The Map (4 page)

* * *
The Keep

Across a small stretch of unkempt, grassy grounds, which Jackaby informed me was the bailey, we found an entrance to the central structure. The keep was constructed of the same heavy stones as the curtain wall but seemed to have fallen into greater disrepair. Thick roofing tiles had tumbled from high above to litter the base of the building, and the foundation had settled unevenly over time, spreading some of the solid blocks apart in wide cracks.

We reached the entrance, a thick door with a heavy iron lock. Jackaby did not need to withdraw the magpie
’
s key to see that it was no match—the lock was much too large. He stepped toward the door anyway. Though imposing, the wood had suffered insects and the elements
for
three hundred years, and with a liberal shove of his shoulder, the wood crumbled around the lock and the thick door swung open.

The keep had no ground-level windows. A stairway wound up to the right, and a passageway curved off to the left. A trickle of light snuck clumsily down the stairs from the second floor, but the passageway on the left only darkened further as it rounded the corner. Torches had been fitted on the wall every seven or eight feet, but they hung unlit and dusty.

“
I don’
t suppose you have any matches in one of your countless pockets, do you?” I asked.

Jackaby
’s coat contained a straw doll, several silver charms, a deck of tarot cards, and a bronze gyroscope, but no matches.

I pulled out the map and looked closely at the sixth point for any hints. Seated between the four teardrop towers, the keep was marked with a simple pair of spectacles not unlike those Anaximander had been wearing back at the shop. Perhaps they were a warning that we would scarcely be able to see a thing inside. A nervous prickle crept up my neck. Something about the castle felt wrong.

Jackaby stepped up behind me.

“Any mystical insights?” I asked.

“I
’
ve told you before,” he said, peering around, “what I do is not mysticism; it is observation and analysis.”

“Right. Have you observed or analyzed anything helpful?”

“The air is anathematic, laden with an aura of untold danger.”

“Untold danger. Charming. That seems to be the unifying theme of today
’
s outing.
”

“Left. We are meant to go to the left.” Jackaby stepped through the doorway. “Coming?”

I peered into the inky darkness, trying to shake the uneasiness creeping over me. “What do you suppose the water was for?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “To turn some wheel that
’
s long since rotted away, perhaps—or weigh down a dumbwaiter whose chain rusted through half a century ago. Maybe that was how we were supposed to open the door to the keep, but the termites got to it before we did. Nothing in this place is really as functional as it once was, I’m afraid.”

I took one last glance at the tall watchtowers looming above us. Their bricks were sun-bleached and crawling with ivy. The useless cannons jutted out of the side like broken limbs on a long-dead fir tree. Warning bells rattled in my head.

“Jackaby, wait . . . ,” I began, but he had already vanished into the dark hallway.

I trod inward cautiously, keeping close to the wall as the light fell away behind me. The curving hallway was nearly pitch black. “Jackaby!”

“Just ahead of you, Rook,” came my employer’s voice from a few yards in. “There’s another door here.” I heard the rattle of a knob and then a click. As I hurried to catch up, Jackaby gave the door a push, and a shower of sparks lit the black ceiling above him, followed by a muffled hiss. One by one, the dusty torches sputtered to life. Some flared brightly as flames played amid shrouds of cobwebs, dying down quickly to a steady glow.

Jackaby blinked at the flickering torches. “Well, it looks as though a few things in this place still function! That was a clever bit of work.”

He stepped through the door. The flickering lights within outlined a wide chamber, empty except for a sturdy writing desk. Jackaby smiled.

“Jackaby,” I said, “we shouldn’t be in here. This whole castle is backward.”

“I’ll be quick. How do you suppose they managed it? Steel and flint fitted in the corner of the door, I assume. Then what? Hidden streams of oil within the walls? No, oil would have long since dried. Gunpowder?”

He began rummaging through the drawers in the old desk. My nerves were already ringing, but something about the word
gunpowder
set them further on edge. There was a bit about gunpowder in the old song, wasn’t there? A verse about pistol charges?

Jackaby discovered two dusty glass tumblers in the desk and held them up in the lamplight. “That
’
s it,” he said. “Just the glasses. Not even a flask to go with them.”

My thoughts arranged themselves abruptly. Charges . . . yes, that was right. When Farrell and his men came to ambush the Bold Deceiver in the song, the cornered criminal drew his pistol, but he couldn
’
t fire the charges because . . .

My eyes widened, “Get out!” I yelled, but my voice was lost in the deafening sound of the first volley of cannon fire hammering into the keep.

Debris rained down from the ceiling, and behind me a massive section of the stairwell collapsed into the hallway, billowing up a cloud of stale rock dust. My ears were ringing, but I could see daylight over the top of the rubble. I turned back to see if Jackaby was behind me when booming shots rang out from the second tower. The doorway above me buckled, and I leapt back into the room just as the entire entry was engulfed in a cascade of masonry. A hand grabbed my wrist and hauled me swiftly under the sturdy desk. Jackaby and I were a tight fit, but we sat out the barrage as rocks and beams thudded above us.

When the shuddering explosions subsided, we pushed our way out into what was left of the keep. My ears rang. Jackaby
’
s satchel was pinned under a wide chunk of a broken column, and pulling it free loosed a small rockslide. We had to shove past boulders and splintered scraps of wood, but we soon reached daylight. Where once a three-story structure had towered above us, now the tallest surviving wall reached scarcely higher than my shoulders.

“What sort of cretin points his cannons at his own keep?” Jackaby demanded, shaking bits of brick out of his knit cap.

“You were right,” I said, trying to catch my breath in the dusty haze.

“Generally true.” He glanced back as we picked our way up and out of the wreckage slowly. “About what, in this particular instance?”

“The water was important. We skipped a step. In the song, the Bold Deceiver is undone because a woman fills his charges with water, rendering his pistol harmless. We were meant to do the same to the cannons.”

“Oh, yes. Of course! Good connection, Rook.”

“Not much help now, though, is it? I doubt we
’
ll be salvaging anything from this rubble.”

“Well, that
’
s not completely accurate,” he said. “I did manage to snag the glasses before the building capsized on us. I
’
ve got them tucked safely away, right here.” He patted his satchel happily.

“A pair of glasses—oh, for pity
’
s sake, that
’
s what the spectacles on the map were about. They were glasses. Do you realize, sir, that you have them safely tucked away in a bag that was recently crushed under a building?

Jackaby nodded, unfazed. “Remarkable craftsmanship, this. It was bequeathed to me by a fellow who believed that it once belonged to Rhiannon herself. Have you read the Mabinogion? No? Marvelous stuff. Welsh. I’ve never been entirely convinced of the artifact’s authenticity, but all the same . . .” He tossed back the flap and withdrew the two glasses, complete and unharmed, with a clink. “It is excellent for storage.”

* * *
The Cliff

A cheerful orange tube split with another world-scrambling crackle, and this time I was able to actually enjoy the sensation. It was still disorienting, but as our penultimate destination materialized around us, I didn
’
t mind the familiar dizziness, which was something like the spin of a childhood carousel
.

We were near the shore, and the salty ocean air was a welcome and bracing change from the cloying dust of the now-ruined castle. We stood only a few paces from an abrupt edge, below which stretched forty feet of cliff and a frothy surf. Behind us lay a hilly forest spotted with rocky outcroppings. Jackaby gestured ahead, and I followed his gaze to where a strange patch of feathers and bones had been bundled together and strapped by a leather cord to a scraggly tree. Beyond it a dirt path seemed to lead right off the cliff’s edge.

“What on earth is that?”

Jackaby smiled at the discovery. “It
’
s a ward. They use that sort of cluster for marking entrances or passageways. It
’
s meant to bring some small degree of protection to the area.”

“They?” I asked.

“What does the map tell you?” he responded with an impish grin.

I pulled the thing out again. It had several new rips and one of the corners was missing entirely, but I found the seventh point. Along the shoreline was a drawing of three little figures with pointy ears and sharp teeth.

“It looks like some sort of goblins,” I said. “Which could mean anything, I suppose. A play on the word
gob
,
maybe. I
’
ve heard miners call scrap materials gob, and of course, it
’
s slang for
‘mouth.
’
Maybe the mouth of a cave? It looks as though there might be caves down there, set into in the cliffside. Hard to see from here. What do you think?”

“I think you
’
re right, Miss Rook.”

“About which bit?”

“I think it looks like goblins.”

It took the horde mere moments to surround us.

The goblins were sallow creatures, freckled with blotchy greens and browns. They wore stained, tattered clothing, all various shades of dirty brown, but each uniquely attired. Some wore little more than loincloths with twine for belts. Others wore complicated outfits, shirts layered with burlap vests and leather straps studded with dark metals. Some wore simple skullcaps, and others went bareheaded, their bald scalps dotted with freckles of dark green. The one accessory no goblin appeared to go without was a weapon. I looked from a long-handled spear on my left to a wide-barreled blunderbuss on my right.

“
Jackaby?
” I gulped.

“We
’
ll be fine,” he chirped a little too merrily as we pressed back-to-back. “Just raise your hands slowly to show them we
’
re unarmed. Don
’
t insult them in any way, and try not to look too tasty.”

The circle broke and a goblin in a coal-black top hat with a spray of vivid red cardinal feathers tucked along the brim strode toward us. The top of his hat barely came up to my chin, but he walked with the authority of a born
goblin chief.

He eyed me through a suspicious squint as he approached. A scar etched a forest-green line down one cheek and through his upper lip, splitting it just off center. He looked me up and down slowly and sneered before turning his attention to Jackaby. Still smiling his ridiculous, cheeky smile, Jackaby faced the chief. Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity, and then, inch by inch, the goblin
’
s mouth spread. Sharp canines glistened as his scarred lip pulled back in a grimace. He chuckled with a voice that sounded like wet gravel, and then, at last, he spoke.

“Baen a long time.” The chief
’
s accent was hard to place. It sounded like it would have been more at home in Britain—not quite
cockney,
but perhaps a rugged
Welsh
or Scottish layered with something not quite human at all. He jabbed a finger at me. “
Oo
’
s thas? Y
’
dinna gave Douglas th
’
sack, di
’
ya?”

“No, no, Douglas is still very much a part of the team.” Jackaby answered. “He is, however”—he cleared his throat—“waterfowl, just at the moment. You know how it is.”

The goblin nodded, sagely.
“These thins ’
appen.
”

“This is my associate, Miss Abigail Rook. Rook, this is my good friend, Nudd, high chief of the Western Tribes and ambassador to the Goblin Territories of the
Annw
yn, the fairy Otherworld. Say hello
,
Rook.
”

I waved faintly, my hands still raised in the air. “Very nice to meet you, sir,” I said.

Nudd
’
s smile fell from his face like wet slush from a drooping branch. He eyed me again with uncertainty.

“And may I say,” I added hastily, “that is a particularly fine hat.”

Nudd pursed his cracked lips and nodded in approval. “All righ
’
then. C
’
mon dow’.”

The goblin crew led us down an impossibly narrow path, which wound around and down the rocky cliff face. More than once, the ledge, which was thin at best, proved too narrow to navigate and my balance failed me. Each time, before I could plummet to my death on the rocks below, a goblin at my rear gave me a steadying smack with the butt of his spear, driving me back against the wall. He seemed to take great pleasure in this helpful task, occasionally administering the blows even after I had found my footing. By the end of the trek I was a bit bruised but alive and whole.

We stepped from the path and out onto a broad platform. The rocky hillside curved over us, completely concealing the landing from above. Just ahead, a wide cave was scooped out of the mountain, and from this vantage point I could see countless other landings all across the rocky wall. Ladders and pipes and all manner of scaffolding crisscrossed from one cave to another, with metal braces buried into sheer rock face for support. A complex system of chains and pulleys supported a sort of hanging elevator, which rattled diagonally between two uneven platforms. A system of cogs clanked to life beside us, pulling into motion a zigzagging staircase, which swung itself up, end over end, folding and collapsing until it settled to a stop with a series of loud clacks, having completely re-formed into a gangplank above us. Steam boilers chuffed, cables and pulleys whirred, and all around there was the smell of engine grease and coal fire.

Everything about the place was preposterous. An entire mechanical world clung to the cliffside, whirring and creaking and buzzing. For all the fantastic ingenuity at work, every incredible contraption seemed on the verge of falling to pieces. Bridges swung and sagged as goblins jogged carelessly across them, and I could see that the rhythmic pumping of a pair of heavy pistons was rattling the screws out of an already precarious aqueduct system nearby.

“Sir,” I whispered to Jackaby as we approached the entrance to the great cave, “how is it you came to be friends with Mr. Nudd?”

It was the goblin chief who answered. “
Jus’
Nudd
, lassie
—y’ kin scrap th
’
mister
. An
’
yer boss has me friendship ’cause e
’
s a dirty swindlin
’
knave.”

“Is that so?” I turned my eyes to Jackaby again, who nodded. “And just what did my employer swindle from you?”

“I jus’ told ye. Me friendship!” The chief laughed. “I’m nae chopsin
’
the mannie’bout it, mind ye. I got nae but respect fir
’
im.”

Jackaby acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “The sentiment is mutual, my friend.” He explained to me, “Nudd and I became acquainted when he contracted my services to retrieve a certain item of some importance.”

“What sort of item?” I asked.

“Th
’
sort an outsider like yerself should nae gae askin
’
too many questions abou
’
.” Nudd shot a dark look my way, and I swallowed hard. Jackaby continued cheerily.

“Oh, the details aren
’
t important. The fact is, goblin tribes acquire some of the most remarkable artifacts, due to their notoriety as barterers. If there
’
s something you need but cannot acquire through traditional channels, goblins can make it manifest. You
’
re likely to lose more than you gain, of course, but that
’
s just business. You
won’t
meet a more savvy salesman than a goblin.”

“Aye,” Nudd said. “But there
’
s nuffin
’
a goblin hates more
’
n red in a ledger. We settle our debts, nae matter what’s owed.” We drew up to a brass panel in the cave wall, and Nudd gave it a bang with his fist. Cogs spun, and a wide table swung downward, stools unfolding out of the metalwork as it settled to the ground. He plucked three rough ceramic goblets from a hanging rack and filled them with a dark-brown liquid. “That
’
s ’ow yer boss bamboozled me outta me kinship. ’E agreed t
’
take our case in exchange fer somethin
’
that woundn
’
ae cost
me a thin
’
, an
’
that he would happ
’
ly return the momen
’
it was given. Was only after he
’
d done the deed tha
’
I found out I
’
d been hustled into a friendship wi
’
the bastard.” He cackled at the memory, and drained his goblet with one swig.

“He won your friendship . . . in a shady business deal?” I marveled.

Jackaby smiled. “Seemed the best way to go about it.”

“Aye, tha
’
it was. But let
’
s cut righ
’
tae the meat.” Nudd straightened up. “Friend or no, yer nae here fir me good comp
’
ny. Wha
’
brings y
’
tae th
’
tribe?”

Jackaby and I exchanged glances. My employer spoke first. “
We don’
t know.”

Nudd looked unimpressed.

“How long has your tribe been here?” Jackaby asked.

The goblin thought a bit. “Me dad brung th
’
first tribe oe
’
r in th
’
year o
’
th
’
manky basilisk. Whassat in human?
”

“The manky basilisk . . . let
’
s see—yes, that’s about the mid-seventeenth century, I think. The time line fits. Rook, show him the map.”

I laid out the map, and Nudd pulled it across the table.

“Treasure, then?” He grinned as he perused the parchment but froze as his eyes locked on the final destination. The last point on the map was a small island not far from the coast. “Wai’ a tick.” He hopped from his stool, whisking the paper over to a nearby workbench, where he pulled down a wide magnifying lens and scrutinized the map.

I was about to take a sip from my goblet, but Jackaby put a hand over the lip before I could put it to my mouth. He shook his head silently, and poured the beverage into Nudd
’
s goblet instead. The goblin chief turned back to us a moment later, his expression dark and brooding. “Nae,” he said, when he reached the table and sat down again.

“No?” I asked. “No, what? We haven
’
t asked for anything.”

He pushed the paper toward me, a finger locked on the small point just off the coast, the end of the Bold Deceiver
’
s path. “Tha
’
island shouldn
’
ae be on any human map. It kinna be reached wi
’
out goblin magic, ’cause t
’
isn
’
t an island o
’
yer world, now, is it?”

“Isn
’
t it?” I asked.

“
Huck up, lass. Tha
’
island is moored tae a part o
’
th
’
Annw
yn. Another thin
’
an outsider shouldn
’
ae be askin
’
about.” Nudd
’
s eyes drifted from drilling suspicion into my skull to noticing the liquid in his goblet. He tossed it back with a gulp.

“How fascinating,” Jackaby said. “You see, Rook? Had we not made this stop before dashing off to the end of the hunt, then we
’
d never have known what we were looking for.” He turned back to the chief. “Strange that a mortal highwayman from Ireland managed to know about your distant little piece of the Otherworld all the way over here, isn
’
t it?”

“
Nae a chance,
” Nudd growled.

“He knew we
’
d need to come through you to reach it, as well. See? You
’
re on the map, too, just there.”

Nudd looked where Jackaby was indicating and squinted his eyes. He lifted his top hat to scratch his head. “Hm. ’Old on.” He trotted off again, disappearing into one of the smaller, connecting caves. When he was gone, Jackaby emptied his own goblet into Nudd
’
s as well.

“Do you think they
’
re poisoned?” I whispered.

“What? No, of course not. This is top-shelf stuff. What I think is that you are not a goblin and that certain flavors can never be untasted.”

Nudd returned quickly, holding a scroll with scarlet endcaps. He sat down at the table and pointed to the picture of the three little goblins on our shoddy treasure map. “Dae ye know wha
’
tha
’
is?”

“It
’
s a little picture of . . . well, of you and your tribe, isn
’
t it?” I offered.