“Fine. Now be a good soldier and sit on the table,” was the somewhat chilly reply. “Take your shirt off so I can get a look at the wounds on your neck.”
The mage bustled about the large room, only a small part of which was lit. Two magical globes of light floated at Pontifax’s shoulders, but they did little to help dispel the gloom from the place. “I’ve spent the last tenday setting broken limbs, bandaging gashes received in mindless brawls, and ministering to petty officers with hangovers,” he offered as he grabbed a handful of cotton wrapping. “Same sorts of silly injuries I worked on when I served with the Army of the Alliance—until the fighting started, of course. The barbarians dealt in more ghastly wounds. In fact, I spent most of my time on the crusade making men comfortable until they died… .”
Artus dropped his bloodied shirt to the floor. Whenever Pontifax was disgusted with things, he talked about King Azoun’s crusade against the barbarous Tuigan tribesmen. He had served as a surgeon during the entire campaign and had even fought alongside the royal War Wizards in the final battles. There were few things Pontifax prided himself upon more than this.
Pontifax sighed. “Did you know there are passengers aboard who don’t have to work?”
“What?” Artus leaped to his feet, spilling a bottle of strong-smelling liquid. It splattered on his scraped hands, stinging like a thousand wasp bites. “Gods’ blasted …”
“Serves you right,” the mage said. He righted the bottle, mopping up the spilled liquid with Artus’s shirt. “Now sit down before you really hurt yourself.”
“But if there’re paying passengers aboard who don’t have to—”
“These privileged passengers have taken over the captain’s cabin,” the mage warned, “so don’t go making a fuss just yet. Bawr’s sleeping in the maproom to make space for them.” He glanced at the long slice in Artus’s neck, then dabbed the blood away. “They’re important ambassadors on their way to Samarach on a secret trade mission. Quiracus told me about them one night after dinner. They paid ten times what we did.”
“But I haven’t seen anyone who even vaguely resembles a government-type strolling the decks.”
“They’re more secretive than the captain.” Pontifax began to clean the scrapes on Artus’s hands, dousing them with more of the stinging liquid. “Besides, you should be glad they haven’t seen you. They’re from Tantras.”
Artus groaned—both from the pain in his hands and the dread in his heart. Government officials from Tantras! Both he and Pontifax were wanted men in that city, for murder and a dozen other charges, all stemming from a battle they’d had with Kaverin Ebonhand three years past. If the ambassador heard they were aboard the Narwhal, he might try to take them into custody or even worse, try them on the spot for their crimes.
“There.” Pontifax stood back to study his work. “I can’t do anything about the cut on your neck. The chain’s in the way. The wrap on your hands will keep you away from hard duty for a couple of days, anyway.” He shook his head. “Despite our fears, Skuld has been a gift from the gods so far. Maybe this unfortunate voyage will all turn out for the best, too.”
“Just so long as we get to Chult,” Artus said. “That’s the only way I can keep taking the mindless abuse Nelock dishes out on deck—keep thinking about the ring.”
Pontifax turned serious eyes on the explorer. “What would you do to get the ring, Artus? I’ve had a lot of time to think down here, and I’ve been wondering about that.”
“Anything,” the explorer replied without hesitation.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” Pontifax went back to stowing medical supplies. “I really don’t want to believe you, you know, but a little part of me does. I’m frightened for you, my boy.”
Artus stood and headed for the ladder to the upper decks. “Don’t worry, Pontifax, I wouldn’t murder children or do the sorts of despicable things Kaverin Ebonhand would do to possess the ring.”
“But you’d let yourself be made a slave aboard a stolen ship,” the mage said, his sapphire eyes clouded by sadness. “That’s rather telling, I think, since you say you want to use the ring to preserve freedom.” He balled Artus’s bloody shirt and tossed it into a bucket. “And if you’re willing to stoop that low, you might just be telling the truth. Maybe you would do anything for the ring.”
Four
“And you write every night?” Quiracus asked amicably. He rested his pointed chin in one hand and looked thoughtfully across the table at Artus. “I’m almost afraid to hear what you say about the Narwhal in that journal of yours.”
Artus patted the thin book that lay closed before him. “Actually, I’m getting used to life aboard ship. I’m almost sorry we’ll be in Refuge Bay in a few days.”
The two sat in the ballista deck. Though it was night, the heat hadn’t subsided; the place smelted of sweat and unwashed clothes. Wan moonlight leaking in through the ports and the glow from a lantern atop the slightly swaying table gave the scene an eerie, otherworldly feel, but Artus had grown accustomed to the silent blackness of the lower decks at night. In a neat row all along both sides of the ship, men and women slept soundly, lulled by the rush of water along the hull. The tabletop, like Artus’s hammock, was suspended from the beams overhead.
Behind the first mate, the weapon Artus had been assigned to tend in case of attack hulked in the near-darkness. It was like most of the engines aboard the ship, a type of giant crossbow meant to hurl bolts the size of a man. The weapon fascinated Artus; its simple, graceful design clashed intriguingly with his knowledge of its destructive potential.
In the past few days, Quiracus had paid Artus many visits, and they’d discussed the ballistae and a dozen other topics. The elf seemed genuinely interested in striking up a friendship, almost as if he were trying to make up for Captain Bawr’s strangeness and Master Nelock’s outright hostility. Artus welcomed the camaraderie, especially since’ the crew tended to stay well clear of him for fear of attracting the boatswain’s wrath. The first mate boasted a ready wit and an uncanny knack for avoiding all the right subjects. He’d even given Artus a few fragments of ancient elven tales for his journal, though he was a dreadful storyteller.
“I never tire of life at sea,” the first mate offered. He stood and peered around the ballista to get a better look at the water. The breeze blew his golden hair back from his pointed ears. “I mean, just take a look at the moonlight glittering so brilliantly off the water—”
The first mate paused, then pushed his head farther out the port and glanced up at the moon. Cursing, he pulled himself back against the ballista. “Battle stations!” he bellowed. “Man the ballistae! Ready the starboard side for firing!”
The words echoed in the confines of the deck, rattling everyone from their slumber. With amazing speed, the men and women leaped from their hammocks and set about winching back the powerful metal bands that launched the bolts. A few of the younger boys ran along the deck, stowing the hammocks, lighting lanterns, and clearing cups and plates from the tables. Others began to pull the heavy lances from their storage piles, stacking them atop those same tables, which had held the sailors’ dinner not so long ago.
“What’s going on?” Artus asked as the first mate pushed past, heading for the stairs to the quarter deck.
As if in reply, the Narwhal listed heavily to one side. A lantern smashed, spilling its flaming oil across the deck. Before the fire could spread, two sailors doused it with buckets of sand. The plaintive groan that filled the air could be heard even over the shouted orders, the clatter of metal plates, and the clacking of the ballistae as the crews cranked and loaded them. It was the hull crashing against something large and solid.