Джеймс Лаудер - The Ring of Winter

“Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job,” the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain’s side.

Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. “What I’d like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them—especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya’ve hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain’t good to undercut me with the men around.”

The first mate smiled. “There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren’t privy to them.” He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. “You should consider yourself lucky.”

The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain’s cabin and the maproom. “Something ain’t right about this,” Nelock muttered to himself. “But I ain’t stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either.”

The boatswain started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.

Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn’t lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock’s, but then he’d never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.

“How’ve you been, Pontifax?” he asked somewhat sheepishly.

“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.”

“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.