The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

  Only the embarrassment of youthful love kept them apart at that moment, with Drizzt and Bruenor looking on.

  “Captain Deudermont,” said Drizzt, “I give you Bruenor Battlehammer and Catti-brie, two dear friends and fine allies.”

  “And we brought ye a present,” Bruenor chuckled. “Seeing as we got no coin to pay ye for passage.” Bruenor walked over, grabbed Pinochet by the sleeve, and pulled the man front and center. “Captain o’ the ship I burned, by me guess.”

  “Welcome to both of you,” Deudermont replied. “And I assure you that you have more than earned your passage.” The captain moved to confront Pinochet, suspecting the man’s importance.

  “Do you know who I am?” the pirate said in a huff, thinking that he now had a more reasonable person to deal with than the surly dwarf.

  “You are a pirate,” Deudermont replied calmly.

  Pinochet cocked his head to study the captain. A sly smile crossed his face. “You have perhaps heard of Pinochet?”

  Deudermont had thought, and feared, that he had recognized the man when Pinochet had first entered the cabin. The captain of the Sea Sprite had indeed heard of Pinochet—every merchant along the Sword Coast had heard of Pinochet.

  “I demand that you release me and my men!” the pirate blustered.

  “In time,” Deudermont replied. Drizzt, Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie, not understandingthe extent of the influence of the pirates, all looked at Deudermont in disbelief.

  “I warn you that the consequences of your actions will be dire!” Pinochet continued, suddenly gaining the upper hand in the confrontation. “I am not a forgiving man, nor are my allies.”

  Drizzt, whose own people commonly bent the tenets of justice to fit rules of station, understood the captain’s dilemma at once. “Let him go,” he said. Both of his magical scimitars came out in his hands, Twinkle glowing dangerously. “Let him go and give him a blade. Neither am I forgiving.”

  Seeing the horrified look the pirate gave the drow, Bruenor was quick to join in. “Ayuh, Captain, let the dog free,” the dwarf scowled. “I only kept his head on his shoulders to give ye a livin’ gift. If ye don’t want him …” Bruenor pulled his axe from his belt and swung it easily at the end of his arm.

  Wulfgar didn’t miss the point. “Bare hands and up the mast!” the barbarian roared, flexing his, muscles so they seemed they would burst. “The pirate and me! Let the winner know the glory of victory. And let the loser drop to his death!”

  Pinochet looked at the three crazed warriors. Then, almost pleading for help, he turned back to Deudermont.

  “Ah, ye’re all missing the fun.” Catti-brie grinned, not to be left out. “Where’s the sport in one of ye tearin’ the pirate apart? Give him the little boat and set him off.” Her spritely face turned suddenly grim, and she cast a wicked glare at Pinochet. “Give him a boat,” she reiterated, “and let him dodge me silver arrows!”

  “Very well, Captain Pinochet,” Deudermont began, barely hiding a chuckle. “I would not invoke the rage of the pirates. You are a free man and may go when you choose.”

  Pinochet snapped around, face to face with Deudermont.

  “Or,” continued the captain of the Sea Sprite, “you and your crew can remain in my hold, under my personal protection, until we reach port.”

  “You cannot control your crew?” the pirate spat.

  “They are not my crew,” Deudermont replied. “And if these four chose to kill you, I daresay that I could do little to deter them.”

  “It is not the way of my people to let our enemies live!” Drizzt interjected in a tone so callous that it sent shivers through the spines of even his closest friends. “Yet I need you, Captain Deudermont, and your ship.” He sheathed his blades in a lightning-quick movement. “I will let the pirate live in exchange for the completion of our arrangements.”

  “The hold, Captain Pinochet?” Deudermont asked, waving two of his crewmen in to escort the pirate leader.

  Pinochet’s eyes were back on Drizzt. “If you ever sail this way again …” the stubborn pirate began ominously.

  Bruenor kicked him in the behind. “Wag yer tongue again dog,” the dwarf roared, “and suren I’ll cut it out!”

  Pinochet left quietly with Deudermont’s crewmen.

  Later that day, while the crew of the Sea Sprite continued its repairs, the reunited friends retired to Drizzt and Wulfgar’s cabin to hear of Bruenor’s adventures in Mithral Hall. Stars twinkled in the evening sky and still the dwarf went on, talking of the riches he had seen, of the ancient and holy places he had come across in his homeland, of his many skirmishes with duergar patrols, and of his final, daring escape through the great undercity.

  Catti-brie sat directly across from Bruenor, watching the dwarf through the swaying flame of the single candle burning on the table. She had heard his story before, but Bruenor could spin a tale as well as any, and she leaned forward in her chair, mesmerized once again. Wulfgar, with his long arms draped comfortably over her shoulders, had pulled his chair up behind her.

  Drizzt stood by the window and gazed at the dreamy sky. How like the old times it all seemed, as if they had somehow brought a piece of Icewind Dale along with them. Many were the nights that the friends had gathered to swap tales of their pasts or to just enjoy the quiet of the evening together. Of course, a fifth member had been with the group then and always with an outlandish tale that outdid all the others.

  Drizzt looked at his friends and then back to the night sky, thinking—hoping—of a day when the five friends would be rejoined.

  A knock on the door made the three at the table jump, so engrossed were they—even Bruenor—in the dwarf’s story. Drizzt opened the door, and Captain Deudermont walked in.

  “Greetings,” he said politely. “I would not interrupt, but I have some news.”

  “Just getting to the good part,” Bruenor grumbled, “but it’ll get better with a bit o’ waiting!”

  “I have spoken with Pinochet once again,” said Deudermont. “He is a very prominent man in this land, and it does not fit well that he set up three ships to stop us. He was after something.”

  “Us,” Drizzt reasoned.

  “He said nothing directly,” replied Deudermont, “but I believe that to be the case. Please understand that I cannot press him too far.”

  “Bah! I’ll get the dog a barkin’!” Bruenor buffed.

  “No need,” said Drizzt. “The pirates had to be looking for us.”

  “But how would they know?” Deudermont asked.

  “Balls of fire over Baldur’s Gate,” Wulfgar reasoned.

  Deudermont nodded, remembering the display. “It would seem that you have attracted some powerful foes.”

  “The man we seek knew that we would come into Baldur’s Gate,” said Drizzt. “He even left a message for us. It would not have been difficult for the likes of Artemis Entreri to arrange a signal detailing how and when we left.”

  “Or to arrange the ambush,” Wulfgar said grimly.

  “So it would seem,” said Deudermont.

  Drizzt kept quiet, but suspected differently. Why would Entreri lead them all this way, only to have them killed by pirates? Someone else had entered the picture, Drizzt knew, and he could only guess that that person was Pasha Pook himself.

  “But there are other matters we must discuss,” said Deudermont. “The Sea Sprite is seaworthy, but we have taken serious damage as has the pirate ship we have captured.”

  “Do you mean to sail both out of here?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Aye,” replied the captain. “We shall release Pinochet and his men when we get to port. They will take the vessel from there.”

  “Pirates deserve worse,” Bruenor grumbled.

  “And will this damage slow our journey?” Drizzt asked, more concerned with their mission.

  “It will,” Deudermont replied. “I am hoping to get us to the kingdom of Calimshan, to Memnon, just beyond the Tethyr border. Our flag will aid us in the deser
t kingdom. There, we may dock and repair.”

  “For how long?”

  Deudermont shrugged. “A tenday, perhaps, maybe longer. We’ll not know until we can properly assess the damage. And another tenday after that to sail around the horn to Calimport.”

  The four friends exchanged disheartened and worried glances. How many days did Regis have left to live? Could the halfling afford the delay?

  “But there is another option,” Deudermont told them. “The journey from Memnon to Calimport by ship, around the city of Teshburl and into the Shining Sea, is much longer than the straight land route. Caravans depart for Calimport nearly every day, and the journey, though a hard one through the Calim Desert, takes but a few days.”

  “We have little gold for passage,” said Catti-brie.

  Deudermont waved the problem away. “A minor cost,” he said. “Any caravan heading through the desert would be glad to have you along as guards. And you have earned ample reward from me to get you through.” He jiggled a bag of gold strapped to his belt. “Or, if you choose, you may remain with the Sea Sprite for as long as you wish.”

  “How long to Memnon?” Drizzt asked.

  “It depends on how much wind our sails can hold,” replied Deudermont. “Five days; perhaps a tenday.”

  “Tell us of this Calim Desert,” said Wulfgar. “What is a desert?”

  “A barren land,” replied Deudermont grimly, not wanting to understate the challenge that would be before them if they chose that course. “An empty wasteland of blowing, stinging sands and hot winds. Where monsters rule over men, and many an unfortunate traveler has crawled to his death to be picked clean by vultures.”

  The four friends shrugged away the captain’s grim description. Except for the temperature difference, it sounded like home.

  he docks rolled away beyond sight in either direction, the sails of a thousand ships speckled the pale blue waters of the Shining Sea, and it would take them hours to walk the breadth of the city before them, no matter which gate they sought.

  Calimport, the largest city in all the Realms, was a sprawling conglomeration of shanties and massive temples, of tall towers springing from plains of low wooden houses. This was the hub of the southern coast, a vast marketplace several times the area of Waterdeep.

  Entreri moved Regis off the docks and into the city. The half-ling offered no resistance; he was too caught up in the striking emotions that the unique smells, sights, and sounds of the city brought over him. Even his terror at the thought of facing Pasha Pook became buried in the jumble of memories invoked by his return to his former home.

  He had spent his entire childhood here as an orphaned waif, sneaking meals on the streets and sleeping curled up beside the trash fires the other bums set in the alleys on chilly nights. But Regis had an advantage over the other vagabonds of Calimport. Even as a young lad, he had undeniable charm and a lucky streak that always seemed to land him on his feet. The grubby bunch he had run with just shook their heads knowingly on the day their halfling comrade was taken in by one of the many brothels of the city.

  The “ladies” showed Regis much kindness, letting him do minor cleaning and cooking tasks in exchange for a high lifestyle that his old friends could only watch and envy. Recognizing the charismatic halfling’s potential, the ladies even introduced Regis to the man who would become his mentor and who would mold him into one of the finest thieves the city had ever known: Pasha Pook.

  The name came back to Regis like a slap in the face, reminding him of the terrible reality he now faced. He had been Pook’s favorite little cutpurse, the guildmaster’s pride and joy, but that would only make things worse for Regis now. Pook would never forgive him for his treachery.

  Then a more vivid recollection took Regis’s legs out from under him as Entreri turned him down Rogues Circle. At the far end, around the cul-de-sac and facing back toward the entrance to the lane, stood a plain-looking wooden building with a single, unremarkable door. But Regis knew the splendors hidden within that unpretentious facade.

  And the horrors.

  Entreri grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along, never slowing the pace.

  “Now, Drizzt, now,” Regis whispered, praying that his friends were about and ready to make a desperate, last minute rescue. But Regis knew that his prayers would not be answered this time. He had finally gotten himself stuck in the mud too deeply to escape.

  Two guards disguised as bums moved in front of the pair as they approached the door. Entreri said nothing but shot them a murderous stare.

  Apparently the guards recognized the assassin. One of them stumbled out of the way, tripping over his own feet, while the other rushed to the door and rapped loudly. A peephole opened, and the guard whispered something to the doorman inside. A split second later, the door swung wide.

  Looking in on the thieves’guild proved too much for the half-ling. Blackness swirled about him, and he fell limp in the assassin’s iron grasp. Showing neither emotion nor surprise, Entreri scooped Regis up over his shoulder and carried him like a sack into the guildhouse, and down the flight of stairs beyond the door.

  Two more guards moved in to escort him, but Entreri pushed his way past them. It had been three long years since Pook had sent him on the road after Regis, but the assassin knew the way. He passed through several rooms, down another level, and then started up a long, spiral staircase. Soon he was up to street level again and still climbing to the highest chambers of the structure.

  Regis regained consciousness in a dizzy blur. He glanced about desperately as the images came clearer and he remembered where he was. Entreri had him by the ankles, the halfling’s head dangling halfway down the assassin’s back and his hand just inches from the jeweled dagger. But even if he could have gotten to the weapon quickly enough, Regis knew that he had no chance of escape—not with Entreri holding him, two armed guards following, and curious eyes glaring at them from every doorway.

  The whispers had traveled through the guild faster than Entreri.

  Regis hooked his chin around Entreri’s side and managed to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. They came up onto a landing, where four more guards parted without question, opening the way down a short corridor that ended in an ornate, ironbound door.

  Pasha Pook’s door.

  The blackness swirled over Regis once again.

  When he entered the chamber, Entreri found that he had been expected. Pook sat comfortably on his throne, LaValle by his side and his favorite leopard at his feet, and none of them flinched at the sudden appearance of the two long-lost associates.

  The assassin and the guildmaster stared silently at each other for a long time. Entreri studied the man carefully. He hadn’t expected so formal a meeting.

  Something was wrong.

  Entreri pulled Regis off his shoulder and held him out—still upside down—at arm’s length, as if presenting a trophy. Convinced that the halfling was oblivious to the world at that moment, Entreri released his hold, letting Regis drop heavily to the floor.

  That drew a chuckle from Pook. “It has been a long three years,” the guildmaster said, breaking the tension.

  Entreri nodded. “I told you at the outset that this one might take time. The little thief ran to the corners of the world.”

  “But not beyond your grasp, eh?” Pook said, somewhat sarcastically. “You have performed your task excellently, as always, Master Entreri. Your reward shall be as promised.” Pook sat back on his throne again and resumed his distant posture, rubbing a finger over his lips and eyeing Entreri suspiciously.

  Entreri didn’t have any idea why Pook, after so many difficult years and a successful completion of the mission, would treat him so badly. Regis had eluded the guildmaster’s grip for more than half a decade before Pook finally sent Entreri on the chase. With that record preceding him, Entreri did not think three years such a long time to complete the mission.

  And the assassin refused to play such cryptic games. “If there is a problem, spea
k it,” he said bluntly.

  “There was a problem,” Pook replied mysteriously, emphasizing the past tense of his statement.

  Entreri rocked back a step, now fully at a loss—one of the very few times in his life.

  Regis stirred at that moment and managed to sit up, but the two men, engaged in the important conversation, paid him no notice.

  “You were being followed,” Pook explained, knowing better than to play a teasing game for too long with the killer. “Friends of the halfling?”

  Regis’s ears perked up.

  Entreri took a long moment to consider his response. He guessed what Pook was getting at, and it was easy for him to figure out that Oberon must have informed the guildmaster of more than his return with Regis. He made a mental note to visit the wizard the next time he was in Baldur’s Gate, to explain to Oberon the proper limits of spying and the proper restraints of loyalty. No one ever crossed Artemis Entreri twice.

  “It does not matter,” Pook said, seeing no answer forthcoming. “They will bother us no more.”

  Regis felt sick. This was the southland, the home of Pasha Pook. If Pook had learned of his friends’ pursuit, he certainly could have eliminated them.

  Entreri understood that, too. He fought to maintain his calm while a burning rage reared up inside him. “I tend to my own affairs,” he growled at Pook, his tone confirming to the guild-master that he had indeed been playing a private game with his pursuers.

  “And I to mine!” Pook shot back, straightening in his chair. “I know not what connection this elf and barbarian hold to you, Entreri, but they have nothing to do with my pendant!” He collected himself quickly and sat back, realizing that the confrontation was getting too dangerous to continue. “I could not take the risk.”

  The tension eased out of Entreri’s taut muscles. He did not wish a war with Pook and he could not change what was past. “How?” he asked.

  “Pirates,” Pook replied. “Pinochet owed me a favor.”

  “It is confirmed?”

  “Why do you care?” Pook asked. “You are here. The halfling is here. My pen—” He stopped suddenly, realizing that he hadn’t yet seen the ruby pendant.