"If we'd have known," Catti-brie began, but Bruenor put a gentle finger to
her lips to silence her. It was not important; Bruenor knew that Catti-brie and
the others would never have left him if they had even suspected that he might be
alive.
"Suren I know not why I lived," the dwarf replied. "None o' the fire found
me skin." He shuddered at the memories of his weeks alone in the mines of
Mithril Hall. "No more talk o' the place," he begged. "Behind me it is. Behind
me to stay!"
Catti-brie, knowing of the approach of armies to reclaim the dwarven
homeland, started to shake her head, but Bruenor didn't catch the motion.
"Me friends?" he asked the young woman. "Drow eyes I saw as I fell."
"Drizzt lives," Catti-brie answered, "as does the assassin that chased
Regis. He came up to the ledge just as ye fell and carried the little one away."
"Rumblebelly?" Bruenor gasped.
"Aye, and the drow's cat as well."
"Not dead . . ."
"Nay, not to me guess," Catti-brie was quick to respond. "Not yet. Drizzt
and Wulfgar have chased the fiend to the south, knowing his goal to be
Calimport."
"A long run," Bruenor muttered. He looked to Catti-brie, confused. "But I'd
have thought ye'd be with them."
"I have me own course," Catti-brie replied, her face suddenly stern. "A debt
for repaying."
Bruenor understood at once. "Mithril Hall?" he choked out. "Ye figured to
return, avengin' meself?"
Catti-brie nodded, unblinking.
"Ye're bats, girl!" Bruenor said. "And the drow would let ye go alone?"
"Alone?" Catti-brie echoed. It was time for the rightful king to know. "Nay,
nor would I so foolishly end me life. A hundred kin make their way from the
north and west," she explained. "And a fair number of Wulfgar's folk beside
'em."
"Not enough," Bruenor replied. "An army of duergar scum holds the halls."
"And eight-thousand more from Citadel Adbar to the north and east,"
Catti-brie continued grimly, not slowing a beat. "King Harbromme of the dwarves
of Adbar says he'll see the halls free again! Even the Harpells have promised
their aid."
Bruenor drew a mental image of the approaching armies - wizards, barbarians,
and a rolling wall of dwarves - and with Catti-brie at their lead. A thin smile
cut the frown from his face. He looked upon his daughter with even more than the
considerable respect he had always shown her, his eyes wet with tears once more.
"They wouldn't beat me," Catti-brie growled. "I meant to see yer face carved
in the Hall of Kings, and meant to put yer name in its proper place o' glory!"
Bruenor grabbed her close and squeezed with all his strength. Of all the
mantles and laurels he had found in the years gone by, or might find in the
years ahead, none fit as well or blessed him as much as "Father."
* * *
Bruenor stood solemnly on the southern slope of Harpell Hill that evening,
watching the last colors fade out of the western sky and the emptiness of the
rolling plain to the south. His thoughts were on his friends, particularly Regis
- Rumblebelly - the bothersome halfling that had undeniably found a soft corner
in the dwarf's stone heart.
Drizzt would be okay - Drizzt was always okay - and with mighty Wulfgar
walking beside him, it would take an army to bring them down.
But Regis.
Bruenor never had doubted that the halfling's carefree manner of living,
stepping on toes with a half-apologetic and half-amused shrug, would eventually
get him in mud too deep for his little legs to carry him through. Rumblebelly
had been a fool to steal the guildmaster's ruby pendant.
But "just deserts" did nothing to dispel the dwarf's pity at his halfling
friend's dilemma, nor Bruenor's anger at his own inability to help. By his
station, his place was here, and he would lead the gathering armies to victory
and glory, crushing the duergar and bringing a level of prosperity back to
Mithril Hall. His new kingdom would be the envy of the North, with crafted items
that rivaled the works of the ancient days flowing out into the trade routes all
across the Realms.
It had been his dream, the goal of his life since that terrible day nearly
two centuries before, when Clan Battlehammer had been nearly wiped out and those
few who had survived, mostly children, had been chased out of their homeland to
the meager mines of Icewind Dale.
Bruenor's lifelong dream was to return, but how hollow it seemed to him now,
with his friends caught in a desperate chase across the southland.
The last light left the sky, and the stars blinked to life. Nighttime,
Bruenor thought with a bit of comfort.
The time of the drow.
The first hints of his smile dissipated, though, as soon as they began, as
Bruenor suddenly came to view the deepening gloom in a different perspective.
"Nighttime," he whispered aloud.
The time of the assassin.
8
A Plain Brown Wrapper
The simple wooden structure at the end of Rogues Circle seemed understated
even for the decrepit side of the sprawling southern city of Calimport. The
building had few windows, all boarded or barred, and not a terrace or balcony to
speak of. Similarly, no lettering identified the building, not even a number on
the door to place it. But everyone in the city knew the house and marked it
well, for beyond either of its iron-bound doors, the scene changed -
dramatically. Where the outside showed only the weathered brown of old wood, the
inside displayed a myriad of bright colors and tapestries, thickly woven
carpets, and statues of solid gold. This was the thieves' guild, rivaling the
palace of Calimshan's ruler himself in riches and decor.
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 arid 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 quartermoons 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 intently
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
