Entreri reached out with a bandaged arm to pull the dagger away, at the same time slipping the saber back into its scabbard.

“I knew you had been beaten,” Rassiter said boldly. “I feared you dead.”

“Feared?” Entreri grinned. “Or hoped?”

“It is true that you and I started as rivals,” Rassiter began.

Entreri laughed again. He had never figured the ratman worthy enough to be considered a rival.

Rassiter took the insult in stride. “But we then served the same master.” He looked to the guildhouse, where the screaming had finally begun to fade. “I think Pook is dead, or at least thrown from power.”

“If he faced the drow, he is dead,” Entreri spat, the mere thought of Drizzt Do’Urden filling his throat with bile.

“Then the streets are open,” Rassiter reasoned. He gave Entreri a sly wink. “For the taking.”

“You and I?” Entreri mused.

Rassiter shrugged. “Few in Calimport would oppose you,” the wererat said, “and with my infectious bite, I can breed a host of loyal followers in mere weeks. Certainly none would dare stand against us in the night.”

Entreri moved beside him, joining him in his scan of the guildhouse. “Yes, my ravenous friend,” he said quietly, “but there remain two problems.”

“Two?”

“Two,” Entreri reiterated. “First, I work alone.”

Rassiter’s body jolted straight as a dagger blade cut into his spine.

“And second,” Entreri continued, without missing a breath, “you are dead,” He jerked the bloody dagger out and held it vertical, to wipe the blade on Rassiter’s cloak as the wererat fell lifeless to the ground.

Entreri surveyed his handiwork and the bandages on his wounded elbow. “Stronger already,” he muttered to himself, and he slipped away to find a dark hole. The morning was full and bright now, and the assassin, still with much healing to do, was not ready to face the challenges he might come across on the daytime streets.

25. A Walk in the Sun

Bruenor knocked lightly on the door, not expecting a response. As usual, no reply came back.

This time, though, the stubborn dwarf did not walk away. He turned the latch and entered the darkened room.

Stripped to the waist and running his slender fingers through his thick mane of white hair, Drizzt sat on his bed with his back to Bruenor. Even in the dimness, Bruenor could clearly see the scab line sliced across the drow’s back. The dwarf shuddered, never imagining in those wild hours of battle that Drizzt had been so viciously wounded by Artemis Entreri.

“Five days, elf,” Bruenor said quietly. “Do ye mean to live yer life in here?”

Drizzt turned slowly to face his dwarven friend. “Where else would I go?” he replied.

Bruenor studied the lavender eyes, twinkling to reflect the light of the hallway beyond the open door. The left one had opened again, the dwarf noted hopefully. Bruenor had feared that the demodand’s blow had forever closed Drizzt’s eye.

Clearly it was healing, but still those marvelous orbs worried Bruenor. They seemed to him to have lost a good bit of their luster.

“How is Catti-brie?” Drizzt asked, sincerely concerned about the young woman, but also wanting to change the subject.

Bruenor smiled. “Not for walkin’ yet,” he replied, “but her fighting’s back and she’s not caring for lyin’ quiet in a bed!” He chuckled, recalling the scene earlier in the day, when one attendant had tried to primp his daughter’s pillow. Catti-brie’s glare alone had drained the blood from the man’s face. “Cuts her servants down with her blade of a tongue when they fuss over her.”

Drizzt’s smile seemed strained. “And Wulfgar?”

“The boy’s better,” Bruenor replied. “Took four hours scraping the spider gook off him, and he’ll be wearin’ wrappings on his arm for a month to come, but more’n that’s needed to bring that boy down! Though as a mountain, and nearen as big!”

They watched each other until the smiles faded and the silence grew uncomfortable. “The halfling’s feast is about to begin,” Bruenor said. “Ye going? With a belly so round, me guess is that Rumblebelly will set a fine table.”

Drizzt shrugged noncommittally.

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “Ye can’t be living yer life between dark walls!” He paused as a thought suddenly popped into his head. “Or are ye out at night?” he asked slyly.

“Out?”

“Hunting,” explained Bruenor. “Are ye out hunting Entreri?”

Now, Drizzt did laugh—at the notion that Bruenor linked his desire for solitude to some obsession with the assassin.

“Ye’re burning for him,” Bruenor reasoned, “and he for yerself if he’s still for drawing breath.”

“Come,” Drizzt said, pulling a loose shirt over his head. He picked up the magical mask as he started around the bed, but stopped to consider the item. He rolled it over in his hands, then dropped it back to the dressing table. “Let us not be late for the feast.”

Bruenor’s guess about Regis had not missed the mark; the table awaiting the two friends was splendidly adorned with shining silver and porcelain, and the aromas of delicacies had them unconsciously licking their lips as they moved to their appointed seats.

Regis sat at the long table’s head, the thousand gemstones he had sewn into his tunic catching the candlelight in a glittering burst every time he shifted in his seat. Behind him stood the two hill giant eunuchs who had guarded Pook at the bitter end, their faces bruised and bandaged.

At the halfling’s right sat LaValle, to Bruenor’s distaste, and at his left, a narrow-eyed halfling and a chubby young man, the chief lieutenants in the new guild.

Farther down the table sat Wulfgar and Catti-brie, side by side, their hands clasped between them, which, Drizzt guessed—by the pale and weary looks of the two—was as much for mutual support as genuine affection.

As weary as they were, though, their faces lit with smiles, as did Regis’s, when they saw Drizzt enter the room, the first time any of them had seen the drow in nearly a week.

“Welcome, welcome!” Regis said happily. “It would have been a shallow feast if you could not join us!”

Drizzt slid into the chair beside LaValle, drawing a concerned look from the timid wizard. The guild’s lieutenants, too, shifted uneasily at the thought of dining with a drow elf.

Drizzt smiled away the weight of their discomfort; it was their problem, not his. “I have been busy,” he told Regis.

“Brooding,” Bruenor wanted to say as he sat next to Drizzt, but he tactfully held his tongue.

Wulfgar and Catti-brie stared at their black friend from across the table.

“You swore to kill me,” the drow said calmly to Wulfgar, causing the big man to sag back in his chair.

Wulfgar flushed a deep red and tightened his grip on Catti-brie’s hand.

“Only the strength of Wulfgar could have held that gate,” Drizzt explained. The edges of his mouth turned up in a wistful smile.

“But, I—” Wulfgar began, but Catti-brie cut him short.

“Enough said about it, then,” the young woman insisted, banging her fist into Wulfgar’s thigh. “Let us not be talking about troubles we’ve past. Too much remains before us!”

“Me girl’s right,” spouted Bruenor. “The days walk by us as we sit and heal! Another week, and we might be missing a war.”

“I am ready to go,” declared Wulfgar.

“Ye’re not,” retorted Catti-brie. “Nor am I. The desert’d stop us afore we ever got on the long road beyond.”

“Ahem,” Regis began, drawing their attention. “About your departure, …” He stopped to consider their stares, nervous about presenting his offer in just the right way. “I…uh…thought that…I mean…”

“Spit it,” demanded Bruenor, guessing what his little friend had in mind.

“Well, I have built a place for myself here,” Regis continued.

“And ye’re to stay,” reasoned Catti-brie. “We’ll not blame ye, though we’re sure to be missing ye!”