“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.

“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.

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.

“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.