The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  * * *

  It took more than an hour for them to twist and wind their way through the maze that was Calimport, to the dismay of the friends, who wanted nothing more than to be off the streets and away from the fetid stench. Finally, to their relief, Sali Dalib turned a final corner, to Rogues Circle, and pointed to the unremarkable wooden structure at its end: Pasha Pook’s guildhouse.

  “Dere be de Pook,” Sali Dalib said. “Now, Sali Dalib take his camels and be gone, back to Memnon.”

  The friends were not so quick to be rid of the wily merchant. “More to me guessin’ that Sali Dalib be heading for Pook to sell some tales o’ four friends,” Bruenor growled.

  “Well, we’ve a way beyond that,” said Catti-brie. She shot Drizzt a sly wink, then moved up to the curious and frightened merchant, reaching into her pack as she went.

  Her look went suddenly grim, so wickedly intense that Sali Dalib jerked back when her hand came up to his forehead. “Hold yer place!” Catti-brie snapped at him harshly, and he had no resistance to the power of her tone. She had a powder, a flourlike substance, in her pack. Reciting some gibberish that sounded like an arcane chant, she traced a scimitar on Sali Dalib’s forehead. The merchant tried to protest but couldn’t find his tongue for his terror.

  “Now, for the little one,” Catti-brie said, turning to Sali Dalib’s goblin assistant. The goblin squeaked and tried to dash away, but Wulfgar caught it in one hand and held it out to Catti-brie, squeezing tighter and tighter until the thing stopped wiggling.

  Catti-brie performed the ceremony again then turned to Drizzt. “They be linked to yer spirit now,” she said. “Do ye feel them?”

  Drizzt, understanding the bluff, nodded grimly and slowly drew his two scimitars.

  Sali Dalib paled and nearly toppled over, but Bruenor, moving closer to watch his daughter’s games, was quick to prop the terrified man up.

  “Ah, let them go, then. Me witchin’s through,” Catti-brie told both Wulfgar and Bruenor. “The drow’ll feel yer presence now,” she hissed at Sali Dalib and his goblin. “He’ll know when ye’re about and when ye’ve gone. If ye stay in the city, and if ye’ve thoughts o’ going to Pook, the drow’ll know, and he’ll follow yer feel—hunt ye down.” She paused a moment, wanting the two to fully comprehend the horror they faced.

  “And he’ll kill ye slow.”

  “Take yer lumpy horses, then, and be gone!” Bruenor roared. “If I be seein’ yer stinkin’ faces again, the drow’ll have to get in line for his cuts!”

  Before the dwarf had even finished, Sali Dalib and the goblin had collected their camels and were off, away from Rogues Circle and back toward the northern end of the city.

  “Them two’re for the desert,” Bruenor laughed when they had gone. “Fine tricks, me girl.”

  Drizzt pointed to the sign of an inn, the Spitting Camel, halfway down the lane. “Get us rooms,” he told his friends. “I will follow them to make certain they do indeed leave the city.”

  “Wastin’ yer time,” Bruenor called after him. “The girl’s got ‘em running, or I’m a bearded gnome!”

  Drizzt had already started padding silently into the maze of Caliport’s streets.

  Wulfgar, caught unawares by her uncharacteristic trickery and still not quite sure what had just happened, eyed Catti-brie carefully. Bruenor didn’t miss his apprehensive look.

  “Take note, boy,” the dwarf taunted. “Suren the girl’s got herself a nasty streak ye’ll not want turned on yerself!”

  Playing through for the sake of Bruenor’s enjoyment, Catti-brie glared at the big barbarian and narrowed her eyes, causing Wulfgar to back off a cautious step. “Witchin’ magic,” she cackled. “Tells me when yer eyes be filled with the likings of another woman!” She turned slowly, not releasing him from her stare until she had taken three steps down the lane toward the inn Drizzt had indicated.

  Bruenor reached high and slapped Wulfgar on the back as he started after Catti-brie. “Fine lass,” he remarked to Wulfgar. “Just don’t be gettin’ her mad!”

  Wulfgar shook the confusion out of his head and forced out a laugh, reminding himself that Catti-brie’s “magic” had been only a dupe to frighten the merchant.

  But Catti-brie’s glare as she had carried out the deception, and the sheer strength of her intensity, followed him as he walked down Rogues Circle. Both a shudder and a sweet tingle spread down his spine.

  * * *

  Half the sun had fallen below the western horizon before Drizzt returned to Rogues Circle. He had followed Sali Dalib and his assistant far out into the Calim Desert, though the merchant’s frantic pace gave no indications that he had any intentions of turning back to Calimport. Drizzt simply wouldn’t take the chance; they were too close to finding Regis and too close to Entreri.

  Masked as an elf—Drizzt was beginning to realize how easily the disguise now came to him—he made his way into the Spitting Camel and to the innkeeper’s desk. An incredibly skinny, leather-skinned man, who kept his back always to a wall and his head darting nervously in every direction, met him.

  “Three friends,” Drizzt said gruffly. “A dwarf, a woman, and a golden-haired giant.”

  “Up the stairs,” the man told him. “To the left. Two gold if you mean to stay the night.” He held out his bony hand.

  “The dwarf already paid you,” Drizzt said grimly, starting away.

  “For himself, the girl, and the big…” the innkeeper started, grabbing Drizzt by the shoulder. The look in Drizzt’s lavender eyes, though, stopped the innkeeper cold.

  “He paid,” the frightened man stuttered. “I remember. He paid.”

  Drizzt walked away without another word.

  He found the two rooms on opposite sides of the corridor at the far end of the structure. He had meant to go straight in with Wulfgar and Bruenor and grab a short rest, hoping to be out on the street when night fully fell, when Entreri would likely be about. Drizzt found, instead, Catti-brie in her doorway, apparently waiting for him. She motioned him into her chamber and closed the door behind him.

  Drizzt settled on the very edge of one of the two chairs in the center of the room, his foot tapping the floor in front of him.

  Catti-brie studied him as she walked around to the other chair. She had known Drizzt for years but never had seen him so agitated.

  “Ye seem as though ye mean to tear yerself into pieces,” she said.

  Drizzt gave her a cold look, but Catti-brie laughed it away. “Do ye mean to strike me, then?”

  That prompted the drow to settle back in his chair.

  “And don’t ye be wearing that silly mask,” Catti-brie scolded.

  Drizzt reached for the mask but hesitated.

  “Take it off!” Catti-brie ordered, and the drow complied before he had time to reconsider.

  “Ye came a bit grim in the street afore ye left,” Catti-brie remarked, her voice softening.

  “We had to make certain,” Drizzt replied coldly. “I do not trust Sali Dalib.”

  “Nor meself,” Catti-brie agreed, “but ye’re still grim, by me seeing.”

  “You were the one with the witching magic,” Drizzt shot back, his tone defensive. “It was Catti-brie who showed herself grim then.”

  Catti-brie shrugged. “A needed act,” she said. “An act I dropped when the merchant had gone. But yerself,” she said pointedly, leaning forward and placing a comforting hand on Drizzt’s knee. “Ye’re up for a fight.”

  Drizzt started to jerk away but realized the truth of her observations and forced himself to relax under her friendly touch. He looked away, for, he found that he could not soften the sternness of his visage.

  “What’s it about?” Catti-brie whispered.

  Drizzt looked back to her then and remembered all the times he and she had shared back in Icewind Dale. In her sincere concern for him now, Drizzt recalled the first time they had met, when the smile of the girl—for she was then but a girl—had given the displaced and disheartened drow a renew
ed hope for his life among the surface dwellers.

  Catti-brie knew more about him than anyone alive, about those things that were important to him, and made his stoic existence bearable. She alone recognized the fears that lay beneath his black skin, the insecurity masked by the skill of his sword arm.

  “Entreri,” he answered softly.

  “Ye mean to kill him?”

  “I have to.”

  Catti-brie sat back to consider the words. “If ye be killing Entreri to free Regis,” she said at length, “and to stop him from hurting anyone else, then me heart says it’s a good thing.” She leaned forward again, bringing her face close to Drizzt’s, “but if ye’re meaning to kill him to prove yerself or to deny what he is, then me heart cries.”

  She could have slapped Drizzt and had the same effect. He sat up straight and cocked his head, his features twisted in angry denial. He let Catti-brie continue, for he could not dismiss the importance of the observant woman’s perceptions.

  “Suren the world’s not fair, me friend. Suren by the measure of hearts, ye been wronged. But are ye after the assassin for yer own anger? Will killing Entreri cure the wrong?”

  Drizzt did not answer, but his look turned stubbornly grim again.

  “Look in the mirror, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Catti-brie said, “without the mask. Killin’ Entreri won’t change the color of his skin—or the color of yer own.”

  Again Drizzt had been slapped, and this time it brought an undeniable ring of truth with it. He fell back in his chair, looking upon Catti-brie as he had never looked upon her before. Where had Bruenor’s little girl gone? Before him loomed a woman, beautiful and sensitive and laying bare his soul with a few words. They had shared much, it was true, but how could she know him so very well? And why had she taken the time?

  “Ye’ve truer friends than ever ye’ll know,” Catti-brie said, “and not for the way ye twirl a sword. Ye’ve others who would call themselves friend if only they could get inside the length of yer arm—if only ye’d learn to look.”

  Drizzt considered the words. He remembered the Sea Sprite and Captain Deudermont and the crew, standing behind him even when they knew his heritage.

  “And if only ye’d ever learned to love,” Catti-brie continued, her voice barely audible. “Suren ye’ve let things slip past, Drizzt Do’Urden.”

  Drizzt studied her intently, weighing the glimmer in her dark, saucerlike eyes. He tried to fathom what she was getting at, what personal message she was sending to him.

  The door burst open suddenly, and Wulfgar bounded into the room, a smile stretching the length of his face and the eager look of adventure gleaming in his pale blue eyes. “Good that you are back,” he said to Drizzt. He moved behind Catti-brie and dropped an arm comfortably across her shoulders. “The night has come, and a bright moon peeks over the eastern rim. Time for the hunt!”

  Catti-brie put her hand on Wulfgar’s and flashed him an adoring smile. Drizzt was glad they had found each other. They would grow together in a blessed and joyful life, rearing children that would no doubt be the envy of all the northland.

  Catti-brie looked back to Drizzt. “Just for yer thoughts, me friend,” she said quietly, calmly. “Are ye more trapped by the way the world sees ye or by the way ye see the world seein’ ye?”

  The tension eased out of Drizzt’s muscles. If Catti-brie was right in her observations, he would have a lot of thinking to do.

  “Time to hunt!” Catti-brie cried, satisfied that she had gotten her point across. She rose beside Wulfgar and headed for the door, but she turned her head over her shoulder to face Drizzt one final time, giving him a look that told him that perhaps he should have asked for more from Catti-brie back in Icewind Dale, before Wulfgar had entered her life.

  Drizzt sighed as they left the room and instinctively reached for the magical mask.

  Instinctively? he wondered.

  Drizzt dropped the thing suddenly and fell back in the chair in thought, clasping his hands behind his head. He glanced around, hoping, but the room had no mirror.

  17. Impossible Loyalties

  LaValle held his hand within the pouch for a long moment, teasing Pook. They were alone with the eunuchs, who didn’t count, in the central chamber of the top level. LaValle had promised his master a gift beyond even the news of the ruby pendant’s return, and Pook knew that the wizard would offer such a promise with great care. It was not wise to disappoint the guildmaster.

  LaValle had great confidence in his gift and had no trepidations about his grand claims. He slid it out and presented it to Pook, smiling broadly as he did so.

  Pook lost his breath, and sweat thickened on his palms at the onyx statuette’s touch. “Magnificent,” he muttered, overwhelmed. “Never have I seen such craftsmanship, such detail. One could almost pet the thing!”

  “One can,” LaValle whispered under his breath. The wizard did not want to let on to all of the gift’s properties at once, however, so he replied, “I am pleased that you are pleased.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  LaValle shifted uneasily. “That is not important,” he answered. “It is for you, Master, given with all of my loyalty.” He quickly moved the conversation along to prevent Pook from pressing the point. “The workmanship of the statuette is but a fraction of its value,” he teased, drawing a curious look from Pook.

  “You have heard of such figurines,” LaValle went on, satisfied that the time to overwhelm the guildmaster had come once again. “They can be magical companions to their owners.”

  Pook’s hands verily trembled at the thought. “This,” he stammered excitedly, “this might bring the panther to life?”

  LaValle’s sly smile answered the question.

  “How? When might I—”

  “Whenever you desire,” LaValle answered.

  “Should we prepare a cage?” Pook asked.

  “No need.”

  “But at least until the panther understands who its master—”

  “You possess the figurine,” LaValle interrupted. “The creature you summon is wholly yours. It will follow your every command exactly as you desire.”

  Pook clutched the statuette close to his chest. He could hardly believe his fortune. The great cats were his first and foremost love, and to have in his possession one with such obedience, an extension of his own will, thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.

  “Now,” he said. “I want to call the cat now. Tell me the words.”

  LaValle took the statue and placed it on the floor, then whispered into Pook’s ear, taking care that his own uttering of the cat’s name didn’t summon Guenhwyvar and ruin the moment for Pook.

  “Guenhwyvar,” Pook called softly. Nothing happened at first, but both Pook and LaValle could sense the link being completed to the distant entity.

  “Come to me, Guenhwyvar!” Pook commanded.

  His voice rolled through the tunnel gate in the Planes of existence, down the dark corridor to the Astral Plane, the home of the entity of the panther. Guenhwyvar awakened to the summons. Cautiously the cat found the path.

  “Guenhwyvar,” the call came again, but the cat did not recognize the voice. It had been many weeks since its master had brought it to the Prime Material Plane, and the panther had had a well-deserved and much-needed rest, but one that had brought with it a cautious trepidation. Now, with an unknown voice summoning it, Guenhwyvar understood that something had definitely changed.

  Tentatively, but unable to resist the summons, the great cat padded off down the corridor.

  Pook and LaValle watched, mesmerized, as a gray smoke appeared, shrouding the floor around the figurine. It swirled lazily for a few moments then took definite shape, solidifying into Guenhwyvar. The cat stood perfectly still, seeking some recognition of its surroundings.

  “What do I do?” Pook asked LaValle. The cat tensed at the sound of the voice—its master’s voice.

  “Whatever pleases you,” LaValle answered. “The cat will sit by
you, hunt for you, walk at your heel—kill for you.”

  Some ideas popped into the guildmaster’s head at the last comment. “What are its limits?

  LaValle shrugged. “Most magic of this kind will fade after a length of time, though you can summon the cat again once it has rested,” he quickly added, seeing Pook’s disheartened look. “It cannot be killed; to do so would only return it to its plane, though the statue could be broken.”

  Again Pook’s look soured. The item had already become too precious for him to consider losing it.

  “I assure you that destroying the statue would not prove an easy task,” LaValle continued. “Its magic is quite potent. The mightiest smith in all the Realms could not scratch it with his heaviest hammer!”

  Pook was satisfied. “Come to me,” he ordered the cat, extending his hand.

  Guenhwyvar obeyed and flattened its ears as Pook gently stroked the soft black coat.

  “I have a task,” Pook announced suddenly, turning an excited glance at LaValle, “a memorable and marvelous task! The first task for Guenhwvvar.”

  LaValle’s eyes lit up at the pure pleasure stamped across Pook’s face.

  “Fetch me Regis,” Pook told LaValle. “Let Guenhwyvar’s first kill be the halfling I most despise!”

  * * *

  Exhausted from his ordeal in the Cells of Nine, and from the various tortures Pook had put him through, Regis was easily shoved flat to his face before Pook’s throne. The halfling struggled to his feet, determined to accept the next torture—even if it meant death—with dignity.

  Pook waved the guards out of the room. “Have you enjoyed your stay with us?” he teased Regis.

  Regis brushed the mop of hair back from his face. “Acceptable,” he replied. “The neighbors are noisy, though, growling and purring all the night through.”

  “Silence!” Pook snapped. He looked at LaValle, standing beside the great chair. “He will find little humor here,” the guildmaster said with a venomous chuckle.

  Regis had passed beyond fear, though, into resignation. “You have won,” he said calmly, hoping to steal some of the pleasure from Pook. “I took your pendant and was caught. If you believe that crime is deserving of death, then kill me.”