thoughts about ever mistrusting the assassin.
Entreri stopped him with outstretched palms. "A watery grave serves them as
well as Calimport's sewers," he said. "Let us not worry about what is behind
us."
Pook's smile engulfed his round face. "Agreed, and well met, then," he
beamed. "Especially when there is such pleasurable business ahead of us." He
turned an evil eve upon Regis, but the halfling, sitting stooped over on the
floor beside Entreri, didn't notice.
Regis was still trying to digest the news about his friends. At that moment,
he didn't care how their deaths might affect his own future or lack of one. He
only cared that they were gone. First Bruenor in Mithril Hall, then Drizzt and
Wulfgar, and possibly Catti-brie, as well. Next to that, Pasha Pook's threats
seemed hollow indeed. What could Pook ever do to him that would hurt as much as
those losses?
"Many sleepless nights I have spent fretting over the disappointment you
have caused me," Pook said to Regis. "And many more I have spent considering how
I would repay you!"
The door swung open, interrupting Pook's train of thought. The guildmaster
did not have to look up to know who had dared to enter without permission. Only
one man in the guild would have such nerve.
Rassiter swept into the room and cut an uncomfortably close circle as he
inspected the newcomers. "Greetings, Pook," he said offhandedly, his eyes
locking onto the assassin's stern gaze.
Pook said nothing but dropped his chin into his hand to watch. He had
anticipated the meeting for a long time.
Rassiter stood nearly a foot taller than Entreri, a fact that only added to
the wererat's already cocky attitude. Like so many simpleton bullies, Rassiter
often confused size with strength, and looking down at this man who was a legend
on the streets of Calimport - and thus his rival - made him think that he had
already gained the upper hand. "So, you are the great Artemis Entreri," he said,
contempt evident in his voice.
Entreri didn't blink. Murder was in his eyes as his gaze followed Rassiter,
who still circled. Even Regis was dumbfounded at the stranger's boldness. No one
ever moved so casually around Entreri.
"Greetings," Rassiter said at length, satisfied with his scan. He bowed low.
"I am Rassiter, Pasha Pook's closest advisor and controller of the docks."
Still Entreri did not respond. He looked over to Pook for an explanation.
The guildmaster returned Entreri's curious gaze with a smirk and lifted his
palms in a helpless gesture.
Rassiter carried his familiarity even further. "You and I," he
half-whispered to Entreri, "we can do great things together." He started to
place a hand on the assassin's shoulder, but Entreri turned him back with an icy
glare, a look so deadly that even cocky Rassiter began to understand the peril
of his course.
"You may find that I have much to offer you," Rassiter said, taking a
cautious step back. Seeing no response forthcoming, he turned to Pook. "Would
you like me to take care of the little thief?" he asked, grinning his yellow
smile.
"That one is mine, Rassiter," Pook replied firmly. "You and yours keep your
furry hands off him!"
Entreri did not miss the reference.
"Of course," Rassiter replied. "I have business, then. I will be going." He
bowed quickly and spun to leave, meeting Entreri's eyes one final time. He could
not hold that icy stare - could not match the sheer intensity of the assassin's
gaze - with his own.
Rassiter shook his head in disbelief as he passed, convinced that Entreri
still had not blinked.
"You were gone. My pendant was gone," Pook explained when the door closed
again. "Rassiter has helped me retain, even expand, the strength of the guild."
"He is a wererat," Entreri remarked, as if that fact alone ended any
argument.
"Head of their guild," Pook replied, "but they are loyal enough and easy to
control." He held up the ruby pendant. "Easier now."
Entreri had trouble coming to terms with that, even in light of Pook's
futile attempt at an explanation. He wanted time to consider the new
development, to figure out just how much things had changed around the
guildhouse. "My room?" he asked.
LaValle shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at Pook. "I have been using
it," the wizard stammered, "but quarters are being built for me." He looked to
the door newly cut into the wall between the harem and Entreri's old room. "They
should be completed any day. I can be out of your room in minutes."
"No need," Entreri replied, thinking the arrangements better as they were.
He wanted some space from Pook for a while, anyway, to better assess the
situation before him and plan his next moves. "I will find a room below, where I
might better understand the new ways of the guild."
LaValle relaxed with an audible sigh.
Entreri picked Regis up by the collar. "What am I to do with this one?"
Pook crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. "I have thought of
a million tortures befitting your crime," he said to Regis. "Too many, I see,
for, truly, I have no idea of how to properly repay you for what you have done
to me." He looked back to Entreri. "No matter," he chuckled. "It will come to
me. Put him in the Cells of Nine."
Regis went limp again at the mention of the imfamous dungeon. Pook's
favorite holding cell, it was a horror chamber normally reserved for thieves who
killed other members of the guild. Entreri smiled to see the halfling so
terrified at the mere mention of the place. He easily lifted Regis off the floor
and carried him out of the room.
"That did not go well," LaValle said when Entreri had left.
"It went splendidly!" Pook disagreed. "I have never seen Rassiter so
unnerved, and the sight of it proved infinitely more pleasurable than I ever
imagined!"
"Entreri will kill him if he is not careful," LaValle observed grimly.
Pook seemed amused by the thought. "Then we should learn who is likely to
succeed Rassiter." He looked up at LaValle. "Fear not, my friend. Rassiter is a
survivor. He has called the street his home for his entire life and knows when
to scurry into the safety of shadows. He will learn his place around Entreri,
and he will show the assassin proper respect."
But LaValle wasn't thinking of Rassiter's safety - he had often entertained
thoughts of disposing of the wretched wererat himself. What concerned the wizard
was the possibility of a deeper rift in the guild. "What if Rassiter turns the
power of his allies against Entreri?" he asked in a tone even more grim. "The
street war that would ensue would split the guild in half."
Pook dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. "Even Rassiter is
not that stupid," he answered, fingering the ruby pendant, an insurance policy
he might just need.
LaValle relaxed, satisfied with his master's assurances and with Pook's
ability to handle the delicate situation. As usual, Pook was right, LaValle
realized. Entreri had unnerved the wererat with a simple stare, to the possible
benefit of all involved. Perhaps now, Rassiter would act more appropriately for
his rank in the guild. And with Entreri soon to be quartered on this very level,
perhaps the intrusions of the filthy wererat would come less often.
Yes, it was good to have Entreri back.
* * *
The Cells of Nine were so named because of the nine cells cut into the
center of a chamber's floor, three abreast and three long. Only the center cell
was ever unoccupied; the other eight held Pasha Pook's most treasured
collection: great hunting cats from every corner of the Realms.
Entreri handed Regis over to the jailor, a masked giant of a man, then stood
back to watch the show. Around the halfling the jailor tied one end of a heavy
rope, which made its way over a pulley in the ceiling above the center cell then
back to a crank off to the side.
"Untie it when you are in," the jailor grunted at Regis. He pushed Regis
forward. "Pick your path."
Regis walked gingerly along the border of the outer cells. They all were
roughly ten feet square with caves cut into the walls, where the cats could go
to rest. But none of the beasts rested now, and all seemed equally hungry.
They were always hungry.
Regis chose the plank between a white lion and a heavy tiger, thinking those
two giants the least likely to scale the twenty-foot wall and claw his ankle out
from under him as he crossed. He slipped one foot onto the wall - which was
barely four inches wide - separating the cells and then hesitated, terrified.
The jailor gave a prompting tug on the rope that nearly toppled Regis in
with the lion.
Reluctantly he started out, concentrating on placing one foot in front of
the other and trying to ignore the growls and claws below. He had nearly made
the center cell when the tiger launched its full weight against the wall,
shaking it violently. Regis overbalanced and tumbled in with a shriek.
The jailor pulled the crank and caught him in midfall, hoisting him just out
of the leaping tiger's reach. Regis swung into the far wall, bruising his ribs
but not even feeling the injury at that desperate moment. He scrambled over the
wall and swung free, eventually stopping over the middle of the center cell,
where the jailor let him down.
He put his feet to the floor tentatively and clutched the rope as his only
possible salvation, refusing to believe that he must stay in the nightmarish
place.
"Untie it!" the jailor demanded, and Regis knew by the man's tone that to
disobey was to suffer unspeakable pain. He slipped the rope free.
"Sleep well," the jailor laughed, pulling the rope high out of the
halfling's reach. The hooded man left with Entreri, extinguishing all the room's
torches and slamming the iron door behind him,, leaving Regis alone in the dark
with the eight hungry cats.
The walls separating the cats' cells were solid, preventing the animals from
harming each other, but the center cell was lined with wide bars-wide enough for
a cat to put its paws through. And this torture chamber was circular, providing
easy and equal access from all eight of the other cells.
Regis did not dare to move. The rope had placed him in the exact center of
the cell, the only spot that kept him out of reach of all eight cats. He glanced
around at the feline eyes, gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He heard the
scraping of lunging claws and even felt a swish of air whenever one of them
managed to squeeze enough leg through the bars to get a close swipe.
And each time a huge paw slammed into the floor beside him, Regis had to
remind himself not to jump back - where another cat waited.
Five minutes seemed like an hour, and Regis shuddered to think of how many
days Pook would keep him there. Maybe it would be better just to get it over
with, Regis thought, a notion that many shared when placed in the chamber.
Looking at the cats, though, the halfling dismissed that possibility. Even
if he could convince himself that a quick death in a tiger's jaws would be
better than the fate he no doubt faced, he would never have found the courage to
carry it through. He was a survivor - had always been - and he couldn't deny
that stubborn side of his character that refused to yield no matter how bleak
his future seemed.
He stood now, as still as a statue, and consciously worked to fill his mind
with thoughts of his recent past, of the ten years he had spent outside
Calimport. Many adventures he had seen on his travels, many perils he had come
through. Regis replayed those battles and escapes over and over in his mind,
trying to recapture the sheer excitement he had experienced - active thoughts
that would help to keep him awake.
For if weariness overtook him and he fell to the floor, some part of him
might get too close to one of the cats.
More than one prisoner had been clawed in the foot and dragged to the side
to be ripped apart.
And even those who survived the Cells of Nine would never forget the
ravenous stares of those sixteen gleaming eyes.
14
Dancing Snakes
Luck was with the damaged Sea Sprite and the captured pirate vessel, for the
sea held calm and the wind blew steadily but gently. Still, the journey around
the Tethyr Peninsula proved tedious and all too slow for the four anxious
friends, for every time the two ships seemed to be making headway, one or the
other would develop a new problem.
South of the peninsula, Deudermont took his ships through a wide stretch of
water called the Race, so named for the common spectacle there of merchant
vessels running from pirate pursuit. No other pirates bothered Deudermont or his
crew, however. Even Pinochet's third ship never again showed its sails.
"Our journey nears its end," Deudermont told the four friends when the high
coastline of the Purple Hills came into view early on the third morning. "Where
the hills end, Calimshan begins."
Drizzt leaned over the forward rail and looked into the pale blue waters of
the southern seas. He wondered again if they would get to Regis in time.
