Ferran's Map (37 page)

The carriage stopped across the street, and
she watched two young women step out of the coach. She wondered if
they were directly related to Lord Gracen. One looked like she
could be his sister and the other was younger, perhaps a niece.
They walked into a perfume shop across the way.

Sora’s mind traveled back to her
conversation with Lord Gracen that morning. She had the sudden
desire to ask him more questions about her stepfather’s demise. Had
her father truly committed treason? Why did Lord Fallcrest invite
him to her Blooming? Did Gracen know who ordered her father's
murder?

She took two steps toward the door, then
paused. Lord Gracen wasn’t at the Ebonaire estate anymore. He left
already, saying he had business in the Gentleman’s District.

She wondered how to excuse herself from the
tailor's shop. Even as a noblewoman, she had never been one for
tact, and her patience had shortened admirably in the last year.
Enough of this nonsense,
she thought. Time to do something
useful.

She walked boldly up to Olivia and Edward,
who were still huddled over the design book. She placed her hands
on Olivia’s shoulders and said crisply, “Well, my dear, are we
having any luck?”

Olivia started, “Ah…I’ve found a few gowns
that might work, should you approve.”

“Then I’ll leave this in your very capable
hands,” Sora said. “Edward,” she added to the store clerk, “Don’t
let me down!” Then, with a swift turn on her heel, she started back
across the room, striding with a purposeful gait, her pointed
slippers clicking on the wooden floor.

“But, My Lady, we are not yet finished!
Where are you going?” Olivia called after her.

“To get some fresh air,” she said brightly.
“I’ll be close by!” But of course, she had no intention of staying
close to them. She felt a little guilty for lying, but she hadn’t
come to The Regency to shop for dresses. If she couldn’t hunt down
Burn, she could at least investigate the demise of her estate.

She passed through the archway into the
frozen street, then started toward the Ebonaire coach.

* * *

Ferran returned around mid-afternoon from an
uneventful ride with his brother.

They had shared few words during the hours.
Ferran found himself wondering whether he should ask about Simeon,
or Lady Danica’s health—but he didn’t quite feel comfortable.
Eventually, his brother broke the silence by pointing to an old
deer trail and recalling how he and Ferran used to hunt game during
the summer months. Ferran relaxed somewhat, but still felt on edge.
He didn’t know how to act around his brother. Did he keep up his
pretense of nobility, or slide into his familiar habits and ways of
speech, allowing his brother to see how the last two decades had
changed him?

He still didn’t have an answer upon
returning to the stables and wished Lori would arrive. At least
then he would have someone to commiserate with—she always seemed to
know what to say.

Ferran and his brother chatted idly for a
minute about his new thoroughbred horses. They were a quality breed
for hunting, with a long bloodline supposedly leading back to the
war--stallions of the founding tribes of the Kingdom. Then Ferran
excused himself, saying he needed to bathe and dress before Lori’s
arrival. He couldn’t walk fast enough back to his rooms, where
supposedly he would take a long bath.

Actually, he was headed for the second
floor, to Martin’s private study. His brother’s behavior that
morning had piqued his curiosity. He seemed uncomfortable around
Lord Gracen, who had joined them unexpectedly for tea. At times,
their conversation sounded close to an interrogation. Ferran
wondered at their friendship. Had Martin found himself under
suspicion of the King’s guard? Or had they been friends for some
time? It wasn’t any easy question to ask aloud.

Ferran had spent many years in low places.
He knew a guilty conscience when he saw one. He could practically
smell his brother’s anxiety around Lord Gracen. He wanted to know
what Martin was up to, and why.

He had seen something strange in Martin’s
study the night before, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind: an
old map splayed out on his brother’s desk. It didn’t look like a
blueprint for a new estate, or a piece of land his brother might
purchase. No, it was sketched in faded ink, the edges worn and
creased, and it looked…
complex.

Ferran, as a treasure hunter, had an
affinity for old maps and considered himself a specialist of sorts.
He had seen hundreds, both real and fake. But why would Martin—who
loved horses, numbers and good business—take an interest in a faded
old map?

He walked up the staircase and past Danica’s
bedroom to the upper floors. He knew Martin would take another hour
or so inspecting the dozens of steeds in his well-stocked stables.
His brother had always been an avid equestrian.

He finally reached Martin’s private study.
The door was locked, but that wasn’t an obstacle. He rummaged in
his pocket for two thin, hooked needles—lock picks--and inserted
them into the brass knob. After a bit of finagling, the door
clicked open.

Martin’s study was exactly as it had been
the night before, except Ferran didn’t see the map. With a frown,
he began shuffling through papers on the desk. Land deeds.
Contracts. A few half-penned letters to various lords around the
city. He glanced over a few, but read nothing of interest.

The left bottom desk drawer was locked. With
a few quick twists, he sprung it open. Small leather-bound books
were inside. He saw a carefully folded piece of parchment tucked
between the pages of the top notebook, and identified it
immediately. The map was wrinkled and worn, stained with age.

He gently pulled it out and unfolded it,
then laid it on the desk. The map was about sixteen inches long and
ten inches wide. A confusing network of intersecting lines crossed
the page, too intentional to be nonsense. After a long moment, he
detected square symbols for buildings and dark circles for
monuments. A small scale in the corner explained land
elevations.

He sucked in a quick breath. It was a
blueprint, a very old one, that showed the original layout of the
sewer system beneath the city.

“But why?” he murmured, unconsciously
pulling a cinnamon stick from his pocket. He sucked on it for a
moment in thought. The spicy, burnt flavor made his tongue sting.
“Why would he have this?”

The map was very detailed, showing not only
access points but larger drainage tunnels. Truly, a brilliant
design. The sewer system followed the same natural model as water
running off a mountain. Tributaries ran down from the windmills to
the King’s palace and The Regency, bearing fresh water. Following
the pull of gravity, those same lines eventually connected to
larger and larger pipes and tunnels that eventually emptied into
the Crown’s Rush, where wastewater was naturally swept into The
Bath and then over the waterfall.

Ferran ran his finger eagerly over the map,
thoroughly absorbed. Six main drainage tunnels emptied into the
city’s canals, which then flowed into the Rush. He frowned and
counted again, then traced the lines back with his fingers, trying
to find the origin of each one. The city’s sewage system seemed
larger than was actually needed; all sorts of tunnels didn’t
connect to the main drainage run-offs. His finger found a rather
large access tunnel that appeared to run beneath The Regency,
perhaps under this very manor.

“Strange,” he murmured.

He pocketed the map and bent over the drawer
in search of something more. He thumbed through a few notebooks,
finding ledgers full of numbers: loans, gambling debts, unlabeled
tallies, who knew…but a few with notes written in his brother’s
elegant, swirling script. One notebook was full of information
about the Temple of the North Wind and the first construction of
the King’s palace. He leaned close to the page, discerning his
brother’s small, curled handwriting.

Then his Cat’s Eye glimmered at his wrist.
Ferran glanced at it. A sharply sweet scent, like mint and
lavender, filled his nose as a single word passed through his
mind—
Caprion.

Light from the Harpy’s wings came through
the window. Ferran turned to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t
quite believe his eyes. Was Caprion flying in broad daylight? Had
the man lost his mind?

Ferran turned to the window and unlatched it
just as the Harpy drifted down from the overcast sky. He hoped the
heavy clouds would keep him hidden from view. The grounds were
mostly empty due to the weather, and he didn’t see any servant boys
lingering in the courtyard below.

Caprion entered the room with a gust of cold
wind. His wings brought a shower of snow from the roof that
immediately soaked the finely woven rug on the floor. Ferran
winced; Martin would definitely notice that later.

“What are you doing?” he asked,
irritated.

Caprion fixed him with a firm stare, his
violet eyes dark and solemn. “The weapons are gone.”

Ferran didn’t quite understand. He frowned.
“The weapons…you mean, the Dark God’s weapons?”

Caprion nodded shortly. “They were taken
from the ship. I tried to retrieve them, but the Shade opened a
portal and escaped. I spent hours trying to track them down.” He
hesitated. “I suspect one of our own betrayed us.”

Ferran drew in a slow breath, trying to
arrange his thoughts. The news shocked him.

“Silas?” he finally said. “Did Silas take
them?” The Dracian pirate had a thirst for gold and a questionable
conscience at best….

“No,” Caprion said. “The assassin,
Viper.”

Ferran crossed his arms. “Crash was here at
the manor last night,” he said. “Did you see him take the
weapons?”

Caprion shook his head, though his
confidence remained. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see the thief’s face.
But it was one of the Sixth, I am certain, and who else would know
their hiding place?” The Harpy searched Ferran’s eyes. “Was Viper
with you the entire night?”

Ferran thought back. “No,” he said slowly.
“He left with Sora when she retired….”

“Is he here now?”

Ferran’s frown deepened. “Actually, no,” he
said. “I haven’t seen him since last night. I thought he went with
Sora to the Flower District….” With growing alarm, Ferran realized
he hadn’t seen Crash anywhere in the manor since their initial
meeting with Martin. “There must be an explanation. He wouldn’t
betray us….”

“I must speak with Sora,” Caprion said.
“Where is she?”

“The Flower District, on the west side of
The Regency. You’ll see street signs….” Ferran put a hand on the
Harpy’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.
The shopping district will be crowded at this hour. If anyone sees
you….”

Caprion barely seemed to listen. “Sora could
be in danger,” he said, turning to the window. “I must go
immediately.”

“You can’t just fly through the city! You’ll
start a riot!” Ferran repeated.

“The clouds are low enough. They will hide
me,” Caprion said. Then, he murmured in a dire tone, “If Viper has
sided with them, the Shade might already have her. I must go.”

Caprion opened the window again and leapt
easily into the open air. Ferran watched in vague admiration. The
Harpy dived into the wind. His wings glimmered briefly against the
muted daylight, and a strong breeze lifted him up and away. In
seconds, he disappeared among the clouds.

Ferran rubbed the Cat’s Eye on his wrist. If
anything happened to Sora…
Lori’s going to kill me,
he
thought. And he would kill anyone who touched her.

He shut the window again, sat down heavily
in Martin’s plush leather chair, and placed his head in his hands.
The weapons were gone. He didn’t know for sure if Crash would
betray them, but Caprion’s suspicions made too much sense. He had
seen too much of the world to think the assassin innocent. How else
would the Shade know the location of the sacred weapons aboard the
ship?

Ferran's first instinct was to leave the
manor and find Sora, but Caprion would arrive much sooner. By the
time he had readied a carriage and made his farewells, another hour
would have passed.
I hope she’s safe,
he thought.
Perhaps
Caprion is mistaken and Crash didn’t take the weapons. Sora is a
strong girl. She can defend herself.

She had a Cat’s Eye, and that necklace would
protect her at any cost.

The distant thrum of footsteps caught
Ferran’s attention. He looked up. A female voice drifted down the
hall; a maid was humming as she went about her housework. With a
sigh, he stood up and briefly scanned the desk, pocketed Martin’s
notebook and the map, closed the drawer and locked it.

He hesitated. Was it wise to leave Martin’s
papers so disorganized? His documents had obviously been rifled
through. Would his brother notice?

Ferran shrugged. If Martin brought up the
map, what of it? Perhaps he could ask him some honest questions.
I highly doubt my brother has taken a sudden interest in
plumbing.

And if Martin didn’t mention the missing
map, perhaps he was hiding something more.

He waited for the maid to pass and left
Martin’s office, carefully locking the door behind him. Then he
moved down the hallway, away from the maid’s voice.

Ferran felt the folded parchment in his
pocket. He couldn’t wait to find a quiet, secluded room where he
could pore over each line. A familiar tingle began at the base of
his neck—anticipation. This map contained a hidden puzzle, a secret
he couldn’t wait to uncover, and he was itching to get started.

CHAPTER 22

Sora climbed into the carriage and with a
quick rap on the roof, told the driver her destination. She didn’t
know exactly where Lord Seabourne might be in the Gentleman’s
District, but she had to look.