The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [36]
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