The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  “Oh, I shall!” Pook hissed. “I had planned that from the start, but I knew not the appropriate method.”

  Regis rocked back on his heels. Perhaps he wasn’t as composed as he had hoped.

  “Guenhwyvar,” Pook called.

  “Guenhwyvar?” Regis echoed under his breath.

  “Come to me, my pet.”

  The halfling’s jaw dropped to his chest when the magical cat slipped out of the half-opened door to LaValle’s room.

  “Wh-Where did you get him?” Regis stuttered.

  “Magnificent, is he not?” Pook replied. “But do not worry, little thief. You shall get a closer look.” He turned to the cat.

  “Guenhwyvar, dear Guenhwyvar,” Pook purred, “this little thief wronged your master. Kill him, my pet, but kill him slowly. I want to hear his screams.”

  Regis stared into the panther’s wide eyes. “Calm, Guenhwyvar,” he said as the cat took a slow, hesitant stride his way. Truly it pained Regis to see the wondrous panther under the command of one as vile as Pook. Guenhwyvar belonged with Drizzt.

  But Regis couldn’t spend much time considering the implications of the cat’s appearance. His own future became his primary concern. “He is the one,” Regis cried to Guenhwyvar, pointing at Pook. “He commands the evil one who took us from your true master, the evil one your true master seeks!”

  “Excellent!” Pook laughed, thinking Regis to be grasping at a desperate lie to confuse the animal. “This show may yet be worth the agony I have endured at your hands, thief Regis!”

  LaValle shifted uneasily, understanding more of the truth to Regis’s words.

  “Now, my pet!” Pook commanded. “Bring him pain!”

  Guenhwyvar growled lowly, eyes narrowed.

  “Guenhwyvar,” Regis said again, backing away a step. “Guenhwyvar, you know me.”

  The cat showed no indication that it recognized the halfling. Compelled by its master’s voice, it crouched and inched across the floor toward Regis.

  “Guenhwyvar!” Regis cried, feeling along the wall for an escape.

  “That is the cat’s name,” Pook laughed, still not realizing the halfling’s honest recognition of the beast. “Good-bye, Regis. Take comfort in knowing that I shall remember this moment for the rest of my life!”

  The panther flattened its ears and crouched lower, tamping down its back paws for better balance. Regis rushed to the door, though he had no doubt that it was locked, and Guenhwyvar leaped, impossibly quick and accurate. Regis barely realized that the cat was upon him.

  Pasha Pook’s ecstasy, though, proved short-lived. He jumped from his chair, hoping for a better view of the action, as Guenhwyvar buried Regis. Then the cat vanished, slowly fading away.

  The halfling, too, was gone.

  “What?” Pook cried. “That is it? No blood?” He spun on LaValle. “Is that how the thing kills?”

  The wizard’s horrified expression told Pook a different tale. Suddenly the guildmaster recognized the truth of Regis’s banterings with the cat. “It took him away!” Pook roared. He rushed around the side of the chair and pushed his face into LaValle’s. “Where? Tell me!”

  LaValle nearly fell from his trembling. “Not possible.” He gasped. “The cat must obey its master, the possessor.”

  “Regis knew the cat!” Pook cried.

  “Impossible loyalties,” LaValle replied, truly dumbfounded.

  Pook composed himself and settled back in his chair. “Where did you get it?” he asked LaValle.

  “Entreri,” the wizard replied immediately, not daring to hesitate.

  Pook scratched his chin. “Entreri,” he echoed. The pieces started falling into place. Pook understood Entreri well enough to know that the assassin would not give away so valuable an item without getting something in return. “It belonged to one of the halfling’s friends,” Pook reasoned, remembering Regis’s references to the cat’s ‘true master.’

  “I did not ask,” replied LaValle.

  “You did not have to ask!” Pook shot back. “It belonged to one of the halfling’s friends—perhaps one of those Oberon spoke of. Yes. And Entreri gave it to you in exchange for…” He tossed a wicked look LaValle’s way.

  “Where is the pirate, Pinochet?” he asked slyly.

  LaValle nearly fainted, caught, in a web that promised death wherever he turned.

  “Enough said,” said Pook, understanding everything from the wizard’s paled expression. “Ah, Entreri,” he mused, “ever you prove a headache, however well you serve me. And you,” he breathed at LaValle. “Where have they gone?”

  LaValle shook his head. “The cat’s plane,” he blurted, “the only possibility.”

  “And can the cat return to this world?”

  “Only if summoned by the possessor of the statue.”

  Pook pointed to the statue lying on the floor in front of the door. “Get that cat back,” he ordered. LaValle rushed for the figurine.

  “No, wait.” Pook reconsidered. “Let me first have a cage built for it. Guenhwyvar will be mine in time. It will learn discipline.”

  LaValle continued over and picked up the statue, not really knowing where to begin. Pook grabbed him as he passed the throne.

  “But the halfling,” Pook growled, pressing his nose flat against LaValle’s. “On your life, wizard, get that halfling back to me!”

  Pook shoved LaValle back and headed for the door to the lower levels. He would have to open some eyes in the streets, to learn what Artemis Entreri was up to and to learn more about those friends of the halfling, whether they still lived or had died in Asavir’s Channel.

  If it had been anyone other than Entreri, Pook would have put his ruby pendant to use, but that option was not feasible with the dangerous assassin.

  Pook growled to himself as he exited the chamber. He had hoped, on Entreri’s return, that he would never have to take this route again, but with LaValle so obviously tied into the assassin’s games, Pook’s only option was Rassiter.

  * * *

  “You want him removed?” the wererat asked, liking the beginnings of this assignment as well as any that Pook had ever given him.

  “Do not flatter yourself,” Pook shot back. “Entreri is none of your affair, Rassiter, and beyond your power.”

  “You underestimate the strength of my guild.”

  “You underestimate the assassin’s network—probably numbering many of those you errantly call comrades,” Pook warned. “I want no war within my guild.”

  “Then what?” the wererat snapped in obvious disappointment.

  At Rassiter’s antagonistic tone, Pook began to finger the ruby pendant hanging around his neck. He could put Rassiter under its enchantment, he knew, but he preferred not to. Charmed individuals never performed as well as those acting of their own desires, and if Regis’s friends had truly escaped Pinochet, Rassiter and his cronies would have to be at their very best to defeat them.

  “Entreri may have been followed to Calimport,” Pook explained. “Friends of the halfling, I believe, and dangerous to our guild.”

  Rassiter leaned forward, feigning surprise. Of course, the wererat had already learned from Dondon of the Northerners’ approach.

  “They will be in the city soon,” Pook continued. “You haven’t much time.”

  They are already here, Rassiter answered silently, trying to hide his smile. “You want them captured?”

  “Eliminated,” Pook corrected. “This group is too mighty. No chances.”

  “Eliminated,” Rassiter echoed. “Ever my preference.”

  Pook couldn’t help but shudder. “Inform me when the task is complete,” he said, heading for the door.

  Rassiter silently laughed at his master’s back. “Ah, Pook,” he whispered as the guildmaster left, “how little you know of my influences.” The wererat rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The night grew long, and the Northerners would soon be on the streets—where Dondon would find them.

  18. Double Talker />
  Perched in his favorite corner, across Rogues Circle from the Spitting Camel, Dondon watched as the elf, the last of the four, moved into the inn to join his friends. The halfling pulled out a little pocket mirror to check his disguise—all the dirt and scruff marks seemed in the right places; his clothes were far too large, like those a waif would pull off an unconscious drunk in an ally; and his hair was appropriately tousled and snarled, as if it hadn’t been combed in years.

  Dondon looked longingly to the moon and inspected his chin with his fingers. Still hairless but tingling, he thought. The halfling took a deep breath, and then another, and fought back the lycanthropic urges. In the year he had joined Rassiter’s ranks, he had learned to sublimate those fiendish urges fairly well, but he hoped that he could finish his business quickly this night. The moon was especially bright.

  People of the street, locals, gave an approving wink as they passed the halfling, knowing the master con artist to be on the prowl once more. With his reputation, Dondon had long become ineffective against the regulars of Calimport’s streets, but those characters knew enough to keep their mouths shut about the halfling to strangers. Dondon always managed to surround himself with the toughest rogues of the city, and blowing his cover to an intended victim was a serious crime indeed!

  The halfling leaned back against the corner of a building to observe as the four friends emerged from the Spitting Camel a short time later.

  For Drizzt and his companions, Calimport’s night proved as unnatural as the sights they had witnessed during the day. Unlike the northern cities, where nighttime activities were usually relegated to the many taverns, the bustle of Calimport’s streets only increased after the sun went down.

  Even the lowly peasants took on a different demeanor, suddenly mysterious and sinister.

  The only section of the lane that remained uncluttered by the hordes was the area in front of the unmarked structure on the back side of the circle: the guildhouse. As in the daylight, bums sat against the building’s walls on either side of its single door, but now there were two more guards farther off to either side.

  “If Regis is in that place, we’ve got to find our way in,” Catti-brie observed.

  “No doubt that Regis is in there,” Drizzt replied. “Our hunt should start with Entreri.”

  “We’ve come to find Regis,” Catti-brie reminded him, casting a disappointed glance his way. Drizzt quickly clarified his answer to her satisfaction.

  “The road to Regis lies through the assassin,” he said. “Entreri has seen to that. You heard his words at the chasm of Garumn’s Gorge. Entreri will not allow us to find Regis until we have dealt with him.”

  Catti-brie could not deny the drow’s logic. When Entreri had snatched Regis from them back in Mithril Hall, he had gone to great pains to bait Drizzt into the chase, as though his capture of Regis was merely part of a game he was playing against Drizzt.

  “Where to begin?” Bruenor huffed in frustration. He had expected the street to be quieter, offering them a better opportunity to scope out the task before them. He had hoped that they might even complete their business that very night.

  “Right where we are,” Drizzt replied, to Bruenor’s amazement.

  “Learn the smell of the street,” the drow explained. “Watch the moves of its people and hear their sounds. Prepare your mind for what is to come.”

  “Time, elf!” Bruenor growled back. “Me heart tells me that Rumblebelly’s liken to have a whip at his back as we stand here smelling the stinkin’ street!”

  “We need not seek Entreri,” Wulfgar cut in, following Drizzt’s line of thinking. “The assassin will find us.”

  Almost on cue, as if Wulfgar’s statement had reminded them all of their dangerous surroundings, the four of them turned their eyes outward from their little huddle and watched the bustle of the street around them. Dark eyes peered at them from every corner; each person that ambled past cast them a sidelong glance. Calimport was not unaccustomed to strangers—it was a trading port, after all—but these four would stand out clearly on the streets of any city in the Realms. Recognizing their vulnerability, Drizzt decided to get them moving. He started off down Rogues Circle, motioning for the others to follow.

  Before Wulfgar, at the tail of the forming line, had even taken a step, however, a childish voice called out to him from the shadows of the Spitting Camel.

  “Hey,” it beckoned, “are you looking for a hit?”

  Wulfgar, not understanding, moved a bit closer and peered into the gloom. There stood Dondon, seeming a young, disheveled human boy.

  “What’re yer fer?” Bruenor asked, moving beside Wulfgar.

  Wulfgar pointed to the corner.

  “What’re yer fer?” Bruenor asked again, now targeting the diminutive, shadowy figure.

  “Looking for a hit?” Dondon reiterated, moving out from the gloom.

  “Bah!” Bruenor snorted, waving his hand. “Just a boy. Get ye gone, little one. We’ve no time for play!” He grabbed Wulfgar’s arm and turned away.

  “I can set you up,” Dondon said after them.

  Bruenor kept right on walking, Wulfgar beside him, but now Drizzt had stopped, noticing his companions’ delay, and had heard the boy’s last statement.

  “Just a boy!” Bruenor explained to the drow as he approached.

  “A street boy,” Drizzt corrected, stepping around Bruenor and Wulfgar and starting back, “with eyes and ears that miss little.

  “How can you set us up?” Drizzt whispered to Dondon while moving close to the building, out of sight of the too curious hordes.

  Dondon shrugged. “There is plenty to steal; a whole bunch of merchants came in today. What are you looking for?”

  Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie took up defensive positions around Drizzt and the boy, their eyes outward to the streets but their ears trained on the suddenly interesting conversation.

  Drizzt crouched low and led Dondon’s gaze with his own toward the building at the end of the circle.

  “Pook’s house,” Dondon remarked offhandedly. “Toughest house in Calimport.”

  “But it has a weakness,” Drizzt prompted.

  “They all do,” Dondon replied calmly, playing perfectly the role of a cocky street survivor.

  “Have you ever been in there?”

  “Maybe I have.”

  “Have you ever seen a hundred gold pieces?”

  Dondon let his eyes light up, and he purposely and pointedly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Get him back in the rooms,” Catti-brie said. “Ye be drawing too many looks out here.”

  Dondon readily agreed, but he shot Drizzt a warning in the form of an icy stare and proclaimed, “I can count to a hundred!”

  When they got back to the room, Drizzt and Bruenor fed Dondon a steady stream of coins while the halfling laid out the way to a secret back entrance to the guildhouse. “Even the thieves,” Dondon proclaimed, “do not know of it!”

  The friends gathered closely, eager for the details.

  Dondon made the whole operation sound easy.

  Too easy.

  Drizzt rose—and turned away, hiding his chuckle from the informant. Hadn’t they just been talking about Entreri making contact? Barely minutes before this enlightening boy so conveniently arrived to guide them.

  “Wulfgar, take off his shoes,” Drizzt said. His three friends turned to him curiously. Dondon squirmed in his chair.

  “His shoes,” Drizzt said again, turning back and pointing to Dondon’s feet. Bruenor, so long a friend of a halfling, caught the drow’s reasoning and didn’t wait for Wulfgar to respond. The dwarf grabbed at Dondon’s left boot and pulled it off, revealing a thick patch of foot hair—the foot of a halfling.

  Dondon shrugged helplessly and sank back in his chair. The meeting was taking the exact course that Entreri had predicted.

  “He said he could set us up,” Catti-brie remarked sarcastically, twisting Dondon’s words into a more sinis
ter light.

  “Who sent ye?” Bruenor growled.

  “Entreri,” Wulfgar answered for Dondon. “He works for Entreri, sent here to lead us into a trap.” Wulfgar leaned over Dondon, blocking out the candlelight with his huge frame.

  Bruenor pushed the barbarian aside and took his place. With his boyish looks, Wulfgar simply could not be as imposing as the pointy-nosed, red-bearded, fire-eyed dwarven fighter with the battered helm. “So, ye little sneakster,” Bruenor growled into Dondon’s face. “Now we deal for yer stinkin’ tongue! Wag it the wrong way, and I’ll be cutting it out!”

  Dondon paled—he had that act down pat—and began to tremble visibly.

  “Calm yerself,” Catti-brie said to Bruenor, playing out a lighter role this time. “Suren ye’ve scared the little one enough.”

  Bruenor shoved her back, turning enough away from Dondon to toss her a wink. “Scared him?” the dwarf balked. He brought his axe up to his shoulder. “More than scarin’ him’s in me plans!”

  “Wait! Wait!” Dondon begged, groveling as only a halfling could. “I was just doing what the assassin made me do, and paid me to do.”

  “You know Entreri?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Everybody knows Entreri,” Dondon replied. “And in Calimport, everybody heeds Entreri’s commands!”

  “Forget Entreri!” Bruenor growled in his face. “Me axe’ll stop that one from hurting yerself.”

  “You think you can kill Entreri?” Dondon shot back, though he knew the true meaning of Bruenor’s claim.

  “Entreri can’t hurt a corpse,” Bruenor replied grimly. “Me axe’ll beat him to yer head!”

  “It is you he wants,” Dondon said to Drizzt, seeking a calmer situation.

  Drizzt nodded, but remained silent. Something came across as out of place in this out of place meeting.

  “I choose no sides,” Dondon pleaded to Bruenor, seeing no relief forthcoming from Drizzt. “I only do what I must to survive.”