Robert Salvatore - The Halfling’s Gem

A strange combination of odors wafted through Memnon’s hot air: that of a sewer that ran through a perfume market, mixed with the pungent sweat and malodorous breath of the ever-pressing crowd. Shacks were thrown up randomly, it seemed, giving Memnon no apparent design or structure. Streets were any way that was not blocked by homes, though the four friends had all come to the conclusion that the streets themselves served as homes for many people.

At the center of all the bustle were the merchants. They lined every lane, selling weapons, foodstuffs, exotic pipe weeds—even slaves shamelessly displaying their goods in whatever manner would attract a crowd. On one corner, potential buyers test-fired a large crossbow by shooting down a boxed-in range, complete with live slave targets. On another, a woman showing more skin than clothing—and that being no more than translucent veils—twisted and writhed in a synchronous dance with a gigantic snake, wrapping herself within the huge reptilian coils and then slipping teasingly back out again.

Wide-eyed and with his mouth hanging open, Wulfgar stopped, mesmerized by the strange and seductive dance, drawing a slap across the back of his head from Catti-brie and amused chuckles from his other two companions.

“Never have I so longed for home,” the huge barbarian sighed, truly overwhelmed.

“It is another adventure, nothing more,” Drizzt reminded him. “Nowhere might you learn more than in a land unlike your own.”

“True enough,” said Catti-brie. “But by me eyes, these folk be making decadence into society.”

“They live by different rules,” Drizzt replied. “They would, perhaps, be equally offended by the ways of the North.”

The others had no response to that, and Bruenor, never surprised but always amazed by eccentric human ways, just wagged his red beard.

Outfitted for adventure, the friends were far from a novelty in the trading city. But, being foreigners, they attracted a crowd, mostly naked, black-tanned children begging for tokens and coins. The merchants eyed the adventurers, too—foreigners usually brought in wealth—and one particularly lascivious set of eyes settled onto them firmly.

“Well, well?” the weaseling merchant asked his hunchbacked companion.

“Magic, magic everywhere, my master,” the broken little goblin lisped hungrily, absorbing the sensations his magical wand imparted to him. He replaced the wand on his belt. “Strongest on the weapons—elf’s swords, both, dwarf’s axe, girl’s bow, and especially the big one’s hammer!” He thought of mentioning the odd sensations his wand had imparted about the elf’s face, but decided not to make his excitable master any more nervous than was necessary.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” cackled the merchant, waggling his fingers. He slipped out to intercept the strangers.

Bruenor, leading the troupe, stopped short at the sight of the wiry man dressed in yellow-and-red striped robes and a flaming pink turban with a huge diamond set in its front.

“Ha ha ha ha ha. Greetings!” the man spouted at them, his fingers drumming on his own chest and his ear-to-ear smile showing every other tooth to be golden and those in between to be ivory. “I be Sali Dalib, I do be, I do be! You buy, I sell. Good deal, good deal!” His words came out too fast to be immediately sorted, and the friends looked at each other, shrugged, and started away.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” the merchant pressed, wiggling back in their path. “What you need, Sali Dalib got. In plenty, too, many. Tookie, nookie, bookie.”

“Smoke weed, women, and tomes in every language known to the world,” the lisping little goblin translated. “My master is a merchant of anything and everything!”

“Bestest o’ de bestest!” Sali Dalib asserted. “What you need—”

“Sali Dalib got,” Bruenor finished for him. The dwarf looked to Drizzt, confident that they were thinking the same thing: The sooner they were out of Memnon, the better. One weird merchant would serve as well as another.

“Horses,” the dwarf told the merchant.

“We wish to get to Calimport,” Drizzt explained.

“Horses, horses? Ha ha ha ha ha,” replied Sali Dalib without missing a beat. “Not for long ride, no. Too hot, too dry. Camels de thing!”

“Camels…desert horses,” the goblin explained, seeing the dumbfounded expressions. He pointed to a large dromedary being led down the street by its tan-robed master. “Much better for ride across the desert.”

“Camels, then,” snorted Bruenor, eyeing the massive beast tentatively. “Or whatever’ll do!”

Sali Dalib rubbed his hands together eagerly. “What you need—”

Bruenor threw his hand out to stop the excited merchant. “We know, we know.”

Sali Dalib sent his assistant away with some private instructions and led the friends through the maze of Memnon at great speed, though he never seemed to lift his feet from the ground as he shuffled along. All the while, the merchant held his hands out in front of him, his fingers twiddling and tap-tapping. But he seemed harmless enough, and the friends were more amused than worried.

Sali Dalib pulled up short before a large tent on the western end of the city, a poorer section even by Memnon’s paupers’ standards. Around the back, the merchant found what he was looking for. “Camels!” he proclaimed proudly.

“How much for four?” Bruenor huffed, anxious to get the dealings over with and get back on the road. Sali Dalib seemed not to understand.

“The price?” the dwarf asked.

“De price?”

“He wants an offer,” Catti-brie observed.

Drizzt understood as well. Back in Menzoberranzan, the city of drow, merchants used the same technique. By getting the buyer especially a buyer not familiar with the goods for sale—to make the first mention of price, they often received many times the value of their goods. And if the bid came in too low, the merchant could always hold out for the proper market value.

“Five hundred gold pieces for the four,” Drizzt offered, guessing the beasts to be at least twice that value.

Sali Dalib’s fingers began their tap dance again, and a sparkle came into his pale gray eyes. Drizzt expected a tirade and then an outlandish counter, but Sali Dalib suddenly calmed and flashed his gold-and-ivory smile.

“Agreed!” he replied.

Drizzt caught his tongue before his planned retort left his mouth in a meaningless gurgle. He cast a curious look at the merchant, then turned to count out the gold from the sack Deudermont had given him.

“Fifty more for ye if ye can get us hooked with a caravan for Calimport,” Bruenor offered.

Sali Dalib assumed a contemplative stance, tapping his fingers against the dark bristles on his chin. “But there is one out dis very now,” he replied. “You can catch it with little trouble. But you should. Last one to Calimport for de week.”

“To the south!” the dwarf cried happily to his companions.

“De south? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sali Dalib blurted. “Not de south! De south is for thief bait!”

“Calimport is south,” Bruenor retorted suspiciously. “And so’s the road, by me guessing.”

“De road to Calimport is south,” Sali Dalib agreed, “but those who be smart start to de west, on de bestest road.”

Drizzt handed a pouch of gold to the merchant. “How do we catch the caravan?”

“De west,” Sali Dalib replied, dropping the pouch into a deep pocket without even inspecting the contents. “Only out one hour. Easy catch, dis. Follow de signposts on de horizon. No problem.”

“We’ll need supplies,” Catti-brie remarked.

“Caravan is well-stocked,” answered Sali Dalib. “Bestest place to buy. Now be going. Catch dem before dey turn south to de Trade Way!” He moved to help them select their mounts: a large dromedary for Wulfgar, a two-bumper for Drizzt, and smaller ones for Catti-brie and Bruenor.