Robert Salvatore - The Halfling’s Gem

Rassiter shook his head in disbelief as he passed, convinced that Entreri still had not blinked.

“You were gone. My pendant was gone,” Pook explained when the door closed again. “Rassiter has helped me retain, even expand, the strength of the guild.”

“He is a wererat,” Entreri remarked, as if that fact alone ended any argument.

“Head of their guild,” Pook replied, “but they are loyal enough and easy to control.” He held up the ruby pendant. “Easier now.”

Entreri had trouble coming to terms with that, even in light of Pook’s futile attempt at an explanation. He wanted time to consider the new development, to figure out just how much things had changed around the guildhouse. “My room?” he asked.

LaValle shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at Pook. “I have been using it,” the wizard stammered, “but quarters are being built for me.” He looked to the door newly cut into the wall between the harem and Entreri’s old room. “They should be completed any day. I can be out of your room in minutes.”

“No need,” Entreri replied, thinking the arrangements better as they were. He wanted some space from Pook for a while, anyway, to better assess the situation before him and plan his next moves. “I will find a room below, where I might better understand the new ways of the guild.”

LaValle relaxed with an audible sigh.

Entreri picked Regis up by the collar. “What am I to do with this one?”

Pook crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “I have thought of a million tortures befitting your crime,” he said to Regis. “Too many, I see, for, truly, I have no idea of how to properly repay you for what you have done to me.” He looked back to Entreri. “No matter,” he chuckled. “It will come to me. Put him in the Cells of Nine.”

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.