The blackness swirled over Regis once again.

* * * * *

When he entered the chamber, Entreri found that he had been expected. Pook sat comfortably on his throne, LaValle, by his side and his favorite leopard at his feet, and none of them flinched at the sudden appearance of the two long-lost associates.

The assassin and the guildmaster stared silently at each other for a long time.

Entreri studied the man carefully. He hadn't expected so formal a meeting.

Something was wrong.

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Entreri pulled Regis off his shoulder and held him out - still upside down - at arm's length, as if presenting a trophy. Convinced that the halfling was oblivious to the world at that moment, Entreri released his hold, letting Regis drop heavily to the floor.

That drew a chuckle from Pook. "It has been a long three years," the guildmaster said, breaking the tension.

Entreri nodded. "I told you at the outset that this one might take time. The little thief ran to the corners of the world."

"But not beyond your grasp, eh?" Pook said, somewhat sarcastically. "You have performed your task excellently, as always, Master Entreri. Your reward shall be as promised." Pook sat back on his throne again and resumed his distant posture, rubbing a finger over his lips and eyeing Entreri suspiciously.

Entreri didn't have any idea why Pook, after so many difficult years and a successful completion of the mission, would treat him so badly. Regis had eluded the guildmaster's grip for more than half a decade before Pook finally sent Entreri on the chase. With that record preceding him, Entreri did not think three years such a long time to complete the mission.

And the assassin refused to play such cryptic games. "If there is a problem, speak it," he said bluntly.

"There was a problem," Pook replied mysteriously, emphasizing the past tense of his statement.

Entreri rocked back a step, now fully at a loss - one of the very few times in his life.

Regis stirred at that moment and managed to sit up, but the two men, engaged in the important conversation, paid him no notice.

"You were being followed," Pook explained, knowing better than to play a teasing game for too long with the killer. "Friends of the halfling?"

Regis's ears perked up.

Entreri took a long moment to consider his response. He guessed what Pook was getting at, and it was easy for him to figure out that Oberon must have informed the guildmaster of more than his return with Regis. He made a mental note to visit the wizard the next time he was in Baldur's Gate, to explain to Oberon the proper limits of spying and the proper restraints of loyalty. No one ever crossed Artemis Entreri twice.

"It does not matter," Pook said, seeing no answer forthcoming. "They will bother us no more."

Regis felt sick. This was the southland, the home of Pasha Pook. If Pook had learned of his friends' pursuit, he certainly could have eliminated them.

Entreri understood that, too. He fought to maintain his calm while a burning rage reared up inside him. "I tend to my own affairs," he growled at Pook, his tone confirming to the guildmaster that he had indeed been playing a private game with his pursuers.

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"And I to mine!" Pook shot back, straightening in his chair. "I know not what connection this elf and barbarian hold to you, Entreri, but they have nothing to do with my pendant!" He collected himself quickly and sat back, realizing that the confrontation was getting too dangerous to continue. "I could not take the risk."

The tension eased out of Entreri's taut muscles. He did not wish a war with Pook and he could not change what was past. "How?" he asked.

"Pirates," Pook replied. "Pinochet owed me a favor."

"It is confirmed?"

"Why do you care?" Pook asked. "You are here. The halfling is here. My pen -"

He stopped suddenly, realizing that he hadn't yet seen the ruby pendant.

Now it was Pook's turn to sweat and wonder. "It is confirmed?" Entreri asked again, making no move toward the magical pendant that hung, concealed, about his neck.

"Not yet," Pook stammered, "but three ships were sent after the one. There can be no doubt."

Entreri hid his smile. He knew the powerful drow and barbarian well enough to consider them alive until their bodies had been paraded before him. "Yes, there can indeed be doubt," he whispered under his breath as he pulled the ruby pendant over his head and tossed it to the guildmaster.

Pook caught it in trembling hands, knowing immediately from its familiar tingle that it was the true gem. What power he would wield now! With the magical ruby in his hands, Artemis Entreri returned to his side, and Rassiter's wererats under his command, he would be unstoppable!

LaValle put a steadying hand on the guildmaster's shoulder. Pook, beaming in anticipation of his growing power, looked up at him.

"Your reward shall be as promised," Pook said again to Entreri as soon as he had caught his breath. "And more!"

Entreri bowed. "Well met, then, Pasha Pook," he replied. "It is good to be home."

"Concerning the elf and barbarian," Pook said, suddenly entertaining second thoughts about ever mistrusting the assassin.

Entreri stopped him with outstretched palms. "A watery grave serves them as well as Calimport's sewers," he said. "Let us not worry about what is behind us."

Pook's smile engulfed his round face. "Agreed, and well met, then," he beamed.

"Especially when there is such pleasurable business ahead of us." He turned an evil eye upon Regis, but the halfling, sitting stooped over on the floor beside Entreri, didn't notice.

Regis was still trying to digest the news about his friends. At that moment, he didn't care how their deaths might affect his own future or lack of one. He only cared that they were gone. First Bruenor in Mithril Hall, then Drizzt and Wulfgar, and 117

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possibly Catti-brie, as well. Next to that, Pasha Pook's threats seemed hollow indeed.

What could Pook ever do to him that would hurt as much as those losses?

"Many sleepless nights I have spent fretting over the disappointment you have caused me," Pook said to Regis. "And many more I have spent considering how I would repay you!"

The door swung open, interrupting Pook's train of thought. The guildmaster did not have to look up to know who had dared to enter without permission. Only one man in the guild would have such nerve.

Rassiter swept into the room and cut an uncomfortably close circle as he inspected the newcomers. "Greetings, Pook," he said offhandedly, his eyes locking onto the assassin's stern gaze.

Pook said nothing but dropped his chin into his hand to watch. He had anticipated the meeting for a long time.

Rassiter stood nearly a foot taller than Entreri, a fact that only added to the wererat's already cocky attitude. Like so many simpleton bullies, Rassiter often confused size with strength, and looking down at this man who was a legend on the streets of Calimport - and thus his rival - made him think that he had already gained the upper hand. "So, you are the great Artemis Entreri," he said, contempt evident in his voice.

Entreri didn't blink. Murder was in his eyes as his gaze followed Rassiter, who still circled. Even Regis was dumbfounded at the stranger's boldness. No one ever moved so casually around Entreri.

"Greetings," Rassiter said at length, satisfied with his scan. He bowed low. "I am Rassiter, Pasha Pook's closest advisor and controller of the docks."

Still Entreri did not respond. He looked over to Pook for an explanation.

The guildmaster returned Entreri's curious gaze with a smirk and lifted his palms in a helpless gesture.

Rassiter carried his familiarity even further. "You and I," he half-whispered to Entreri, "we can do great things together." He started to place a hand on the assassin's shoulder, but Entreri turned him back with an icy glare, a look so deadly that even cocky Rassiter began to understand the peril of his course.

"You may find that I have much to offer you," Rassiter said, taking a cautious step back. Seeing no response forthcoming, he turned to Pook. "Would you like me to take care of the little thief?" he asked, grinning his yellow smile.

"That one is mine, Rassiter," Pook replied firmly. "You and yours keep your furry hands off him!"

Entreri did not miss the reference.

"Of course," Rassiter replied. "I have business, then. I will be going." He bowed quickly and spun to leave, meeting Entreri's eyes one final time. He could not hold that icy stare - could not match the sheer intensity of the assassin's gaze - with his own.

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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 infamous 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 119

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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.

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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.

He stood now, as still as a statue, and consciously worked to fill his mind with thoughts of his recent past, of the ten years he had spent outside Calimport. Many adventures he had seen on his travels, many perils he had come through. Regis replayed those battles and escapes over and over in his mind, trying to recapture the sheer excitement he had experienced - active thoughts that would help to keep him awake.

For if weariness overtook him and he fell to the floor, some part of him might get too close to one of the cats.

More than one prisoner had been clawed in the foot and dragged to the side to be ripped apart.

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And even those who survived the Cells of Nine would never forget the ravenous stares of those sixteen gleaming eyes.

122

14

Dancing Snakes

Luck was with the damaged Sea Sprite and the captured pirate vessel, for the sea held calm and the wind blew steadily but gently. Still, the journey around the Tethyr Peninsula proved tedious and all too slow for the four anxious friends, for every time the two ships seemed to be making headway, one or the other would develop a new problem.

South of the peninsula, Deudermont took his ships through a wide stretch of water called the Race, so named for the common spectacle there of merchant vessels running from pirate pursuit. No other pirates bothered Deudermont or his crew, however. Even Pinochet's third ship never again showed its sails.

"Our journey nears its end," Deudermont told the four friends when the high coastline of the Purple Hills came into view early on the third morning. "Where the hills end, Calimshan begins."

Drizzt leaned over the forward rail and looked into the pale blue waters of the southern seas. He wondered again if they would get to Regis in time.

"There is a colony of your people farther inland," Deudermont said to him, drawing him out of his private thoughts, "in a dark wood called Mir." An involuntary shudder shook the captain. "The drow are not liked in this region; I would advise you to don your mask."

Without thinking, Drizzt drew the magical mask over his face, instantly assuming the features of a surface elf. The act bothered the drow less than it shook his three friends, who looked on in resigned disdain. Drizzt was only doing what he had to do, they reminded themselves, carrying on with the same uncomplaining stoicism that had guided his life since the day he had forsaken his people.

The drow's new identity did not fit in the eyes of Wulfgar and Catti-brie. Bruenor spat into the water, disgusted at a world too blinded by a cover to read the book inside.

By early afternoon, a hundred sails dotted the southern horizon and a vast line of docks appeared along the coast, with a sprawling city of low clay shacks and brightly colored tents rolling out behind them. But as vast as Memnon's docks were, the number of fishing and merchant vessels and warships of the growing Calimshan navy was greater still. The Sea Sprite and its captured ship were forced to drop anchor offshore and wait for appropriate landings to open - a wait, the harbormaster soon informed Deudermont, of possibly a week.

"We shall next be visited by Calimshan's navy," Deudermont explained as the harbormaster's launch headed away, "coming to inspect the pirate ship and interrogate Pinochet."

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"They'll take care o' the dog?" Bruenor asked.

Deudermont shook his head. "Not likely. Pinochet and his men are my prisoners and my trouble. Calimshan desires an end to the pirate activities and is making bold strides toward that goal, but I doubt that it would yet dare to become entangled with one as powerful as Pinochet."

"What's for him, then?" Bruenor grumbled, trying to find some measure of backbone in all the political double talk.

"He will sail away to trouble another ship on another day," Deudermont replied.

"And to warn that rat, Entreri, that we've slipped the noose," Bruenor snapped back.

Understanding Deudermont's sensitive position, Drizzt put in a reasonable request. "How long can you give us?"

"Pinochet cannot get his ship in for a week, and," the captain added with a sly wink, "I have already seen to it that it is no longer seaworthy. I should be able to stretch that week out to two. By the time the pirate finds the wheel of his ship again, you will have told this Entreri of your escape personally."

Wulfgar still did not understand. "What have you gained?" he asked Deudermont. "You have defeated the pirates, but they are to sail free, tasting vengeance on their lips. They will strike at the Sea Sprite on your next passage. Will they show as much mercy if they win the next encounter?"

"It is a strange game we play," Deudermont agreed with a helpless smile. "But, in truth, I have strengthened my position on the waters by sparing Pinochet and his men.

In exchange for his freedom, the pirate captain will swear off vengeance. None of Pinochet's associates shall ever bother the Sea Sprite again, and that group includes most of the pirates sailing Asavir's Channel!"

"And ye're to trust that dog's word?" Bruenor balked.

"They are honorable enough," replied Deudermont, "in their own way. The codes have been drawn and are held to by the pirates; to break them would be to invite open warfare with the southern kingdoms."

Bruenor spat into the water again. It was the same in every city and kingdom and even on the open water: organizations of thieves tolerated within limits of behavior.

Bruenor was of a different mind. Back in Mithril Hall, his clan had custom-built a closet with shelving especially designed to hold severed hands that had been caught in pockets where they didn't belong.

"It is settled, then," Drizzt remarked, seeing it time to change the subject. "Our journey by sea is at an end." Deudermont, expecting the announcement, tossed him the pouch of gold. "A wise choice," the captain said. "You will make Calimport a full week and more more before the Sea Sprite finds her docks. But come to us when you have completed your business. We shall put back for Waterdeep before the last of the winter's snows have melted in the North. By all of my reckoning, you have earned your passage."

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"We're for leaving long afore that," replied Bruenor, "but thanks for yer offer!"

Wulfgar stepped forward and clasped the captain's wrist. "It was good to serve and fight beside you," he said. "I look forward to the day when next we will meet."

"As do we all," Drizzt added. He held the pouch high. "And this shall be repaid."

Deudermont waved the notion away and mumbled, "A pittance." Knowing the friends' desire for haste, he motioned for two of his crewmen to drop a rowboat.

"Farewell!" he called as the friends pulled away from the Sea Sprite. "Look for me in Calimport!"

* * * * *

Of all the places the companions had visited, of all the lands they had walked through and fought through, none had seemed as foreign to them as Memnon in the kingdom of Calimshan. Even Drizzt, who had come from the strange world of the drow elves, stared in amazement as he made his way through the city's open lanes and marketplaces. Strange music, shrill and mournful - as often resembling wails of pain as harmony - surrounded them and carried them on.

People flocked everywhere. Most wore sand-colored robes, but others were brightly dressed, and all had some sort of head covering: a turban or a veiled hat. The friends could not guess at the population of the city, which seemed to go on forever, and doubted that anyone had ever bothered to count. But Drizzt and his companions could envision that if all the people of the cities along the northern stretches of the Sword Coast, Waterdeep included, gathered in one vast refugee camp, it would resemble Memnon.

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.

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"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.

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"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.

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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.

"Remember, good friends," the merchant said to them when they were perched upon their mounts. "What you need -"

"Sali Dalib got!" they all answered in unison. With one final flash of his gold-and-ivory smile, the merchant shuffled into the tent.

"He was more to bargaining, by me guess," Catti-brie remarked as they headed tentatively on the stiff-legged camels toward the first signpost. "He could've gotten more for the beasts."

"Stolen, o' course!" Bruenor laughed, stating what he considered the obvious.

But Drizzt wasn't so certain. "A merchant such as he would have sought the best price even for stolen goods," he replied, "and by all my knowledge of the rules of bargaining, he most certainly should have counted the gold."

"Bah!" Bruenor snorted, fighting to keep his mount moving straight. "Ye probably gave him more than the things are worth!"

"What, then?" Catti-brie asked Drizzt, agreeing more with his reasoning.

"Where?" Wulfgar answered and asked all at once. "He sent his goblin sneak away with a message."

"Ambush," said Catti-brie.

Drizzt and Wulfgar nodded. "It would seem," said the barbarian.

Bruenor considered the possibility. "Bah!" He snorted at the notion. "He didn't have enough wits in his head to pull it off."

"That observation might only make him more dangerous," Drizzt remarked, looking back a final time toward Memnon.

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"Turn back?" the dwarf asked, not so quick to dismiss the drow's apparently serious concerns.

"If our suspicions prove wrong and we miss the caravan..." Wulfgar reminded them ominously.

"Can Regis wait?" asked Catti-brie.

Bruenor and Drizzt looked to each other.

"Onward," Drizzt said at length. "Let us learn what we may."

"Nowhere might you learn more than in a land unlike your own," Wulfgar remarked, echoing Drizzt's thoughts of that morning.

When they had passed the first signpost, their suspicions did not diminish. A large board nailed to the post named their route in twenty languages, all reading the same way: "De bestest road." Once again, the friends considered their options, and once again they found themselves trapped by the lack of time. They would continue on, they decided, for one hour. If they had found no signs of the caravan by then, they would return to Memnon and "discuss" the matter with Sali Dalib.

The next signpost read the same way, as did the one after that. By the time they passed the fifth, sweat drenched their clothes and stung their eyes, and the city was no longer in sight, lost somewhere in the dusty heat of the rising dunes. Their mounts didn't make the journey any better. Camels were nasty beasts, and nastier still when driven by an inexperienced rider. Wulfgar's, in particular, had a bad opinion of its rider, for camels preferred to pick their own route, and the barbarian, with his powerful legs and arms, kept forcing his mount through the motions he chose. Twice, the camel had arched its head back and launched a slobbery wad of spittle at Wulfgar's face.

Wulfgar took it all in stride, but he spent more than a passing moment fantasizing of flattening the camel's hump with his hammer.

"Hold!" Drizzt commanded as they moved down into a bowl between dunes.

The drow extended his arm, leading the surprised glances skyward, where several buzzards had taken up a lazy, circular flight.

"There's carrion about," Bruenor noted.

"Or there is soon to be," Drizzt replied grimly.

Even as he spoke, the lines of the dunes encircling them transformed suddenly from the hazy flat brown of hot sands to the ominous silhouettes of horsemen, curved swords raised and gleaming in the bright sunlight.

"Ambush," Wulfgar stated flatly.

Not too surprised, Bruenor glanced around to take a quick measure of the odds.

"Five to one," he whispered to Drizzt.

"It always seems to be," Drizzt answered. He slowly slid his bow from his shoulder and strung it.

The horsemen held their position for a long while, surveying their intended prey.

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"Ye think they be wantin' to talk?" Bruenor asked, trying to find some humor in the bleak situation.

"Nah," the dwarf answered himself when none of the other three cracked a smile.

The leader of the horsemen barked a command, and the thunderous charge was on.

"Blast and bebother the whole damned world," Catti-brie grumbled, pulling Taulmaril froth her shoulder as she slid from her mount. "Everyone wants a fight."

"Come on, then!" she shouted at the horsemen. "But let's get the fight a bit fairer!" She set the magical bow into action, sending one silver arrow after another streaking up the dunes into the horde, blasting rider after rider out of his saddle.

Bruenor gawked at his daughter, suddenly so grim-faced and savage. "The girl's got it right!" he proclaimed, sliding down from his camel. "Can't be fightin' up on one of them things!" As soon as he hit the ground, the dwarf grabbed at his pack and pulled out two flasks of oil.

Wulfgar followed his mentor's lead, using the side of his camel as a barricade. But the barbarian found his mount to be his first foe, for the ill-tempered beast turned back on him and clamped its flat teeth onto his forearm.

Drizzt's bow joined in on Taulmaril's deadly song, but as the horsemen closed in, the drow decided upon a different course of action. Playing on the terror of the reputation of his people, Drizzt tore off his mask and pulled back the cowl of his cloak, leaping to his feet atop the camel and straddling the beast with one foot on each hump. Those riders closing in on Drizzt pulled up short at the unnerving appearance of a drow elf.

The other three flanks collapsed quickly, though, as the horsemen closed in, still outnumbering the friends.

Wulfgar stared at his camel in disbelief, then slammed his huge fist between the wretched beast's eyes. The dazed camel promptly let go of its hold and turned its woozy head away.

Wulfgar wasn't finished with the treacherous beast. He noticed three riders bearing down on him, so he decided to pit one enemy against another. He stepped under the camel and lifted it clear off the ground, his muscles rippling as he heaved the thing into the charging pack. He just managed to dodge the tumbling mass of horses, riders, camels, and sand.

Then he had Aegis-fang in his hands, and he leaped into the jumble, crushing the bandits before they ever realized what had hit them.

Two riders found a channel through the riderless camels to get at Bruenor, but it was Drizzt, standing alone, who got in the first strike. Summoning his magical ability, the drow conjured a globe of darkness in front of the charging bandits. They tried to pull up short, but plunged in headlong.

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That gave Bruenor all the time he needed. He struck a spark off his tinderbox onto the rags he had stuffed into the oil flasks, then tossed the flaming grenades into the ball of darkness.

Even the fiery lights of the ensuing explosions could not be seen within the globe of Drizzt's spell, but from the screams that erupted inside, Bruenor knew he had hit the mark.

"Me thanks, elf!" the dwarf cried. "Glad to be with ye again!"

"Behind you!" was Drizzt's reply, for even as Bruenor spoke, a third rider cut around the globe and galloped at the dwarf. Bruenor instinctively dropped into a ball, throwing his golden shield above him.

The horse trampled right over Bruenor and stumbled into the soft sand, throwing its rider.

The tough dwarf sprang to his feet and shook the sand out of his ears. That stomping would surely hurt when the adrenaline of battle died away, but, right now, all Bruenor felt was rage. He charged the rider - now also rising to his feet - with his mithril axe raised above his head.

Just as Bruenor got there and started his overhead chop, a line of silver flashed by his shoulder, dropping the bandit dead. Unable to stop his momentum, the dwarf went headlong over the suddenly prostrate body and flopped facedown onto the ground.

"Next time, tell me, girl!" Bruenor roared at Catti-brie and spitting sand with every word.

Catti-brie had her own troubles. She had dropped low, hearing a horse thundering up behind her as she loosed the arrow. A curved sword swooshed past the side of her head, nicking her ear, and the rider went past.

Catti-brie meant to send out another arrow to follow the man, but while she was stooped, she saw yet another bandit bearing down on her from behind, this one with a poised spear and heavy shield leading the way.

Catti-brie and Taulmaril proved the swifter. In an instant, another arrow was on the magical bow's string and sent away. It exploded into the bandit's heavy shield and tore through, tossing the helpless man off the back of his mount and into the realm of death.

The riderless horse broke stride. Catti-brie caught its reins as it trotted by and swung up into the saddle to pursue the bandit who had cut her.

Drizzt still stood atop his camel, towering above his foes and deftly dancing away from the strikes of riders rushing by, all the while weaving his two magical scimitars into a dance of mesmerizing death. Again and again, bandits thought they had an easy shot at the standing elf, only to find their swords or spears catching nothing but air, and then to suddenly discover Twinkle or the other magical scimitar slicing a clean line across their throats as they started to gallop away.

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Then two came in together, broadside to the camel and behind Drizzt. The agile drow leaped about, still comfortably holding his perch. Within mere seconds, he had both of his foes on the defensive.

Wulfgar finished the last of the three he had dropped, then sprang away from the mess, only to find his stubborn camel rising in front of him again. He slammed the nasty thing again, this time with Aegis-fang, and it dropped to the ground beside the bandits.

With that battle at an undeniable end, the first thing the barbarian noticed was Drizzt. He marveled at the magnificent dance of the drow's blades, snapping down to deflect a curved sword or to keep one of the drow's two opponents off balance.

Drizzt would dispose of both of them in a matter of seconds.

Then Wulfgar looked past the drow, to where another rider quietly trotted in, his spearhead angled to catch Drizzt in the back.

"Drizzt!" the barbarian screamed as he heaved Aegis-fang at his friend.

At the sound of the shout, Drizzt thought Wulfgar was in trouble, but when he looked and saw the war hammer spinning toward his knees, he understood immediately. Without hesitation, he leaped out and over his foes in a twisting somersault.

The charging spearman didn't even have time to lament his victim's escape, for the mighty war hammer spun in over the camel's humps and smashed his face flat.

Drizzt's dive proved beneficial in his fight up front as well, for he had caught both swordsmen by surprise. In the split second of their hesitation, the drow, though he was upside down in midair, struck hard, thrusting his blades downward.

Twinkle dug deeply into a chest. The other bandit managed to dodge the second scimitar, but it came close enough for Drizzt to lock its hilt under the man's arm. Both riders came tumbling down with the drow, and only Drizzt landed on his feet. His blades crossed twice and dove again, this time ending the struggle.

Seeing the huge barbarian unarmed, another rider went after him. Wulfgar saw the man coming and poised himself for a desperate strike. As the horse charged in, the barbarian feinted to his right, away from the rider's sword arm and as the rider had expected. Then Wulfgar reversed direction, throwing himself squarely in the horse's path.

Wulfgar accepted the stunning impact and locked his arms about the horse's neck and his legs onto the beast's front legs, rolling backward with the momentum and causing the horse to stumble. Then the mighty barbarian yanked with all his might, bringing horse and rider right over him.

The shocked bandit could not react, though he did manage to scream as the horse drove him into the ground. When the horse finally rolled away, the bandit remained, buried upside-down to the waist in the sand, his legs lolling grotesquely to one side.

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His boots and beard filled with sand, Bruenor eagerly looked for someone to fight. Among the tall mounts, the short dwarf had been overlooked by all but a handful of the bandits. Now, most of them were already dead!

Bruenor rushed away from the protection of the riderless camels, banging his axe on his shield to draw attention to himself. He saw one rider turning to flee from the disastrous scene.

"Hey!" Bruenor barked at him. "Yer mother's an orc-kissin' harlot!"

Thinking he had every advantage over the standing dwarf, the bandit couldn't pass up the opportunity to answer the insult. He rushed over to Bruenor and chopped down with his sword.

Bruenor brought his golden shield up to block the blow, then stepped around the front of the horse. The rider swung about to meet the dwarf on the other side, but Bruenor used his shortness to his advantage. Barely bending, he slipped under the horse's belly, back to the original side, and thrust his axe up over his head, catching the confused man on the hip. As the bandit lurched over in pain, Bruenor brought his shield arm up, caught turban and hair in his gnarled fingers, and tore the man from his seat. With a satisfied grunt, the dwarf chopped into the bandit's neck.

"Too easy!" the dwarf grumbled, dropping the body to the ground. He looked for another victim, but the battle was over. No more bandits remained in the bowl, and Wulfgar, Aegis-fang back in his hands, and Drizzt were standing easily.

"Where's me girl?" Bruenor cried.

Drizzt calmed him with a look and a pointing finger.

On the top of a dune to the side, Catti-brie sat atop the horse she had commandeered, Taulmaril taut in her hands as she looked out over the desert.

Several riders galloped across the sand in full flight and another lay dead on the other side of the dune. Catti-brie put one of them in her sights, then realized that the fighting had ended behind her.

"Enough," she whispered, moving the bow an inch to the side and sending the arrow over the fleeing bandit's shoulder.

There has been enough killing this day, she thought.

Catti-brie looked at the carnage of the battle scene and at the hungry buzzards circling patiently overhead. She dropped Taulmaril to her side. The firm set of her grim visage melted away.

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15

The Guide

"See the pleasure it promises," the guildmaster teased, scraping his hand over the barbed tip of a single spike sticking out of a block of wood on the center of the room's little table.

Regis purposely curled his lips into a stupid smile, pretending to see the obvious logic of Pook's words.

"Just drop your palm onto it," Pook coaxed, "then you will know the joy and will again be part of our family."

Regis searched for a way out of the trap. Once before he had used the ruse, the lie within a lie, pretending to be caught under the magical charm's influence. He had worked his act to perfection then, convincing an evil wizard of his loyalty, then turning on the man at a critical moment to aid his friends.

This time, though, Regis had even surprised himself, escaping the ruby pendant's insistent, hypnotizing pull. Now, though, he was caught: A person truly duped by the gem would gladly impale his hand on the barbed spike.

Regis brought his hand above his head and closed his eyes, trying to keep his visage blank enough to carry out the dupe. He swung his arm down, meaning to follow through on Pook's suggestion.

At the last moment, his hand swerved away and banged harmlessly on the table.

Pook roared in rage, suspecting all along that Regis had somehow escaped the pendant's influence. He grabbed the halfling by the wrist and smashed his little hand onto the spike, wiggling it as the spike went through. Regis's scream multiplied tenfold when Pook tore his hand back up the barbed instrument.

Then Pook let him go and slapped him across the face as Regis clutched his wounded hand to his chest.

"Deceiving dog!" the guildmaster shouted, more angry with the pendant's failure than with Regis's facade. He lined up for another slap but calmed himself and decided to twist the halfling's stubborn will back on Regis.

"A pity," he teased, "for if the pendant had brought you back under control, I might have found a place for you in the guild. Surely you deserve to die, little thief, but I have not forgotten your value to me in the past. You were the finest thief in Calimport, a position I might have offered you once again."

"Then no pity for the failure of the gem," Regis dared to retort, guessing the teasing game that Pook was playing, "for no pain outweighs the disgust I would feel at playing lackey to Pasha Pook!"

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Pook's response was a heavy slug that knocked Regis off his chair and onto the floor. The halfling lay curled up, trying to stem the blood from both his hand and his nose.

Pook rested back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked at the pendant, resting on the table in front of him. Only once before had it failed him, when he had tried it on a will that would not be captured. Luckily, Artemis Entreri had not realized the attempt that day, and Pook had been wise enough not to try the pendant on the assassin again.

Pook shifted his gaze to Regis, now passed out from the pain. He had to give the little halfling credit. Even if Regis's familiarity with the pendant had given him an edge in his battle, only an iron will could resist the tempting pull.

"But it will not help you," Pook whispered at the unconscious form. He sat back in his chair again and closed his eyes, trying to envision still another torture for Regis.

* * * * *

The tan-robed arm slipped in through the tent's flap and held the limp body of the red-bearded dwarf upside-down by the ankle. Sali Dalib's fingers started their customary twiddle, and he flashed the gold-and-ivory smile so wide that it seemed as if it would take in his ears. His little goblin assistant jumped up and down at has side, squealing, "Magic, magic, magic!"

Bruenor opened one eye and lifted an arm to push his long beard out of his face.

"Ye be likin' what ye're seeing?" the dwarf asked slyly.

Sali Dalib's smile disappeared, and his fingers got all tangled together.

Bruenor's bearer - Wulfgar, wearing the robe of one of the bandits walked into the tent. Catti-brie came in behind him.

"So 'twas yerself that set the bandits upon us," the young woman growled.

Sali Dalib's exclamation of shock came out as so much gibberish, and the wily merchant spun away to flee... only to find a neat hole sliced into the back of his tent and Drizzt Do'Urden standing within it, leaning on one scimitar while the other rested easily on his shoulder. Just to heighten the merchant's terror, Drizzt had again taken off the magical mask.

"Uh... um, de bestest road?" the merchant stammered.

"Bestest for yerself and yer friends!" Bruenor growled.

"So they thought," Catti-brie was quick to put in.

Sali Dalib curled his smile sheepishly, but he had been in tight spots a hundred times before and had always weaseled his way out. He lifted his palms, as if to say,

"You caught me," but then jerked into a dizzying maneuver, pulling several small ceramic globes out of one of his robe's many pockets. He slammed them to the floor at his feet. Explosions of multicolored light left a thick, blinding smoke in their wake, and the merchant dashed for the side of the tent.

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Instinctively Wulfgar dropped Bruenor and jumped ahead, catching an armful of emptiness. The dwarf plopped onto the floor headfirst and rolled to a sitting position, his one-horned helm tilted to the side of his head. As the smoke thinned, the embarrassed barbarian looked back to the dwarf, who just shook his head in disbelief and mumbled, "Suren to be a long adventure."

Only Drizzt, ever alert, had not been caught unawares. The drow had shielded his eyes from the bursts, then watched the smoky silhouette of the merchant darting to the left. Drizzt would have had him before he got out of the hidden flap in the tent, but Sali Dalib's assistant stumbled into the drow's way. Barely slowing, Drizzt slammed Twinkle's hilt into the little goblin's forehead, dropping the creature into unconsciousness, then slipped the mask back on his face and jumped out to the streets of Memnon.

Catti-brie rushed by to follow Drizzt, and Bruenor leaped to his feet. "After 'im, boy!" the dwarf shouted at Wulfgar. The chase was on.

Drizzt caught sight of the merchant slipping into the throng of the streets. Even Sali Dalib's loud robe would blend well in the city's myriad of colors, so Drizzt added a touch of his own. As he had done to the invisible mage on the deck of the pirate ship, the drow sent a purplish glowing outline of dancing flames over the merchant.

Drizzt sped off in pursuit, weaving in and out of the crowd with amazing ease and watching for the bobbing line of purple ahead.

Bruenor was less graceful. The dwarf cut ahead of Catti-brie and plunged headlong into the throng, stomping toes and using his shield to bounce bodies out of his way. Wulfgar, right behind, cut an even wider swath, and Catti-brie had an easy time following in their wake.

They passed a dozen lanes and crashed through an open market, Wulfgar accidentally overturning a cart of huge yellow melons. Shouts of protest erupted behind them as they passed, but they kept their eyes ahead, each watching the person in front and trying not to get lost in the overwhelming bustle.

Sali Dalib knew at once that he was too conspicuous with the fiery outline to ever escape in the open streets. To add to his disadvantage, the eyes and pointing fingers of a hundred curious onlookers greeted him at every turn, signposts for his pursuers. Grabbing at the single chance before him, the merchant cut down one lane and scrambled through the doors of a large stone building.

Drizzt turned to make certain that his friends were still behind, then rushed through the doors, skidding to a stop on the steam-slicked marble floor of a public bathhouse.

Two huge eunuchs moved to block the clothed elf, but as with the merchant who had come in just before, the agile Drizzt regained his momentum too quickly to be hindered. He skated through the short entry corridor and into the main room, a large open bath, thick with steam and smelling of sweat and perfumed soaps. Naked bodies 136

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crossed his path at every step, and Drizzt had to be careful where he placed his hands as he slipped through.

Bruenor nearly fell as he entered the slippery chamber, and the eunuchs, already out of their positions, got in front of him.

"No clothes!" one of them demanded, but Bruenor had no time for idle discussions. He stamped a heavy boot onto one of the giant's bare feet, then crunched the other foot for good measure. Wulfgar came in then and heaved the remaining eunuch aside.

The barbarian, leaning forward to gain speed, had no chance to stop or turn on the slippery, floor, and as Bruenor turned to make his way along the perimeter of the bath, Wulfgar slammed into him, knocking them both to the floor and into a slide they could not brake.

They bounced over the rim of the bath and plunged into the water, Wulfgar coming up, waist deep, between two voluptuous and naked, giggling women.

The barbarian stammered an apology, finding his tongue twisted within the confines of his mouth. A slap across the back of his head shook him back to his senses.

"Ye're looking for the merchant, ye remember?" Catti-brie reminded him.

"I am looking!" Wulfgar assured her.

"Then be lookin' for the one lined in purple!" Catti-brie shot back.

Wulfgar, his eyes freed with the expectation of another smack, noticed the single horn of a helmet poking out of the water at his side. Frantically he plunged his hand under, catching Bruenor by the scruff of the neck and hoisting him out of the bath.

The not-too-happy dwarf came up with his arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head in disbelief once again.

Drizzt got out the back door of the bathhouse and found himself in an empty alley, the only unpopulated stretch he had seen since entering Memnon. Seeking a better vantage, the drow scaled the side of the bathhouse and jogged along the roof.

Sali Dalib slowed his pace, thinking he had slipped the pursuit. The drow's purple fire died away, further adding to the merchant's sense of security. He wound his way through the back-alley maze. Not even the usual drunks leaned against the walls to inform his pursuers. He moved a hundred twisting yards, then two, and finally down an alley that he knew would turn onto the largest marketplace in Memnon, where anyone could become invisible in the blink of an eye.

As Sali Dalib approached the end of the alley, however, an elven form dropped in front of him and two scimitars flashed out of their sheaths, crossing before the stunned merchant, coming to rest on his collarbones, then drawing lines on either side of his neck.

When the four friends returned to the merchant's tent with their prisoner, they found, to their relief, the little goblin lying where Drizzt had bopped him. Bruenor none too gently pulled the unfortunate creature up behind Sali Dalib and tied the two 137

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back to back. Wulfgar moved to help and wound up hooking a loop of the rope over Bruenor's forearm. The dwarf wiggled free and pushed the barbarian away.

"Should've stayed in Mithril Hall," Bruenor grumbled. "Safer with the gray ones than beside yerself and the girl!"

Wulfgar and Catti-brie looked to Drizzt for support, but the drow just smiled and moved to the side of the tent.

"Ha ha ha ha ha," Sali Dalib giggled nervously. "No problem here. We deal?

Many riches, I have. What you need -"

"Shut yer mouth!" Bruenor snapped at him. The dwarf winked at Drizzt, indicating that he meant to play the bad guy role in the encounter.

"I don't be lookin' for riches from one what's tricked me," Bruenor growled. "Me heart's for revenge!" He looked around at his friends. "Ye all saw his face when he thought me dead. Suren was him that put the riding bandits on us."

"Sali Dalib never -" the merchant stammered.

"I said, 'shut yer mouth!'" Bruenor shouted in his face, cowing him. The dwarf brought his axe up and ready on his shoulder.

The merchant looked to Drizzt, confused, for the drow had replaced the mask and now appeared as a surface elf once again. Sali Dalib guessed the truth of Drizzt's identity, figuring the black skin to be more fitting on the deadly elf, and he did not even think of begging for mercy from Drizzt.

"Wait on it, then," Catti-brie said suddenly, grabbing the handle of Bruenor's weapon. "May that there be a way for this dog to save his neck."

"Bah! What would we want o' him?" Bruenor shot back, winking at Catti-brie for playing her part to perfection.

"He'll get us to Calimport," Catti-brie replied. She cast a steely gaze at Sali Dalib, warning him that her mercy was not easily gotten. "Suren this time he'll take us down the true bestest road."

"Yes, yes, ha ha ha ha ha," Sali Dalib blurted. "Sali Dalib show you de way!"

"Show?" balked Wulfgar, not to be left out. "You will lead us all the way to Calimport."

"Very long way," grumbled the merchant. "Five days or more. Sali Dalib cannot…"

Bruenor raised his axe.

"Yes, yes, of course," the merchant erupted. "Sali Dalib take you there. Take you right to de gate... through de gate," he corrected quickly. "Sah Dalib even get de water.

We must catch de caravan."

"No caravan," Drizzt interrupted, surprising even his friends. "We will travel alone."

"Dangerous," Sali Dalib replied. "Very, very. De Calim Desert be very full of monsters. Dragons and bandits."

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"No caravan," Drizzt said again in a tone that none of them dared question.

"Untie them, and let them get things ready."

Bruenor nodded, then put his face barely an inch from Sali Dalib's. "And I mean to be watchin' them meself," he said to Drizzt, though he sent the message more pointedly to Sali Dalib and the little goblin. "One trick and I'll cut 'em in half!" Less than an hour later, five camels moved out of southern Memnon and into the Calim Desert with ceramic water jugs clunking on their sides. Drizzt and Bruenor led the way, following the signposts of the Trade Way. The drow wore his mask, but kept the cowl of his cloak as low as he could, for the sizzling sunlight on the white sands burned at his eyes, which had once been accustomed to the absolute blackness of the underworld.

Sali Dalib, his assistant sitting on the camel in front of him, came in the middle, with Wulfgar and Catti-brie bringing up the rear. Catti-brie kept Taulmaril across her lap, a silver arrow notched as a continual reminder to the sneaky merchant.

The day grew hotter than anything the friends had ever experienced, except for Drizzt, who had lived in the very bowels of the world. Not a cloud hindered the sun's brutal rays, and not a wisp of a breeze came to offer any relief. Sali Dalib, more used to the heat, knew the lack of wind to be a blessing, for wind in the desert meant blowing and blinding sand, the most dangerous killer of the Calim.

The night was better, with the temperature dropping comfortably and a full moon turning the endless line of dunes into a silvery dreamscape, like the rolling waves of the ocean. The friends set a camp for a few hours, taking turns watching over their reluctant guides.

Catti-brie awoke sometime after midnight. She sat and stretched, figuring it to be her turn on watch. She saw Drizzt, standing on the edge of the firelight, staring into the starry heavens.

Hadn't Drizzt taken the first watch.? she wondered.

Catti-brie studied the moon's position to make certain of the hour. There could be no doubt; the night grew long.

"Trouble?" she asked softly, going to Drizzt's side. A loud snore from Bruenor answered the question for Drizzt.

"Might I spell ye, then?" she asked. "Even a drow elf needs to sleep."

"I can find my rest under the cowl of my cloak," Drizzt replied, turning to meet her concerned gaze with his lavender eyes, "when the sun is high."

"Might I join ye, then?" Catti-brie asked. "Suren a wondrous night."

Drizzt smiled and turned his gaze back to the heavens, to the allure of the evening sky with a mystical longing in his heart as profound as any surface elf had ever experienced.

Catti-brie slipped her slender fingers around his and stood quietly by his side, not wanting to disturb his enchantment further, sharing more than mere words with her dearest of friends.

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* * * * *

The heat was worse the next day, and even worse the following, but the camels plodded on effortlessly, and the four friends, who had come through so many hardships, accepted the brutal trek as just one more obstacle on the journey they had to complete.

They saw no other signs of life and considered that a blessing, for anything living in that desolate region could only be hostile. The heat was enemy enough, and they felt as if their skin would simply shrivel and crack away.

Whenever one of them felt like quitting, like the relentless sun and burning sand and heat were simply too much to bear, he or she just thought of Regis.

What terrible tortures was the halfling now enduring at the hands of his former master?

140

Epilogue

From the shadows of a doorway, Entreri watched Pasha Pook make his way up the staircase to the exit of the guildhouse. It had been less than an hour since Pook had regained his ruby pendant and already he was off to put it to use. Entreri had to give the guildmaster credit; he was never late for the dinner bell.

The assassin waited for Pook to clear the house altogether, then made his way stealthily back to the top level. The guards outside the final door made no move to stop him, though Entreri did not remember them from his earlier days in the guild.

Pook must have prudently put out the word of Entreri's station in the guild, according him all the privileges he used to enjoy.

Never late for the dinner bell.

Entreri moved to the door to his old room, where LaValle now resided, and knocked softly.

"Come in, come in," the wizard greeted him, hardly surprised that the assassin had returned.

"It is good to be back," Entreri said.

"And good to have you back," replied the wizard sincerely. "Things have not been the same since you left us, and they have only become worse in recent months."

Entreri understood the wizard's point. "Rassiter?"

LaValle grimaced. "Keep your back to the wall when that one is about," A shudder shook through him, but he composed himself quickly. "But with you back at Pook's side, Rassiter will learn his place."

"Perhaps," replied Entreri, "though I am not so certain that Pook was as glad to see me."

"You understand Pook," LaValle chuckled. "Ever thinking as a guildmaster! He desired to set the rules for your meeting with him to assert his authority. But that incident is far behind us already."

Entreri's look gave the wizard the impression that he was not so certain.

"Pook will forget it," LaValle assured him.

"Those who pursued me should not so easily be forgotten," Entreri replied.

"Pook called upon Pinochet to complete the task," said LaValle. "The pirate has never failed."

"The pirate has never faced such foes," Entreri answered. He looked to the table and LaValle's crystal ball. "We should be certain."

LaValle thought for a moment, then nodded his accord. He had intended to do some scrying anyway. "Watch the ball," he instructed Entreri. "I shall see if I can summon the image of Pinochet."

The crystal ball remained dark for a few moments, then filled with smoke.

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simple scrying. A few seconds later, the image of a docked ship came into view - not a pirate vessel, but a merchant ship. Immediately Entreri suspected something amiss.

Then the crystal probed deeper, beyond the hull of the ship, and the assassin's guess was confirmed, for in a sectioned corner of the hold sat the proud pirate captain, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, shackled to the wall.

LaValle, stunned, looked to Entreri, but the assassin was too intent on the image to offer any explanations. A rare smile had found its way onto Entreri's face.

LaValle cast an enhancing spell at the crystal ball. "Pinochet," he called softly.

The pirate lifted his head and looked around.

"Where are you?" LaValle asked.

"Oberon?" Pinochet asked. "Is that you, wizard?"

"Nay, I am LaValle, Pook's sorcerer in Calimport. Where are you?"

"Memnon," the pirate answered. "Can you get me out?"

"What of the elf and the barbarian?" Entreri asked LaValle, but Pinochet heard the question directly.

"I had them!" the pirate hissed. "Trapped in a channel with no escape. But then a dwarf appeared, driving the reins of a flying chariot of fire, and with him a woman archer - a deadly archer." He paused, fighting off his distaste as he remembered the encounter.

"To what outcome?" LaValle prompted, amazed at the development.

"One ship went running, one ship - my ship - sank, and the third was captured,"

groaned Pinochet. He locked his face into a grimace and asked again, more emphatically, "Can you get me out?"

LaValle looked helplessly to Entreri, who now stood tall over the crystal ball, absorbing every word. "Where are they?" the assassin growled, his patience worn away.

"Gone," answered Pinochet. "Gone with the girl and the dwarf into Memnon."

"How long"

"Three days."

Entreri signaled to LaValle that he had heard enough.

"I will have Pasha Pook send word to Memnon immediately," LaValle assured the pirate. "You shall be released."

Pinochet sank into his original, despondent position. Of course he would be released; that had already been arranged. He had hoped that LaValle could somehow magically get him out of the Sea Sprite's hold, thereby releasing him from any pledges he would be forced to make to Deudermont when the captain set him free.

"Three days," LaValle said to Entreri as the crystal darkened. "They could be halfway here by now."

Entreri seemed amused at the notion. "Pasha Pook is to know nothing of this,"

he said suddenly.

LaValle sank back in his chair. "He must be told."

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"No!" Entreri snapped. "This is none of his affair."

"The guild may be in danger," LaValle replied.

"You do not trust that I am capable of handling this?" Entreri asked in a low, grim tone. LaValle felt the assassin's callous eyes looking through him, as though he had suddenly become just another barrier to be overcome.

But Entreri softened his glare and grinned. "You know of Pasha Pook's weakness for hunting cats," he said, reaching into his pouch. "Give him this. Tell him you made it for him."

He tossed a small black object across the table to the wizard. LaValle caught it, his eyes widening as soon as he realized what it was.

Guenhwyvar.

* * * * *

On a distant plane, the great cat stirred at the wizard's touch upon the statuette and wondered if its master meant to summon it, finally, to his side.

But, after a moment, the sensation faded, and the cat put its head down to rest.

So much time had gone by.

* * * * *

"It holds an entity," the wizard gasped, sensing the strength in the onyx statuette.

"A powerful entity," Entreri assured him. "When you learn to control it, you will have brought a new ally to the guild."

"How can I thank -" LaValle began, but he stopped as he realized that he had already been told the price of the panther. "Why trouble Pook with details that do not concern him?" The wizard laughed, tossing a cloth over his crystal ball.

Entreri clapped LaValle on the shoulder as he passed toward the door. Three years had done nothing to diminish the understanding the two men had shared.

But with Drizzt and his friends approaching, Entreri had more pressing business.

He had to go to the Cells of Nine and pay a visit to Regis.

The assassin needed another gift.

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Desert Empires

16

Never a Fouler Place

Entreri slipped through the shadows of Calimport's bowels as quietly as an owl glided through a forest at twilight. This was his home, the place he knew best, and all the street people of the city would mark the day when Artemis Entreri again walked beside them or behind them.

Entreri couldn't help but smile slightly whenever the hushed whispers commenced in his wake - the more experienced rogues telling the newcomers that the king had returned. Entreri never let the legend of his reputation - no matter how well earned - interfere with the constant state of readiness that had kept him alive through the years. In the streets, a reputation of power only marked a man as a target for ambitious second-rates seeking reputations of their own.

Thus, Entreri's first task in the city, outside of his responsibilities to Pasha Pook, was to re-establish the network of informants and associates that entrenched him in his station. He already had an important job for one of them, with Drizzt and company fast approaching, and he knew which one.

"I had heard you were back," squeaked a diminutive chap appearing as a human boy not yet into adolescence when Entreri ducked and entered his abode. "I guess most have."

Entreri took the compliment with a nod. "What has changed, my halfling friend?"

"Little," replied Dondon, "and lots." He moved to the table in the darkest corner of his small quarters, the side room, facing the ally, in a cheap inn called the Coiled Snake. "The rules of the street do not change, but the players do." Dondon looked up from the table's unlit lamp to catch Entreri's eyes with his own.

"Artemis Entreri was gone, after all," the halfling explained, wanting to make sure that Entreri fully understood his previous statement. "The royal suite had a vacancy."

Entreri nodded his accord, causing the halfling to relax and sigh audibly.

"Pook still controls the merchants and the docks," said Entreri. "Who owns the streets?"

"Pook, still," replied Dondon, "at least in name. He found another agent in your stead. A whole horde of agents." Dondon paused for a moment to think. Again he had to be careful to weigh every word before he spoke it. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Pasha Pook does not control the streets, but rather that he still has the streets controlled."

Entreri knew, even before asking, what the little halfling was leading to.

"Rassiter," he said grimly.

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"There is much to be said about that one and his crew," Dondon chuckled, resuming his efforts to light the lantern.

"Pook loosens his reins on the wererats, and the ruffians of the street take care to stay out of the guild's way," Entreri reasoned.

"Rassiter and his kind play hard."

"And fall hard."

The chill of Entreri's tone brought Dondon's eyes back up from the lantern, and for the first time, the halfling truly recognized the old Artemis Entreri, the human street fighter who had built his shadowy empire one ally at a time. An involuntary shudder rippled up Dondon's spine, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Entreri saw the effect and quickly switched the subject. "Enough of this," he said. "Let it not concern you, little one. I have a job for you that is more in line with your talents."

Dondon finally got the lantern's wick to take, and he pulled up a chair, eager to please his old boss.

They talked for more than an hour, until the lantern became a solitary defense against the insistent blackness of the night. Then Entreri took his leave, through the window and into the ally. He didn't believe that Rassiter would be so foolish as to strike before taking full measure of the assassin, before the wererat could even begin to understand the dimensions of his enemy.

Then again, Entreri didn't mark Rassiter high on any intelligence scale.

Perhaps it was Entreri, though, who didn't truly understand his enemy, or how completely Rassiter and his wretched minions had come to dominate the streets over the last three years. Less than five minutes after Entreri had gone, Dondon's door swung open again.

And Rassiter stepped through.

"What did he want?" the swaggering fighter asked, plopping comfortably into a chair at the table.

Dondon moved away uneasily, noticing two more of Rassiter's cronies standing guard in the hall. After more than a year, the halfling still felt uncomfortable around Rassiter.

"Come, come now," Rassiter prompted. He asked again, his tone more grim,

"What did he want?"

The last thing Dondon wanted was to get caught in a crossfire between the wererats and the assassin, but he had little choice but to answer Rassiter. If Entreri ever learned of the double-cross, Dondon knew that his days swiftly end.

Yet, if he didn't spill out to Rassiter, his demise would be no less certain, and the method less swift.

He sighed at the lack of options and spilled his story, detail by detail, to Rassiter.

Rassiter gave no countermands to Entreri's instructions. He would let Dondon play out the scenario exactly as Entreri had devised it. Apparently, the wererat believed 146

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he could twist it into his own gains. He sat quietly for a long moment, scratching his hairless chin and savoring the anticipation of the easy victory, his broken teeth gleaming even a deeper yellow in the lamplight.

"You will run with us this night?" he asked the halfling, satisfied that the assassin business was completed. "The moon will be bright." He squeezed one of Dondon's cherublike cheeks. "The fur will be thick, eh?"

Dondon pulled away from the grasp. "Not this night," he replied, a bit too sharply.

Rassiter cocked his head, studying Dondon curiously. He always had suspected that the halfling was not comfortable with his new station. Might this defiance be linked to the return of his old boss? Rassiter wondered.

"Tease him and die," Dondon replied, drawing an even more curious look from the wererat.

"You have not begun to understand this man you face," Dondon continued, unshaken. "Artemis Entreri is not to be toyed with - not by the wise. He knows everything. If a half-sized rat is seen running with the pack, then my life is forfeit and your plans are ruined." He moved right up, in spite of his revulsion for the man, and set a grave visage barely an inch from Rassiter's nose.

"Forfeit," he reiterated, "at the least."

Rassiter spun out of the chair, sending it bouncing across the room. He had heard too much about Artemis Entreri in a single day for his liking. Everywhere he turned, trembling lips uttered the assassin's name.

Don't they know? he told himself once again as he strode angrily to the door. It is Rassiter they should fear!

He felt the telltale itching on his chin, then the crawling sensation of tingling growth swept through his body. Dondon backed away and averted his eyes, never comfortable with the spectacle.

Rassiter kicked off his boots and loosened his shirt and pants. The hair was visible now, rushing out of his skin in scraggly patches and clumps. He fell back against the wall as the fever took him completely. His skin bubbled and bulged, particularly around his face. He sublimated his scream as his snout elongated, though the wash of agony was no less intense this time - perhaps the thousandth time - than it had been during his very first transformation.

He stood then before Dondon on two legs, as a man, but whiskered and furred and with a long pink tail that ran out the back of his trousers, as a rodent.

"Join me?" he asked the halfling.

Hiding his revulsion, Dondon quickly declined. Looking at the ratman, the halfling wondered how he had ever allowed Rassiter to bite him, infecting him with his lycanthropic nightmare. "It will bring you power!" Rassiter had promised.

But at what cost? Dondon thought. To look and smell like a rat? No blessing this, but a disease.

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Rassiter guessed at the halfling's distaste, and he curled his rat snout back in a threatening hiss, then turned for the door.

He spun back on Dondon before exiting the room. "Keep away from this!" he warned the halfling. "Do as you were bid and hide away!"

"No doubt to that," Dondon whispered as the door slammed shut.

* * * * *

The aura that distinguished Calimport as home to so very many Calishites came across as foul to the strangers from the North. Truly, Drizzt, Wulfgar, Bruenor, and Catti-brie were weary of the Calim Desert when their five-day trek came to an end, but looking down on the city of Calimport made them want to turn around and take to the sands once again.

It was wretched Memnon on a grander scale, with the divisions of wealth so blatantly obvious that Calimport cried out as ultimately perverted to the four friends.

Elaborate houses, monuments to excess and hinting at wealth beyond imagination, dotted the cityscape. Yet, right beside those palaces loomed lane after lane of decrepit shanties of crumbling clay or ragged skins. The friends couldn't guess how many people roamed the place - certainly more than Waterdeep and Memnon combined! -

and they knew at once that in Calimport, as in Memnon, no one had ever bothered to count.

Sali Dalib dismounted, bidding the others do likewise, and led them down a final hill and into the unwalled city. The friends found the sights of Calimport no better up close. Naked children, their bellies bloated from lack of food, scrambled out of the way or were simply trampled as gilded, slave-drawn carts rushed through the streets.

Worse still were the sides of those avenues, ditches mostly, serving as open sewers in the city's poorest sections. There were thrown the bodies of the impoverished, who had fallen to the roadside at the end of their miserable days.

"Suren Rumblebelly never told of such sights when he spoke of home," Bruenor grumbled, pulling his cloak over his face to deflect the awful stench. "Past me guessing why he'd long for this place!"

"De greatest city in de world, dis be!" Sali Dalib spouted, lifting his arms to enhance his praise.

Wulfgar, Bruenor and Catti-brie shot him incredulous stares. Hordes of people begging and starving was not their idea of greatness. Drizzt paid the merchant no heed, though. He was busy making the inevitable comparison between Calimport and another city he had known, Menzoberranzan. Truly there were similarities, and death was no less common in Menzoberranzan, but Calimport somehow seemed fouler than the city of the drow. Even the weakest of the dark elves had the means to protect himself, with strong family ties and deadly innate abilities. The pitiful peasants of Calimport, though, and more so their children, seemed helpless and hopeless indeed.

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In Menzoberranzan, those on the lowest rungs of the power ladder could fight their way to a better standing. For the majority of Calimport's multitude, though, there would only be poverty, a day-to-day squalid existence until they landed on the piles of buzzard-pecked bodies in the ditches.

"Take us to the guildhouse of Pasha Pook," Drizzt said, getting to the point, wanting to be done with his business and out of Calimport, "then you are dismissed."

Sali Dalib paled at the request. "Pasha Poop?" he stammered. "Who is dis?"

"Bah!" Bruenor snorted, moving dangerously close to the merchant. "He knows him."

"Suren he does," Catti-brie observed, "and fears him."

"Sali Dalib not -" the merchant began.

Twinkle came out of its sheath and slipped to a stop under the merchant's chin, silencing the man instantly. Drizzt let his mask slip a bit, reminding Sali Dalib of the drow's heritage. Once again, his suddenly grim demeanor unnerved even his own friends. "I think of my friend," Drizzt said in a calm, low tone, his lavender eyes absently staring into the city, "tortured even as we delay."

He snapped his scowl at Sali Dalib. "As you delay! You will take us to the guildhouse of Pasha Pook," he reiterated, more insistently, "and then you are dismissed."

"Pook? Oh, Pook," the merchant beamed. "Sali Dalib know dis man, yes, yes.

Everybody know Pook. Yes, yes, I take you dere, den I go."

Drizzt replaced the mask but kept the stern visage. "If you or your little companion try to flee," he promised so calmly that neither the merchant nor his assistant doubted his words for a moment, "I will hunt you down and kill you."

The drow's three friends exchanged confused shrugs and concerned glances.

They felt confident that they knew Drizzt to his soul, but so grim was his tone that even they wondered how much of his promise was an idle threat.

* * * * *

It took more than an hour for them to twist and wind their way through the maze that was Calimport, to the dismay of the friends, who wanted nothing more than to be off the streets and away from the fetid stench. Finally, to their relief, Sali Dalib turned a final corner, to Rogues Circle, and pointed to the unremarkable wooden structure at its end: Pasha Pook's guildhouse.

"Dere be de Pook," Sali Dalib said. "Now, Sali Dalib take his camels and be gone back to Memnon."

The friends were not so quick to be rid of the wily merchant. "More to me guessin' that Sali Dalib be heading for Pook to sell some tales o' four friends," Bruenor growled.

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"Well, we've a way beyond that," said Catti-brie. She shot Drizzt a sly wink, then moved up to the curious and frightened merchant, reaching into her pack as she went.

Her look went suddenly grim, so wickedly intense that Sali Dalib jerked back when her hand came up to his forehead. "Hold yer place!" Catti-brie snapped at him harshly, and he had no resistance to the power of her tone. She had a powder, a flourlike substance, in her pack. Reciting some gibberish that sounded like an arcane chant, she traced a scimitar on Sali Dalib's forehead. The merchant tried to protest but couldn't find his tongue for his terror.

"Now, for the little one," Catti-brie said, turning to Sali Dalib's goblin assistant.

The goblin squeaked and tried to dash away, but Wulfgar caught it in one hand and held it out to Catti-brie, squeezing tighter and tighter until the thing stopped wiggling.

Catti-brie performed the ceremony again then turned to Drizzt. "They be linked to yer spirit now," she said. "Do ye feel them?"

Drizzt, understanding the bluff, nodded grimly and slowly drew his two scimitars.

Sali Dalib paled and nearly toppled over, but Bruenor, moving closer to watch his daughter's games, was quick to prop the terrified man up.

"Ah, let them go, then. Me witchin's through," Catti-brie told both Wulfgar and Bruenor. "The drow'll feel yer presence now," she hissed at Sali Dalib and his goblin.

"He'll know when ye're about and when ye've gone. If ye stay in the city, and if ye've thoughts o' going to Pook, the drow'll know, and he'll follow yer feel - hunt ye down."

She paused a moment, wanting the two to fully comprehend the horror they faced.

"And he'll kill ye slow."

"Take yer lumpy horses, then, and be gone!" Bruenor roared. "If I be seein' yer stinkin' faces again, the drow'll have to get in line for his cuts!"

Before the dwarf had even finished, Sali Dalib and the goblin had collected their camels and were off, away from Rogues Circle and back toward the northern end of the city.

"Them two're for the desert," Bruenor laughed when they had gone. "Fine tricks, me girl."

Drizzt pointed to the sign of an inn, the Spitting Camel, halfway down the lane.

"Get us rooms," he told his friends. "I will follow them to make certain they do indeed leave the city."

"Wastin' yer time," Bruenor called after him. "The girl's got 'em running, or I'm a bearded gnome!"

Drizzt had already started padding silently into the maze of Calimport's streets.

Wulfgar, caught unawares by her uncharacteristic trickery and still not quite sure what had just happened, eyed Catti-brie carefully. Bruenor didn't miss his apprehensive look.

"Take note, boy," the dwarf taunted. "Suren the girl's got herself a nasty streak ye'll not want turned on yerself!"

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Playing through for the sake of Bruenor's enjoyment, Catti-brie glared at the big barbarian and narrowed her eyes, causing Wulfgar to back off a cautious step.

"Witchin' magic," she cackled. "Tells me when yer eyes be filled with the likings of another woman!" She turned slowly, not releasing him from her stare until she had taken three steps down the lane toward the inn Drizzt had indicated.

Bruenor reached high and slapped Wulfgar on the back as he started after Catti-brie. "Fine lass," he remarked to Wulfgar. "Just don't be gettin' her mad!"

Wulfgar shook the confusion out of his head and forced out a laugh, reminding himself that Catti-brie's "magic" had been only a dupe to frighten the merchant.

But Catti-brie's glare as she had carried out the deception, and the sheer strength of her intensity, followed him as he walked down Rogues Circle. Both a shudder and a sweet tingle spread down his spine.

* * * * *

Half the sun had fallen below the western horizon before Drizzt returned to Rogues Circle. He had followed Sali Dalib and his assistant far out into the Calim Desert, though the merchant's frantic pace gave no indications that he had any intentions of turning back to Calimport. Drizzt simply wouldn't take the chance; they were too close to finding Regis and too close to Entreri.

Masked as an elf - Drizzt was beginning to realize how easily the disguise now came to him - he made his way into the Spitting Camel and to the innkeeper's desk.

An incredibly skinny, leather-skinned man, who kept his back always to a wall and his head darting nervously in every direction, met him.

"Three friends," Drizzt said gruffly. "A dwarf, a woman, and a golden-haired giant."

"Up the stairs," the man told him. "To the left. Two gold if you mean to stay the night." He held out his bony hand.

"The dwarf already paid you," Drizzt said grimly, starting away.

"For himself, the girl, and the big..." the innkeeper started, grabbing Drizzt by the shoulder. The look in Drizzt's lavender eyes, though, stopped the innkeeper cold.

"He paid," the frightened man stuttered. "I remember. He paid."

Drizzt walked away without another word.

He found the two rooms on opposite sides of the corridor at the far end of the structure. He had meant to go straight in with Wulfgar and Bruenor and grab a short rest, hoping to be out on the street when night fully fell, when Entreri would likely be about. Drizzt found, instead, Catti-brie in her doorway, apparently waiting for him.

She motioned him into her chamber and closed the door behind him.

Drizzt settled on the very edge of one of the two chairs in the center of the room, his foot tapping the floor in front of him.

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Catti-brie studied him as she walked around to the other chair. She had known Drizzt for years but never had seen him so agitated.

"Ye seem as though ye mean to tear yerself into pieces," she said.

Drizzt gave her a cold look, but Catti-brie laughed it away. "Do ye mean to strike me, then?"

That prompted the drow to settle back in his chair.

"And don't ye be wearing that silly mask," Catti-brie scolded.

Drizzt reached for the mask but hesitated.

"Take it off!" Catti-brie ordered, and the drow complied before he had time to reconsider.

"Ye came a bit grim in the street afore ye left," Catti-brie remarked, her voice softening.

"We had to make certain," Drizzt replied coldly. "I do not trust Sali Dalib."

"Nor meself," Catti-brie agreed, "but ye're still grim, by me seeing."

"You were the one with the witching magic," Drizzt shot back, his tone defensive. "It was Catti-brie who showed herself grim then."

Catti-brie shrugged. "A needed act," she said. "An act I dropped when the merchant had gone. But yerself," she said pointedly, leaning forward and placing a comforting hand on Drizzt's knee. "Ye're up for a fight."

Drizzt started to jerk away but realized the truth of her observations and forced himself to relax under her friendly touch. He looked away, for, he found that he could not soften the sternness of his visage.

"What's it about?" Catti-brie whispered.

Drizzt looked back to her then and remembered all the times he and she had shared back in Icewind Dale. In her sincere concern for him now, Drizzt recalled the first time they had met, when the smile of the girl - for she was then but a girl - had given the displaced and disheartened drow a renewed hope for his life among the surface dwellers.

Catti-brie knew more about him than anyone alive, about those things that were important to him, and made his stoic existence bearable. She alone recognized the fears that lay beneath his black skin, the insecurity masked by the skill of his sword arm.

"Entreri," he answered softly.

"Ye mean to kill him?"

"I have to."

Catti-brie sat back to consider the words. "If ye be killing Entreri to free Regis,"

she said at length, "and to stop him from hurting anyone else, then me heart says it's a good thing." She leaned forward again, bringing her face close to Drizzt's, "but if ye're meaning to kill him to prove yerself or to deny what he is, then me heart cries."

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She could have slapped Drizzt and had the same effect. He sat up straight and cocked his head, his features twisted in angry denial. He let Catti-brie continue, for he could not dismiss the importance of the observant woman's perceptions.

"Suren the world's not fair, me friend. Suren by the measure of hearts, ye been wronged. But are ye after the assassin for yer own anger? Will killing Entreri cure the wrong?"

Drizzt did not answer, but his look turned stubbornly grim again.

"Look in the mirror, Drizzt Do'Urden," Catti-brie said, "without the mask. Killin'

Entreri won't change the color of his skin - or the color of yer own."

Again Drizzt had been slapped, and this time it brought an undeniable ring of truth with it. He fell back in his chair, looking upon Catti-brie as he had never looked upon her before. Where had Bruenor's little girl gone? Before him loomed a woman, beautiful and sensitive and laying bare his soul with a few words. They had shared much, it was true, but how could she know him so very well? And why had she taken the time?

"Ye've truer friends than ever ye'll know," Catti-brie said, "and not for the way ye twirl a sword. Ye've others who would call themselves friend if only they could get inside the length of yer arm - if only ye'd learn to look."

Drizzt considered the words. He remembered the Sea Sprite and Captain Deudermont and the crew, standing behind him even when they knew his heritage.

"And if only ye'd ever learned to love," Catti-brie continued, her voice barely audible. "Suren ye've let things slip past, Drizzt Do'Urden."

Drizzt studied her intently, weighing the glimmer in her dark, saucerlike eyes. He tried to fathom what she was getting at, what personal message she was sending to him.

The door burst open suddenly, and Wulfgar bounded into the room, a smile stretching the length of his face and the eager look of adventure gleaming in his pale blue eyes. "Good that you are back," he said to Drizzt. He moved behind Catti-brie and dropped an arm comfortably across her shoulders. "The night has come, and a bright moon peeks over the eastern rim. Time for the hunt!"

Catti-brie put her hand on Wulfgar's and flashed him an adoring smile. Drizzt was glad they had found each other. They would grow together in a blessed and joyful life, rearing children that would no doubt be the envy of all the northland.

Catti-brie looked back to Drizzt. "Just for yer thoughts, me friend," she said quietly, calmly. "Are ye more trapped by the way the world sees ye or by the way ye see the world seein' ye?"

The tension eased out of Drizzt's muscles. If Catti-brie was right in her observations, he would have a lot of thinking to do.

"Time to hunt!" Catti-brie cried, satisfied that she had gotten her point across.

She rose beside Wulfgar and headed for the door, but she turned her head over her shoulder to face Drizzt one final time, giving him a look that told him that perhaps he 153

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should have asked for more from Catti-brie back in Icewind Dale, before Wulfgar had entered her life.

Drizzt sighed as they left the room and instinctively reached for the magical mask.

Instinctively? he wondered.

Drizzt dropped the thing suddenly and fell back in the chair in thought, clasping his hands behind his head. He glanced around, hoping, but the room had no mirror.

154

17

Impossible Loyalties

LaValle held his hand within the pouch for a long moment, teasing Pook. They were alone with the eunuchs, who didn't count, in the central chamber of the top level.

LaValle had promised his master a gift beyond even the news of the ruby pendant's return, and Pook knew that the wizard would offer such a promise with great care. It was not wise to disappoint the guildmaster.

LaValle had great confidence in his gift and had no trepidations about his grand claims. He slid it out and presented it to Pook, smiling broadly as he did so.

Pook lost his breath, and sweat thickened on his palms at the onyx statuette's touch. "Magnificent," he muttered, overwhelmed. "Never have I seen such craftsmanship, such detail. One could almost pet the thing!"

"One can," LaValle whispered under his breath. The wizard did not want to let on to all of the gift's properties at once, however, so he replied, "I am pleased that you are pleased."

"Where did you get it?"

LaValle shifted uneasily. "That is not important," he answered. "It is for you, Master, given with all of my loyalty." He quickly moved the conversation along to prevent Pook from pressing the point. "The workmanship of the statuette is but a fraction of its value," he teased, drawing a curious look from Pook.

"You have heard of such figurines," LaValle went on, satisfied that the time to overwhelm the guildmaster had come once again. "They can be magical companions to their owners."

Pook's hands verily trembled at the thought. "This," he stammered excitedly,

"this might bring the panther to life?"

LaValle's sly smile answered the question.

"How? When might I -"

"Whenever you desire," LaValle answered.

"Should we prepare a cage?" Pook asked.

"No need."

"But at least until the panther understands who its master -"

"You possess the figurine," LaValle interrupted. "The creature you summon is wholly yours. It will follow your every command exactly as you desire."

Pook clutched the statuette close to his chest. He could hardly believe his fortune. The great cats were his first and foremost love, and to have in his possession one with such obedience, an extension of his own will, thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.

"Now," he said. "I want to call the cat now. Tell me the words."

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LaValle took the statue and placed it on the floor, then whispered into Pook's ear, taking care that his own uttering of the cat's name didn't summon Guenhwyvar and ruin the moment for Pook.

"Guenhwyvar," Pook called softly. Nothing happened at first, but both Pook and LaValle could sense the link being completed to the distant entity.

"Come to me, Guenhwyvar!" Pook commanded.

His voice rolled through the tunnel gate in the Planes of existence, down the dark corridor to the Astral Plane, the home of the entity of the panther. Guenhwyvar awakened to the summons. Cautiously the cat found the path.

"Guenhwyvar," the call came again, but the cat did not recognize the voice. It had been many weeks since its master had brought it to the Prime Material Plane, and the panther had had a well-deserved and much-needed rest, but one that had brought with it a cautious trepidation. Now, with an unknown voice summoning it, Guenhwyvar understood that something had definitely changed.

Tentatively, but unable to resist the summons, the great cat padded off down the corridor.

Pook and LaValle watched, mesmerized, as a gray smoke appeared, shrouding the floor around the figurine. It swirled lazily for a few moments then took definite shape, solidifying into Guenhwyvar. The cat stood perfectly still, seeking some recognition of its surroundings.

"What do I do?" Pook asked LaValle. The cat tensed at the sound of the voice -

its master's voice.

"Whatever pleases you," LaValle answered. "The cat will sit by you, hunt for you, walk t your heel - kill for you."

Some ideas popped into the guildmaster's head at the last comment. "What are its limits?"

LaValle shrugged. "Most magic of this kind will fade after a length of time, though you can summon the cat again once it has rested," he quickly added, seeing Pook's disheartened look. "It cannot be killed; to do so would only return it to its plane, though the statue could be broken."

Again Pook's look soured. The item had already become too precious for him to consider losing it.

"I assure you that destroying the statue would not prove an easy task," LaValle continued. "Its magic is quite potent. The mightiest smith in all the Realms could not scratch it with his heaviest hammer!"

Pook was satisfied. "Come to me," he ordered the cat, extending his hand.

Guenhwyvar obeyed and flattened its ears as Pook gently stroked the soft black coat.

"I have a task," Pook announced suddenly, turning an excited glance at LaValle,

"a memorable and marvelous task! The first task for Guenhwyvar."

LaValle's eyes lit up at the pure pleasure stamped across Pook's face.

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"Fetch me Regis," Pook told LaValle. "Let Guenhwyvar's first kill be the halfling I most despise!"

* * * * *

Exhausted from his ordeal in the Cells of Nine, and from the various tortures Pook had put him through, Regis was easily shoved flat to his face before Pook's throne.

The halfling struggled to his feet, determined to accept the next torture - even if it meant death - with dignity.

Pook waved the guards out of the room. "Have you enjoyed your stay with us?"

he teased Regis.

Regis brushed the mop of hair back from his face. "Acceptable," he replied. "The neighbors are noisy, though, growling and purring all the night through."

"Silence!" Pook snapped. He looked at LaValle, standing beside the great chair.

"He will find little humor here," the guildmaster said with a venomous chuckle.

Regis had passed beyond fear, though, into resignation. "You have won," he said calmly, hoping to steal some of the pleasure from Pook. "I took your pendant and was caught. If you believe that crime is deserving of death, then kill me."

"Oh, I shall!" Pook hissed. "I had planned that from the start, but I knew not the appropriate method."

Regis rocked back on his heels. Perhaps he wasn't as composed as he had hoped.

"Guenhwyvar," Pook called.

"Guenhwyvar?" Regis echoed under his breath.

"Come to me, my pet."

The halfling's jaw dropped to his chest when the magical cat slipped out of the half-opened door to LaValle's room.

"Wh - Where did you get him?" Regis stuttered.

"Magnificent, is he not?" Pook replied. "But do not worry, little thief. You shall get a closer look." He turned to the cat.

"Guenhwyvar, dear Guenhwyvar," Pook purred, "this little thief wronged your master. Kill him, my pet, but kill him slowly. I want to hear his screams."

Regis stared into the panther's wide eyes. "Calm, Guenhwyvar," he said as the cat took a slow, hesitant stride his way. Truly it pained Regis to see the wondrous panther under the command of one as vile as Pook. Guenhwyvar belonged with Drizzt.

But Regis couldn't spend much time considering the implications of the cat's appearance. His own future became his primary concern. "He is the one," Regis cried to Guenhwyvar, pointing at Pook. "He commands the evil one who took us from your true master, the evil one your true master seeks!"

"Excellent!" Pook laughed, thinking Regis to be grasping at a desperate lie to confuse the animal. "This show may yet be worth the agony I have endured at your hands, thief Regis!"

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LaValle shifted uneasily, understanding more of the truth to Regis's words.

"Now, my pet!" Pook commanded. "Bring him pain!"

Guenhwyvar growled lowly, eyes narrowed.

"Guenhwyvar," Regis said again, backing away a step. "Guenhwyvar, you know me."

The cat showed no indication that it recognized the halfling. Compelled by its master's voice, it crouched and inched across the floor toward Regis.

"Guenhwyvar!" Regis cried, feeling along the wall for an escape.

"That is the cat's name," Pook laughed, still not realizing the halfling's honest recognition of the beast. "Good-bye, Regis. Take comfort in knowing that I shall remember this moment for the rest of my life!"

The panther flattened its ears and crouched lower, tamping down its back paws for better balance. Regis rushed to the door, though he had no doubt that it was locked, and Guenhwyvar leaped, impossibly quick and accurate. Regis barely realized that the cat was upon him.

Pasha Pook's ecstasy, though, proved short-lived. He jumped from his chair, hoping for a better view of the action, as Guenhwyvar buried Regis. Then the cat vanished, slowly fading away.

The halfling, too, was gone.

"What?" Pook cried. "That is it? No blood?" He spun on LaValle. "Is that how the thing kills?"

The wizard's horrified expression told Pook a different tale. Suddenly the guildmaster recognized the truth of Regis's banterings with the cat. "It took him away!" Pook roared. He rushed around the side of the chair and pushed his face into LaValle's. "Where? Tell me!"

LaValle nearly fell from his trembling. "Not possible." He gasped. "The cat must obey its master, the possessor."

"Regis knew the cat!" Pook cried.

"Impossible loyalties," LaValle replied, truly dumbfounded.

Pook composed himself and settled back in his chair. "Where did you get it?" he asked LaValle.

"Entreri," the wizard replied immediately, not daring to hesitate.

Pook scratched his chin. "Entreri," he echoed. The pieces started falling into place. Pook understood Entreri well enough to know that the assassin would not give away so valuable an item without getting something in return. "It belonged to one of the halfling's friends," Pook reasoned, remembering Regis's references to the cat's 'true master.'

"I did not ask," replied LaValle.

"You did not have to ask!" Pook shot back. "It belonged to one of the halfling's friends, perhaps one of those Oberon spoke of. Yes. And Entreri gave it to you in exchange for..." He tossed a wicked look LaValle's way.

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"Where is the pirate, Pinochet?" he asked slyly.

LaValle nearly fainted, caught in a web that promised death wherever he turned.

"Enough said," said Pook, understanding everything from the wizard's paled expression. "Ah, Entreri," he mused, "ever you prove a headache, however well you serve me. And you," he breathed at LaValle. "Where have they gone?"

LaValle shook his head. "The cat's plane," he blurted, "the only possibility."

"And can the cat return to this world?"

"Only if summoned by the possessor of the statue."

Pook pointed to the statue lying on the floor in front of the door. "Get that cat back," he ordered. LaValle rushed for the figurine.

"No, wait." Pook reconsidered. "Let me first have a cage built for it. Guenhwyvar will be mine in time. It will learn discipline."

LaValle continued over and picked up the statue, not really knowing where to begin. Pook grabbed him as he passed the throne.

"But the halfling," Pook growled, pressing his nose flat against LaValle's. "On your life, wizard, get that halfling back to me!"

Pook shoved LaValle back and headed for the door to the lower levels. He would have to open some eyes in the streets, to learn what Artemis Entreri was up to and to learn more about those friends of the halfling, whether they still lived or had died in Asavir's Channel.

If it had been anyone other than Entreri, Pook would have put his ruby pendant to use, but that option was not feasible with the dangerous assassin.

Pook growled to himself as he exited the chamber. He had hoped, on Entreri's return, that he would never have to take this route again, but with LaValle so obviously tied into the assassin's games, Pook's only option was Rassiter.

* * * * *

"You want him removed?" the wererat asked, liking the beginnings of this assignment as well as any that Pook had ever given him.

"Do not flatter yourself," Pook shot back. "Entreri is none of your affair, Rassiter, and beyond your power."

"You underestimate the strength of my guild."

"You underestimate the assassin's network - probably numbering many of those you errantly call comrades," Pook warned. "I want no war within my guild."

"Then what?" the wererat snapped in obvious disappointment.

At Rassiter's antagonistic tone, Pook began to finger the ruby pendant hanging around his neck. He could put Rassiter under its enchantment, he knew, but he preferred not to. Charmed individuals never performed as well as those acting of their own desires, and if Regis's friends had truly escaped Pinochet, Rassiter and his cronies would have to be at their very best to defeat them.

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"Entreri may have been followed to Calimport," Pook explained. "Friends of the halfling, I believe, and dangerous to our guild."

Rassiter leaned forward, feigning surprise. Of course, the wererat had already learned from Dondon of the Northerners' approach.

"They will be in the city soon," Pook continued. "You haven't much time."

They are already here, Rassiter answered silently, trying to hide his smile. "You want them captured?"

"Eliminated," Pook corrected. "This group is too mighty. No chances."

"Eliminated," Rassiter echoed. "Ever my preference."

Pook couldn't help but shudder. "Inform me when the task is complete," he said, heading for the door.

Rassiter silently laughed at his master's back. "Ah, Pook," he whispered as the guildmaster left, "how little you know of my influences." The wererat rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The night grew long, and the Northerners would soon be on the streets - where Dondon would find them.

160

18

Double Talker

Perched in his favorite corner across Rogues Circle from the Spitting Camel, Dondon watched as the elf, the last of the four, moved into the inn to join his friends. The halfling pulled out a little pocket mirror to check his disguise - all the dirt and scruff marks seemed in the right places; his clothes were far too large, like those a waif would pull off an unconscious drunk in an ally; and his hair was appropriately tousled and snarled, as if it hadn't been combed in years.

Dondon looked longingly to the moon and inspected his chin with his fingers.

Still hairless but tingling, he thought. The halfling took a deep breath, and then another, and fought back the lycanthropic urges. In the year he had joined Rassiter's ranks, he had learned to sublimate those fiendish urges fairly well, but he hoped that he could finish his business quickly this night. The moon was especially bright.

People of the street, locals, gave an approving wink as they passed the halfling, knowing the master con artist to be on the prowl once more. With his reputation, Dondon had long become ineffective against the regulars of Calimport's streets, but those characters knew enough to keep their mouths shut about the halfling to strangers. Dondon always managed to surround himself with the toughest rogues of the city, and blowing his cover to an intended victim was a serious crime indeed!

The halfling leaned back against the corner of a building to observe as the four friends emerged from the Spitting Camel a short time later.

For Drizzt and his companions, Calimport's night proved as unnatural as the sights they had witnessed during the day. Unlike the northern cities, where nighttime activities were usually relegated to the many taverns, the bustle of Calimport's streets only increased after the sun went down.

Even the lowly peasants took on a different demeanor, suddenly mysterious and sinister.

The only section of the lane that remained uncluttered by the hordes was the area in front of the unmarked structure on the back side of the circle: the guildhouse. As in the daylight, bums sat against the building's walls on either side of its single door, but now there were two more guards farther off to either side.

"If Regis is in that place, we've got to find our way in," Catti-brie observed.

"No doubt that Regis is in there," Drizzt replied. "Our hunt should start with Entreri."

"We've come to find Regis," Catti-brie reminded him, casting a disappointed glance his way. Drizzt quickly clarified his answer to her satisfaction.

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"The road to Regis lies through the assassin," he said. "Entreri has seen to that.

You heard his words at the chasm of Garumn's Gorge. Entreri will not allow us to find Regis until we have dealt with him."

Catti-brie could not deny the drow's logic. When Entreri had snatched Regis from them back in Mithril Hall, he had gone to great pains to bait Drizzt into the chase, as though his capture of Regis was merely part of a game he was playing against Drizzt.

"Where to begin?" Bruenor huffed in frustration. He had expected the street to be quieter, offering them a better opportunity to scope out the task before them. He had hoped that they might even complete their business that very night.

"Right where we are," Drizzt replied, to Bruenor's amazement.

"Learn the smell of the street," the drow explained. "Watch the moves of its people and hear their sounds. Prepare your mind for what is to come."

"Time, elf!" Bruenor growled back. "Me heart tells me that Rumblebelly's liken to have a whip at his back as we stand here smelling the stinkin' street!"

"We need not seek Entreri," Wulfgar cut in, following Drizzt's line of thinking.

"The assassin will find us."

Almost on cue, as if Wulfgar's statement had reminded them all of their dangerous surroundings, the four of them turned their eyes outward from their little huddle and watched the bustle of the street around them. Dark eyes peered at them from every corner; each person that ambled past cast them a sidelong glance.

Calimport was not unaccustomed to strangers - it was a trading port, after all - but these four would stand out clearly on the streets of any city in the Realms.

Recognizing their vulnerability, Drizzt decided to get them moving. He started off down Rogues Circle, motioning for the others to follow.

Before Wulfgar, at the tail of the forming line, had even taken a step, however, a childish voice called out to him from the shadows of the Spitting Camel.

"Hey," it beckoned, "are you looking for a hit?"

Wulfgar, not understanding, moved a bit closer and peered into the gloom. There stood Dondon, seeming a young, disheveled human boy.

"What're yer fer?" Bruenor asked, moving beside Wulfgar.

Wulfgar pointed to the corner.

"What're yer fer?" Bruenor asked again, now targeting the diminutive, shadowy figure.

"Looking for a hit?" Dondon reiterated, moving out from the gloom.

"Bah!" Bruenor snorted, waving his hand. "Just a boy. Get ye gone, little one.

We've no time for play!" He grabbed Wulfgar's arm and turned away.

"I can set you up," Dondon said after them.

Bruenor kept right on walking, Wulfgar beside him, but now Drizzt had stopped, noticing his companions' delay, and had heard the boy's last statement.

"Just a boy!" Bruenor explained to the drow as he approached.

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"A street boy," Drizzt corrected, stepping around Bruenor and Wulfgar and starting back, "with eyes and ears that miss little."

"How can you set us up?" Drizzt whispered to Dondon while moving close to the building, out of sight of the too curious hordes.

Dondon shrugged. "There is plenty to steal; a whole bunch of merchants came in today. What are you looking for?"

Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie took up defensive positions around Drizzt and the boy, their eyes outward to the streets but their ears trained on the suddenly interesting conversation.

Drizzt crouched low and led Dondon's gaze with his own toward the building at the end of the circle.

"Pook's house," Dondon remarked offhandedly. "Toughest house in Calimport."

"But it has a weakness," Drizzt prompted.

"They all do," Dondon replied calmly, playing perfectly the role of a cocky street survivor.

"Have you ever been in there?"

"Maybe I have."

"Have you ever seen a hundred gold pieces?"

Dondon let his eyes light up, and he purposely and pointedly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Get him back in the rooms," Catti-brie said. "Ye be drawing too many looks out here."

Dondon readily agreed, but he shot Drizzt a warning in the form of an icy stare and proclaimed, "I can count to a hundred!"

When they got back to the room, Drizzt and Bruenor fed Dondon a steady stream of coins while the halfling laid out the way to a secret back entrance to the guildhouse. "Even the thieves," Dondon proclaimed, "do not know of it!"

The friends gathered closely, eager for the details.

Dondon made the whole operation sound easy.

Too easy.

Drizzt rose - and turned away, hiding his chuckle from the informant. Hadn't they just been talking about Entreri making contact? Barely minutes before this enlightening boy so conveniently arrived to guide them.

"Wulfgar, take off his shoes," Drizzt said. His three friends turned to him curiously. Dondon squirmed in his chair.

"His shoes," Drizzt said again, turning back and pointing to Dondon's feet.

Bruenor, so long a friend of a halfling, caught the drow's reasoning and didn't wait for Wulfgar to respond. The dwarf grabbed at Dondon's left boot and pulled it off, revealing a thick patch of foot hair - the foot of a halfling.

Dondon shrugged helplessly and sank back in his chair. The meeting was taking the exact course that Entreri had predicted.

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"He said he could set us up," Catti-brie remarked sarcastically, twisting Dondon's words into a more sinister light.

"Who sent ye?" Bruenor growled.

"Entreri," Wulfgar answered for Dondon. "He works for Entreri, sent here to lead us into a trap." Wulfgar leaned over Dondon, blocking out the candlelight with his huge frame.

Bruenor pushed the barbarian aside and took his place. With his boyish looks, Wulfgar simply could not be as imposing as the pointy-nosed, red-bearded, fire-eyed dwarven fighter with the battered helm. "So, ye little sneakster," Bruenor growled into Dondon's face. "Now we deal for yer stinkin' tongue! Wag it the wrong way, and I'll be cutting it out!"

Dondon paled - he had that act down pat - and began to tremble visibly.

"Calm yerself," Catti-brie said to Bruenor, playing out a lighter role this time.

"Suren ye've scared the little one enough."

Bruenor shoved her back, turning enough away from Dondon to toss her a wink.

"Scared him?" the dwarf balked. He brought his axe up to his shoulder. "More than scarin' him's in me plans!"

"Wait! Wait!" Dondon begged, groveling as only a halfling could. "I was just doing what the assassin made me do, and paid me to do."

"You know Entreri?" Wulfgar asked.

"Everybody knows Entreri," Dondon replied. "And in Calimport, everybody heeds Entreri's commands!"

"Forget Entreri!" Bruenor growled in his face. "Me axe'll stop that one from hurting yerself."

"You think you can kill Entreri?" Dondon shot back, though he knew the true meaning of Bruenor's claim.

"Entreri can't hurt a corpse," Bruenor replied grimly. "Me axe'll beat him to yer head!"

"It is you he wants," Dondon said to Drizzt, seeking a calmer situation.

Drizzt nodded, but remained silent. Something came across as out of place in this out of place meeting.

"I choose no sides," Dondon pleaded to Bruenor, seeing no relief forthcoming from Drizzt. "I only do what I must to survive."

"And to survive now, ye're going to tell us the way in," Bruenor said. "The safe way in."

"The place is a fortress," Dondon shrugged. "No way is safe." Bruenor started slipping closer, his scowl deepening.

"But, if I had to try," the halfling blurted, "I would try through the sewers."

Bruenor looked around at his friends.

"It seems correct," Wulfgar remarked.

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Drizzt studied the halfling a moment longer, searching for some clue in Dondon's darting eyes. "It is correct," the drow said at length.

"So he saved his neck," said Catti-brie, "but what are we to do with him? Take him along?"

"Ayuh," said Bruenor with a sly look. "He'll be leading!"

"No," replied Drizzt, to the amazement of his companions. "The halfling did as we bade. Let him leave."

"And go straight off to tell Entreri what has happened?" Wulfgar said.

"Entreri would not understand," Drizzt replied. He looked Dondon in the eye, giving no indication to the halfling that he had figured out his little ploy within a ploy.

"Nor would he forgive."

"Me heart says we take him," Bruenor remarked.

"Let him go," Drizzt said calmly. "Trust me."

Bruenor snorted and dropped his axe to his side, grumbling as he moved to open the door. Wulfgar and Catti-brie exchanged concerned glances but stepped out of the way.

Dondon didn't hesitate, but Bruenor stepped in front of him as he reached the door. "If I see yer face again," the dwarf threatened, "or any face ye might be wearin', I'll chop ye down!"

Dondon slipped around and backed into the hall, never taking his eyes off the dangerous dwarf, then he darted down the hall, shaking his head at how perfectly Entreri had described the encounter, at how well the assassin knew those friends, particularly the drow.

Suspecting the truth about the entire encounter, Drizzt understood that Bruenor's final threat carried little weight to the wily halfling. Dondon had faced them down through both lies without the slightest hint of a slip.

But Drizzt nodded approvingly as Bruenor, still scowling, turned back into the room, for the drow also knew that the threat, if nothing else, had made Bruenor feel more secure.

On Drizzt's suggestion, they all settled down for some sleep. With the clamor of the streets, they would never be able to slip unnoticed into one of the sewer grates.

But the crowds would likely thin out as the night waned and the guard changed from the dangerous rogues of evening to the peasants of the hot day.

Drizzt alone did not find sleep. He sat propped by the door of the room, listening for sounds of any approach and lulled into meditations by the rhythmic breathing of his companions. He looked down at the mask hanging around his neck.

So simple a lie, and he could walk freely throughout the world.

But would he then be trapped within the web of his own deception? What freedom could he find in denying the truth about himself?

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Drizzt looked over at Catti-brie, peacefully slumped in the room's single bed, and smiled. There was indeed wisdom in innocence, a vein of truth in the idealism of untainted perceptions.

He could not disappoint her.

Drizzt sensed a deepening of the outside gloom. The moon had set. He moved to the room's window and peeked out into the street. Still the night people wandered, but they were fewer now, and the night neared its end. Drizzt roused his companions; they could not afford any more delays. They stretched away their weariness, checked their gear, and moved back down to the street.

Rogues Circle was lined with several iron sewer grates that looked as though they were designed more to keep the filthy things of the sewers underground than as drains for the sudden waters of the rare but violent rainstorms that hit the city. The friends chose one in the alley beside their inn, out of the main way of the street but close enough to the guildhouse that they could probably find their underground way without too much trouble.

"The boy can lift it," Bruenor remarked, waving Wulfgar to the spot. Wulfgar bent low and grasped the iron.

"Not yet," Drizzt whispered, glancing around for suspicious eyes. He motioned Catti-brie to the end of the alley, back along Rogues Circle, and he darted off down the darker side. When he was satisfied that all was clear, he waved back to Bruenor.

The dwarf looked to Catti-brie, who nodded her approval.

"Lift it, boy," Bruenor said, "and be quiet about it!"

Wulfgar grasped the iron tightly and sucked in a deep, draft of air for balance.

His huge arms pumped red with blood as he heaved, and a grunt escaped his lips.

Even so, the grate resisted his tugging.

Wulfgar looked at Bruenor in disbelief, then redoubled his efforts, his face now flushing red. The grate groaned in protest, but came up only a few inches from the ground.

"Suren somethings holdin' it down," Bruenor said, leaning over to inspect it.

A "clink" of snapping chain was the dwarf's only warning as the grate broke free, sending Wulfgar sprawling backward. The lifting iron clipped Bruenor's forehead, knocking his helmet off and dropping him on the seat of his pants. Wulfgar, still clutching the grate, crashed heavily and loudly into the wall of the inn.

"Ye blasted, fool-headed. . ." Bruenor started to grumble, but Drizzt and Catti-brie, rushing to his aid, quickly reminded him of the secrecy of their mission.

"Why would they chain a sewer grate?" Catti-brie asked.

Wulfgar dusted himself off. "From the inside," he added.

"It seems that something down there wants to keep the city out."

"We shall know soon enough," Drizzt remarked. He dropped down beside the open hole, slipping his legs in. "Prepare a torch," he said. "I will summon you if all is clear."

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Catti-brie caught the eager gleam in the drow's eyes and looked at him with concern.

"For Regis," Drizzt assured her, "and only for Regis." Then he was gone, into the blackness. Black like the lightless tunnels of his homeland.

The other three heard a slight splash as he touched down, then all was quiet.

Many anxious moments passed. "Put a light to the torch," Bruenor whispered to Wulfgar.

Catti-brie caught Wulfgar's arm to stop him. "Faith," she said to Bruenor.

"Too long," the dwarf muttered. "Too quiet."

Catti-brie held on to Wulfgar's arm for another second, until Drizzt's soft voice drifted up to them. "Clear," the drow said. "Come down quickly."

Bruenor took the torch from Wulfgar. "Come last," he said, "and slide the grate back behind ye. No need in tellin' the world where we went!"

* * * * *

The first thing the companions noticed when the torchlight entered the sewer was the chain that had held the grate down. It was fairly new, without doubt, and fastened to a locking box constructed on the sewer's wall.

"Me thinking's that we're not alone," Bruenor whispered.

Drizzt glanced around, sharing the dwarf's uneasiness. He dropped the mask from his face, a drow again in an environ suited for a drow. "I will lead," he said, "at the edge of the light. Keep ready." He padded away, picking his silent steps along the edge of the murky stream of water that rolled slowly down the center of the tunnel.

Bruenor came next with the torch, then Catti-brie and Wulfgar. The barbarian had to stoop low to keep his head clear of the slimy ceiling. Rats squeaked and scuttled away from the strange light, and darker things took silent refuge under the shield of the water. The tunnel meandered this way and that, and a maze of side passages opened up every few feet. Sounds of trickling water only worsened the confusion, leading the friends for a moment, then coming louder at their side, then louder still from across the way.

Bruenor shook the diversions clear of his thoughts, ignored the muck and the fetid stench, and concentrated on keeping his track straight behind the shadowy figure that darted in and out at the front edge of his torchlight. He turned a confusing, multicornered intersection and caught sight of the figure suddenly off to his side.

Even as he turned to follow, he realized that Drizzt still had to be up front.

"Ready!" Bruenor called, tossing the torch to a dry spot beside him and taking up his axe and shield. His alertness saved them all, for only a split second later, not one, but two cloaked forms emerged from the side tunnel, swords raised and sharp teeth gleaming under twitching whiskers.

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They were man-sized, wearing the clothes of men and holding swords. In their other form, they were indeed humans and not always vile, but on the nights of the bright moon they took on their darker form, the lycanthrope side. They moved like men but were mantled with the trappings - elongated snout, bristled brown fur, and pink tail - of sewer rats.

Lining them up over the top of Bruenor's helm, Catti-brie launched the first strike. The silvery flash of her killing arrow illuminated the side tunnel like a lightning bolt, showing many more sinister figures making their way toward the friends.

A splash from behind caused Wulfgar to spin about to face a rushing gang of the ratmen. He dug his heels into the mud as well as he could and slapped Aegis-fang to a ready position.

"They was layin' on us, elf!" Bruenor shouted.

Drizzt had already come to that conclusion. At the dwarf's first shout, he had slipped farther from the torch to use the advantage of darkness. Turning a bend brought him face to face with two figures, and he guessed their sinister nature before he ever got the blue light of Twinkle high enough to see their furry brows.

The wererats, though, certainly did not expect what they found standing ready before them. Perhaps it was because they believed that their enemies were solely in the area with the torchlight, but more likely it was the black skin of a drow elf that sent them back on their heels.

Drizzt didn't miss the opportunity, slicing them down in a single flurry before they ever recovered from their shock. The drow then melted again into the blackness, seeking a back route to ambush the ambushers.

Wulfgar kept his attackers at bay with long sweeps of Aegis-fang. The hammer blew aside any wererat that ventured too near, and smashed away chunks of the muck on the sewer walls every time it completed an arc. But as the wererats came to understand the power of the mighty barbarian, and came in at him with less enthusiasm, the best that Wulfgar could accomplish was a stalemate - a deadlock that would only last as long as the energy in his huge arms.

Behind Wulfgar, Bruenor and Catti-brie fared better. Catti-brie's magical bow -

loosing arrows over the dwarf's head - decimated the ranks of the approaching wererats, and those few that reached Bruenor, off-balance and ducking the deadly arrows of the woman behind him, proved easy prey for the dwarf.

But the odds were fully against the friends, and they knew that one mistake would cost them dearly.

The wererats, hissing and spitting, backed away from Wulfgar. Realizing that he had to initiate more decisive fighting, the barbarian strode forward.

The ratmen parted ranks suddenly, and down the tunnel, at the very edge of the torchlight, Wulfgar saw one of them level a heavy crossbow and fire.

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Instinctively the big man flattened against the wall, and he was agile enough to get out of the missile's path, but Catti-brie, behind him and facing the other way, never saw the bolt coming.

She felt a sudden searing burst of pain, then the warmth of her blood pouring down the side of her head. Blackness swirled about the edges of her vision, and she crumbled against the wall.

* * * * *

Drizzt slipped through the dark passages as silently as death. He kept Twinkle sheathed, fearing its revealing light, and led the way with his other magical blade. He was in a maze, but figured that he could pick his route well enough to rejoin his friends. Every tunnel he picked, though, lit up at its other end with torchlight as still more wererats made their way to the fighting.

The darkness was certainly ample for the stealthy drow to remain concealed, but Drizzt got the uneasy feeling that his moves were being monitored, even anticipated.

Dozens of passages opened up all around him, but his options came fewer and fewer as wererats appeared at every turn. The circuit to his friends was growing wider with each step, but Drizzt quickly realized that he had no choice but to go forward.

Wererats had filled the main tunnel behind him, following his route.

Drizzt stopped in the shadows of one dark nook and surveyed the area about him, recounting the distance he had covered and noting the passages behind him that now flickered in torchlight. Apparently there weren't as many wererats as he had originally figured; those appearing at every turn were probably the same groups from the previous tunnels, running parallel to Drizzt and turning into each new passage as Drizzt came upon it at the other end.

But the revelation of wererat numbers came as little comfort to Drizzt. He had no doubts to his suspicions now. He was being herded.

* * * * *

Wulfgar turned and started toward his fallen love, his Catti-brie, but the wererats came in on him immediately.

Fury now drove the mighty barbarian. He tore into his attackers' ranks, smashing and squashing them with bone-splitting chops of his war hammer or reaching out with a bare hand to twist the neck of any who had slipped in beside him. The ratmen managed a few retreating stabs, but nicks and little wounds wouldn't slow the enraged barbarian.

He stomped on the fallen as he passed, grinding his booted heels into their dying bodies. Other wererats scrambled in terror to get out of his way.

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At the end of their line, the crossbowman struggled to reload his weapon, a job made more difficult by his inability to keep his eyes off the spectacle of the approaching barbarian and made doubly difficult by his knowledge that he was the focus of the powerful man's rage.

Bruenor, with the wererat ranks dissipated in front of him, had more time to tend to Catti-brie. He bent over the young woman, his face ashen as he pulled her thick mane of auburn hair, thicker now with the wetness of her blood, from her fair face.

Catti-brie looked up at him through stunned eyes. "But an inch more, and me life'd be at its end," she said with a wink and a smile.

Bruenor scrambled to inspect the wound, and found, to his relief, that his daughter was correct in her observations. The quarrel had gouged her wickedly, but it was only a grazing shot.

"I'm alright," Catti-brie insisted, starting to rise.

Bruenor held her down. "Not yet," he whispered.

"The fight's not done," Catti-brie replied, still trying to plant her feet under her.

Bruenor led her gaze down the tunnel, to Wulfgar and the bodies piling all about him.

"There's our chance," he chuckled. "Let the boy think ye're down."

Catti-brie bit her lip in astonishment of the scene. A dozen ratmen were down and still Wulfgar pounded through, his hammer tearing away those unfortunates who couldn't flee out of his way.

Then a noise from the other direction turned Catti-brie away. With her bow down, the wererats from the front had returned.

"They're mine," Bruenor told her. "Keep yerself down!"

"If ye get into trouble -"

"If I need ye, then be there," Bruenor agreed, "but for now, keep yerself down!

Give the boy something to fight for!"

* * * * *

Drizzt tried to double back along his route, but the ratmen quickly closed off all of the tunnels. Soon his options had been cut down to one, a wide, dry side passage moving in the opposite direction from where he had hoped to go.

The ratmen were closing on him fast, and in the main tunnel he would have to fight them off from several different directions. He slipped into the passage and flattened against the wall.

Two ratmen shuffled up to the tunnel entrance and peered into the gloom, calling a third, with a torch, to join them. The light they found was not the yellow flicker of a torch, but a sudden line of blue as Twinkle came free of its scabbard.

Drizzt was upon them before they could raise their weapons in defense, thrusting a blade clean through one wererat's chest and spinning his second blade in an arc across the other's neck.

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The torchlight enveloped them as they fell, leaving the drow standing there, revealed, both his blades dripping blood. The nearest wererats shrieked; some even dropped their weapons and ran, but more of them came up, blocking all of the tunnel entrances in the area, and the advantage of sheer numbers soon gave the ratmen a measure of confidence. Slowly, looking to each other for support with every step, they closed in on Drizzt.

Drizzt considered rushing a single group, hoping to cut through their ranks and be out of the ring of the trap, but the ratmen were at least two deep at every passage, three or even four deep at some. Even with his skill and agility, Drizzt could never get through them fast enough to avoid attacks at his back.

He darted back into the side passage and summoned a globe of darkness inside its entrance, then he sprinted beyond the area of the globe to take up a ready position just behind it.

The ratmen, quickening their charge as Drizzt disappeared back into the tunnel, stopped short when they turned into the area of unbreakable darkness. At first, they thought that their torches must have gone out, but so deep was the gloom that they soon realized the truth of the drow's spell. They regrouped out in the main tunnel, then came back in, cautiously.

Even Drizzt, with his night eyes, could not see into the pitch blackness of his spell, but positioned clear of the other side, he did make out a sword tip, and then another, leading the two front ratmen down the passage. They hadn't even broken from the darkness when the drow struck, slapping their swords away and reversing the angle of his cuts to drive his scimitars up the lengths of their arms and into their bodies. Their agonized screams sent the other ratmen scrambling back out into the main corridor, and gave Drizzt another moment to consider his position.

* * * * *

The crossbowman knew his time was up when the last two of his companions shoved him aside in their desperate flight from the enraged giant. He at last fumbled the quarrel back into position and brought his bow to bear.

But Wulfgar was too close. The barbarian grabbed the crossbow as it swung about and tore it from the wererat's hands with such ferocity that it broke apart when it slammed into the wall. The wererat meant to flee, but the sheer intensity of Wulfgar's glare froze him in place. He watched, horrified, as Wulfgar clasped Aegis-fang in both hands.

Wulfgar's strike was impossibly fast. The wererat never comprehended that the death blow had even begun. He only felt a sudden explosion on top of his head.

The ground rushed up to meet him; he was dead before he ever splatted into the muck. Wulfgar, his eyes rimmed with tears, hammered on the wretched creature viciously until its body was no more than a lump of undefinable waste.

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Spattered with blood and muck and black water, Wulfgar finally slumped back against the wall. As he released himself from the consuming rage, he heard the fighting behind and spun to find Bruenor beating back two of the ratmen, with several more lined up behind them.

And behind the dwarf, Catti-brie lay still against the wall. The sight refueled Wulfgar's fire. "Tempus!" he roared to his god of battle, and he pounded through the muck, back down the tunnel. The wererats facing Bruenor tripped over themselves trying to get away, giving the dwarf the opportunity to cut down two more of them -

he was happy to oblige. They fled back into the maze of tunnels.

Wulfgar meant to pursue them, to hunt each of them down and vent his vengeance, but Catti-brie rose to intercept him. She leaped into his chest as he skidded in surprise, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him more passionately than he had ever imagined he could be kissed.

He held her at arm's length, gawking and stuttering in confusion until a joyful smile spread wide and took all other emotions out of his face. Then he hugged her back for another kiss.

Bruenor pulled them apart. "The elf?" he reminded them. He scooped up the torch, now half-covered with mud and burning low, and led them off down the tunnel.

They didn't dare turn into one of the many side passages, for fear of getting lost.

The main corridor was the swiftest route, wherever it might take them, and they could only hope to catch a glimpse or hear a sound that would direct them to Drizzt.

Instead they found a door.

"The guild?" Catti-brie whispered.

"What else could it be?" Wulfgar replied. "Only a thieves' house would keep a door to the sewers."

Above the door, in a secret cubby, Entreri eyed the three friends curiously. He had known that something was amiss when the wererats had begun to gather in the sewers earlier that night. Entreri had hoped they would move out into the city, but it had soon become apparent that the wererats meant to stay.

Then these three showed up at the door without the drow.

Entreri put his chin in his palm and considered his next course of action.

Bruenor studied the door curiously. On it, at about eye level for a human, was nailed a small wooden box. Having no time to play with riddles, the dwarf boldly reached up and tore the box free, bringing it down and peeking over its rim.

The dwarf's face twisted with even more confusion when he saw inside. He shrugged and held the box out to Wulfgar and Catti-brie.

Wulfgar was not so confused. He had seen a similar item before, back on the docks of Baldur's Gate. Another gift from Artemis Entreri - another halfling's finger.

"Assassin!" he roared, and he slammed his shoulder into the door. It broke free of its hinges, and Wulfgar stumbled into the room beyond, holding the door out in 172

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front of him. Before he could even toss it aside, he heard the crash behind him and realized how foolish the move had been. He had fallen right into Entreri's trap.

A portcullis had dropped in the entranceway, separating him from Bruenor and Catti-brie.

* * * * *

The tips of long spears led the wererats back through Drizzt's globe of darkness. The drow still managed to take one of the lead ratmen down, but he was backed up by the press of the group that followed. He gave ground freely, fighting off their thrusts and jabs with defensive swordwork. Whenever he saw an opening, he was quick enough to strike a blade home.

Then a singular odor overwhelmed even the stench of the sewer. A syrupy sweet smell that rekindled distant memories in the drow. The ratmen pressed him on even harder, as if the scent had renewed their desire to fight.

Drizzt remembered. In Menzoberranzan, the city of his birth, some drow elves had kept as pets creatures that exuded such an odor. Sundews, these monstrous beasts were called, lumpy masses of raglike, sticky tendrils that simply engulfed and dissolved anything that came too near.

Now Drizzt fought for every step. He had indeed been herded, to face a horrid death or perhaps to be captured, for the sundew devoured its victims so very slowly, and certain liquids could break its hold.

Drizzt felt a flutter and glanced back over his shoulder. The sundew was barely ten feet away, already reaching out with a hundred sticky fingers.

Drizzt's scimitars weaved and dove, spun and cut, in as magnificent a dance as he had ever fought. One wererat was hit fifteen times before it even realized that the first blow had struck home.

But there were simply too many of the ratmen for Drizzt to hold his ground, and the sight of the sundew urged them on bravely.

Drizzt felt the tickle of the flicking tendrils only inches from his back. He had no room to maneuver now; the spears would surely drive him into the monster.

Drizzt smiled, and the eager fires burned brighter in his eyes. "Is this how it ends?" he whispered aloud. The sudden burst of his laughter startled the wererats.

With Twinkle leading the way, Drizzt spun on his heels and dove at the heart of the sundew.

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