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.”

“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.

Book 3.

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.

“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 alley. 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.