It rose three floors from the street level, with two more levels hidden below. The highest level was the finest, with five rooms—an octagonal central hall and four antechambers off it—all designed for the comfort and convenience of one man: Pasha Pook. He was the guildmaster, the architect of an intricate thieving network. And he made certain that he was the first to enjoy the spoils of his guild’s handiwork.
Pook paced the highest level’s central hall, his audience chamber, stopping every circuit to stroke the shining coat of the leopard that lay beside his great chair. An uncharacteristic anxiety was etched upon the guildmaster’s round face, and he twiddled his fingers nervously when he was not petting his exotic pet.
His clothes were of the finest silk, but other than the brooch that fastened his wrappings, he wore none of the abundant jewelry customary among others of his station—though his teeth did gleam of solid gold. In truth, Pook seemed a half-sized version of one of the four hill giant eunuchs that lined the hall, an inconspicuous appearance for a silver-tongued guildmaster who had brought sultans to their knees and whose name sent the sturdiest of the ruffian street dwellers scurrying for dark holes.
Pook nearly jumped when a loud knock resounded off the room’s main door, the one to the lower levels. He hesitated for a long moment, assuring himself that he would make the other man squirm for waiting—though he really needed the time to compose himself. Then he absently motioned to one of the eunuchs and moved to the overstuffed throne on the raised platform opposite the door and dropped a hand again to his pampered cat.
A lanky fighter entered, his thin rapier dancing to the swagger of his stride. He wore a black cape that floated behind him and was bunched at his neck. His thick brown hair curled into and around it. His clothes were dark and plain but crisscrossed by straps and belts, each with a pouch or sheathed dagger or some other unusual weapon hanging from it. His high leather boots, worn beyond any creases, made no sound other than the timed clump of his agile stride.
“Greetings, Pook,” he said informally.
Pook’s eyes narrowed immediately at the sight of the man. “Rassiter,” he replied to the wererat.
Rassiter walked up to the throne and bowed halfheartedly, throwing the reclining leopard a distasteful glance. Flashing a rotted smile that revealed his lowly heritage, he put one foot upon the chair and bent low to let the guildmaster feel the heat of his breath.
Pook glanced at the dirty boot on his beautiful chair, then back at the man with a smile that even the uncouth Rassiter noticed was a bit too disarming. Figuring that he might be taking his familiarity with his partner a bit too far, Rassiter removed his foot from its perch and shuffled back a step.
Pook’s smile faded, but he was satisfied. “It is done?” he asked the man.
Rassiter danced a circle and nearly laughed out loud. “Of course,” he answered, and he pulled a pearl necklace from his pouch.
Pook frowned at the sight, just the expression the sly fighter had expected. “Must you kill them all?” the guildmaster said in a hiss.
Rassiter shrugged and replaced the necklace. “You said you wanted her removed. She is removed.”
Pook’s hands clutched the arms of the throne. “I said I wanted her taken from the streets until the job was completed!”
“She knew too much,” Rassiter replied, examining his fingernails.
“She was a valuable wench,” Pook said, back in control now. Few men could anger Pasha Pook as did Rassiter, and fewer still would have left the chamber alive.
“One of a thousand,” chuckled the lanky fighter.
Another door opened, and an older man entered, his purple robes embroidered with golden stars and quarter-moons and a huge diamond fastening his high turban. “I must see—”
Pook cast him a sidelong glance. “Not now, LaValle.”
“But Master—”
Pook’s eyes went dangerously thin again, nearly matching the lines of his lipless grimace. The old man bowed apologetically and disappeared back through the door, closing it carefully and silently behind him.
Rassiter laughed at the spectacle. “Well done!”
“You should learn LaValle’s manners,” Pook said to him.
“Come, Pook, we are partners,” Rassiter replied. He skipped over to one of the room’s two windows, the one that looked south to the docks and the wide ocean. “The moon will be full tonight,” he said excitedly, spinning back on Pook. “You should join us, Pasha! A grand feasting there will be!”
Pook shuddered to think of the macabre table that Rassiter and his fellow wererats planned to set. Perhaps the wench was not yet dead….
He shook away such thoughts. I am afraid I must decline,” he said quietly.
Rassiter understood—and had purposely enticed—Pook’s disgust. He danced back over and put his foot on the throne, again showing Pook that foul smile. “You do not know what you are missing,” he said. “But the choice is yours; that was our deal.” He spun away and bowed low. “And you are the master.”
“An arrangement that does well by you and yours,” Pook reminded him.
Rassiter turned his palms out in concession, then clapped his hands together. “I cannot argue that my guild fares better since you brought us in.” He bowed again. “Forgive my insolence, my dear friend, but I can hardly contain the mirth of my fortunes. And tonight the moon will be full!”
“Then go to your feast, Rassiter.”
The lanky man bowed again, cast one more glare at the leopard, and skipped from the room.
When the door had closed, Pook ran his fingers over his brow and down through the stylishly matted remains of what once had been a thick tousle of black hair. Then he dropped his chin helplessly into a plump palm and chuckled at his own discomfort in dealing with Rassiter, the wererat.
He looked to the harem door, wondering if he might take his mind off his associate. But he remembered LaValle. The wizard would not have disturbed him, certainly not with Rassiter in the room, unless his news was important.
He gave his pet a final scratch on the chin and moved through the chamber’s southeast door, into the wizard’s dimly lit quarters. LaValle, staring intehtly into his crystal ball, did not notice him as he entered. Not wanting to disturb the wizard, Pook quietly took the seat across the small table and waited, amusing himself with the curious distortions of LaValle’s scraggly gray beard through the crystal ball as the wizard moved this way and that.
Finally LaValle looked up. He could clearly see the lines of tension still on Pook’s face, not unexpected after a visit from the wererat. “They have killed her, then?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“I despise him,” said Pook.
LaValle nodded in agreement. “But you cannot dismiss the power that Rassiter has brought you.”
The wizard spoke the truth. In the two years since Pook had allied himself with the wererats, his guild had become the most prominent and powerful in the city. He could live well simply from the tithes that the dockside merchants paid him for protection—from his own guild. Even the captains of many of the visiting merchant ships knew enough not to turn away Pook’s collector when he met them on the docks.
And those who didn’t know better learned quickly.
No, Pook couldn’t argue about the benefits of having Rassiter and his fellows around. But the guildmaster had no love for the wretched lycanthropes, human by day and something beastly, half rat and half man, by night. And he wasn’t fond of the way they handled their business.
“Enough of him,” Pook said, dropping his hands to the velvety black tablecloth. “I am certain that I shall need a dozen hours in the harem to get over our meeting!” His grin showed that the thought did not displease him. “But what did you want?”
A wide smile spread over the wizard’s face. “I have spoken with Oberon in Baldur’s Gate this day,” he said with some pride. “I have learned of something that may make you forget all about your discussion with Rassiter.”
Po
ok waited curiously, allowing LaValle to play out his dramatics. The wizard was a fine and loyal aide, the closest thing the guildmaster had to a friend.
“Your assassin returns!” LaValle proclaimed suddenly.
It took Pook a few moments to think through the meaning and implications of the wizard’s words. But then it hit him, and he sprang up from the table. “Entreri?” he gasped, barely finding his breath.
LaValle nodded and nearly laughed out loud.
Pook ran his hand through his hair. Three years. Entreri, deadliest of the deadly, was returning to him after three long years. He looked curiously at the wizard.
“He has the halfling,” LaValle answered to his unspoken question. Pook’s face lit up in a broad smile. He leaned forward eagerly, his golden teeth shining in the candlelight.
Truly LaValle was glad to please his guildmaster, to give him the news he had waited so very long to hear. “And the ruby pendant!” the wizard proclaimed, banging a fist on the table.
“Yes!” Pook snarled, exploding into laughter. His gem, his most prized possession. With its hypnotic powers, he could rise to even greater heights of prosperity and power. Not only would he dominate all he met, but he would make them glad for the experience. “Ah, Rassiter,” Pook muttered, suddenly thinking of the upper hand he could gain on his associate. “Our relationship is about to change, my rodent friend.”
“How much will you still need him?” LaValle asked.
Pook shrugged and looked to the side of the room, to a small curtain.
The Taros Hoop.
LaValle blanched at the thought of the thing. The Taros Hoop was a mighty relic capable of displacing its owner, or his enemies, through the very planes of existence. But the power of this item was not without price. Thoroughly evil it was, and every one of the few times LaValle had used it, he had felt a part of himself drain away, as though the Taros Hoop gained its power by stealing his life force. LaValle hated Rassiter, but he hoped that the guildmaster would find a better solution than the Taros Hoop.
The wizard looked back to find Pook staring at him. “’Tell me more!” Pook insisted eagerly.
LaValle shrugged helplessly and put his hand on the crystal ball. “I have not been able to glimpse them myself,” he said. “Ever has Artemis Entreri been able to dodge my scrying. But by Oberon’s words, they are not too far. Sailing the waters north of Calimshan, if not already within the borders. And they fly on a swift wind, Master. A tenday or two, no more.”
“And Regis is with him?” Pook asked.
“He is.”
“Alive?”
“Very much alive,” said the wizard.
“Good!” Pook sneered. How he longed to see the treacherous halfling again! To have his plump hands around Regis’s little neck! The guild had fallen on tough times after Regis had run off with the magical pendant. In truth, the problems had come mostly from Pook’s own insecurity in dealing with people without the gem, so long had he been using it, and from the guildmaster’s obsessive—and expensive—hunt to find the halfling. But to Pook, the blame fell squarely upon Regis. He even blamed the halfling for the alliance with the wererats’ guild, for certainly he wouldn’t have needed Rassiter if he had had his pendant.
But now everything would work out for the best, Pook knew. Possessing the pendant and dominating the wererats, perhaps he could even think of expanding his power outside Calimport, with charmed associates and lycanthrope allies heading guilds throughout the southland.
LaValle seemed more serious when Pook looked back at him. “How do you believe Entreri will feel about our new associates?” he asked grimly.
“Ah, he does not know,” said Pook, realizing the implications. “He has been gone too long.” He thought for a moment then shrugged. “They are in the same business, after all. Entreri should accept them.”
“Rassiter disturbs everyone he meets,” the wizard reminded him. “Suppose that he crosses Entreri?”
Pook laughed at the thought. “I can assure you that Rassiter will cross Artemis Entreri only once, my friend.”
“And then you shall make arrangements with the new head of the wererats,” LaValle snickered.
Pook clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door. “Learn what you can,” he instructed the wizard. “If you can find them in your crystal ball, call to me. I cannot wait to glimpse the face of Regis the halfling again. So much I owe to that one.”
“And you shall be?”
“In the harem,” Pook answered with a wink. “Tension, you know.”
LaValle slumped back in his chair when Pook had gone and considered again the return of his principal rival. He had gained much in the years since Entreri had left, even rising to this room on the third level as Pook’s chief assistant.
This room, Entreri’s room.
But the wizard never had any problems with the assassin. They had been comfortable associates, if not friends, and had helped each other many times in the past. LaValle couldn’t count the number of times he had shown Entreri the quickest route to a target.
And there was that nasty situation with Mancas Tiveros, a fellow mage. “Mancas the Mighty,” the other wizards of Calimport had called him, and they had pitied LaValle when he and Mancas fell into dispute concerning the origins of a particular spell. Both had claimed credit for the discovery, and everyone waited for an expected war of magic to erupt. But Mancas suddenly and inexplicably went away, leaving a note disclaiming his role in the spell’s creation and giving full credit to LaValle. Mancas had never been seen again—in Calimport or anywhere else.
“Ah, well,” LaValle sighed, turning back to his crystal ball. Artemis Entreri had his uses.
The door to the room opened, and Pook stuck his head back in. “Send a messenger to the carpenter’s guild,” he said to LaValle. “Tell them that we shall need several skilled men immediately.”
LaValle tilted his head in disbelief.
“The harem and treasury are to stay,” Pook said emphatically, feigning frustration over his wizard’s inability to see the logic. “And certainly I am not conceding my chamber!”
LaValle frowned as he thought he began to understand.
“Nor am I about to tell Artemis Entreri that he cannot have his own room back,” said Pook. “Not after he has performed his mission so excellently!”
“I understand,” said the wizard glumly, thinking himself relegated once again to the lower levels.
“So a sixth room must be built,” laughed Pook, enjoying his little game. “Between Entreri’s and the harem.” He winked again at his valued assistant. “You may design it yourself, my dear LaValle. And spare no expense!” He shut the door and was gone.
The wizard wiped the moisture from his eyes. Pook always surprised him, but never disappointed him. “You are a generous master, my Pasha Pook,” he whispered to the empty room.
And truly Pasha Pook was a masterful leader as well, for LaValle turned back to his crystal ball, his teeth gritted in determination. He would find Entreri and the halfling. He wouldn’t disappoint his generous master.
ow running with the currents of the Chionthar, and with the breeze at enough of an angle from the north for the sails to catch a bit of a push, the Sea Sprite cruised away from Baldur’s Gate at a tremendous rate, spitting a white spray despite the concurrent movement of the water.
“The Sword Coast by midafternoon,” Deudermont said to Drizzt and Wulfgar. “And off the coast, with no land in sight until we make Asavir’s Channel. Then a southern journey around the edge of the world and back east to Calimport.
“Calimport,” he said again, indicating a new pennant making its way up the mast of the Sea Sprite, a golden field crossed by slanted blue lines.
Drizzt looked at Deudermont suspiciously, knowing that this was not an ordinary practice of sailing vessels.
“We run Waterdeep’s flag north of Baldur’s Gate,” the captain explained. “Calimport’s south.”
“An acceptable practice?” Drizzt
asked.
“For those who know the price,” chuckled Deudermont. “Waterdeep and Calimport are rivals, and stubborn in their feud. They desire trade with each other—they can only profit from it—but do not always allow ships flying the other’s flag to dock in their harbors.”
“A foolish pride,” Wulfgar remarked, painfully reminded of some similar traditions his own clannish people had practiced only a few years before.
“Politics,” Deudermont said with a shrug. “But the lords of both cities secretly desire the trade, and a few dozen ships have made the connections to keep business moving. The Sea Sprite has two ports to call home, and everyone profits from the arrangement.”
“Two markets for Captain Deudermont,” Drizzt remarked slyly. “Practical.”
“And it makes good sailing sense as well,” Deudermont continued, his smile still wide. “Pirates running the waters north of Baldur’s Gate respect the banner of Waterdeep above all others, and those south of here take care not to rouse the anger of Calimport and her massive armada. The pirates along Asavir’s Channel have many merchant ships to pick from in the straights, and they are more likely to raid one that carries a flag of less weight.”
“And you are never bothered?” Wulfgar couldn’t help but ask, his voice tentative and almost sarcastic, as though he hadn’t yet figured out if he approved of the practice.
“Never?” echoed Deudermont. “Not ‘never,’ but rarely. And on those occasions that pirates come at us, we till our sails and run. Few ships can catch the Sea Sprite when her sails are full of wind.”