The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

  “He’ll get us to Calimport,” Catti-brie replied. She cast a steely gaze at Sali Dalib, warning him that her mercy was not easily gotten. “Suren this time he’ll take us down the true bestest road.”

  “Yes, yes, ha ha ha ha ha,” Sali Dalib blurted. “Sali Dalib show you de way!”

  “Show?” balked Wulfgar, not to be left out. “You will lead us all the way to Calimport.”

  “Very long way,” grumbled the merchant. “Five days or more. Sali Dalib cannot—”

  Bruenor raised his axe.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the merchant erupted. “Sali Dalib take you there. Take you right to de gate … through de gate,” he corrected quickly. “Sali Dalib even get de water. We must catch de caravan.”

  “No caravan,” Drizzt interrupted, surprising even his friends. “We will travel alone.”

  “Dangerous,” Sali Dalib replied. “Very, very. De Calim Desert be very full of monsters. Dragons and bandits.”

  “No caravan,” Drizzt said again in a tone that none of them dared question. “Untie them, and let them get things ready.”

  Bruenor nodded, then put his face barely an inch from Sali Dalib’s. “And I mean to be watchin’ them meself,” he said to Drizzt, though he sent the message more pointedly to Sali Dalib and the little goblin. “One trick and I’ll cut ’em in half!”

  Less than an hour later, five camels moved out of southern Memnon and into the Calim Desert with ceramic water jugs clunking on their sides. Drizzt and Bruenor led the way, following the signposts of the Trade Way. The drow wore his mask, but kept the cowl of his cloak as low as he could, for the sizzling sunlight on the white sands burned at his eyes, which had once been accustomed to the absolute blackness of the underworld.

  Sali Dalib, his assistant sitting on the camel in front of him, came in the middle, with Wulfgar and Catti-brie bringing up the rear. Catti-brie kept Taulmaril across her lap, a silver arrow notched as a continual reminder to the sneaky merchant.

  The day grew hotter than anything the friends had ever experienced, except for Drizzt, who had lived in the very bowels of the world. Not a cloud hindered the sun’s brutal rays, and not a wisp of a breeze came to offer any relief. Sali Dalib, more used to the heat, knew the lack of wind to be a blessing, for wind in the desert meant blowing and blinding sand, the most dangerous killer of the Calim.

  The night was better, with the temperature dropping comfortably and a full moon turning the endless line of dunes into a silvery dreamscape, like the rolling waves of the ocean. The friends set a camp for a few hours, taking turns watching over their reluctant guides.

  Catti-brie awoke sometime after midnight. She sat and stretched, figuring it to be her turn on watch. She saw Drizzt, standing on the edge of the firelight, staring into the starry heavens.

  Hadn’t Drizzt taken the first watch? she wondered.

  Catti-brie studied the moon’s position to make certain of the hour. There could be no doubt; the night grew long.

  “Trouble?” she asked softly, going to Drizzt’s side. A loud snore from Bruenor answered the question for Drizzt.

  “Might I spell ye, then?” she asked. “Even a drow elf needs to sleep.”

  “I can find my rest under the cowl of my cloak,” Drizzt replied, turning to meet her concerned gaze with his lavender eyes, “when the sun is high.”

  “Might I join ye, then?” Catti-brie asked. “Suren a wondrous night.”

  Drizzt smiled and turned his gaze back to the heavens, to the allure of the evening sky with a mystical longing in his heart as profound as any surface elf had ever experienced.

  Catti-brie slipped her slender fingers around his and stood quietly by his side, not wanting to disturb his enchantment further, sharing more than mere words with her dearest of friends.

  The heat was worse the next day, and even worse the following, but the camels plodded on effortlessly, and the four friends, who had come through so many hardships, accepted the brutal trek as just one more obstacle on the journey they had to complete.

  They saw no other signs of life and considered that a blessing, for anything living in that desolate region could only be hostile. The heat was enemy enough, and they felt as if their skin would simply shrivel and crack away.

  Whenever one of them felt like quitting, like the relentless sun and burning sand and heat were simply too much to bear, he or she just thought of Regis.

  What terrible tortures was the halfling now enduring at the hands of his former master?

  rom the shadows of a doorway, Entreri watched Pasha Pook make his way up the staircase to the exit of the guildhouse. It had been less than an hour since Pook had regained his ruby pendant and already he was off to put it to use. Entreri had to give the guildmaster credit; he was never late for the dinner bell.

  The assassin waited for Pook to clear the house altogether, then made his way stealthily back to the top level. The guards outside the final door made no move to stop him, though Entreri did not remember them from his earlier days in the guild. Pook must have prudently put out the word of Entreri’s station in the guild, according him all the privileges he used to enjoy.

  Never late for the dinner bell.

  Entreri moved to the door to his old room, where LaValle now resided, and knocked softly.

  “Come in, come in,” the wizard greeted him, hardly surprised that the assassin had returned.

  “It is good to be back,” Entreri said.

  “And good to have you back,” replied the wizard sincerely. “Things have not been the same since you left us, and they have only become worse in recent months.”

  Entreri understood the wizard’s point. “Rassiter?”

  LaValle grimaced. “Keep your back to the wall when that one is about.” A shudder shook through him, but he composed himself quickly. “But with you back at Pook’s side, Rassiter will learn his place.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Entreri, “though I am not so certain that Pook was as glad to see me.”

  “You understand Pook,” LaValle chuckled. “Ever thinking as a guildmaster! He desired to set the rules for your meeting with him to assert his authority. But that incident is far behind us already.”

  Entreri’s look gave the wizard the impression that he was not so certain.

  “Pook will forget it,” LaValle assured him, “Those who pursued me should not so easily be forgotten,” Entreri replied.

  “Pook called upon Pinochet to complete the task,” said LaValle. “The pirate has never failed.”

  “The pirate has never faced such foes,” Entreri answered. He looked to the table and LaValle’s crystal ball. “We should be certain.”

  LaValle thought for a moment, then nodded his accord. He had intended to do some scrying anyway. “Watch the ball,” he instructed Entreri. “I shall see if I can summon the image of Pinochet.”

  The crystal ball remained dark for a few moments, then filled with smoke. LaValle had not dealt often with Pinochet, but he knew enough of the pirate for a simple scrying. A few seconds later, the image of a docked ship came into view—not a pirate vessel, but a merchant ship. Immediately Entreri suspected something amiss.

  Then the crystal probed deeper, beyond the hull of the ship, and the assassin’s guess was confirmed, for in a sectioned corner of the hold sat the proud pirate captain, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, shackled to the wall.

  LaValle, stunned, looked to Entreri, but the assassin was too intent on the image to offer any explanations. A rare smile had found its way onto Entreri’s face.

  LaValle cast an enhancing spell at the crystal ball. “Pinochet,” he called softly.

  The pirate lifted his head and looked around.

  “Where are you?” LaValle asked.

  “Oberon?” Pinochet asked. “Is that you, wizard?”

  “Nay, I am LaValle, Pook’s sorcerer in Calimport. Where are you?”

  “Memnon,” the pirate answered. “Can you get me out?”

  “What of the
elf and the barbarian?” Entreri asked LaValle, but Pinochet heard the question directly.

  “I had them!” the pirate hissed. “Trapped in a channel with no escape. But then a dwarf appeared, driving the reins of a flying chariot of fire, and with him a woman archer—a deadly archer.” He paused, fighting off his distaste as he remembered the encounter.

  “To what outcome?” LaValle prompted, amazed at the development.

  “One ship went running, one ship—my ship—sank, and the third was captured,” groaned Pinochet. He locked his face into a grimace and asked again, more emphatically, “Can you get me out?”

  LaValle looked helplessly to Entreri, who now stood tall over the crystal hall, absorbing every word. “Where are they?” the assassin growled, his patience worn away.

  “Gone,” answered Pinochet. “Gone with the girl and the dwarf into Memnon.”

  “How long?”

  “Three days.”

  Entreri signaled to LaValle that he had heard enough.

  “I will have Pasha Pook send word to Memnon immediately,” LaValle assured the pirate. “You shall be released.”

  Pinochet sank into his original, despondent position. Of course he would be released; that had already been arranged. He had hoped that LaValle could somehow magically get him out of the Sea Sprite’s hold, thereby releasing him from any pledges he would be forced to make to Deudermont when the captain set him free.

  “Three days,” LaValle said to Entreri as the crystal darkened. “They could be halfway here by now.”

  Entreri seemed amused at the notion. “Pasha Pook is to know nothing of this,” he said suddenly.

  LaValle sank back in his chair. “He must be told.”

  “No!” Entreri snapped. “This is none of his affair.”

  “The guild may be in danger,” LaValle replied.

  “You do not trust that I am capable of handling this?” Entreri asked in a low, grim tone. LaValle felt the assassin’s callous eyes looking through him, as though he had suddenly become just another barrier to be overcome.

  But Entreri softened his glare and grinned. “You know of Pasha Pook’s weakness for hunting cats,” he said, reaching into his pouch. “Give him this. Tell him you made it for him.” He tossed a small black object across the table to the wizard. LaValle caught it, his eyes widening as soon as he realized what it was.

  Guenhwyvar.

  On a distant plane, the great cat stirred at the wizard’s touch upon the statuette and wondered if its master meant to summon it, finally, to his side.

  But, after a moment, the sensation faded, and the cat put its head down to rest.

  So much time had gone by.

  “It holds an entity,” the wizard gasped, sensing the strength in the onyx statuette.

  “A powerful entity,” Entreri assured him. “When you learn to control it, you will have brought a new ally to the guild.”

  “How can I thank—” LaValle began, but he stopped as he realized that he had already been told the price of the panther. “Why trouble Pook with details that do not concern him?” The wizard laughed, tossing a cloth over his crystal ball.

  Entreri clapped LaValle on the shoulder as he passed toward the door. Three years had done nothing to diminish the understanding the two men had shared.

  But with Drizzt and his friends approaching, Entreri had more pressing business. He had to go to the Cells of Nine and pay a visit to Regis.

  The assassin needed another gift.

  t is like looking into a mirror that paints the world with opposing colors: white hair to black; black skin to white, light eyes to dark. What an intricate mirror it is to replace a smile with a frown, and an expression of friendship with a seemingly perpetual scowl.

  For that is how I view Artemis Entreri, this warrior who can compliment every movement I make with similar precision and grace, the warrior who, in every way but one, I would regard as my equal.

  How difficult it was for me to stand with him in the depths of Mithral Hall, fighting side by side for both our lives! Strangely, it was not any moral imperative that bothered me about fighting in that situation. It was no belief that Entreri should die, had to die, and that I, if I was not such a coward, would have killed him then and there, even if the action cost me my own life as I tried to escape the inhospitable depths. No, nothing like that.

  What made it all so difficult for me was watching that man, that human assassin, and knowing, without the slightest shred of doubt, that I very well might have been looking at myself.

  Is that who I would have become had I not found Zaknafein in those early years in Menzoberranzan? Had I not discovered the example of one who so validated my own beliefs that the ways of the drow were not right, morally and practically? Is that cold-hearted killer who I would have become had it been my vicious sister Briza training me instead of the more gentle Vierna?

  I fear that it is, that I, despite all that I know to be true within the depths of my very heart, would have been overwhelmed by the situation about me, would have succumbed to the despair to a point where there remained little of compassion and justice. I would have become an assassin, holding strong within my own code of ethics, but with that code so horribly warped that I could no longer understand the truth of my actions, that I could justify them with the sheerest cynicism.

  I saw all of that when I looked upon Entreri, and thanked Mielikki profoundly for those in my life, for Zaknafein, for Belwar Dissengulp and for Montolio, who helped me to steer the correct course. And if I saw a potential for myself within Entreri, then I must admit that there once was a potential for Entreri to become as I have become, to know compassion and community, to know friends, good friends, and to know love.

  I think about him a lot, as he, no doubt, thinks about me. While his obsession is based in pride, in the challenge of overcoming me in battle, mine own is wrought of curiosity, of seeking answers within myself by observing the actions of who I might have become.

  Do I hate him?

  Strangely, I do not. That lack of hatred is not based on the respect that I give the man for his fighting prowess, for that measure of respect ends right there, at the edge of the battlefield. No, I do not hate Artemis Entreri because I pity him, the events that led to the wrong decisions he has made. There is true strength within him, and there is, or once was, a substantial potential to do good in a world so in need of heroes. For, despite his actions, I have come to understand that Entreri operates within a very strict code. In his own warped view of the world, I believe that Entreri honestly believes that he never killed anyone who did not deserve it. He held Catti-brie captive but did not rape her.

  As for his actions concerning Regis … well, Regis was, in reality, a thief, and though he stole from another thief that does not excuse that crime. In Luskan, as in most cities in the Realms, thieves lose their hands, or worse, and certainly a bounty hunter sent to retrieve a stolen item, and the person who stole it, is well within the law to kill that person, and anyone else who hinders his task.

  In Calimport, Artemis Entreri operates among thieves and thugs, among the very edge of civilization. In that capacity, he deals death, as did Zaknafein in the alleys of Menzoberranzan. There is a difference—certainly!—between the two, and I do not in any way mean to excuse Entreri from his crimes. Neither will I consider him the simple killing monster that was, say, Errtu.

  No, there was once potential there, I know, though I fear he is far gone from that road, for when I look upon Artemis Entreri, I see myself, I see the capacity to love, and also the capacity to lose all of that and become cold.

  So very cold.

  Perhaps we will meet again and do battle, and if I kill him, I will shed no tears for him. Not for who he is, at least, but quite possibly, I will cry for who this marvelous warrior might have become.

  If I kill him, I will be crying for myself.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  ntreri slipped through the shadows of Calimport’s bowels as quietly as an owl glid
ed through a forest at twilight. This was his home, the place he knew best, and all the street people of the city would mark the day when Artemis Entreri again walked beside them—or behind them.

  Entreri couldn’t help but smile slightly whenever the hushed whispers commenced in his wake—the more experienced rogues telling the newcomers that the king had returned. Entreri never let the legend of his reputation—no matter how well earned—interfere with the constant state of readiness that had kept him alive through the years. In the streets, a reputation of power only marked a man as a target for ambitious second-rates seeking, reputations of their own.

  Thus, Entreri’s first task in the city, outside of his responsibilities to Pasha Pook, was to reestablish the network of informants and associates that entrenched him in his station. He already had an important job for one of them, with Drizzt and company fast approaching, and he knew which one.

  “I had heard you were back,” squeaked a diminutive chap appearing as a human boy not yet into adolescence when Entreri ducked and entered his abode. “I guess most have.”

  Entreri took the compliment with a nod. “What has changed, my halfling friend?”

  “Little,” replied Dondon, “and lots.” He moved to the table in the darkest corner of his small quarters, the side room, facing the ally, in a cheap inn called the Coiled Snake. “The rules of the street do not change, but the players do.” Dondon looked up from the table’s unlit lamp to catch Entreri’s eyes with his own.

  “Artemis Entreri was gone, after all,” the halfling explained, wanting to make sure that Entreri fully understood his previous statement. “The royal suite had a vacancy.”

  Entreri nodded his accord, causing the halfling to relax and sigh audibly.

  “Pook still controls the merchants and the docks,” said Entreri. “Who owns the streets?”

  “Pook, still,” replied Dondon, “at least in name. He found another agent in your stead. A whole horde of agents.” Dondon paused for a moment to think. Again he had to be careful to weigh every word before he spoke it. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Pasha Pook does not control the streets, but rather that he still has the streets controlled.”