The Halfling’s Gem (9 page)

“You are not to come with us?” asked Wulfgar, slipping down from his saddle.

“I have other business,” Khelben explained. “It is better that you go alone. You will be safe enough; Orlpar would not cross me, and Captain Deudermont is known to me as an honest seaman. Strangers are common in Waterdeep, especially down in the Dock Ward.”

“But strangers wandering beside Khelben, the painter, might draw attention,” Drizzt reasoned with good-humored sarcasm.

Khelben smiled but did not answer.

Drizzt dropped from big saddle. “The horses are to be returned to Longsaddle?”

“Of course.”

“Our thanks to you, Khelben,” said Drizzt. “Surely you have aided our cause greatly.” Drizzt thought for a moment, eyeing his horse. “You must know that the enchantment Malchor put on the shoes will not remain. Orlpar will not profit from the deal he made this day.”

“Justice,” chuckled Khelben. “That one has turned many an unfair deal, let me assure you. Perhaps this experience will teach him humility and the error of his ways.”

“Perhaps,” said Drizzt, and with a bow, he and Wulfgar started down the hill.

“Keep your guard, but keep your calm,” Khelben called after them. “Ruffians are not unknown on the docks, but the police are ever-present. Many a stranger spends his first night in the city dungeons!” He watched the two of them descend the knoll and remembered, as Malchor had remembered, those long-ago days when it was he who followed the roads to distant adventures.

“He had the man cowed,” Wulfgar remarked when he and Drizzi were out of Khelben’s earshot. “A simple painter?”

“More likely a wizard—a powerful wizard,” Drizzt replied. “And our thanks again are owed to Malchor, whose influence has eased our way. Mark my words, ’twas no simple painter that tamed the likes of Orlpar.”

Wulfgar looked back to the knoll, but Khelben and the horses were nowhere to be seen. Even with his limited understanding of the black arts, Wulfgar realized that only magic could have moved Khelben and the three horses from the area so quickly. He smiled and shook his head, and marveled again at the eccentric characters the wide world kept showing him.

Following the directions given to them by the guards at the south gate, Drizzt and Wulfgar were soon strolling down Dock Street, a long lane that ran the length of Waterdeep Harbor on the south side of the city. Fish smells and salty air filled their nostrils, gulls complained overhead, and sailors and mercenaries from every stretch of the Realms wandered about, some busy at work, but most ashore for their last rest before the long journey to points south.

Dock Street was well outfitted for such merrymaking; every corner held a tavern. But unlike the city of Luskan’s dockside, which had been given over to the rabble by the lords of the city long ago, Dock Street in Waterdeep was not an evil place. Waterdeep was a city of laws, and members of the Watch, Waterdeep’s famed city guard, seemed always in sight.

Hardy adventurers abounded here, battle-hardened warriors that carried their weapons with cool familiarity. Still, Drizzt and Wulfgar found many eyes focused upon them, with almost every head turning and watching as they passed. Drizzt felt for his mask, at first worrying that it had somehow slipped off and
revealed his heritage to the amazed onlookers. A quick inspection dispelled his fears, for his hands still showed the golden luster of a surface elf.

And Drizzt nearly laughed aloud when he turned to ask Wulfgar for confirmation that the mask still disguised his facial features, for it was then the dark elf realized that he was not the object of the gawks. He had been so close to the young barbarian for the last few years that he was used to Wulfgar’s physical stature. Nearly seven feet tall, with corded muscles that thickened every year, Wulfgar strode down Dock Street with the easy air of sincere confidence.

Aegis-fang bouncing casually on one shoulder. Even among the greatest warriors in the Realms, this young man would stand out.

“For once, it seems that I am not the target of the stares,” said Drizzt.

“Take off the mask, drow,” Wulfgar replied, his face reddening with a rush of blood. “And take their eyes from me!”

“I would, but for Regis,” Drizzt answered with a wink.

The Mermaid’s Arms was no different from any other of the multitude of taverns that laced this section of Waterdeep. Shouts and cheers drifted out of the place, on air heavily scented with cheap ale and wine. A group of rowdies, pushing and shoving each other and throwing curses to the men they called friends, had gathered in front of the door.

Drizzt looked at Wulfgar with concern. The only other time the young man had been in such a place—at the Cutlass in Luskan—Wulfgar had torn apart the tavern, and most of its patrons, in a brawl. Clinging to ideals of honor and courage, Wulfgar was out of place in the unprincipled world of city taverns.

Orlpar came out of the Mermaid’s Arms then and sifted
adeptly through the rowdy crowd. “Deudermont is at the bar,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He passed Drizzt and Wulfgar and appeared to take no notice of them. “Tall; blue jacket and yellow beard,” added Orlpar.

Wulfgar started to respond, but Drizzt kept him moving forward, understanding Orlpar’s preference for secrecy.

The crowd parted as Drizzt and Wulfgar strode through, all their stares squarely on Wulfgar. “Bungo’ll have ’im,” one of them whispered when the two companions had moved into the bar.

“Be worth the watchin’, though,” chuckled another.

The drow’s keen ears caught the conversation, and he looked again at his huge friend, noting how Wulfgar’s size always seemed to single the barbarian out for such trouble.

The inside of the Mermaid’s Arms offered no surprises. The air hung thick with the smoke of exotic weeds and the stench of stale ale. A few drunken sailors lay facedown on tables or sat propped against walls while others stumbled about, spilling their drinks—often on more sober patrons, who responded by shoving the offenders to the floor. Wulfgar wondered how many of these men had missed the sailing of their ships. Would they stagger about in here until their coin ran out, only then to be dropped into the street to face the coming winter penniless and without shelter?

“Twice I have seen the bowels of a city,” Wulfgar whispered to Drizzt. “And both times I have been reminded of the pleasures of the open road!”

“The goblins and the dragons?” Drizzt retorted lightheartedly, leading Wulfgar to an empty table near the bar.

“A far lot better than this,” Wulfgar remarked.

A serving wench was upon them before they had even sat down. “What’s yer pleasure?” she asked absently, having long ago lost interest in the patrons she served.

“Water,” Wulfgar answered gruffly.

“And wine,” Drizzt quickly added, handing over a gold piece to dispel the woman’s sudden scowl.

“That must be Deudermont,” Wulfgar said, deflecting any forthcoming scolding concerning his treatment of the wench. He pointed to a tall man leaning over the bar rail.

Drizzt rose at once, thinking it prudent to be done with their business and out of the tavern as quickly as possible. “Hold the table,” he told Wulfgar

Captain Deudermont was not the average patron of the Mermaid’s Arms. Tall and straight, he was a refined man accustomed to dining with lords and ladies. But as with all of the ship captains who put into Waterdeep Harbor, especially on the day of their departures, Deudermont spent most of his time ashore, keeping a watchful eye on his valued crew and trying to prevent them from winding up in Waterdeep’s overfilled jails.

Drizzt squeezed in next to the captain, brushing away the inquiring look of the barkeep. “We have a common friend,” Drizzt said softly to Deudermont.

“I would hardly number Orlpar among my friends,” the captain replied casually. “But I see that he did not exaggerate about the size and strength of your young friend.”

Deudermont was not the only one who had noticed Wulfgar. As did every other tavern in this section of Waterdeep—and most bars across the Realms—the Mermaid’s Arms had a champion. A bit farther down the bar rail, a massive, hulking slob named Bungo had eyed Wulfgar from the minute the young barbarian had walked through the door. Bungo didn’t like the looks of this one, not in the least. Even more than the corded arms, Wulfgar’s graceful stride and the easy way he carried his huge warhammer revealed a measure of experience beyond his age.

Bungo’s supporters crowded around him in anticipation of
the coming brawl, their twisted smiles and beer-reeking breath spurring their champion to action. Normally confident, Bungo had to work to keep his anxiety under control. He had taken many hits in his seven-year reign at the tavern. His frame was bent now, and dozens of bones had been cracked and muscles torn. Looking at the awesome spectacle of Wulfgar, Bungo honestly wondered if he could have won this match even in his healthier youth.

But the regulars of the Mermaid’s Arms looked up to him. This was their domain, and he their champion. They provided his free meals and drinks—Bungo could not let them down.

He quaffed his full mug in a single gulp and pushed himself off the rail. With a final growl to reassure his supporters, and callously tossing aside anyone in his way, Bungo made his way toward Wulfgar.

Wulfgar had seen the group coming before it had ever started moving. This scene was all too familiar to the young barbarian, and he fully expected that he would once again, as had happened at the Cutlass in Luskan, be singled out because of his size.

“What’re ye fer?” Bungo said with a hiss as he towered, hands on hips, over the seated man. The other ruffians spread out around the table, putting Wulfgar squarely within their ring.

Wulfgar’s instincts told him to stand and drop the pretentious slob where he stood. He had no fears about Bungo’s eight friends. He considered them cowards who needed their leader to spur them on. If a single blow put Bungo down—and Wulfgar knew it would—the others would hesitate before striking, a delay that would cost them dearly against the likes of Wulfgar.

But over the last few months, Wulfgar had learned to temper his anger, and he had learned a broader definition of honor. He shrugged, making no move that resembled a threat. “A place to
sit and a drink,” he replied calmly. “And who might you be?”

“Name’s Bungo,” said the slob, spittle spraying with every word. He thrust his chest out proudly, as if his name should mean something to Wulfgar.

Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.

“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking—hoping—that he had put Wijlfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.

Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group—a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.

Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.

“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.

“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the
Sea Sprite
for you, and I welcome the added hands—and blades—especially of such veteran adventurers. But I’ve a suspicion that you might be missing our sailing.” He grasped Drizzt’s shoulder to turn him toward the trouble brewing at Wulfgar’s table.

“Tavern champion and his cronies,” Deudermont explained, “though my bet would be with your friend.”

“Coin well placed,” Drizzt replied, “but we have no time…”

Deudermont guided Drizzt’s gaze across to a shadowy corner of the tavern and to four men sitting calmly watching the growing tumult with interest. “The Watch,” Deudermont said. “A fight will cost your friend a night in the dungeons. I cannot hold port!”

Drizzt searched the tavern, looking for some out. All eyes seemed to be closing in on Wulfgar and the ruffians, eagerly anticipating the fight. The drow realized that if he went to the table now, he would probably ignite the whole thing.