The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

  Now it was Pook’s turn to sweat and wonder. “It is confirmed?” Entreri asked again, making no move toward the magical pendant that hung, concealed, about his neck.

  “Not yet,” Pook stammered, “but three ships were sent after the one. There can be no doubt.”

  Entreri hid his smile. He knew the powerful drow and barbarian well enough to consider them alive until their bodies had been paraded before him. “Yes, there can indeed be doubt,” he whispered under his breath as he pulled the ruby pendant over his head and tossed it to the guildmaster.

  Pook caught it in trembling hands, knowing immediately from its familiar tingle that it was the true gem. What power he would wield now! With the magical ruby in his hands, Artemis Entreri returned to his side, and Rassiter’s wererats under his command, he would be unstoppable!

  LaValle put a steadying hand on the guildmaster’s shoulder. Pook, beaming in anticipation of his growing power, looked up at him.

  “Your reward shall be as promised,” Pook said again to Entreri as soon as he had caught his breath. “And more!”

  Entreri bowed. “Well met, then, Pasha Pook,” he replied. “It is good to be home.”

  “Concerning the elf and barbarian,” Pook said, suddenly entertaining second thoughts about ever mistrusting the assassin.

  Entreri stopped him with outstretched palms. “A watery grave serves them as well as Calimport’s sewers,” he said “Let us not worry about what is behind us.”

  Pook’s smile engulfed his round face. “Agreed, and well met, then,” he beamed. “Especially when there is such pleasurable business ahead of us.” He turned an evil eye upon Regis, but the halfling, sitting stooped over on the floor beside Entreri, didn’t notice.

  Regis was still trying to digest the news about his friends. At that moment, he didn’t care how their deaths might affect his own future—or lack of one. He only cared that they were gone. First Bruenor in Mithral Hall, then Drizzt and Wulfgar, and possibIy Catti-brie, as well. Next to that, Pasha Pook’s threats seemed hollow indeed. What could Pook ever do to him that would hurt as much as those losses?

  “Many sleepless nights I have spent fretting over the disappointment you have caused me,” Pook said to Regis. “And many more I have spent considering how I would repay you!”

  The door swung open, interrupting Pook’s train of thought. The guildmaster did not have to look up to know who had dared to enter without permission. Only one man in the guild would have such nerve.

  Rassiter swept into the room and cut an uncomfortably close circle as he inspected the newcomers. “Greetings, Pook,” he said offhandedly, his eyes locking onto the assassin’s stern gaze.

  Pook said nothing but dropped his chin into his hand to watch. He had anticipated the meeting for a long time.

  Rassiter stood nearly a foot taller than Entreri, a fact that only added to the wererat’s already cocky attitude. Like so many simpleton bullies, Rassiter often confused size with strength, and looking down at this man who was a legend on the streets of Calimport—and thus his rival—made him think that he had already gained the upper hand. “So, you are the great Artemis Entreri,” he said, contempt evident in his voice.

  Entreri didn’t blink. Murder was in his eyes as his gaze followed Rassiter, who still circled. Even Regis was dumbfounded at the stranger’s boldness. No one ever moved so casually around Entreri.

  “Greetings,” Rassiter said at length, satisfied with his scan. He bowed low. “I am Rassiter, Pasha Pook’s closest advisor and controller of the docks.”

  Still Entreri did not respond. He looked over to Pook for an explanation.

  The guildmaster returned Entreri’s curious gaze with a smirk and lifted his palms in a helpless gesture.

  Rassiter carried his familiarity even further. “You and I,” he half-whispered to Entreri, “we can do great things together.” He started to place a hand on the assassin’s shoulder, but Entreri turned him back with an icy glare, a look so deadly that even cocky Rassiter began to understand the peril of his course.

  “You may find that I have much to offer you,” Rassiter said, taking a cautious step back. Seeing no response forthcoming, he turned to Pook. “Would you like me to take care of the little thief?” he asked, grinning his yellow smile.

  “That one is mine, Rassiter,” Pook replied firmly. “You and yours keep your furry hands off him!”

  Entreri did not miss the reference.

  “Of course,” Rassiter replied. “I have business, then. I will be going.” He bowed quickly and spun to leave, meeting Entreri’s eyes one final time. He could not hold that icy stare—could not match the sheer intensity of the assassin’s gaze—with his own.

  Rassiter shook his head in disbelief as he passed, convinced that Entreri still had not blinked.

  “You were gone. My pendant was gone,” Pook explained when the door closed again. “Rassiter has helped me retain, even expand, the strength of the guild.”

  “He is a wererat,” Entreri remarked, as if that fact alone ended any argument.

  “Head of their guild,” Pook replied, “but they are loyal enough and easy to control.” He held up the ruby pendant. “Easier now.”

  Entreri had trouble coming to terms with that, even in light of Pook’s futile attempt at an explanation. He wanted time to consider the new development, to figure out just how much things had changed around the guildhouse. “My room?” he asked.

  LaValle shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at Pook. “I have been using it,” the wizard stammered, “but quarters are being built for me.” He looked to the door newly cut into the wall between the harem and Entreri’s old room. “They should be completed any day. I can be out of your room in minutes.”

  “No need,” Entreri replied, thinking the arrangements better as they were. He wanted some space from Pook for a while, anyway, to better assess the situation before him and plan his next moves. “I will find a room below, where I might better understand the new ways of the guild.” LaValle relaxed with an audible sigh.

  Entreri picked Regis up by the collar. “What am I to do with this one?”

  Pook crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “I have thought of a million tortures befitting your crime,” he said to Regis. “Too many, I see, for truly, I have no idea of how to properly repay you for what you have done to me.” He looked back to Entreri. “No matter,” he chuckled. “It will come to me. Put him in the Cells of Nine.”

  Regis went limp again at the mention of the infamous dungeon. Pook’s favorite holding cell, it was a horror chamber normally reserved for thieves who killed other members of the guild. Entreri smiled to see the halfling so terrified at the mere mention of the place. He easily lifted Regis off the floor and carried him out of the room.

  “That did not go well,” LaValle said when Entreri had left.

  “It went splendidly!” Pook disagreed. “I have never seen Rassiter so unnerved, and the sight of it proved infinitely more pleasurable than I ever imagined!”

  “Entreri will kill him if he is not careful,” LaValle observed grimly.

  Pook seemed amused by the thought. “Then we should learn who is likely to succeed Rassiter.” He looked up at LaValle. “Fear not, my friend. Rassiter is a survivor. He has called the street his home for his entire life and knows when to scurry into the safety of shadows. He will learn his place around Entreri, and he will show the assassin proper respect.”

  But LaValle wasn’t thinking of Rassiter’s safety—he had often entertained thoughts of disposing of the wretched wererat himself. What concerned the wizard was the possibility of a deeper rift in the guild. “What if Rassiter turns the power of his allies against Entreri?” he asked in a tone even more grim. “The street war that would ensue would split the guild in half.”

  Pook dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “Even Rassiter is not that stupid,” he answered, fingering the ruby pendant, an insurance policy he might just need.

  LaValle re
laxed, satisfied with his master’s assurances and with Pook’s ability to handle the delicate situation. As usual, Pook was right, LaValle realized. Entreri had unnerved the wererat with a simple stare, to the possible benefit of all involved. Perhaps now, Rassiter would act more appropriately for his rank in the guild. And with Entreri soon to be quartered on this very level, perhaps the intrusions of the filthy wererat would come less often.

  Yes, it was good to have Entreri back.

  The Cells of Nine were so named because of the nine cells cut into the center of a chamber’s floor, three abreast and three long. Only the center cell was ever unoccupied; the other eight held Pasha Pook’s most treasured collection: great hunting cats from every corner of the Realms.

  Entreri handed Regis over to the jailor, a masked giant of a man, then stood back to watch the show. Around the halfling the jailor tied one end of a heavy rope, which made its way over a pulley in the ceiling above the center cell then back to a crank off to the side.

  “Untie it when you are in,” the jailor grunted at Regis. He pushed Regis forward. “Pick your path.”

  Regis walked gingerly along the border of the outer cells. They all were roughly ten feet square with caves cut into the walls, where the cats could go to rest. But none of the beasts rested now, and all seemed equally hungry.

  They were always hungry.

  Regis chose the plank between a white lion and a heavy tiger, thinking those two giants the least likely to scale the twenty-foot wall and claw his ankle out from under him as he crossed. He slipped one foot onto the wall—which was barely four inches wide—separating the cells and then hesitated, terrified.

  The jailor gave a prompting tug on the rope that nearly toppled Regis in with the lion.

  Reluctantly he started out, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other and trying to ignore the growls and claws below. He had nearly made the center cell when the tiger launched its full weight against the wall, shaking it violently. Regis overbalanced and tumbled in with a shriek.

  The jailor pulled the crank and caught him in midfall, hoisting him just out of the leaping tiger’s reach. Regis swung into the far wall, bruising his ribs but not even feeling the injury at that desperate moment. He scrambled over the wall and swung free, eventually stopping over the middle of the center cell, where the jailor let him down.

  He put his feet to the floor tentatively and clutched the rope as his only possible salvation, refusing to believe that he must stay in the nightmarish place.

  “Untie it!” the jailor demanded, and Regis knew by the man’s tone that to disobey was to suffer unspeakable pain. He slipped the rope free.

  “Sleep well,” the jailor laughed, pulling the rope high out of the halfling’s reach. The hooded man left with Entreri, extinguishing all the room’s torches and slamming the iron door behind him, leaving Regis alone in the dark with the eight hungry cats.

  The walls separating the cats’ cells were solid, preventing the animals from harming each other, but the center cell was lined with wide bars—wide enough for a cat to put its paws through. And this torture chamber was circular, providing easy and equal access from all eight of the other cells.

  Regis did not dare to move. The rope had placed him in the exact center of the cell, the only spot that kept him out of reach of all eight cats. He glanced around at the feline eyes, gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He heard the scraping of lunging claws and even felt a swish of air whenever one of them managed to squeeze enough leg through the bars to get a close swipe.

  And each time a huge paw slammed into the floor beside him, Regis had to remind himself not to jump back—where another cat waited.

  Five minutes seemed like an hour, and Regis shuddered to think of how many days Pook would keep him there. Maybe it would be better just to get it over with, Regis thought, a notion that many shared when placed in the chamber.

  Looking at the cats, though, the halfling dismissed that possibility. Even if he could convince himself that a quick death in a tiger’s jaws would be better than the fate he no doubt faced, he would never have found the courage to carry it through. He was a survivor—had always been—and he couldn’t deny that stubborn side of his character that refused to yield no matter how bleak his future seemed.

  He stood now, as still as a statue, and consciously worked to fill his mind with thoughts of his recent past, of the ten years he had spent outside Calimport. Many adventures he had seen on his travels, many perils he had come through. Regis replayed those battles and escapes over and over in his mind, trying to recapture the sheer excitement he had experienced—active thoughts that would help to keep him awake.

  For if weariness overtook him and he fell to the floor, some part of him might get too close to one of the cats.

  More than one prisoner had been clawed in the foot and dragged to the side to be ripped apart.

  And even those who survived the Cells of Nine would never forget the ravenous stares of those sixteen gleaming eyes.

  uck was with the damaged Sea Sprite and the captured pirate vessel, for the sea held calm and the wind blew steadily but gently. Still, the journey around the Tethyr Peninsula proved tedious and all too slow for the four anxious friends, for every time the two ships seemed to be making headway, one or the other would develop a new problem.

  South of the peninsula, Deudermont took his ships through a wide stretch of water called the Race, so named for the common spectacle there of merchant vessels running from pirate pursuit. No other pirates bothered Deudermont or his crew, however. Even Pinochet’s third ship never again showed its sails.

  “Our journey nears its end,” Deudermont told the four friends when the high coastline of the Purple Hills came into view early on the third morning. “Where the hills end, Calimshan begins.”

  Drizzt leaned over the forward rail and looked into the pale blue waters of the southern seas. He wondered again if they would get to Regis in time.

  “There is a colony of your people farther inland,” Deudermont said to him, drawing him out of his private thoughts, “in a dark wood called Mir.” An involuntary shudder shook the captain. “The drow are not liked in this region; I would advise you to don your mask.”

  Without thinking, Drizzt drew the magical mask over his face, instantly assuming the features of a surface elf. The act bothered the drow less than it shook his three friends, who looked on in resigned disdain. Drizzt was only doing what he had to do, they reminded themselves, carrying on with the same uncomplaining stoicism that had guided his life since the day he had forsaken his people.

  The drow’s new identity did not fit in the eyes of Wulfgar and Catti-brie. Bruenor spat into the water, disgusted at a world too blinded by a cover to read the book inside.

  By early afternoon, a hundred sails dotted the southern horizon and a vast line of docks appeared along the coast, with a sprawling city of low clay shacks and brightly colored tents rolling out behind them. But as vast as Memnon’s docks were, the number of fishing and merchant vessels and warships of the growing Calimshan navy was greater still. The Sea Sprite and its captured ship were forced to drop anchor offshore and wait for appropriate landings to open—a wait, the harbormaster soon informed Deudermont, of possibly a tenday.

  “We shall next be visited by Calimshan’s navy,” Deudermont explained as the harbormaster’s launch headed away, “coming to inspect the pirate ship and interrogate Pinochet.”

  “They’ll take care o’ the dog?” Bruenor asked.

  Deudermont shook his head. “Not likely. Pinochet and his men are my prisoners and my trouble. Calimshan desires an end to the pirate activities and is making bold strides toward that goal, but I doubt that it would yet dare to become entangled with one as powerful as Pinochet.”

  “What’s for him, then?” Bruenor grumbled, trying to find some measure of backbone in all the political double talk.

  “He will sail away to trouble another ship on another day,” Deudermont replied.

 
; “And to warn that rat, Entreri, that we’ve slipped the noose,” Bruenor snapped back.

  Understanding Deudermont’s sensitive position, Drizzt put in a reasonable request. “How long can you give us?”

  “Pinochet cannot get his ship in for a tenday, and” the captain added with a sly wink, “I have already seen to it that it is no longer seaworthy. I should be able to stretch that tenday out to two. By the time the pirate finds the wheel of his ship again, you will have told this Entreri of your escape personally.”

  Wulfgar still did not understand. “What have you gained?” he asked Deudermont. “You have defeated the pirates, but they are to sail free, tasting vengeance on their lips. They will strike at the Sea Sprite on your next passage. Will they show as much mercy if they win the next encounter?”

  “It is a strange game we play,” Deudermont agreed with a helpless smile. “But, in truth, I have strengthened my position on the waters by sparing Pinochet and his men. In exchange for his freedom, the pirate captain will swear off vengeance. None of Pinochet’s associates shall ever bother the Sea Sprite again, and that group includes most of the pirates sailing Asavir’s Channel!”

  “And ye’re to trust that dog’s word?” Bruenor balked.

  “They are honorable enough,” replied Deudermont, “in their own way. The codes have been drawn and are held to by the pirates; to break them would be to invite open warfare with the southern kingdoms.”

  Bruenor spat into the water again. It was the same in every city and kingdom and even on the open water: organizations of thieves tolerated within limits of behavior. Bruenor was of a different mind. Back in Mithral Hall, his clan had custom-built a closet with shelving especially designed to hold severed hands that had been caught in pockets where they didn’t belong.

  “It is settled, then,” Drizzt remarked, seeing it time to change the subject. “Our journey by sea is at an end.”

  Deudermont, expecting the announcement, tossed him the pouch of gold. “A wise choice,” the captain said. “You will make Calimport a full tenday and more more before the Sea Sprite finds her docks. But come to us when you have completed your business. We shall put back for Waterdeep before the last of the winter’s snows have melted in the North. By all of my reckoning, you have earned your passage.”