The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy) (20 page)

The woman shook her head as he spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. I only have onion maps. You’ll find the market in Veracruz thin on maps. All of the map vendors stay in Nochtland.”

The man turned away dejectedly and drifted back into the crowd. He seemed tired and haggard, as if he had been traveling for too long.
An explorer from another Age, short on funds
, Sophia thought sympathetically. She watched him go and then turned to the baskets full of onions. The one closest to her had a little paper pinned to the edge that said
NOCHTLAND
.
Another basket said
XELA,
and yet another was labeled
SAN ISIDRO
.

“Where are you headed, dear?” the vendor asked loudly. “I’ve got maps to any place in the Triple Eras, many other places besides.” Her dark hair, entwined around half a dozen fragrant gardenias, was pulled back in a tight bun, and she had tiny leaves and flowers painted in dark green ink across her brow.

Sophia hesitated a moment. “Nochtland,” she said.

“They’re right in front of you, then,” the woman said cheerily. “But frankly, you don’t need it if you’re leaving from here. Just follow the main road. Can’t miss it. It’s about two days travel with good horses.”

They seemed to be ordinary yellow onions with coppery skins. “How do these work?”

“What’s that, dear?”

“How do these work? Are they really maps?” Sophia wished she could look at them through the glass map, but it was midday, and the crowded market was no place for something so precious.

The woman seemed unsurprised. “Not from here?”

Sophia shook her head. “I’m from Boston; from New Occident.”

“Well, these are Way-Finding Onions. Guaranteed to have been planted in their location’s native soil. Each layer of the onion leads you onward until you arrive at your destination.”

“What do you mean, ‘leads you onward’?” Sophia asked, fascinated.

“They don’t necessarily take you by the quickest or easiest route, mind you,” the woman said. “But they’ll get you there.”

Sophia reached into her purse for her money. “Do you take money from New Occident?”

“Cacao, silver, or Triple Eras paper. But I’ll take New Occident paper; I can change it at a better rate.”

Sophia was taking out her money when she suddenly felt a violent push from the crowd behind her. “Watch it,” she said irritably. Then she felt an arm around her waist, and someone pulled her away from the stall and into the crowd. “Hey!” she said. As she clutched her money and her pack and tried to keep from falling, she looked at the person who had grabbed her and saw with astonishment that it was Theo. “You’re hurting my arm,” she shouted.

Theo ignored her protests. “Come on,” he said, dragging her onward. He wove through the crowd, keeping his head low and holding Sophia’s wrist tightly.

“Theo, what is it?” she panted, when she had the chance. “Is it Montaigne?”

For a moment, he seemed to not recognize the name. He frowned, looked over his shoulder, and led them behind a stall selling leather goods.

“Is it Montaigne?” Sophia asked again, her voice rising.

“It’s not Montaigne,” he said brusquely. “It’s a raider I used to know.”

Sophia realized that, amid the usual commotion of the market, there was an even greater commotion coming toward them. Angry shouts erupted as two people toppled against a stall, sending it tumbling. “A raider?” Sophia asked, gasping for air as they ran along an empty stretch between two of the leather shops. “Why is he chasing you?”

“I can’t explain right now. Just have to get away from him.”

They burst out into a quiet part of the market where all the stalls were filled with baskets. “Here,” Sophia said, twisting out of Theo’s grasp. She ran toward one of the vendors. The tallest baskets were large enough to hold a whole wardrobe full of clothes—or the person who wore them. “Crouch down,” she said quickly.

“In that?”
Theo exclaimed.

“He’s coming,” Sophia warned, hearing nearby shouts.

Theo stood frozen for a moment, and then he abruptly crouched down. Sophia took the nearest large basket and overturned it on top of him. It looked like just another among the many the vendor sold. “Don’t move,” she whispered. Then she ran to the astonished vendor and thrust out the bills she’d been holding. “Please—we’ll give it back in just a moment.”

The woman gave a small nod. She pocketed the money without a word and gently pushed Sophia toward the back of the stall. Saying something Sophia couldn’t understand, she handed her a small, half-finished basket.

A man burst into the quiet square. He looked in each direction, taking huge, heaving breaths. His blond hair came down almost to his waist, and his beard fanned out like the arms of a jellyfish. Both were laden with silver beads and bells that rang out every time he turned his head. His worn leather boots were coated with yellow dust, and the rawhide coat he wore trailed its ragged edges on the ground. As he turned toward her, his fists clenched, Sophia saw that every single one of his teeth was made of metal. They were sharp and made a jagged line, like the tips of old knives sharpened many times. They glinted in the sunlight, as did the silver in his hair and the long knife he drew from his belt. He stood staring back at Sophia—she could not take her eyes off him—and then slowly walked toward her.

He pointed the knife at her chest. “What. Are. You. Staring. At?” he snarled, jabbing each word at her like another knife.

Sophia couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t afraid yet; she was only fascinated. “Your teeth,” she breathed.

The man stared at her for what seemed to Sophia like an hour. Then suddenly he broke into laughter. He lifted the knife and slowly ran its edge along his teeth, making a dull clinking sound. “You like them, sugar? How about a kiss?”

Sophia shook her head slowly. She met his eyes, and the raider’s teeth disappeared into a scowl. “You can skip the kiss if you tell me which way the kid went,” he said.

She pointed to her left, away from the central market.

The raider smiled, and Sophia saw a quick glint of silver. A moment later he was gone.

Part of her still could not believe what she’d seen—the metallic glimmers from his hair, his teeth, his knife, and the silver clasps of his coat. The group of basket vendors had gone silent when the raider appeared in their midst. Now they began talking to each other in low voices. It seemed to Sophia that all of them were looking at her.

She put the half-finished basket down and hurried over to where Theo was hidden. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t see behind me. Is he gone?” he asked in a muffled voice.

“He’s gone. Come out, and we’ll find Burr.” She lifted the basket and Theo stood up. He glanced quickly around the square. Sophia turned to thank the vendor, and as she did so the woman handed her two straw hats. Her crown of braids, interwoven with long green grass, nodded as she patted her apron and spoke.

“What’s she saying, Theo?”

He was gazing distractedly around the stalls but turned back briefly. “She’s giving you those for the money you gave her.”

Sophia took the hats. “Thank you. Thank you for helping us.” The woman smiled, nodded, and returned to her tent. Sophia put on one of the hats and gave the other to Theo. “We’ll be a little hidden with these,” she said.

Theo donned the hat. “Come on—I know the way back. This way.” He put his hand on her arm and found that she was trembling. He stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sophia said, clenching her fists. The danger had passed, but only now did she feel the waves of fear washing over her. “That raider was scary.”

For a moment, his tense expression softened. He put his scarred hand in Sophia’s and squeezed tightly. “You sure fooled me. You looked like you weren’t scared of anything.” He pulled at her gently. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

19

The Bullet

S
HADRACK
HAD
T
RAVELED
extensively by electric train, but he had never been on a train quite like the Bullet. It was, true to its name, quicker and lighter on the rails than any he had ridden. But it was also better-equipped in its interior. He had passed through a full kitchen and a well-furnished study before being forced into his improvised cell. Bound hand and foot to a chair, he sat in a small, windowless closet. The wooden slats of the closet door admitted bars of feeble light. When the light dimmed, his internal clock told him that it was past seventeen-hour.

His thoughts were moving as quickly as the train, keeping pace as the Bullet raced south. It was obvious to him now, in retrospect, that the borders were indeed shifting. The signs had been there for years, but his supposed knowledge of the Great Disruption had prevented him from seeing their meaning. He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had violated one of his most valued principles:
Observe what you see, not what you expect to see
.

Of what use am I as a cartologer,
he berated himself,
when I could not even reliably see the world around me?
Now, because of his blindness, he had placed Sophia doubly in harm’s way. He had sent her fleeing the ambitions of a madwoman, into the path of destruction.

It was well past eighteen-hour when the door suddenly swung open. The Sandmen lifted the chair with their grappling hooks to carry it through the doorway and set it down facing the center of the adjoining room.

Shadrack blinked in the lamplight. He was in a study as opulently furnished as the rest of the Bullet, with broad windows, thick carpeting, and a variety of desks and chairs. The Sandmen stationed themselves at the doors.

Blanca sat in the middle of the room at a long table. On the table was a sheet of copper. Beside the table were the two trunks filled with Shadrack’s mapmaking equipment, which the Sandmen had packed when they took him from East Ending Street. “I won’t deceive you, Shadrack,” Blanca said, in her musical voice. “While I know the route your niece is traveling, she and her companion are resourceful; they have managed to evade the men I sent to meet her.”

Shadrack tried not to show his relief too plainly. Then he wondered:
A companion?

“This makes your situation more difficult, because it means I am less patient.” Her veil shook slightly. “As you know, I need two things from you: Sophia’s destination and the location of the
carta mayor
. So I will give you two choices. One for each thing I need.” She lifted the square sheet of copper, which glinted in the yellow lamplight. “You can draw me a map of the
carta mayor
’s location and tell me where Sophia is going.” Then she drew her other hand from under the table, revealing the dreaded block of wood with its attached wires. “Or, you can wear the bonnet,” she said almost kindly.

Shadrack stared at his lap, using the last of his exhausted energy to hide the panic he felt at the sight of the wooden block and wires. After a few moments he said, “We’ve already discussed this. You have my answer.”

Blanca sat silently for a moment. Then she stood. “You make this very hard, Shadrack. I do not like having to play the bully, but you leave me with no choice.” Her voice was mournful. She turned toward the younger of the two men. “Leave his hands and legs tied, Weeping. If he nods, take off the bonnet strings and call me. If he hasn’t done so by twenty-hour, tighten them.”

Had Shadrack imagined it, or did Blanca speak to Weeping with particular favor? The young man’s face, he noticed with surprise, was unmarked. His brown hair was clipped short, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. He pressed his lips together as Blanca gave him instructions. As she left, she gently patted Weeping’s arm. The door opened, and Shadrack caught a brief glimpse of the interior of the next car: a wooden floor, dim lamplight, and a wheelbarrow piled high with sand.

He did his best to keep from gagging as they placed the wooden block between his teeth. He did not resist; they would only jam the block in more forcefully if he did. The wires tightened across his cheeks and he grew still. He concentrated all of his attention on clearing his mind so that he would not choke. If he choked or gagged, his face would pull at the wires, and they would cut him. Shadrack breathed deeply through his nose until his pulse settled. The moment he felt calm, he knew that he would not be able to wear the bonnet for more than a few minutes. He looked up at the two men, both of whom were watching him.

The older man bore the familiar scars and the blank expression that was also, by now, familiar. He held the grappling hook as if it were an extension of his own hand: casually, almost thoughtlessly. The scarred Nihilismians had none of the usual fervor Shadrack had seen in the followers of Amitto. They lacked the zealous passion that Nihilismians carried like bright flames; no, the eyes of these men suggested loss, confusion, and an aimless sense of searching. But the unscarred younger man, Weeping, was different. He seemed like a
real
Nihilismian: his eyes were focused and bright with conviction. Dark green, they gazed into Shadrack’s unflinchingly. Though no compassion lingered there, they seemed to suggest something else: a clarity of purpose.

Shadrack thought quickly. First he had to get the bonnet off. He would not be able to escape right away, but it might be possible to distract his guards, and that was as good a start as any. He locked eyes with Weeping and nodded. Immediately the young man loosened the wires and pulled the wooden block away. “Call her,” he said to the older man.

“Wait,” Shadrack said, turning in his chair. “Listen to me.” The older man was already walking to the door. “June fourth,” he said quickly. “
Weeping is for the cursed, who bear the face of evil. All grief is of the false world, not of the true world. Trust not the weeping, and weep not
.”

The older man stopped and turned and looked at him, as if the words touched the edges of something terribly remote that he had to strain to remember. The younger man clasped his medallion and murmured, “Truth of Amitto.”

Shadrack spoke in an urgent undertone. “Truth, indeed. But she is hiding the truth from you—the truth about the very passage for which you are named.
Trust not the weeping
, Amitto says.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, forcing the man to lean in. “I know you have heard the weeping, as I did, at the mansion. Can you deny it?” The man’s silence answered him eloquently. “I can prove to you that this weeping, this evil,” Shadrack pressed, “which she is hiding from you, is close at hand.”

The older man had not moved; he stared at Shadrack, troubled, as if still trying to work out the meaning of the words that he had quoted from the
Chronicles of the Great Disruption
. Weeping, looking intently at Shadrack, deliberated. “How?” he finally asked.

“Do you know what causes the weeping—where it comes from?”

The young man hesitated. He shook his head. “No one knows. If you know, tell me.”

“I cannot tell you. There is no way but to show you,” Shadrack said. “If you will give me my tools, I will map the memory that will allow you to see.”

“Don’t give him anything,” said the older man reflexively.

“Tell her I am drawing the map she requested,” Shadrack insisted. “I promise you, Weeping—I will show you Amitto’s truth.”

Weeping looked down at him, the force of obedience and the Nihilismian fervor warring like water and fire in his green eyes. He had obligations and loyalties in this world; but nothing surpassed his commitment to Amitto’s truth. The fire won. He leaned toward Shadrack and mouthed his words, so that the older Sandman standing by the door would not hear him. “Very well.” Then he straightened up and spoke in a loud voice. “You will draw the map she ordered or no map at all.”

Shadrack bowed his head, pretending to be cowed.

“Ashes,” the young Sandman said, turning toward the older man. “You may go and tell her that he has agreed. I will oversee his drawing of the map.”