Pulling his dagger from the tabletop, Artus said, "Use this to jam it shut. No insult intended, but that'll probably slow down any intruders in this place better than your magic." He slumped onto the bed. "Besides, a dagger won't do me any good in a fight here, not with things like that scorpion running loose in the halls "

He tugged at the medallion. "I wonder why Skuld never showed himself."

"Obviously you were never in any serious danger." The mage closed the door and plunged the dagger through the wood, into the jamb. "Perhaps the scorpion's poison bad been removed."

Pontifax set about the tedious task of checking and re-checking the three packs they'd stowed in the corner near the window. When he shifted the first, a mangy rat turned its beady eyes to him, then scrambled across the room to a hole in the floorboards.

"Artus, I should make you go through every shirt in these packs looking for unwelcome stowaways. I was against staying here in the first place, and we'll probably get a horde of fleas in our breeches for the bother…"

Artus didn't hear a word of his old friend's diatribe. He'd settled back against the wall, absorbed in his journal once more.

The ship's boat struggled along in the open water outside the sheltered harbor at Baldur's Gate. The wind had picked up at sunset, and the waves were tipped with the slightest caps of white. The eight-man crew didn't seem to mind. They strained against the oars, making good speed despite the rough seas.

As arranged, Artus and Pontifax had met the longboat at midnight, on the southernmost pier, closest to the ocean. The Narwhal, it seemed, was anchored outside the port. Artus took this as a bad sign; had the ship been engaged in strictly legal activity, it would seek the safety of the harbor, not shun it. Despite her registration to the Refuge Bay Trading Company, the Narwhal was in all likelihood little more than a pirate ship.

"Yer looking a little anxious," taunted Nelock, the only officer aboard the ship's boat. He had the look of a wild ape about him. His hairy arms hung out of his sleeves as he lounged at the boat's prow, his thick features locked in an expression of extreme ill-humor. "Could it be yer beginning to think we're taking ya out far enough to dump yer bodies where no one'll find 'em?"

The thought had occurred to Artus, but he'd dismissed it. The notion was a surprise to Pontifax, however. The old mage blanched, his sudden distress made clear to everyone by the light of the full moon overhead.

"Hardly," Artus said, leaning back against one of their packs. "You could have robbed us on the docks. Two more bodies found in the harbor wouldn't cause a stir, not in a port as big as Baldur's Gate."

The crew's barking laughter rang out over the open water. "Awright," Nelock snapped, "stop yer yapping and put yer backs to it. If the captain hears ya making a racket rowing up to the ship, she'll have the lot of ya under the cat-o'-nine-tails."

Silence fell upon the ship's boat, fear of the Narwhal's captain clamping down on the sailors like a vice. Artus and Pontifax thought better of testing the boatswain's warning. They rested patiently in the stern, watching the dark shape of the ship grow larger and larger.

As the company agent had said at the Hanged Man, the Narwhal was a galleon. Such vessels were rare in Baldur's Gate, since ships meant for peaceful trade dominated the ports of the Sword Coast-cogs and caravels and dromonds that mainly skirted the coastline. Not only was the galleon larger than these, it was obviously constructed with more aggressive ventures in mind. At regular intervals, black squares broke the wide stripe of white paint that ran the length of the hull. As the ship's boat drew closer, Artus noticed the holes looked like missing teeth in a giant's smile. He knew, however, that behind each port stood a heavy ballista capable of firing iron-shod spears or bags filled with shrapnel or even more ingenious projectiles.

A few lights winked furtively aboard the tri-master as Nelock guided the small boat to her side. Two crewmen hustled to the task of fastening lines to the bow and stem as the apelike officer pulled a whistle from under his heavy coat and blew a series of four notes. Instantly, a hatch opened halfway up the Narwhal's hull. A lantern appeared, then a blond sailor peered out of the entry port.

Warily, Pontifax eyed the line of steep, water-slick steps cut into the ship's side. He'd never been particularly dextrous, and this obstacle appeared potentially dangerous, even to the most agile of sailors. "I don't suppose you'd allow me to stay in this fine craft until you haul it up to the deck."

The officer pushed past the old mage and, by way of an answer, started up the twenty boarding steps at a run. He paused partway up. "It wouldn't be wise to keep the captain waiting, gentlemen," he warned, then continued up the steps.

Placing a hand on Pontifax's shoulder, Artus whispered, "You can always use a spell to fly to the deck or climb up the side like a spider,"

"Bad idea all around," the mage grumbled. He placed one foot tentatively on the first step. "Magic shouldn't be used to shield oneself from the little challenges of life. It won't win us any respect from the crew, either."

A wave rocked the ship's boat, knocking Pontifax off his feet. The crewmen could have broken his fall, but they didn't. The white-haired mage crashed to the deck. There he floundered about in his heavy robes like a game fish until he became thoroughly entangled in a coil of rope. And still the silent crewmen sat and watched, smirks twisting their faces.

Artus helped his friend out of the rope's grasp and pulled him to his feet. "Look, Pontifax, you-"

"Be a good soldier and get out of my way," the mage rumbled. After pausing for a moment to straighten his robes, he cast a withering look at the crewmen. They received the glare with lazy, indolent faces. Pontifax murmured something as he stepped up to the boarding ladder, his fingers moving in an arcane pattern.

Only Artus seemed to notice the mage was casting a spell. Probably to help him keep his footing, the explorer decided.

Artus watched his friend struggle up the hull. The rolling ship did its best to dislodge the boarder, heaving up and down in the choppy seas, but the mage gamely made the entry port. With a sigh of relief, Artus followed.

The blond elven sailor with the lantern gave Artus a hand and pulled him into the portal from the top boarding step. "Welcome aboard the Narwhal," he said, holding the lantern high so it would cast its light evenly over the newcomers' features. "I am Master Quiracus, the ship's first mate, You've already met Nelock." He gestured with the lantern at the hairy officer. "He's the boatswain."

Nelock pulled a battered felt cap from the pocket of his heavy coat. He raised the hat facetiously at Artus, then Pontifax. "We'll be fast friends by the time a tenday's out."

Frowning at the sarcasm, Master Quiracus said, "No need to be discourteous, Nelock." He ignored the startled look on the boatswain's face. "I'll take these gentlemen to the captain. You snap to it and supervise the stowing of the ship's boat. Take their gear and pile it near the mainmast until the captain decides where to put them." He turned from the portal and strode into the darkness of the ballista deck.

Artus and Pontifax hurried to keep within the glow of the lantern. The deck was a cramped, crowded place, smelling of sweat and sea salt. Huge ballistae hunched before the ports, a ready store of ammunition close at hand.

Hammocks slung from the deck-head beams near each siege engine held snoring, muttering sailors. Though he could not see the entire deck, Artus figured there to be at least one hundred men in this part of the ship alone.