James Lowder - The Ring of Winter

"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."