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"T'fima is no bara," Ras Nsi snapped, tiny curls of fire leaping from his eyes. "He fell from grace long ago, when he first left the city. Ubtao stripped him of his powers."

The house lurched to a stop. The sweet music of the string quartet, drifting down to the audience hall from somewhere else in the estate, ceased suddenly. So did the sounds of the logging camp. An unearthly wailing rang out, as if the zombies could sense their master's fury.

Ras Nsi drank in the sound. He closed his eyes, let his head droop forward, and held his arms out at his sides. The hellish cacophony seemed to calm him, and when he opened his eyes again the angry fire had subsided a little. "Forgive me. I had thought myself beyond such disappointment," he said coolly. "I had thought you a messenger of the king. I should have known better…"

Nodding absently, Artus murmured, "T'fima isn't a bara? He doesn't have the power to control the weather?"

"Osaw and the others have not held the ceremony to replace him because they do not know he lost his power," Ras Nsi said. "As one of the original seven, my link to the city is far more vital than theirs. I could sense it when T'fima fell away from his duty. It was like he died."

In the empty hearth, Lugg stirred and snorted awake. "Oi. What's all the shouting about?"

"Time for us to go," Artus told the wombat.

Ras Nsi nibbed his chin with one thumb. "Not just yet, Artus Cimber." He narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits of light. "I know a great deal about you and this Kaverin Ebonhand who has taken up with the Batiri, but there is one thing I have not been able to discover. Tell me that, and I will transport you back to Mezro."

"Perhaps," Artus replied impatiently.

"Why did you come to Chult? What are you after?" He dropped the spear to the floor. With a thud, it stuck there.

Artus turned toward the door. "That's a private matter, Your Excellency. Something that does not concern Mezro or Ubtao," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality, but we really should be going."

"Are we going to 'ave to walk back to the city?" the wombat asked as he got stiffly to his feet. "We don't even know where we are!"

"Lugg is quite correct," Ras Nsi said, slouching back into his throne. "You will be days getting back to Mezro on your own. The battle will be quite over by then."

"Then I won't be able to help them fight the Batiri," Artus said coldly. "Will you stand in the way of that just because I won't answer your question?"

Outside, the sounds of toppling trees had resumed, and the string quartet had taken up their instruments again on the upper floor. Ras Nsi stood. "Of course you are correct," he said. "You are fighting for Mezro, and I would be a fool to miss this opportunity to aid the city-even indirectly." With a grand gesture, he swirled his sky-blue cloak.

Artus and Lugg began to fade, like the ghostly Pontifax that had haunted the explorer's mind from time to time in the jungle. Before Artus disappeared, though, Ras Nsi said, "It's the ring, isn't it? The one Rayburton brought to Chult from the North? He always was afraid of people like you coming here to hunt for it."

The bara didn't need to hear Artus's reply. The shock on the explorer's face told him everything he wanted to know.

* * * * *

Artus and Lugg found themselves in the Hall of Champions, standing before the empty pedestal that might one day hold a statue of Ras Nsi. The place was deserted, save for the mute stone heroes, but far from silent. Sounds of a fierce battle came from the plaza. Shouted orders entwined with the screams of the wounded. The sharp clatter of steel against steel rose above the rumble of magical thunder. The fight for Mezro bad begun.

"By Tempus's spiked glove," Artus cursed and started toward the door, Lugg at his heels.

In the plaza and throughout the ancient city of Mezro, the scene was chaos, the noise almost deafening. Dozens of pteradons filled the sky, silver orbs clutched in their talons. The flying