The Halfling’s Gem (28 page)

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.

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

uck 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 tenday.

“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.”

“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 tenday, 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 tenday 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 Mithral 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 tenday 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.”

“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.

“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.