Robert Salvatore - The Halfling’s Gem

“Your friends pursue us by sea,” he said. “And less than a week behind! They have done well.”

Regis’s eyes did not flicker in hope at the news. The climate change was very evident now, every day and every night. They had left the winter far behind, and the hot winds of the southern Realms had settled uneasily on the halfling’s spirits. The trip to Calimport would not be interrupted by any other stops, and no ship—even one less than a week behind—could hope to catch the speedy Devil Dancer.

Regis wrestled against an inner dilemma, trying to come to terms with the inevitability of his meeting with his old guildmaster.

Pasha Pook was not a forgiving man. Regis had personally witnessed Pook dealing out severe punishments to those thieves who dared to steal from other members of the guild. And Regis had gone even a step further than that; he had stolen from the guildmaster himself. And the item he had plucked, the magical ruby pendant, was Pook’s most treasured possession. Defeated and despairing, Regis put his head down and walked slowly back toward his cabin.

The halfling’s somber mood did nothing to quell the tingle running through Entreri’s spine. Pook would get the gem and the halfling, and Entreri would be paid well for the service. But in the assassin’s mind, Pook’s gold was not the true reward for his efforts.

Entreri wanted Drizzt Do’Urden.

Drizzt and Wulfgar also watched the fireworks over Baldur’s Gate that night. Back in the open sea, but still more than a hundred and fifty miles north of the Devil Dancer, they could only guess at the display’s significance.

“A wizard,” Deudermont remarked, coming over to join the two. “Perhaps he does battle with some great aerial beast,” the captain offered, trying to draw up some entertaining story. “A dragon or some other monster of the sky!” Drizzt squinted to gain a closer look at the fiery bursts. He saw no dark forms weaving around the flares, nor any hint that they were aimed at a particular target. But possibly the Sea Sprite was simply too far away for him to discern such detail.

“Not a fight—a signal,” Wulfgar blurted, recognizing a pattern to the explosions. “Three and one. Three and one.

“It seems a bit of trouble for a simple signal,” Wulfgar added. “Would not a rider carrying a note serve better?”

“Unless it is meant as a signal to a ship,” offered Deudermont.

Drizzt had already entertained that very thought, and he was becoming more than a little suspicious of the display’s source, and of its purpose.

Deudermont studied the display a moment longer. “Perhaps it is a signal,” he conceded, recognizing the accuracy of Wulfgar’s observations of a pattern. “Many ships put in to and out of Baldur’s Gate each day. A wizard greeting some friends or saying farewell in grand fashion.”

“Or relaying information,” Drizzt added, glancing up at Wulfgar. Wulfgar did not miss the drow’s point; Drizzt could tell by the barbarian’s scowl that Wulfgar was entertaining similar suspicions.

“But for us, a show and nothing more,” Deudermont said, bidding them good night with a pat on the shoulder. “An amusement to be enjoyed.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, seriously doubting Deudermont’s assessment.

“What game does Artemis Entreri play?” Pook asked rhetorically, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Oberon, the wizard in the crystal ball, shrugged. “Never have I pretended to understand the motives of Artemis Entreri.”

Pook nodded his accord and continued to pace behind LaValle’s chair.

“Yet I would guess that these two have little to do with your pendant,” said Oberon.

“Some personal vendetta Entreri acquired along his travels,” agreed Pook.

“Friends of the halfling?” wondered Oberon. “Then why would Entreri lead them in the right direction?”

“Whoever they may be, they can only bring trouble,” said LaValle, seated between his guildmaster and the scrying device.

“Perhaps Entreri plans to lay an ambush for them,” Pook suggested to Oberon. “That would explain his need for your signal.”

“Entreri instructed the harbormaster to tell them that he would meet them in Calimport,” Oberon reminded Pook.

“To throw them off,” said LaValle. “To make them believe that the way would be clear until they arrived in the southern port.”

“That is not the way of Artemis Entreri,” said Oberon, and Pook was thinking the same thing. “I have never known the assassin to use such obvious tricks to gain the upper hand in a contest. It is Entreri’s deepest pleasure to meet and crush challengers face to face.”

The two wizards and the guildmaster who had survived and thrived by his ability to react to such puzzles appropriately all held their thoughts for a moment to consider the possibilities. All that Pook cared about was the return of his precious pendant. With it he could expand his powers ten times, perhaps even gaining the favor of the ruling Pasha of Calimshan himself.

“I do not like this,” Pook said at length. “I want no complications to the return of the halfling, or of my pendant.”

He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over LaValle’s back to get close to Oberon’s image. “Do you still have contact with Pinochet?” he asked the wizard slyly.

Oberon guessed the guildmaster’s meaning. “The pirate does not forget his friends,” he answered in the same tone, “Pinochet contacts me every time he finds his way to Baldur’s Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is well with his old friend.”

“And is he now in the isles?”

“The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep,” Oberon replied with a chuckle. “Where else would a successful pirate be?”

“Good,” muttered Pook.

“Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri’s pursuers?” Oberon asked eagerly, enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.

“Three ships—no chances,” said Pook. “Nothing shall interfere with the halfling’s return. He and I have so very much to discuss!”

Oberon considered the task for a moment. “A pity,” he remarked. “The Sea Sprite was a fine vessel.”

Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he would tolerate no mistakes.

“Was.”

The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue, perhaps.

Blood, perhaps.

The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.

But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister laugh from an unseen torturer.

The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.

There was a pause in the descent.

Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending the crank spinning.

A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony—a cry of death.

Sweat stung Bruenor’s eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.

He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn’t helped; this night had been like the others: another nightmare.

Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the room’s single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt’s scimitar, and two helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.