The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  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 lighthearted 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 week 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.

  Epilogue

  Wulfgar 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 week, 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?”

  “Penman, 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 que
stion 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 weeks 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.

  Book 2.

  Allies

  7. Stirrings

  The first thing he noticed was the absence of the wind. He had lain long hour after hour on his perch at the top of the chimney, and through it all, even in his semiconscious state, there had been the unceasing presence of the wind. It had taken his mind back to Icewind Dale, his home for nearly two centuries. But Bruenor had felt no comfort in the gale’s forlorn moan, a continual reminder of his predicament and the last sound he thought he would ever hear.

  But it was no more. Only the crackle of a nearby fire broke the quiet stillness. Bruenor lifted a heavy eyelid and stared absently into the flames, trying to discern his condition and his whereabouts. He was warm and comfortable, with a heavy quilt pulled up tightly around his shoulders. And he was indoors—the flames burned in a hearth, not in the open pit of a campfire.

  Bruenor’s eye drifted to the side of the hearth and focused on a neatly stacked pile of equipment.

  His equipment!

  The one-horned helm, Drizzt’s scimitar, the mithril armor, and his new battle-axe and shining shield. And he was stretched out under the quilt, wearing only a silken nightshirt.

  Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Bruenor pulled himself up to his elbows.

  A wave of blackness rolled over him and sent his thoughts reeling in nauseous circles. He dropped heavily to his back.

  His vision returned for just a moment, long enough to register the form of a tall and beautiful woman kneeling over him. Her long hair, gleaming silver in the firelight, brushed across his face.

  “Spider’s poison,” she said softly. “Would have killed anything but a dwarf.”

  Then there was only the blackness.

  * * *

  Bruenor awoke again a few hours later, stronger and more alert. Trying not to stir and bring any attention, he half-opened one eye and surveyed the area, glancing at the pile first. Satisfied that all of his equipment was there, he slowly turned his head over.

  He was in a small chamber, apparently a one-roomed structure, for the only door seemed to lead outside. The woman he had seen earlier—though Bruenor wasn’t really sure until now if that image had been a dream—stood beside the door, staring out the room’s single window to the night sky beyond. Her hair was indeed silver. Bruenor could see that its hue was no trick of the firelight. But not silver with the graying of age; this lustrous mane glowed with vibrant life.

  “Yer pardon, fair lady,” the dwarf croaked, his voice cracking on every syllable. The woman twirled and looked at him curiously.

  “Might I be getting a bit o’ food?” asked Bruenor, never one to mix up his priorities.

  The woman floated across the room and helped Bruenor up into a sitting position. Again a wave of blackness swirled over the dwarf, but he managed to shrug it away.

  “Only a dwarf!” the woman muttered, astonished that Bruenor had come through his ordeal.

  Bruenor cocked his head up at her. “I know ye, lady, though I cannot find yer name in me thoughts.”

  “It is not important,” the woman replied. “You have come through much, Bruenor Battlehammer.” Bruenor cocked his head further and leaned away at the mention of his name, but the woman steadied him and continued. “I attended to your wounds as best I could, though I feared that I had come upon you too late to mend the hurts of the spider’s poison.”

  Bruenor looked down at his bandaged forearm, reliving those terrible moments when he had first encountered the giant spider. “How long?”

  “How long you lay atop the broken grate, I do not know,” the woman answered. “But here you have rested for three days and more—too long for your stomach’s liking! I will prepare some food.” She started to rise, but Bruenor caught her arm.

  “Where is this place?”

  The lady’s smile eased his grip. “In a clearing not far from the grate. I feared to move you.”

  Bruenor didn’t quite understand. “Yer home?”

  “Oh, no,” the woman laughed, standing. “A creation, and only temporary. It will be gone with the dawn’s light if you feel able to travel.”

  The tie to magic flickered recognition. “Ye’re the Lady of Silverymoon!” Bruenor spouted suddenly.

  “Clearmoon Alustriel,” the woman said with a polite bow. “My greetings, noble King.”

  “King?” Bruenor echoed in disgust. “Suren me halls are gone to the scum.”

  “We shall see,” said Alustriel.

  But Bruenor missed the words altogether. His thoughts were not on Mithril Hall, but on Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis, and especially on Catti-brie, the joy of his life. “Me friends,” he begged to the woman. “Do ye know o’ me friends?”

  “Rest easy,” Alustriel answered. “They escaped the halls, each of them.”


  “Even the drow?”

  Alustriel nodded. “Drizzt Do’Urden was not destined to die in the home of his dearest friend.”

  Alustriel’s familiarity with Drizzt triggered another memory in the dwarf. “Ye met him before,” he said, “on our road to Mithril Hall. Ye pointed the way for us. And that is how ye knew me name.”

  “And knew where to search for you,” Alustriel added. “Your friends think you dead, to their ultimate grief. But I am a wizard of some talent, and can speak to worlds that oft bring surprising revelations. When the specter of Morkai, an old associate who passed from this world a few years ago, imparted to me an image of a fallen dwarf, half out of a hole on the side of a mountain, I knew the truth of the fate of Bruenor Battlehammer. I only hoped that I would not be too late.”

  “Bah! Fit as ever!” Bruenor huffed, thumping a fist into his chest. As he shifted his weight, a stinging pain in his seat made him wince.

  “A crossbow quarrel,” Alustriel explained.

  Bruenor thought for a moment. He had no recollection of being hit, though the memory of his flight from the undercity was perfectly clear. He shrugged and attributed it to the blindness of his battle-lust. “So one o’ the gray scum got me…” he started to say, but then he blushed and turned his eyes away at the thought of this woman plucking the quarrel from his backside.

  Alustriel was kind enough to change the subject. “Dine and then rest,” she instructed. “Your friends are safe…for the present.”

  “Where—”

  Alustriel cut him off with an outstretched palm. “My knowledge in this matter is not sufficient,” she explained. “You shall find your answers soon enough. In the morning, I will take you to Longsaddle and Catti-brie. She can tell you more than I.”

  Bruenor wished that he could go right now to the human girl he had plucked from the ruins of a goblin raid and reared as his daughter, that he could crush her against him in his arms and tell her that everything was all right. But he reminded himself that he had never truly expected to see Catti-brie again, and he could suffer through one more night.