The Halfling’s Gem (32 page)

t is like looking into a mirror that paints the world with opposing colors: white hair to black; black skin to white, light eyes to dark. What an intricate mirror it is to replace a smile with a frown, and an expression of friendship with a seemingly perpetual scowl.

For that is how I view Artemis Entreri, this warrior who can compliment every movement I make with similar precision and grace, the warrior who, in every way but one, I would regard as my equal.

How difficult it was for me to stand with him in the depths of Mithral Hall,
fighting side by side for both our lives! Strangely, it was not any moral imperative that bothered me about fighting in that situation. It was no belief that Entreri should die, had to die, and that I, if I was not such a coward, would have killed him then and there, even if the action cost me my own life as I tried to escape the inhospitable depths. No, nothing like that.

What made it all so difficult for me was watching that man, that human assassin, and knowing, without the slightest shred of doubt, that I very well might have been looking at myself.

Is that who I would have become had I not found Zaknafein in those early years in Menzoberranzan? Had I not discovered the example of one who so validated my own beliefs that the ways of the drow were not right, morally and practically? Is that cold-hearted killer who I would have become had it been my vicious sister Briza training me instead of the more gentle Vierna?

I fear that it is, that I, despite all that I know to be true within the depths of my very heart, would have been overwhelmed by the situation about me, would have succumbed to the despair to a point where there remained little of compassion and justice. I would have become
an assassin, holding strong within my own code of ethics, but with that code so horribly warped that I could no longer understand the truth of my actions, that I could justify them with the sheerest cynicism.

I saw all of that when I looked upon Entreri, and thanked Mielikki profoundly for those in my life, for Zaknafein, for Belwar Dissengulp and for Montolio, who helped me to steer the correct course. And if I saw a potential for myself within Entreri, then I must admit that there once was a potential for Entreri to become as I have become, to know compassion and community, to know friends, good friends, and to know love.

I think about him a lot, as he, no doubt, thinks about me. While his obsession is based in pride, in the challenge of overcoming me in battle, mine own is wrought of curiosity, of seeking answers within myself by observing the actions of who I might have become.

Do I hate him?

Strangely, I do not. That lack of hatred is not based on the respect that I give the man for his fighting prowess, for that measure of respect ends right there, at the edge of the battlefield. No, I do not hate Artemis Entreri because I pity him, the events that led to the wrong decisions he
has made. There is true strength within him, and there is, or once was, a substantial potential to do good in a world so in need of heroes. For, despite his actions, I have come to understand that Entreri operates within a very strict code. In his own warped view of the world, I believe that Entreri honestly believes that he never killed anyone who did not deserve it. He held Catti-brie captive but did not rape her.

As for his actions concerning Regis … well, Regis was, in reality, a thief, and though he stole from another thief that does not excuse that crime. In Luskan, as in most cities in the Realms, thieves lose their hands, or worse, and certainly a bounty hunter sent to retrieve a stolen item, and the person who stole it, is well within the law to kill that person, and anyone else who hinders his task.

In Calimport, Artemis Entreri operates among thieves and thugs, among the very edge of civilization. In that capacity, he deals death, as did Zaknafein in the alleys of Menzoberranzan. There is a difference—certainly!—between the two, and I do not in any way mean to excuse Entreri from his crimes. Neither will I consider him the simple killing monster that was, say, Errtu.

No, there was once potential there, I
know, though I fear he is far gone from that road, for when I look upon Artemis Entreri, I see myself, I see the capacity to love, and also the capacity to lose all of that and become cold.

So very cold.

Perhaps we will meet again and do battle, and if I kill him, I will shed no tears for him. Not for who he is, at least, but quite possibly, I will cry for who this marvelous warrior might have become.

If I kill him, I will be crying for myself.

—Drizzt Do’Urden

ntreri 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 reestablish 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 ally. 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.

Perhaps it was Entreri, though, who didn’t truly understand his enemy, or how completely Rassiter and his wretched minions had come to dominate the streets over the last three years. Less than five minutes after Entreri had gone, Dondon’s door swung open again.

And Rassiter stepped through.

“What did he want?” the swaggering fighter asked, plopping comfortably into a chair at the table.

Dondon moved away uneasily, noticing two more of Rassiter’s cronies standing guard in the hall. After more than a year, the halfling still felt uncomfortable around Rassiter.

“Come, come now,” Rassiter prompted. He asked again, his tone more grim, “What did he want?”

The last thing Dondon wanted was to get caught in a crossfire between the wererats and the assassin, but he had little choice but to answer Rassiter. If Entreri ever learned of the double-cross, Dondon knew that his days would swiftly end.

Yet, if he didn’t spill out to Rassiter, his demise would be no less certain, and the method less swift.

He sighed at the lack of options and spilled his story, detail by detail, to Rassiter.

Rassiter gave no countermand to Entreri’s instructions. He would let Dondon play out the scenario exactly as Entreri had devised it. Apparently, the wererat believed he could twist it into his own gains. He sat quietly for a long moment, scratching his hairless chin and savoring the anticipation of the easy victory, his broken teeth gleaming even a deeper yellow in the lamplight.

“You will run with us this night?” he asked the halfling, satisfied that the assassin business was completed. “The moon will be bright.” He squeezed one of Dondon’s cherublike cheeks. “The fur will be thick, eh?”

Dondon pulled away from the grasp. “Not this night,” he replied, a bit too sharply.