The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Regis went limp again at the mention of the imfamous 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 relaxed, 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.

  14. Dancing Snakes

  Luck 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 week.

  “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 week, 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 week 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 Mithril 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 week 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.”

  “We’re for leaving long afore that,” replied Bruenor, “but thanks for yer offer!”

  Wulfgar stepped forward and clasped the captain’s wrist. “It was good to serve and fight beside you,” he said. “I look forward to the day when next we will meet.”

  “As do we all,” Drizzt added. He held the pouch high. “And this shall be repaid.”

  Deudermont waved the notion away and mumbled, “A pittance.” Knowing the friends’ desire for haste, he motioned for two of his crewmen to drop a rowboat.

  “Farewell!” he called as the friends pulled away from the Sea Sprite. “Look for me in Calimport!”

  * * *

  Of all the places the companions had visited, of all the lands they had walked through and fought through, none had seemed as foreign to them as Memnon in the kingdom of Calimshan. Even Drizzt, who had come from the strange world of the drow elves, stared in amazement as he made his way through the city’s open lanes and marketplaces. Strange music, shrill and mournful—as often resembling wails of pain as harmony—surrounded them and carried them on.

  People flocked everywhere. Most wore sand-colored robes, but others were brightly dressed, and all had some sort of head covering: a turban or a veiled hat. The friends could not guess at the population of the city, which seemed to go on forever, and doubted that anyone had ever bothered to count. But Drizzt and his companions could envision that if all the people of the cities along the northern stretches of the Sword Coast, Waterdeep included, gathered in one vast refugee camp, it would resemble Memnon.

  A strange combination of odors wafted through Memnon’s hot air: that of a sewer that ran through a perfume market, mixed with the pungent sweat and malodorous breath of the ever-pressing crowd. Shacks were thrown up randomly, it seemed, giving Memnon no apparent design or structure. Streets were any way that was not blocked by homes, though the four friends had all come to the conclusion that the streets themselves served as homes for many people.

  At the center of all the bustle were the merchants. They lined every lane, selling weapons, foodstuffs, exotic pipe weeds—even slaves shamelessly displaying their goods in whatever manner would attract a crowd. On one corner, potential buyers test-fired a large crossbow by shooting down a boxed-in range, complete with live slave targets. On another, a woman showing more skin than clothing—and that being no more than translucent veils—twisted and writhed in a synchronous dance with a gigantic snake, wrapping herself within the huge reptilian coils and then slipping teasingly back out again.

  Wide-eyed and with his mouth hanging open, Wulfgar stopped, mesmerized by the strange and seductive dance, drawing a slap across the back of his head from Catti-brie and amused chuckles from his other two companions.

  “Never have I so longed for home,” the huge barbarian sighed, truly overwhelmed.

  “It is another adventure, nothing more,” Drizzt reminded him. “Nowhere might you learn more than in a land unlike your own.”

  “True enough,” said Catti-brie. “But by me eyes, these folk be making decadence into society.”

  “They live by different rules,” Drizzt replied. “They would, perhaps, be equally offended by the ways of the North.”

  The others had no response to that, and Bruenor, never surprised but always amazed by eccentric human ways, just wagged his red beard.

  Outfitted for adventure, the friends were far from a novelty in the trading city. But, being foreigners, they attracted a crowd, mostly naked, black-tanned children begging for tokens and coins. The merchants eyed the adventurers, too—foreigners usually brought in wealth—and one particularly lascivious set of eyes settled onto them firmly.

  “Well, well?” the weaseling merchant asked his hunchbacked companion.

  “Magic, magic everywhere, my master,” the broken little goblin lisped hungrily, absorbing the sensations his magical wand imparted to him. He replaced the wand on his belt. “Strongest on the weapons—elf’s swords, both, dwarf’s axe, girl’s bow, and especially the big one’s hammer!” He thought of mentioning the odd sensations his wand had imparted about the elf’s face, but decided not to make his ex
citable master any more nervous than was necessary.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha,” cackled the merchant, waggling his fingers. He slipped out to intercept the strangers.

  Bruenor, leading the troupe, stopped short at the sight of the wiry man dressed in yellow-and-red striped robes and a flaming pink turban with a huge diamond set in its front.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha. Greetings!” the man spouted at them, his fingers drumming on his own chest and his ear-to-ear smile showing every other tooth to be golden and those in between to be ivory. “I be Sali Dalib, I do be, I do be! You buy, I sell. Good deal, good deal!” His words came out too fast to be immediately sorted, and the friends looked at each other, shrugged, and started away.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha,” the merchant pressed, wiggling back in their path. “What you need, Sali Dalib got. In plenty, too, many. Tookie, nookie, bookie.”

  “Smoke weed, women, and tomes in every language known to the world,” the lisping little goblin translated. “My master is a merchant of anything and everything!”

  “Bestest o’ de bestest!” Sali Dalib asserted. “What you need—”

  “Sali Dalib got,” Bruenor finished for him. The dwarf looked to Drizzt, confident that they were thinking the same thing: The sooner they were out of Memnon, the better. One weird merchant would serve as well as another.

  “Horses,” the dwarf told the merchant.

  “We wish to get to Calimport,” Drizzt explained.

  “Horses, horses? Ha ha ha ha ha,” replied Sali Dalib without missing a beat. “Not for long ride, no. Too hot, too dry. Camels de thing!”

  “Camels…desert horses,” the goblin explained, seeing the dumbfounded expressions. He pointed to a large dromedary being led down the street by its tan-robed master. “Much better for ride across the desert.”

  “Camels, then,” snorted Bruenor, eyeing the massive beast tentatively. “Or whatever’ll do!”