The Ring of Winter (10 page)

Deftly Feg hopped onto the perch loop standing nearby, fanning his master all the while. Across the room, Phyrra stuffed a towel beneath the elf’s corpse to stop the blood from spreading. Then she settled back into her shadowy corner and wrapped her thin arms around herself.

“Another page about me,” Kaverin exclaimed. His voice was high and full of excitement, like a child who had just been given a magical toy. “It says: ‘Pontifax and I have finally brought Kaverin to justice. As usual, though, he has turned even his punishment to his advantage… ‘ “

Marpenoth 5, Year of the Prince

Today Kaverin Ebonhand of Tantras was found guilty of ordering the murder of Rallo Scarson, a Harper who dared threaten his network of evil agents. I don’t feel any relief at the verdict or overwhelming pride in the Lord’s Court here in Ravens Bluff. It was the evidence I gathered with Pontifax’s help that proved Kaverin was guilty beyond any reasonable doubt; given that evidence, any sane man would have found for the prosecution.

The Harpers will be pleased I’ve made Kaverin pay for the death of Rallo, even if I no longer consider myself one of their ranks. Theron Silvermace spent the whole trial watching me. I’m certain he was taking notes, gathering proof that I am still worthy of the little silver harp-and-moon pin. It’s been two years since I stormed out of the meeting in Shadowdale, and still the Harpers haven’t tried to take the pin back. I wonder why.

Anyway, Pontifax and I have finally brought Kaverin to justice. As usual, though, he has turned even his punishment to his advantage.

Since his henchman had been put to death for actually murdering Rallo, the court could not impose the same fate upon Kaverin for the same crime. (Like many of the city-states along the Dragon Reach, Ravens Bluff has a pretty skewed idea of justice.) They decided instead to chop off his hands. How civilized. And when they did, just an hour ago, Kaverin laughed. His hands were lying in the dirt, bloody and twitching, and he laughed.

Pontifax was right—the man is insane.

Before the clerics appointed by the court to heal up Kaverin’s wrists could do their duty, the mage who had been serving as his lawyer throughout the trial muscled past. In his hands, he held two blobs of black stone. When the mage touched these to Kaverin’s gory wrists, they transformed. Still chuckling madly, Kaverin held his new jet-black hands up for all to see.

Before he walked away—he was free now that the punishment had been exacted upon him—Kaverin pointed one stony finger at Pontifax and me. Not very subtle, but we got the threat quite clearly. He blames us for his conviction. Rightly so, too.

Sooner or later, we’re going to hear from Kaverin Ebonhand again. If we do, I’ll make sure no mage in the world will be able to save him.

Five

Port Castigliar was a sorry excuse for an outpost. It consisted of seven tin huts, two small plots of vegetables, a large but ramshackle supply depot, and a graveyard. The latter was more densely populated than the land for five miles in any direction.

As Artus and Pontifax stood on the narrow stretch of beach, watching the ship’s boat from the Narwhal unload its cargo of food, cookware, knives, and weapons, they could not help but wonder if they’d come to the right place. “Are you certain this is where Theron said we should land?” Pontifax asked, wiping his rain-soaked hair out of his eyes.

Artus scowled. “I have the map right here,” he said, then patted his pack. “My journal may have been stolen, but I was smart enough to keep the map with me at all times.”

Pontifax stared uneasily at the Narwhal. The galleon waited impatiently in the deep waters off Port Castigliar, anxious to move on to more substantial stops in Refuge Bay. The lowering sky was dark and threatening, promising worse than the downpour already underway. “Quiracus might have disembarked before we got to the deck this morning,” the mage offered absently.

Artus grunted. The crew had halfheartedly searched for Master Quiracus. Not only was the elven first mate wanted for questioning concerning his attack of Artus, but he was next in line to take command of the Narwhal. When no sign of him had been uncovered, it was decided he had fallen overboard in the battle with the dragon-turtle—decided, that is, by the newly risen Captain Nelock. Actually, Nelock had made it quite clear he hoped Quiracus never surfaced, and he did all he could to keep the hunt subdued. Even if he had found the elf hiding somewhere aboard ship, Nelock would have offered him shelter, just so long as he disappeared at the first port.

For their parts, Artus and Pontifax believed the elf to be alive. When the explorer discovered his journal had been stolen—pocketed by Quiracus during the turtle attack, one of the ballista crew had said—he concluded the elf must be after the Ring of Winter. Either that, or he was working for someone else who quested after the ring. That possibility worried Artus the most.

“Well, let’s show enough sense to get out of this rain,” Pontifax said. “I don’t think we’re going to catch our elusive adversary by drowning here on the beach.” He hefted a pack to one shoulder and started toward the sprawling supply depot.

Artus grabbed the other two packs. Dragging them along, he hurried after the mage. “If we press on after the ring,” he said wearily, “Quiracus will show himself sooner or later.”

“Quiracus or the blighter with whom he’s so gainfully employed,” Pontifax corrected.

They wrestled their packs into the warehouse. The building appeared dilapidated from the outside, with pocked and scarred tin walls and a haphazardly constructed straw roof. Inside, however, the depot more closely resembled one of the finer shops in Suzail or Waterdeep. Row after row of neatly stacked boxes rose two stories to the waterproof thatch. Everywhere Artus looked lay jars full of buttons, cloth sheets lined with needles, spool after spool of thread, tunics and boots and cloaks, crossbows and swords and arrows. Each shelf was numbered, with a narrow strip of pegboard rising up to the tallest.

“It’s cool in here,” Pontifax whispered. After the humidity and the warm rain, the cold made him shiver.

“And the floor was clean, too, before you dragged in those sodden packs,” came a voice from the polished suit of armor standing at attention next to the door. It spoke in the trade tongue known as Common. “Don’t you two know to wipe your muddy boots?”

The armor shuddered, and a child ten winters old walked from behind it. Like many Chultan natives, his skin was the dark brown of fertile earth and his black hair was cropped close. He wore short pants and a loose shirt, both tan and spotlessly clean. “Well?” he asked, gesturing with his polishing cloth to the wet muddy footprints.

“Oh, er, sorry,” Artus stammered. He and Pontifax stepped back to the stoop. “We’re here to purchase supplies and to hire a guide and some bearers.”

But the boy’s attention was on a large package that had fallen into the nearest aisle. “Zrumya!” he shouted. “Pick up in row two, level six!”

From high in the rafters came a shriek, followed by the flutter of wings through the chilly air. A monstrous bat, as large as a man, tumbled down and darted crazily between the high stacks of boxes. Finally it landed with a thud in the aisle, right on top of the fallen package. Using the claws located at the joints in its wings, it slid the bundle into a pack strapped to its chest. Then, with slow, spiderlike movements, the bat crept across the floor and began to climb the shelving. It hooked its claws into the pegboard and made it way to the sixth shelf, where it unloaded its cargo. Job done, the bat fluttered back to its perch.

The boy turned back to study Artus and Pontifax for a moment. “Father!” he shouted, then disappeared between a high row of boxes.

The boy’s father appeared at the end of the long aisle running from the door to the back of the warehouse. “Pay Inyanga no mind,” the man said. “He is trying to prove to me he loves the store so he can inherit it some day.”

Despite this, Artus opened the door and kicked as much mud off his boots as possible before treading across the clean planks. Pontifax removed his shoes completely. The old mage smiled at the stern-faced boy, who had returned with a bucket and mop. “It’s our mess,” Pontifax said, holding up a hand. “Allow me.”

He muttered an incantation. Instantly a blue light limned the mop, then it jerked out of the boy’s hand. As the child stared, it cleaned up the mud and swabbed the whole area in front of the door. Finally the mop floated back to the bucket and lowered itself into the now-grimy water.

“I used to sweep up my father’s store when I was your age,” the mage said kindly. “There were lots of times when I wished someone would come along and make the broom do the work itself.” He patted the boy and hurried after Artus, his bare feet peeking out from under his long brown robe.

“This is Ibn Engaruka,” Artus said when the mage reached the long, low counter that ran the entire length of the warehouse. The owner nodded politely, though his face was an impassive mask. The young boy resembled him closely, from the broad nose to the hard-set jaw. Even the clothes they wore were alike.

Ibn gestured to the wet patch near the door. “It has been years since magic has blessed this place,” he said stiffly. “I was just telling your comrade here, a local sorcerer used to trade magic for goods. He placed some enchanted gems under the floorboards to keep the store cool. That keeps my foodstuffs from spoiling so fast, do you see?”

Before either Artus or Pontifax could reply, Ibn clapped his hands. “Inyanga, bring some chairs for these gentlemen.” The boy had apparently foreseen the order, for before his father finished speaking, he had dragged two wooden stools to the tired explorers.

“It is best to do business when comfortable,” Ibn said, but he did not take a seat himself. Instead, he leaned on the counter, openly sizing up the strangers before him. “What brings you to Chult? If I understand your goal, I can better help you to reach it, do you see?”

“We wish to hire a guide and six bearers, and buy supplies for a few weeks trek into the jungle. But we prefer not to discuss our reasons for being here,” Artus began, “There are others—”

“No need to say more. I understand entirely,” the shopkeep said, holding up a restraining hand. “I will tell you this, though. The men and women here will do no traffic with slavers. It is something we will not tolerate, do you see?”

“Of course,” Pontifax said. The mage nodded emphatically. “We’re no slavers. You can count on that.”

“Then I can help you,” Ibn replied, “but not for a few days. This very morning, before dawn, the only guide in Port Castigliar has gone away with the unpleasant young woman from your ship. It is too bad you could not travel together, but—”

“Young woman?” Artus repeated, shocked, “No young woman got off the Narwhal this morning.”

Ibn shrugged. “I could be mistaken, but I doubt so very much. Only locals and people from trading ships stop here, and yours has been the only vessel in days.”

“Was there an elf with her? A young, blond-haired fellow?” Pontifax asked, rubbing his chin.

The boy, who had been watching the mage from atop a pile of crates, shouted down, “No. She left the camp with the guide. No bearers and no supplies: She was very rude to me and my father.”

“She tried to strike Inyanga when he shouted at her for tracking mud into the store,” Ibn noted. He pulled a large ledger from beneath the counter. “The guide leaves a record of his destination with me. I am his agent, do you see?” After flipping past a dozen yellow-edged pages, he frowned. “There is no entry here. Perhaps this woman is searching for the same thing you are, for she is certainly as secretive.”

Artus was on his feet before the book clapped shut. “There has to be another guide here. You, perhaps? Or the boy?”

“Absolutely not,” Ibn said. “Inyanga and I, we will not leave our home, and the bearers, they are slaves freed from galleys along the coast. They work here to earn their passage home, do you see? They do not know this place any better than you.” He slid the ledger back under the counter. “You will have to wait for the guide to return. Until then, you can stay in one of the huts. A few are empty now, since three of my bearers bought passage back down the coast aboard a merchant ship last week.”

The door slammed open, and the leader of the Narwhal’s shore party stuck his head into the depot. “All the stuff is on the beach,” he shouted. “Stacked and covered with a tarp. We’re going.”

“Not until I inventory the boxes,” Ibn replied. He vaulted over the counter. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but Captain Bawr’s men have trouble counting their own fingers and toes.”

Artus and Pontifax watched the shopkeep hurry outside. “We could risk going on alone,” the mage ventured halfheartedly.

“That would be foolish.” Inyanga climbed down from the crates. “You would not last a whole night in the jungle alone. There are goblins and wildmen who would eat both of you for dinner.” The boy laughed. “And the Children of Ubtao. They do not like strangers roaming around in Ubtao’s jungle. Then the bearers would bring you back, and my father would have to bury what’s left of you in the ground beside the beach, like the other men who came here and wandered off on their own.”

Artus knew many tribes in Chult worshiped Ubtao as the mightiest of gods, the maker of men and animals. Perhaps these “children” were his high priests. “Well, Pontifax?” the explorer sighed.

“What else can we do?” the mage replied. “We take up residence here in Port Castigliar until the guide returns.”

Here lies Wurthek of Tethyr.

He has gone to chart the realms beyond.

Artus pulled a clinging vine off the tombstone. It was as thick around as his thumb, and, when it hit the ground, the vine snaked slowly back toward the jungle. Artus merely stared at it; the rain and the somber setting had dampened his already-dark mood so much that anything less than a charging dragon would have gotten a similarly subdued reaction.

The explorers’ graveyard started at one end of Ibn’s store and ran behind it for almost its entire length. By the shopkeep’s count, it held one hundred and eight bodies. Stones marked most of the sites, though the jungle had long ago reclaimed some of the ground. High, thick-rooted trees towered overhead, their fronds sheltering Artus from much of the downpour. Creepers wound around the grave markers and anything else that stood still too long. Hidden in the wall of green, birds called and monkeys chittered and shrieked. Other, more ominous sounds echoed from the jungle, too, but they were far-off and muted.