Streams Of Silver Read Online Free Page B

’im sleep,” Bruenor conceded. “Maybe I could use a bit more, meself!”
    They broke camp late that morning and set a leisurely pace,only to discover later that they had misjudged the distance to the city. It was well past sunset and into the early hours of darkness when they finally arrived at the city’s north gate.
    The structure was as unwelcoming as Luskan’s reputation: a single iron-bound door set into the stone wall between two short, squared towers was tightly shut before them. A dozen fur-capped heads poked out from the parapet above the gate and the companions sensed many more eyes, and probably bows, trained upon them from the darkness atop the towers.
    “Who are you who come to the gates of Luskan?” came a voice from the wall.
    “Travelers from the north,” answered Bruenor. “A weary band come all the way from Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale!”
    “The gate closed at sunset,” replied the voice. “Go away!”
    “Son of a hairless gnoll,” grumbled Bruenor under his breath. He slapped his axe across his hands as though he meant to chop the door down.
    Drizzt put a calming hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, his own sensitive ears recognizing the clear, distinctive click of a crossbow crank.
    Then Regis unexpectedly took control of the situation. He straightened his pants, which had dropped below the bulge of his belly, and hooked his thumbs in his belt, trying to appear somewhat important. Throwing his shoulders back he walked out in front of his companions.
    “Your name, good sir?” he called to the soldier on the wall.
    “I am the Nightkeeper of the North Gate. That is all you need to know!” came the gruff reply. “And who—”
    “Regis, First Citizen of Bryn Shander. No doubt you have heard my name or seen my carvings.”
    The companions heard whispers up above, then a pause. “We have viewed the scrimshaw of a halfling from Ten-Towns. Are you he?”
    “Hero of the goblin war and master scrimshander,” Regis declared, bowing low. “The spokesmen of Ten-Towns will not be pleased to learn that I was turned into the night at the gate of our favored trading partner.”
    Again came the whispers, then a longer silence. Presently the four heard a grating sound behind the door, a portcullis being raised, knew Regis, and then the banging of the door’s bolts being thrown. The halfling looked back over his shoulder at his surprised friends and smiled wryly.
    “Diplomacy, my rough dwarven friend,” he laughed.
    The door opened just a crack and two men slipped out, unarmed but cautious. It was quite obvious that they were well protected from the wall. Grim-faced soldiers huddled along the parapets, monitoring every move the strangers made through the sights of crossbows.
    “I am Jierdan,” said the stockier of the two men, though it was difficult to judge his exact size because of the many layers of fur he wore.
    “And I am the Nightkeeper,” said the other. “Show me what you have brought to trade.”
    “Trade?” echoed Bruenor angrily. “Who said anything about trade?” He slapped his axe across his hands again, drawing nervous shufflings from above. “Does this look like the blade of a stinkin’ merchant?”
    Regis and Drizzt both moved to calm the dwarf, though Wulfgar, as tense as Bruenor, stayed off to the side, his huge arms crossed before him and his stern gaze boring into the impudent gatekeeper.
    The two soldiers backed away defensively and the Nightkeeper spoke again, this time on the edge of fury. “First Citizen,” he demanded of Regis, “why do you come to our door?”
    Regis stepped in front of Bruenor and steadied himself squarely before the soldier. “Er … a preliminary scouting ofthe marketplace,” he blurted out, trying to fabricate a story as he went along. “I have some especially fine carvings for market this season and I wanted to be certain that everything on this end, including the paying price for scrimshaw, shall be in place to handle the sale.”
    The