Robert Salvatore - The Halfling’s Gem

But Regis.

Bruenor never had doubted that the halfling’s carefree manner of living, stepping on toes with a half-apologetic and half-amused shrug, would eventually get him in mud too deep for his little legs to carry him through. Rumblebelly had been a fool to steal the guildmaster’s ruby pendant.

But “just deserts” did nothing to dispel the dwarf’s pity at his halfling friend’s dilemma, nor Bruenor’s anger at his own inability to help. By his station, his place was here, and he would lead the gathering armies to victory and glory, crushing the duergar and bringing a level of prosperity back to Mithril Hall. His new kingdom would be the envy of the North, with crafted items that rivaled the works of the ancient days flowing out into the trade routes all across the Realms.

It had been his dream, the goal of his life since that terrible day nearly two centuries before, when Clan Battlehammer had been nearly wiped out and those few who had survived, mostly children, had been chased out of their homeland to the meager mines of Icewind Dale.

Bruenor’s lifelong dream was to return, but how hollow it seemed to him now, with his friends caught in a desperate chase across the southland.

The last light left the sky, and the stars blinked to life. Nighttime, Bruenor thought with a bit of comfort.

The time of the drow.

The first hints of his smile dissipated, though, as soon as they began, as Bruenor suddenly came to view the deepening gloom in a different perspective. “Nighttime,” he whispered aloud.

The time of the assassin.

The simple wooden structure at the end of Rogues Circle seemed understated even for the decrepit side of the sprawling southern city of Calimport. The building had few windows, all boarded or barred, and not a terrace or balcony to speak of. Similarly, no lettering identified the building, not even a number on the door to place it. But everyone in the city knew the house and marked it well, for beyond either of its iron-bound doors, the scene changed—dramatically. Where the outside showed only the weathered brown of old wood, the inside displayed a myriad of bright colors and tapestries, thickly woven carpets, and statues of solid gold. This was the thieves’ guild, rivaling the palace of Calimshan’s ruler himself in riches and decor.

It rose three floors from the street level, with two more levels hidden below. The highest level was the finest, with five rooms—an octagonal central hall and four antechambers off it—all designed for the comfort and convenience of one man: Pasha Pook. He was the guildmaster, the architect of an intricate thieving network. And he made certain that he was the first to enjoy the spoils of his guild’s handiwork.

Pook paced the highest level’s central hall, his audience chamber, stopping every circuit to stroke the shining coat of the leopard that lay beside his great chair. An uncharacteristic anxiety was etched upon the guildmaster’s round face, and he twiddled his fingers nervously when he was not petting his exotic pet.

His clothes were of the finest silk, but other than the brooch that fastened his wrappings, he wore none of the abundant jewelry customary among others of his station—though his teeth did gleam of solid gold. In truth, Pook seemed a half-sized version of one of the four hill giant eunuchs that lined the hall, an inconspicuous appearance for a silver-tongued guildmaster who had brought sultans to their knees and whose name sent the sturdiest of the ruffian street dwellers scurrying for dark holes.

Pook nearly jumped when a loud knock resounded off the room’s main door, the one to the lower levels. He hesitated for a long moment, assuring himself that he would make the other man squirm for waiting—though he really needed the time to compose himself. Then he absently motioned to one of the eunuchs and moved to the overstuffed throne on the raised platform opposite the door and dropped a hand again to his pampered cat.

A lanky fighter entered, his thin rapier dancing to the swagger of his stride. He wore a black cape that floated behind him and was bunched at his neck. His thick brown hair curled into and around it. His clothes were dark and plain but crisscrossed by straps and belts, each with a pouch or sheathed dagger or some other unusual weapon hanging from it. His high leather boots, worn beyond any creases, made no sound other than the timed clump of his agile stride.

“Greetings, Pook,” he said informally.

Pook’s eyes narrowed immediately at the sight of the man. “Rassiter,” he replied to the wererat.

Rassiter walked up to the throne and bowed halfheartedly, throwing the reclining leopard a distasteful glance. Flashing a rotted smile that revealed his lowly heritage, he put one foot upon the chair and bent low to let the guildmaster feel the heat of his breath.

Pook glanced at the dirty boot on his beautiful chair, then back at the man with a smile that even the uncouth Rassiter noticed was a bit too disarming. Figuring that he might be taking his familiarity with his partner a bit too far, Rassiter removed his foot from its perch and shuffled back a step.

Pook’s smile faded, but he was satisfied. “It is done?” he asked the man.

Rassiter danced a circle and nearly laughed out loud. “Of course,” he answered, and he pulled a pearl necklace from his pouch.

Pook frowned at the sight, just the expression the sly fighter had expected. “Must you kill them all?” the guildmaster said in a hiss.

Rassiter shrugged and replaced the necklace. “You said you wanted her removed. She is removed.”

Pook’s hands clutched the arms of the throne. “I said I wanted her taken from the streets until the job was completed!”

“She knew too much,” Rassiter replied, examining his fingernails.

“She was a valuable wench,” Pook said, back in control now. Few men could anger Pasha Pook as did Rassiter, and fewer still would have left the chamber alive.

“One of a thousand,” chuckled the lanky fighter.

Another door opened, and an older man entered, his purple robes embroidered with golden stars and quartermoons and a huge diamond fastening his high turban. “I must see—”

Pook cast him a sidelong glance. “Not now, LaValle.”

“But Master—”

Pook’s eyes went dangerously thin again, nearly matching the lines of his lipless grimace. The old man bowed apologetically and disappeared back through the door, closing it carefully and silently behind him.

Rassiter laughed at the spectacle. “Well done!”

“You should learn LaValle’s manners,” Pook said to him.

“Come, Pook, we are partners,” Rassiter replied. He skipped over to one of the room’s two windows, the one that looked south to the docks and the wide ocean. “The moon will be full tonight,” he said excitedly, spinning back on Pook. “You should join us, Pasha! A grand feasting there will be!”

Pook shuddered to think of the macabre table that Rassiter and his fellow wererats planned to set. Perhaps the wench was not yet dead…

He shook away such thoughts. “I am afraid I must decline,” he said quietly.

Rassiter understood—and had purposely enticed—Pook’s disgust. He danced back over and put his foot on the throne, again showing Pook that foul smile. “You do not know what you are missing,” he said. “But the choice is yours; that was our deal.” He spun away and bowed low. “And you are the master.”

“An arrangement that does well by you and yours,” Pook reminded him.

Rassiter turned his palms out in concession, then clapped his hands together. “I cannot argue that my guild fares better since you brought us in.” He bowed again. “Forgive my insolence, my dear friend, but I can hardly contain the mirth of my fortunes. And tonight the moon will be full!”