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Artus and Pontifax watched the shopkeep hurry outside. "We could risk going on alone," the mage ventured halfheartedly.

"That would be foolish." Inyanga climbed down from the crates. "You would not last a whole night in the jungle alone. There are goblins and wildmen who would eat both of you for dinner." The boy laughed. "And the Children of Ubtao. They do not like strangers roaming around in Ubtao's jungle. Then the bearers would bring you back, and my father would have to bury what's left of you in the ground beside the beach, like the other men who came here and wandered off on their own."

Artus knew many tribes in Chult worshiped Ubtao as the mightiest of gods, the maker of men and animals. Perhaps these "children" were his high priests. "Well, Pontifax?" the explorer sighed.

"What else can we do?" the mage replied. "We take up residence here in Port Castigliar until the guide returns."

* * * * *

Here lies Wurthek of Tethyr.

He has gone to chart the realms beyond.

Artus pulled a clinging vine off the tombstone. It was as thick around as his thumb, and, when it hit the ground, the vine snaked slowly back toward the jungle. Artus merely stared at it; the rain and the somber setting had dampened his already-dark mood so much that anything less than a charging dragon would have gotten a similarly subdued reaction.

The explorers' graveyard started at one end of Ibn's store and ran behind it for almost its entire length. By the shopkeep's count, it held one hundred and eight bodies. Stones marked most of the sites, though the jungle had long ago reclaimed some of the ground. High, thick-rooted trees towered overhead, their fronds sheltering Artus from much of the downpour. Creepers wound around the grave markers and anything else that stood still too long. Hidden in the wall of green, birds called and monkeys chittered and shrieked. Other, more ominous sounds echoed from the jungle, too, but they were far-off and muted.

Over everything hung a blanket of hot, humid air, thick with the sickly smell of rotting vegetation. Not even the breeze from the sea, only a few hundred yards away, could force the pestilent haze away for long. Like the jungle itself, the humidity soon reclaimed its lost ground.

I wonder if Wurthek's wife knows where he is? Artus pondered grimly, crouching before the marker. He cursed not having his journal; he could have written down all the names-the ones still legible, anyway-and taken them back to Suzail with him.

"He was a mapmaker," came a voice from behind him.

Ibn squatted next to Artus and pointed to the stone. "I cut these myself, do you see? When the men and women from your part of the world make it back this far, but can go no farther, I let them rest here until Ubtao calls them. Then I bury them, as is the custom in the northern lands. They seem safe enough, I think."

"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