The Ring of Winter (11 page)

Over everything hung a blanket of hot, humid air, thick with the sickly smell of rotting vegetation. Not even the breeze from the sea, only a few hundred yards away, could force the pestilent haze away for long. Like the jungle itself, the humidity soon reclaimed its lost ground.

I wonder if Wurthek’s wife knows where he is? Artus pondered grimly, crouching before the marker. He cursed not having his journal; he could have written down all the names—the ones still legible, anyway—and taken them back to Suzail with him.

“He was a mapmaker,” came a voice from behind him.

Ibn squatted next to Artus and pointed to the stone. “I cut these myself, do you see? When the men and women from your part of the world make it back this far, but can go no farther, I let them rest here until Ubtao calls them. Then I bury them, as is the custom in the northern lands. They seem safe enough, I think.”

“Does anyone know this man is buried here?”

“Ubtao does,” Ibn replied, “and whatever gods the mapmaker worshiped. I send a list north with the ships, but sometimes I don’t have names to put on the stones or the list.” Glancing at Artus, he added, “Since you haven’t offered your name, I would only have a symbol to go on your marker—if Ubtao calls you to his home before you leave the port.” Ibn opened his left hand. In his palm lay a silver Harper pin.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Artus said. “That’s not mine.”

“No,” Ibn said. “It’s mine. You have one of your own.” Before Artus could protest, be dropped the pin into a pocket and held out a calloused hand. “This morning the men from the Narwhal told me your name and what you did to save the ship from the dragon turtle. Like many Harpers, I have heard tales of your adventures. I am honored to meet you, Artus Cimber.”

There was little else Artus could do, so he greeted the Harper as amicably as possible. “Well met,” he said, clasping wrists in a traditional northern gesture of friendship. “I suppose you’ve been waiting for me.”

Ibn smiled and nodded. “The package Theron left for you is inside the store. I have kept it safe, just as he asked.” A look of concern washed across his features. “Theron is well, I hope. The case of fever he took away with him was quite serious. I have not heard from him—or anyone else in the Heartlands—for weeks now.”

Artus tried hard to mask his relief, but his heart was racing. Theron hadn’t told the Harpers after all, or the message hadn’t reached here yet. If the guide got back soon, he might actually get away without the Harpers meddling in his quest. “I saw Theron the night I left Suzail,” Artus said at last. “His mind wandered back to the jungle now and then, but I think he’ll recover.”

“He had a terrible experience with the Batiri—the goblin tribe, do you see?” Ibn straightened, his knees creaking at the effort. “There are many horrible things in Ubtao’s domain, but many beautiful things, as well. Theron found more terror thin beauty, I’m afraid.”

“He didn’t mention anything about a package,” Artus said, following Ibn back to the warehouse. He glanced back at the graveyard, only to see the creeping vine wind its way around Wurthek’s tombstone once more.

“He wished you to be surprised.” Ibn stopped at the door. “I will get the package, then come to your hut. There is something for Sir Hydel here, too.”

In the clearing before the store, there was no canopy of tree fronds to shield Artus from the downpour. He barely noticed the warm rain, though; the humidity made him sweat so much that he was soaked even when sitting inside. His shirt plastered to his back, his boots squishing uncomfortably on his feet, he made his way to the tin huts. As he got close, the steady hiss of the downpour became the loud clatter of raindrops pelting the slanted tin roofs. When he opened the door, Artus was greeted by another sound: the rambling of Pontifax’s snoring.

“How can he sleep with this racket?” Artus asked softly as he entered the hut. The rain beat a fast cadence on the roof, and the walls echoed the rolling sound. But Pontifax was indeed fast asleep on one of the four frond-stuffed mattresses that covered the floor.

The room’s accommodations were sparse but clean. Aside from the mattresses, the only other furniture was a low teakwood table, obviously meant to be used without chairs, and a set of four wooden headrests. At first Pontifax had thought these to be chairs for children. Even now, he rested his head upon his pack rather than one of the blocks. The other two packs lay huddled in the corner. Atop this pile rested Inyanga. The boy sat with his legs crossed, watching the sleeping Pontifax with great intensity.

“He said he would teach me how to make the mop work on its own,” the boy said in reply to Artus’s questioning gaze. “I am waiting for my lesson.”

Artus lifted Inyanga from the packs and placed him gently on the ground. “We have to talk business with your father now,” he said. “Pontifax will teach you that trick later.”

“It is not a trick,” the boy said. He narrowed his bright eyes in anger, “it is magic, like the spells used by the sorcerers of the Tabaxi and the shamen of the Batiri.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, I am also here to watch over the old man, like my father asked.”

Pontifax snorted awake. “Eh? Inyanga, you’re still here? Don’t worry, my lad, you’ll learn something from me before I go.” He rubbed his eyes and, noting the anxious look on Artus’s face, sent the boy away.

“You’ve just dismissed your guard,” Artus said after Inyanga had closed the door behind him.

“Guard, you say? What’s this all about? I was just taking a nap.”

Artus placed a foot on the low table. “Ibn Engaruka is a Harper. He knows who we are, too. The crew of the ship’s boat told him.” He shrugged. “The story of the fight with the dragon turtle will likely be back in Suzail before we are.”

“But why a guard?” Pontifax sputtered. “I don’t see why—”

“Because someone is trying to kill you,” Ibn noted from the doorway. He had a longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back and a large bundle of cloth in his hands. “The men from the Narwhal also relayed the story of the assassination attempt on Artus, Sir Hydel. You needed your rest, and I thought it best for Inyanga to watch over you. If I have offended—”

“No, no.” Pontifax stood and straightened his sleep-rumpled robes. “My thanks for your concern.”

Ibn handed the cloth bundle to Artus. “You should keep your voices down, my friends. I heard you clearly from the store’s front door. One can never tell who serves as the ears for your enemies.”

A silver string held the bundle in a neat square. Artus had only to tug at one loose end for the cord to fall away and the cloth to drape down. It was a hooded tunic. The deep green fabric looked as thick as a heavy cotton weave, but felt as light as a pickpocket’s touch in his hands. A folded sheet of parchment slipped from the tunic’s hood. Artus caught it before it dropped to the floor. The note from Theron was scrawled in a shaky hand:

Since you are reading this, Artus, I must have survived the trip back to Cormyr. Bully for me. I have no doubt you will make it to this port once I tell you of my extraordinary rescue at the hands of Lord Rayburton. The gifts I leave with Ibn will help you in the jungle: Trust to him for everything else. If you do not know by now, he carries the silver harp and moon.

No matter what or who stands in your way, Artus, you must struggle on. The thing you seek must be found, then turned to good.

Beware the goblins and the dinosaurs—the giant lizards the locals call Ubtao’s Children. They are the greatest dangers you will face.

—Theron Silvermace

Below there was one more passage, written in another hand, neater but very small. Artus took his dagger from his belt and used the glow of its hilt to read by.

I have had Ibn sew my badge to the tunic. I hope you don’t mind, but I wish to be with you on this expedition—if only in this small way.

“He asked me to add the last part,” Ibn said as Artus folded the parchment again. “He had become too ill to write it himself, do you see?”

Artus handed the note to Pontifax. “Burn it after you’ve read it.” He held the tunic up. There, over the left breast, was Theron’s family crest. White thread made the diving falcon and spiked mace contrast sharply with the verdant cloth. Artus closed his eyes for an instant, regretting the disagreement that had marked his parting with Theron.

Ibn placed the bow and quiver of arrows on one of the mattresses. “These Master Silvermace bought from me. I purchased them in trade long ago from an elven sailor. They are from Evermeet, I am told, crafted by the bowyers and fletchers of the royal family.” He laughed. “Even if that is not true, they are wonderfully wrought.”

A gout of flame devoured the parchment in Pontifax’s hands. After the mage dusted the ashes from his palm, he sighed. “Thank you for watching over these things.”

Ibn bowed. “Any Harper would do the same.” He settled back against the wall. “Theron would not tell me what he found in the jungle, saying only that it was not a Harper matter and I would be safer if I did not know about it.”

“He was wise not to tell you,” Artus said. “There are many who would stop at nothing to gain information about our quest.”

He peeled his wet, sweat-soaked shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Old scars—some small, some long and twisted—marred his back and stomach. The medallion hung heavily on its chain, still encased in a cast of solid white paste. Artus studied the now-lifeless medallion, then shrugged on the tunic Theron had left for him. “It’s light and very cool. And,” he added, flipping the hood over his head, “this will keep the sun off quite nicely.”

“You look like a monk,” Pontifax chuckled. “Brother Artus of Oghma to the rescue.”

Artus pulled the hood down. “Perhaps I should reconsider my calling if I look so dashing in this,” he said. “I’m certain Zin would have me back in the order if I asked.”

“These men who are after you,” Ibn interrupted, “are they Zhentarim? I have seen the marks left by the tortures they employ. Yours are very much like them.”

Artus lifted his shirt and traced a puckered line across his stomach. “You’re very observant, Ibn. The scars—most of them, anyway—I got in the dungeons of Zhentil Keep, at the hands of the Zhentarim. They aren’t the ones who tried to kill me aboard the Narwhal, though. They favor magic over brute force, so they would never have been so crass as to push me overboard during a battle.”

“You know,” Pontifax said, “it could be the Red Wizards. Maybe that’s why they took your journal.” He gave Artus a stern look. “After all, you stole it from them in the first place.”

Artus frowned and crossed his arms. “Or it could be the Slashing Skulls, or the assassins’ guild of Iriaebor, or those lunatic halflings from the Shar, or any one of fifty groups that’d like to see me dead.” He paused and took a deep breath. “It could even be Kaverin Ebonhand, for all we know. This has Cult of Frost written all over it.”

“Wait a moment,” Ibn said. “I’d heard Kaverin Ebonhand was dead.”

“You’re right,” Pontifax said glumly. “Kaverin was dead, the bastard. We killed him ourselves not three years ago.”

“But, if you killed him… ?”

Artus picked up the bow, which very nearly matched his height. As he braced it against the wall to string it, he asked, “You’ve heard how Kaverin lost his hands for murdering a Harper?” When Ibn nodded, the explorer continued. “After that sordid business, he swore to kill me and Pontifax. We clashed now and then, especially after he murdered his way to the head of the Cult of Frost. Anyway, one day in Tantras, he slipped up and we caught him.”

“I blasted him to pieces with a lightning bolt,” Pontifax noted grimly.

Artus studied one of the arrows and fit it to the bow. “We should have dealt with him sword-to-sword or called in the local watch, but he’d found his way out of their jails a hundred times before.”

With a quick pull, Artus fired the arrow across the hut. It split the skull of the snake that was in the process of crawling through a gap beneath the rear wall. The serpent’s head was as large as a man’s fist. “The end result of all this is Pontifax and I are still wanted for Kaverin’s murder in Tantras. The government was annoyed at us interfering with their local problems—even if they knew Kaverin was a murderer and worse—so they tried to haul us in on a dozen different charges.”

“But if you killed him … ?” Ibn prompted.

“Some say Kaverin made a pact with the Lord of the Dead, but that may be a myth.” Artus tossed the bow aside. “We do know that he came back from the dead, as rotten as ever, and he’s never slipped up again. The Cult of Frost now shields him from everything. We haven’t even been close to catching him in three years, though he keeps trying to kill us.”

In the silence that followed, Ibn pulled the arrow from the snake’s skull. “This is a fine shot, Master Cimber,” he said, “but do not be so cavalier about what you kill in the jungle. More importantly, you must never leave a creature’s corpse lying about. If you do not eat it, burn it.” He pulled the rest of the snake—all five feet of it—into the hut. “It is too bad Theron chose the menu for dinner tonight. These are quite good when cooked correctly.”

“Theron picked the menu?” Pontifax asked.

“That was his gift for you, Sir Hydel,” Ibn replied. ” ‘A good meal for Pontifax before he’s subjected to trail rations for days on end.’ “

“I always said that man knew how to live,” Pontifax said happily. Yet as he followed Ibn out of the hut he warily eyed the snake coiled around the shopkeep’s arms. Just what, he wondered, did the natives of Chult consider a good meal?

A clatter on the hut’s tin roof woke Artus. He sat up, dagger in hand, even before he realized he was fully awake.

The gem in the dagger’s hilt lit the room enough for Artus to see there was no immediate danger. The rain had stopped hours ago, the drumming of raindrops replaced by the soft roll of the ocean and the steady, faraway blanket of sounds of the jungle. It was still dark outside; he could tell that much from the gaps around the door and the hole at the base of the back wall. Pontifax snored sonorously, well-fed upon a meal of fish, koko-yams, plantain, and palm wine. Had he dreamed the noise? Perhaps a monkey had leaped from a tree and—