The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

  Entreri and Regis entered Baldur’s Gate on foot soon after daybreak. They had put the little rowboat into a cove a few hundred yards downriver, then sank the thing. Entreri wanted no evidence linking him to the disaster of the night before.

  “It will be good to get home,” the assassin chided Regis as they made their way along the extensive docks of the lower city. He led Regis’s eye to a large merchant ship docked at one of the outer piers. “Do you remember the pennant?”

  Regis looked to the flag flying atop the vessel, a gold field cut by slanted blue lines, the standard of Calimport. “Calimshan merchants never take passengers aboard,” he reminded the assassin, hoping to diffuse Entreri’s cocky attitude.

  “They will make an exception,” Entreri replied. He pulled the ruby pendant out from under his leather jacket and displayed it beside his wicked smile.

  Regis fell silent once more. He knew well the power of the ruby and could not dispute the assassin’s claim.

  With sure and direct strides revealing that he had often before been in Baldur’s Gate, Entreri led Regis to the harbormaster’s office, a small shack just off the piers. Regis followed obediently, though his thoughts were hardly focused on the events of the present. He was still caught in the nightmare of the tragedy of the night before, trying to resolve his own part in the deaths of twenty-six men. He hardly noticed the harbormaster and didn’t even catch the man’s name.

  But after only a few seconds of conversation, Regis realized that Entreri had fully captured the man under the hypnotic spell of the ruby pendant. The halfling faded out of the meeting altogether, disgusted with how well Entreri had mastered the powers of the pendant. His thoughts drifted again to his friends and his home, though now he looked back with lament, not hope. Had Drizzt and Wulfgar escaped the horrors of Mithral Hall, and were they now in pursuit? Watching Entreri in action and knowing that he would soon be back within the borders of Pook’s realm, Regis almost hoped that they wouldn’t come after him. How much more blood could stain his little hands?

  Gradually Regis faded back in, half-listening to the words of the conversation and telling himself that there might be some important knowledge to be gained.

  “When do they sail?” Entreri was saying.

  Regis perked up his ears. Time was important. Perhaps his friends could get to him here, still a thousand miles from the stronghold of Pasha Pook.

  “A tenday,” replied the harbormaster, his eyes never blinking nor turning from the spectacle of the spinning gemstone.

  “Too long,” Entreri muttered under his breath. Then to the harbormaster, “I wish a meeting with the captain.”

  “Can be arranged.”

  “This very night … here.”

  The harbormaster shrugged his accord.

  “And one more favor, my friend,” Entreri said with a mock smile. “You track every ship that comes into port?”

  “That is my job,” said the dazed man.

  “And surely you have eyes at the gates as well?” Entreri inquired with a wink.

  I have many friends,” the harbormaster replied. “Nothing happens in Baldur’s Gate without my knowledge.”

  Entreri looked to Regis. “Give it to him,” he ordered.

  Regis, not understanding, responded to the command with a blank stare.

  “The pouch,” the assassin explained, using the same light-hearted tone that had marked his casual conversation with the duped harbormaster.

  Regis narrowed his eyes and did not move, as defiant an act as he had ever dared to show his captor.

  “The pouch,” Entreri reiterated, his tone now deadly serious. “Our gift for your friends.” Regis hesitated for just a second, then threw the tiny pouch to the harbormaster.

  “Enquire of every ship and every rider that comes through Baldur’s Gate,” Entreri explained to the harbormaster. “Seek out a band of travelers—two at the least, one an elf, likely to be cloaked in secrecy, and the other a giant, yellow-haired barbarian. Seek them out, my friend. Find the adventurer who calls himself Drizzt Do’Urden. That gift is for his eyes alone. Tell him that I await his arrival in Calimport.” He sent a wicked glance over at Regis. “With more gifts.”

  The harbormaster slipped the tiny pouch into his pocket and gave Entreri his assurances that he would not fail the task.

  “I must be going,” Entreri said, pulling Regis to his feet. “We meet tonight,” he reminded the harbormaster. “An hour after the sun is down.”

  Regis knew that Pasha Pook had connections in Baldur’s Gate, but he was amazed at how well the assassin seemed to know his way around. In less than an hour, Entreri had secured their room and enlisted the services of two thugs to stand guard over Regis while the assassin went on some errands.

  “Time for your second trick?” he asked Regis slyly just before leaving. He looked at the two thugs leaning against the far wall of the room, engrossed in some less-than-intellectual debate about the reputed virtues of a local “lady.”

  “You might get by them,” Entreri whispered.

  Regis turned away, not enjoying the assassin’s macabre sense of humor.

  “But, remember, my little thief, once outside, you are on the streets—in the shadow of the alleyways, where you will find no friends, and where I shall be waiting.” He spun away with an evil chuckle and swept through the door.

  Regis looked at the two thugs, now locked in a heated argument. He probably could have walked out the door at that very moment.

  He dropped back on his bed with a resigned sigh and awkwardly locked his hands behind his head, the sting in one hand pointedly reminding him of the price of bravery.

  Baldur’s Gate was divided into two districts: the lower city of the docks and the upper city beyond the inner wall, where the more important citizens resided. The city had literally burst its bounds with the wild growth of trade along the Sword Coast. Its old wall set a convenient boundary between the transient sailors and adventurers who invariably made their way in and the long-standing houses of the land. “Halfway to everywhere” was a common phrase there, referring to the city’s roughly equal proximity to Waterdeep in the North and Calimport in the South, the two greatest cities of the Sword Coast.

  In light of the constant bustle and commotion that followed such a title, Entreri attracted little attention as he slipped through the lanes toward the inner city. He had an ally, a powerful wizard named Oberon, there who was also an associate of Pasha Pook’s. Oberon’s true loyalty, Entreri knew, lay with Pook, and the wizard would no doubt promptly contact the guildmaster in Calimport with news of the recovered pendant, and of Entreri’s imminent return.

  But Entreri cared little whether Pook knew he was coming or not. His intent was behind him, to Drizzt Do’Urden, not in front, to Pook, and the wizard could prove of great value to him in learning more of the whereabouts of his pursuers.

  After a meeting that lasted throughout the remainder of the day, Entreri left Oberon’s tower and made his way back to the harbormaster’s for the arranged rendezvous with the captain of the Calimport merchant ship. Entreri’s visage had regained its determined confidence; he had put the unfortunate incident of the night before behind him, and everything was going smoothly again. He fingered the ruby pendant as he approached the shack.

  A tenday was too long a delay.

  Regis was hardly surprised later that night when Entreri returned to the room and announced that he had “persuaded” the captain of the Calimport vessel to change his schedule.

  They would leave in three days.

  ulfgar heaved and strained on the ropes, trying to keep the mainsail full of the scant ocean wind as the crew of the Sea Sprite looked on in amazement. The currents of the Chionthar pushed against the ship, and a sensible captain would normally have dropped anchor to wait for a more favorable breeze to get them in. But Wulfgar, under the tutelage of an old sea dog named Mirky, was doing a masterful job. The individual docks of Baldur’s Gate were in sight, and the Sea Sprite, to the
cheers of several dozen sailors watching the monumental pull, would soon put in.

  “I could use ten of him on my crew,” Captain Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.

  The drow smiled, ever amazed at the strength of his young friend. “He seems to be enjoying himself. I would never have put him as a sailor.”

  “Nor I,” replied Deudermont. “I only hoped to profit from his strength if we engaged with pirates. But Wulfgar found his sea legs early on.”

  “And he enjoys the challenge,” Drizzt added. “The open ocean, the pull of the water, and of the wind, tests him in ways different than he has ever known.”

  “He does better than many,” Deudermont replied. The experienced captain looked back downriver to where the open ocean waited. “You and your friend have been on but one short journey, skirting a coastline. You cannot yet appreciate the vastness and the power of the open sea.”

  Drizzt looked at Deudermont with sincere admiration and even a measure of envy. The captain was a proud man, but he tempered his pride with a practical rationale. Deudermont respected the sea and accepted it as his superior. And that acceptance, that profound understanding of his own place in the world, gave the captain as much of an advantage as any man could gain over the untamed ocean. Drizzt followed the captain’s longing stare and wondered about this mysterious allure the open waters seemed to hold over so many.

  He considered Deudermont’s last words. “One day, perhaps,” he said quietly.

  They were close enough now, and Wulfgar released his hold and slumped, exhausted, to the deck. The crew worked furiously to complete the docking, but each stopped at least once to slap the huge barbarian across the shoulder. Wulfgar was too tired to even respond.

  “We will be in for two days,” Deudermont told Drizzt. “It was to be a tenday, but I am aware of your haste. I spoke with the crew last night, and they agreed—to a man—to put right back out again.”

  “Our thanks to them, and to you,” Drizzt replied sincerely.

  Just then, a wiry, finely dressed man hopped down to the pier. “What ho, Sea Sprite?” he called. “Is Deudermont at your reins?”

  “Pellman, the harbormaster,” the captain explained to Drizzt. “He is!” he called to the man. “And glad to see Pellman, as well!”

  “Well met, Captain,” Pellman called. “And as fine a pull as I’ve ever seen! How long are you in port?”

  “Two days,” Deudermont replied. “Then off to the sea and the south.”

  The harbormaster paused for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Then he asked, as he had asked to every ship that had put in over the last few days, the question Entreri had planted in his mind. “I seek two adventurers,” he called to Deudermont. “Might you have seen them?”

  Deudermont looked to Drizzt, somehow guessing, as had the drow, that this inquiry was more than a coincidence.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden and Wulfgar, by name,” Pellman explained. “Though they may be using others. One’s small and mysterious—elflike—and the other’s a giant and as strong as any man alive!”

  “Trouble?” Deudermont called.

  “Not so,” answered Pellman. “A message.”

  Wulfgar had moved up to Drizzt and heard the latter part of the conversation. Deudermont looked to Drizzt for instructions. “Your decision.”

  Drizzt didn’t figure that Entreri would lay any serious traps for them; he knew that the assassin meant to fight with them, or at least with him, personally. “We will speak with the man,” he answered.

  “They are with me,” Deudermont called to Pellman.” ’Twas Wulfgar,” he looked at the barbarian and winked, then echoed Pellman’s own description, “as strong as any man alive, who made the pull!”

  Deudermont led them to the rail. “If there is trouble, I shall do what I can to retrieve you,” he said quietly. “And we can wait in port for as long as two tendays if the need arises.”

  “Again, our thanks,” Drizzt replied. “Surely Orlpar of Waterdeep set us aright.”

  “Leave that dog’s name unspoken,” Deudermont replied. “Rarely have I had such fortunate outcomes to my dealings with him! Farewell, then. You may take sleep on the ship if you desire.”

  Drizzt and Wulfgar moved cautiously toward the harbormaster, Wulfgar in the lead. Drizzt searched for any signs of ambush.

  “We are the two you seek,” Wulfgar said sternly, towering over the wiry man.

  “Greetings,” Pellman said with a disarming smile. He fished in his pocket. “I have met with an associate of yours,” he explained, “a dark man with a halfling lackey.”

  Drizzt moved beside Wulfgar, and the two exchanged concerned glances.

  “He left this,” Pellman continued, handing the tiny pouch to Wulfgar. “And bade me to tell you that he will await your arrival in Calimport.”

  Wulfgar held the pouch tentatively, as if expecting it to explode in his face.

  “Our thanks,” Drizzt told Pellman. “We will tell our associate that you performed the task admirably.”

  Pellman nodded and bowed, turning away as he did so, to return to his duties. But first, he realized suddenly, he had another mission to complete, a subconscious command that he could not resist. Following Entreri’s orders, the harbormaster moved from the docks and toward the upper level of the city.

  Toward the house of Oberon.

  Drizzt led Wulfgar off to the side, out of plain view. Seeing the barbarian’s paling look, he took the tiny pouch and gingerly loosened the draw string, holding it as far away as possible. With a shrug to Wulfgar, who had moved a cautious step away, Drizzt brought the pouch down to his belt level and peeked in.

  Wulfgar moved closer, curious and concerned when he saw Drizzt’s shoulders droop. The drow looked to him in helpless resignation and inverted the pouch, revealing its contents.

  A halfling’s finger.

  he world is full of ruffians. The world is full of people of good character. Both of these statements are true, I believe, because within most of the people I have known lies the beginning points of both seemingly disparate paths.

  Some people are too timid to ever be ruffians, of course, and others too kindhearted, and similarly, some folk are too hard-tempered to ever let their good qualities show. But the emotional make-up of most people lies somewhere in the middle, a shade of gray that can be easily darkened or lightened by simple interaction. Race can certainly alter the shade—how well I have seen that since my road led me to the surface! An elf might noticeably flinch at the approach of a dwarf, while a dwarf might do likewise, or even spit upon the ground, if the situation is reversed.

  Those initial impressions are sometimes difficult to overcome, and sometimes become lasting, but beyond race and appearance and other things that we cannot control, I have learned that there are definite decisions that I can make concerning which reaction I will edge someone else toward.

  The key to it all, I believe, is respect.

  When I was in Luskan with Wulfgar, we crossed through a tavern full of ruffians, men who used their fists and weapons on an almost daily basis. Yet, another friend of mine, Captain Deudermont of the Sea Sprite, often frequents such taverns, and rarely, very rarely, ever gets into so much as a verbal argument. Why is this? Why would a man such as Deudermont, obviously (as is shown by his dress and manner) a man of some wealth, and a man of respectable society, as well, not find himself immersed in brawls as regularly as the others? He often goes in alone, and stands quietly at the bar, but though he hardly says a word, he surely stands out among the more common patrons.

  Is it fear that holds the ruffians from the man? Are they afraid that if they tangle with Deudermont, they will find retribution at the hands of his crew? Or has Deudermont simply brought with him such a reputation for ferocity as to scare off any potential challengers?

  Neither, I say. Certainly the captain of the Sea Sprite must be a fine warrior, but that is no deterrent to the thugs of the taverns; indeed, the greatest fighting reputation only invites challen
ges among those folk. And though Deudermont’s crew is formidable, by all accounts, more powerful and connected men than he have been found dead in the gutters of Luskan.

  No, what keeps Captain Deudermont safe is his ability to show respect for anyone he meets. He is a man of charm, who holds well his personal pride. He grants respect at the outset of a meeting and continues that respect until the person forfeits it. This is very different than the way most people view the world. Most people insist that respect has to be earned, and with many, I have come to observe, earning it is no easy task! Many, and I include Bruenor and Wulfgar in this group, demand that anyone desiring their friendship first earn their respect, and I can understand their point of view, and once believed that I held one similar.

  On my journey south on the Sea Sprite, Captain Deudermont taught me better, made me realize, without ever uttering a word on the subject, that demanding of another that he earns your respect is, in of itself, an act of arrogance, a way of self-elevation, implying by its very nature that your respect is worth earning.

  Deudermont takes the opposite approach, one of acceptance and one lacking initial judgment. This may seem a subtle alternative, but it most certainly is not. Would that the man be anointed a king, I say, for he has learned the secret of peace. When Captain Deudermont, dressed in his finery, enters a tavern of common peasant thugs, most within the place, and society at large, would view him as superior. And yet, in his interactions with these people, there is no air of superiority about the man at all. In his eyes and in his heart, he is among peers, among other intelligent creatures whose paths have led them to a different—and not better or worse—place than his own. And when Deudermont grants respect to men who would think nothing of cutting his heart out, he disarms them, he takes away whatever reason they might have found to fight with him.

  There is much more to it than that, Captain Deudermont is able to do this because he can honestly attempt to see the world through the eyes of another. He is a man of empathy, a man who revels in the differences of people rather than fearing those differences.