The only section of the lane that remained uncluttered by the hordes was the area in front of the unmarked structure on the back side of the circle: the guildhouse. As in the daylight, bums sat against the building’s walls on either side of its single door, but now there were two more guards farther off to either side.
“If Regis is in that place, we’ve got to find our way in,” Catti-brie observed.
“No doubt that Regis is in there,” Drizzt replied. “Our hunt should start with Entreri.”
“We’ve come to find Regis,” Catti-brie reminded him, casting a disappointed glance his way. Drizzt quickly clarified his answer to her satisfaction.
“The road to Regis lies through the assassin,” he said. “Entreri has seen to that. You heard his words at the chasm of Garumn’s Gorge. Entreri will not allow us to find Regis until we have dealt with him.”
Catti-brie could not deny the drow’s logic. When Entreri had snatched Regis from them back in Mithril Hall, he had gone to great pains to bait Drizzt into the chase, as though his capture of Regis was merely part of a game he was playing against Drizzt.
“Where to begin?” Bruenor huffed in frustration. He had expected the street to be quieter, offering them a better opportunity to scope out the task before them. He had hoped that they might even complete their business that very night.
“Right where we are,” Drizzt replied, to Bruenor’s amazement.
“Learn the smell of the street,” the drow explained. “Watch the moves of its people and hear their sounds. Prepare your mind for what is to come.”
“Time, elf!” Bruenor growled back. “Me heart tells me that Rumblebelly’s liken to have a whip at his back as we stand here smelling the stinkin’ street!”
“We need not seek Entreri,” Wulfgar cut in, following Drizzt’s line of thinking. “The assassin will find us.”
Almost on cue, as if Wulfgar’s statement had reminded them all of their dangerous surroundings, the four of them turned their eyes outward from their little huddle and watched the bustle of the street around them. Dark eyes peered at them from every corner; each person that ambled past cast them a sidelong glance. Calimport was not unaccustomed to strangers—it was a trading port, after all—but these four would stand out clearly on the streets of any city in the Realms. Recognizing their vulnerability, Drizzt decided to get them moving. He started off down Rogues Circle, motioning for the others to follow.
Before Wulfgar, at the tail of the forming line, had even taken a step, however, a childish voice called out to him from the shadows of the Spitting Camel.
“Hey,” it beckoned, “are you looking for a hit?”
Wulfgar, not understanding, moved a bit closer and peered into the gloom. There stood Dondon, seeming a young, disheveled human boy.
“What’re yer fer?” Bruenor asked, moving beside Wulfgar.
Wulfgar pointed to the corner.
“What’re yer fer?” Bruenor asked again, now targeting the diminutive, shadowy figure.
“Looking for a hit?” Dondon reiterated, moving out from the gloom.
“Bah!” Bruenor snorted, waving his hand. “Just a boy. Get ye gone, little one. We’ve no time for play!” He grabbed Wulfgar’s arm and turned away.
“I can set you up,” Dondon said after them.
Bruenor kept right on walking, Wulfgar beside him, but now Drizzt had stopped, noticing his companions’ delay, and had heard the boy’s last statement.
“Just a boy!” Bruenor explained to the drow as he approached.
“A street boy,” Drizzt corrected, stepping around Bruenor and Wulfgar and starting back, “with eyes and ears that miss little.
“How can you set us up?” Drizzt whispered to Dondon while moving close to the building, out of sight of the too curious hordes.
Dondon shrugged. “There is plenty to steal; a whole bunch of merchants came in today. What are you looking for?”
Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie took up defensive positions around Drizzt and the boy, their eyes outward to the streets but their ears trained on the suddenly interesting conversation.
Drizzt crouched low and led Dondon’s gaze with his own toward the building at the end of the circle.
“Pook’s house,” Dondon remarked offhandedly. “Toughest house in Calimport.”
“But it has a weakness,” Drizzt prompted.
“They all do,” Dondon replied calmly, playing perfectly the role of a cocky street survivor.
“Have you ever been in there?”
“Maybe I have.”
“Have you ever seen a hundred gold pieces?”
Dondon let his eyes light up, and he purposely and pointedly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Get him back in the rooms,” Catti-brie said. “Ye be drawing too many looks out here.”
Dondon readily agreed, but he shot Drizzt a warning in the form of an icy stare and proclaimed, “I can count to a hundred!”
When they got back to the room, Drizzt and Bruenor fed Dondon a steady stream of coins while the halfling laid out the way to a secret back entrance to the guildhouse. “Even the thieves,” Dondon proclaimed, “do not know of it!”
The friends gathered closely, eager for the details.
Dondon made the whole operation sound easy.
Too easy.
Drizzt rose—and turned away, hiding his chuckle from the informant. Hadn’t they just been talking about Entreri making contact? Barely minutes before this enlightening boy so conveniently arrived to guide them.
“Wulfgar, take off his shoes,” Drizzt said. His three friends turned to him curiously. Dondon squirmed in his chair.
“His shoes,” Drizzt said again, turning back and pointing to Dondon’s feet. Bruenor, so long a friend of a halfling, caught the drow’s reasoning and didn’t wait for Wulfgar to respond. The dwarf grabbed at Dondon’s left boot and pulled it off, revealing a thick patch of foot hair—the foot of a halfling.
Dondon shrugged helplessly and sank back in his chair. The meeting was taking the exact course that Entreri had predicted.
“He said he could set us up,” Catti-brie remarked sarcastically, twisting Dondon’s words into a more sinister light.
“Who sent ye?” Bruenor growled.
“Entreri,” Wulfgar answered for Dondon. “He works for Entreri, sent here to lead us into a trap.” Wulfgar leaned over Dondon, blocking out the candlelight with his huge frame.
Bruenor pushed the barbarian aside and took his place. With his boyish looks, Wulfgar simply could not be as imposing as the pointy-nosed, red-bearded, fire-eyed dwarven fighter with the battered helm. “So, ye little sneakster,” Bruenor growled into Dondon’s face. “Now we deal for yer stinkin’ tongue! Wag it the wrong way, and I’ll be cutting it out!”
Dondon paled—he had that act down pat—and began to tremble visibly.
“Calm yerself,” Catti-brie said to Bruenor, playing out a lighter role this time. “Suren ye’ve scared the little one enough.”
Bruenor shoved her back, turning enough away from Dondon to toss her a wink. “Scared him?” the dwarf balked. He brought his axe up to his shoulder. “More than scarin’ him’s in me plans!”
“Wait! Wait!” Dondon begged, groveling as only a halfling could. “I was just doing what the assassin made me do, and paid me to do.”
“You know Entreri?” Wulfgar asked.
“Everybody knows Entreri,” Dondon replied. “And in Calimport, everybody heeds Entreri’s commands!”
“Forget Entreri!” Bruenor growled in his face. “Me axe’ll stop that one from hurting yerself.”
“You think you can kill Entreri?” Dondon shot back, though he knew the true meaning of Bruenor’s claim.
“Entreri can’t hurt a corpse,” Bruenor replied grimly. “Me axe’ll beat him to yer head!”
“It is you he wants,” Dondon said to Drizzt, seeking a calmer situation.
Drizzt nodded, but remained silent. Something came across as out of place in this out of place meeting.