"I took the knife away a day ago," Ibn shouted over the racket. "I knew sooner or later you might come to hurt someone-or yourself-with it."

Artus looked up and saw the fiendish grin on the shopkeep's face. The headache was forgotten in the rage that coursed through him. He tried to lunge, but succeeded only in tripping over the low table. Then the banging stopped. The room was once again filled with the sounds of his own heavy breathing, the chatter of birds and monkeys, and the hushed roll of the sea.

"You have tortured yourself enough," Ibn said softly. "Come back to the world." He dropped the bow, and it clattered to the floor. "If you don't, I will send Inyanga here with a drum and a trumpet. He can play them both at once, do you see?"

After pushing himself off the floor, Artus used the sturdy table to pull himself to his feet. He wasn't drunk; the palm wine had given him nothing but a raging headache and a queasy stomach. He never drank much anyway, only in fits of stupid desperation. And he was certainly desperate now. Eleven years of camaraderie, shared adventures and dangers, that's what he and Pontifax had survived. The old mage had been more of a father to Artus than the brigand who'd sired him, more of a brother than the brutish lout he'd grown up with.

Even if Pontifax had brushed off the Curse of the Ring as he lay dying, Artus could not. Just at the point when the ring was almost in his grasp, someone dear to him had died. It was the same story as that of alt the other seekers who had paid for their quest with another's life.

"I had dreams about him, Ibn," Artus whispered. "Pontifax came here and forgave me. He was transparent and pale-like a ghost." He rubbed his eyes, trying to ward off the growing ache. "I don't know what to do."

"Did Sir Hydel tell you what he wanted you to do?" Ibn asked. Artus was surprised by the serious expression on his face. "In the dreams, did he talk to you about the future?"

"I drank too much wine," Artus said. "I hadn't-"

"We take dreams very seriously here," Ibn noted. "Maybe it was the wine… maybe not."

Artus frowned as he watched the shopkeep look about the room, as if Pontifax's ghost might have left footprints on the ceiling. "He told me I should go on with my quest," the explorer said at last.

Ibn nodded in righteous satisfaction. "Then that is what you should do. I will help you get started again."

"But what about the Cult of Frost?"

"They did not send anyone or anything else after you," Ibn said. "I had the bearers set watches over the compound. Perhaps they think you are dead. Perhaps they know you are not and have given up."

"No," Artus said, "Kaverin can see through the eyes of the frost minions he conjures. He knows he killed Pontifax, but not me." The explorer picked idly at the green tunic Theron had left him; he'd been using it as a pillow. "The elf who tried to kill me aboard the Narwhal and the woman who got off the boat and hired the guide, they were both working for him. Maybe he's here himself."

"Is what you seek important enough for Kaverin to come here himself? You said he hides in Tantras, shielded from danger by the cult."

Artus nodded. "Kaverin is wary, but he's no coward. If he thought the goal important enough, he'd most certainly come." He grimaced and added, "The cult members will kill anyone who stands in their way. That's why I can't tell you more. I don't want to endanger you more than I already have."

"Perhaps I should send word to the Harpers. They might dispatch-"

"No!" Artus snapped. "Leave the Harpers out of this, Ibn… Please." He stumbled a few steps forward. "How many days have I been in here?"

"Sir Hydel has been dead for five days." Ibn slid a shoulder under Artus's arm. "You need to clean yourself up and eat something. Then there is something I wish you to see and someone you should talk with. This will be good news. Do not frown so."

Outside the tin hut, in the fresh air of the sunny afternoon, Artus realized how badly he smelled of sweat and spilled wine. He tried to move away from Ibn, certain he was offending the man, but the shopkeep seemed intent on helping him walk. Together they made their way across the compound to the large barrels of rainwater at the side of the supply depot. A bucket had already been drawn for Artus to use. Next to it lay a cake of soap, a silver straight razor, and a covered dish.

"This will settle your stomach," Ibn said, lifting the round cover from a fist-sized lump of dark bread. "Do not ask what is in it."

Artus sniffed the bread and wrinkled his nose. It smelted distinctly like fish-was that a bit of tentacle peeking out from the bottom? "Er, thanks. I guess."

"Eat the whole thing," Ibn chided. "That is the only cure for the pounding in your head."

Ibn headed back to the depot, leaving Artus to wash up. The explorer scrubbed himself clean, then scratched at the thick stubble on his chin. With a sigh, he lathered up the soap and set to work.

As he scraped away his fledgling beard, Artus watched the activity on the white sand beach. Some of the men and women who worked as bearers in Port Castigliar manned long fishing poles. Others cleaned and prepared vegetables for the evening meal. A few small children raced after the long-legged sea birds that hugged the shore, sending them shrieking into the sky. With methodical care, Inyanga gathered driftwood and spread it in the sun to dry. The port's inhabitants would use it for fires instead of chopping down the living trees nearby.

After rinsing his now smooth-shaven face, Artus sniffed at the bread again. Maybe they chop up the leftover driftwood and put it in here, too, he thought. The explorer took a bite of the roll. As he'd suspected, it tasted fishy. There were chewy bits, too. Squid, maybe. Or octopus. He refused to consider any of the more exotic possibilities. Yet, as Ibn had promised, the bread settled his stomach and drove away his headache.

Inyanga soon ran out of driftwood to gather and wandered to Artus's side. "Have you seen the marker my father made for him?"

"No. Let's take a look at it," Artus said, steeling himself for the sight. When he took a step, he felt as if he were walking in thick mud. Obviously, the bread hadn't countered all the aftereffects of the wine just yet.

At the edge of the graveyard, Artus paused. He knew where Pontifax was buried; he'd helped Ibn dig the grave himself. But there were two plots of freshly turned earth, not one.

"That is where we buried Kwame Zanj, the guide," Inyanga said solemnly. "His brother Judar brought back his body yesterday. He loved the port, so he asked to be buried here."

"What?" Artus sputtered. "The guide is dead? What about the woman who left the port with him?"

"She is dead, too," Ibn said. The shopkeep had returned from the depot and stood behind Artus, a younger man at his side. "Judar says the party from the Narwhal was attacked by the Batiri, do you see? Kwame struggled home to his village, but his wounds were too serious. That is why I wanted you to meet this young fellow," Ibn interjected, seeing the shock and confusion play across Artus's face. "He wishes to become Port Castigliar's guide, to earn money for his family just as Kwame did."

The young man nodded his agreement. He was of slight build; that was obvious even through the flowing white robes he wore. Artus had read enough about the cultures of Chult to know that white, not black, was the color of death and mourning here. "Brave Kwame rests in the house of Ubtao now," Judar said in a high, lisping voice.

"And the woman who was with your brother?" Artus pressed. "Did she die in your village, too?"

"No. The Batiri took her away to their camp," Judar said, a tremor of fear in his voice. "She and the other one are surely dead now."