Robert Salvatore - The Halfling’s Gem

And there was that nasty situation with Mancas Tiveros, a fellow mage. “Mancas the Mighty,” the other wizards of Calimport had called him, and they had pitied LaValle when he and Mancas fell into dispute concerning the origins of a particular spell. Both had claimed credit for the discovery, and everyone waited for an expected war of magic to erupt. But Mancas suddenly and unexplainedly went away, leaving a note disclaiming his role in the spell’s creation and giving full credit to LaValle. Mancas had never been seen again—in Calimport or anywhere else.

“Ah, well,” LaValle sighed, turning back to his crystal ball. Artemis Entreri had his uses.

The door to the room opened, and Pook stuck his head back in. “Send a messenger to the carpenter’s guild,” he said to LaValle. “Tell them that we shall need several skilled men immediately.”

LaValle tilted his head in disbelief.

“The harem and treasury are to stay,” Pook said emphatically, feigning frustration over his wizard’s inability to see the logic. “And certainly I am not conceding my chamber!”

LaValle frowned as he thought he began to understand.

“Nor am I about to tell Artemis Entreri that he cannot have his own room back,” said Pook. “Not after he has performed his mission so excellently!”

“I understand,” said the wizard glumly, thinking himself relegated once again to the lower levels.

“So a sixth room must be built,” laughed Pook, enjoying his little game. “Between Entreri’s and the harem.” He winked again at his valued assistant. “You may design it yourself, my dear LaValle. And spare no expense!” He shut the door and was gone.

The wizard wiped the moisture from his eyes. Pook always surprised him, but never disappointed him. “You are a generous master, my Pasha Pook,” he whispered to the empty room.

And truly Pasha Pook was a masterful leader as well, for LaValle turned back to his crystal ball, his teeth gritted in determination. He would find Entreri and the halfling. He wouldn’t disappoint his generous master.

Now running with the currents of the Chionthar, and with the breeze at enough of an angle from the north for the sails to catch a bit of a push, the Sea Sprite cruised away from Baldur’s Gate at a tremendous rate, spitting a white spray despite the concurrent movement of the water.

“The Sword Coast by midafternoon,” Deudermont said to Drizzt and Wulfgar. “And off the coast, with no land in sight until we make Asavir’s Channel. Then a southern journey around the edge of the world and back east to Calimport.

“Calimport,” he said again, indicating a new pennant making its way up the mast of the Sea Sprite, a golden field crossed by slanted blue lines.

Drizzt looked at Deudermont suspiciously, knowing that this was not an ordinary practice of sailing vessels.

“We run Waterdeep’s flag north of Baldur’s Gate,” the captain explained. “Calimport’s south.”

“An acceptable practice?” Drizzt asked.

“For those who know the price,” chuckled Deudermont. “Waterdeep and Calimport are rivals, and stubborn in their feud. They desire trade with each other—they can only profit from it but do not always allow ships flying the other’s flag to dock in their harbors.”

“A foolish pride,” Wulfgar remarked, painfully reminded of some similar traditions his own clannish people had practiced only a few years before.

“Politics,” Deudermont said with a shrug. “But the lords of both cities secretly desire the trade, and a few dozen ships have made the connections to keep business moving. The Sea Sprite has two ports to call home, and everyone profits from the arrangement.”

“Two markets for Captain Deudermont,” Drizzt remarked slyly. “Practical.”

“And it makes good sailing sense as well,” Deudermont continued, his smile still wide. “Pirates running the waters north of Baldur’s Gate respect the banner of Waterdeep above all others, and those south of here take care not to rouse the anger of Calimport and her massive armada. The pirates along Asavir’s Channel have many merchant ships to pick from in the straights, and they are more likely to raid one that carries a flag of less weight.”

“And you are never bothered?” Wulfgar couldn’t help but ask, his voice tentative and almost sarcastic, as though he hadn’t yet figured out if he approved of the practice.

“Never?” echoed Deudermont. “Not ‘never,’ but rarely. And on those occasions that pirates come at us, we fill our sails and run. Few ships can catch the Sea Sprite when her sails are full of wind.”

“And if they do catch you?” asked Wulfgar.

“That is where you two can earn your passage,” Deadermont laughed. “My guess is that those weapons you carry might soften a looting pirate’s desire to continue the pursuit.”

Wulfgar brought Aegis-fang up in front of him. “I pray that I have learned the movements of a ship well enough for such a battle,” he said. “An errant swing might send me over the rail!”

“Then swim to the side of the pirate ship,” Drizzt mused, “and tip her over!”

From a darkened chamber in his tower in Baldur’s Gate, the wizard Oberon watched the Sea Sprite sail out. He probed deeper into the crystal ball to scry the elf and huge barbarian standing beside the ship’s captain on the deck. They were not from these parts, the wizard knew. By his dress and his coloring, the barbarian was more likely from one of those distant tribes far to the north, beyond even Luskan and around the Spine of the World mountains, in that desolate stretch of land known as Icewind Dale. How far he was from home, and how unusual to see one of his kind sailing the open sea!

“What part could these two play in the return of Pasha Pook’s gem?” Oberon wondered aloud, truly intrigued. Had Entreri gone all the way to that distant strip of tundra in search of the halfling? Were these two pursuing him south?

But it was not the wizard’s affair. Oberon was just glad that Entreri had called in the debt with so easy a favor. The assassin had killed for Oberon—more than once—several years ago, and though Entreri had never mentioned the favors in his many visits to Oberon’s tower, the wizard had always felt as if the assassin held a heavy chain around his neck. But this very night, the long-standing debt would be cleared in the puff of a simple signal.

Oberon’s curiosity kept him tuned to the departing Sea Sprite a bit longer. He focused upon the elf—Drizzt Do’Urden, as Pellman, the harbormaster, had called him. To the wizard’s experienced eye, something seemed amiss about this elf. Not out of place, as the barbarian seemed. Rather something in the way Drizzt carried himself or looked about with those unique, lavender orbs.

Those eyes just did not seem to fit the overall persona of that elf, Drizzt Do’Urden.

An enchantment, perhaps, Oberon guessed. Some magical disguise. The curious wizard wished that he had more information to report to Pasha Pook. He considered the possibilities of whisking himself away to the deck of the ship to investigate further, but he hadn’t the proper spells prepared for such an undertaking. Besides, he reminded himself again, this was not his affair.

And he did not want to cross Artemis Entreri.

That same night, Oberon flew out of his tower and climbed into the night sky, a wand in hand. Hundreds of feet above the city, he loosed the proper sequence of fireballs.

Riding the decks of a Calimport ship named Devil Dancer, two hundred miles to the south, Artemis Entreri watched the display. “By sea,” he muttered, noting the sequence of the bursts. He turned to the halfling standing beside him.