to them enough strong ale to last the night. A few minutes later, all traces of the tensions of the road had flown, and they toasted and quaffed their mugs with enthusiasm.
Only Drizzt kept his reserve, sipping his drink and staying alert to his surroundings. He felt no direct danger here, but he wanted to keep control against the wizards’ inevitable probing.
Shortly, the Harpells and their friends began to make a steady stream into The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. The companions were the only newcomers in town this night, and all of the diners pulled their tables close by, trading stories of the road and toasts of lasting friendship over fine meals, and later, beside a warm hearth. Many, led by Harkle, concerned themselves with Drizzt and their interest in the dark cities of his people, and he had few reservations about answering their questions.
Then came the probing about the journey that had brought the companions so far. Bruenor actually initiated it, jumping up onto his table and proclaiming, “Mithril Hall, home of me fathers, ye shall be mine again!”
Drizzt grew concerned. Judging by the inquisitive reaction of the gathering, the name of Bruenor’s ancient homeland was known here, at least in legend. The drow didn’t fear any malicious actions by the Harpells, but he simply did not want the purpose of the adventure following, and possibly even preceding, him and his friends on the next leg of the journey. Others might well be interested in learning the location of an ancient dwarven stronghold, a place referred to in tales as, “the mines where silver rivers run.”
Drizzt took Harkle aside. “The night grows long. Are there rooms available in the village beyond?”
“Nonsense,” huffed Harkle. “You are my guests and shall remain here. The rooms have already been prepared.”
“And the price for all of this?”
Harkle pushed Drizzt’s purse away. “The price in the Ivy Mansion is a good tale or two, and bringing some interest into our existence. You and your friends have paid for a year and more!”