“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.
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.”