The Map (5 page)

“Yea and nae. Tha’s never me, but it is me dad.”

“
Your dad?
” Jackaby asked. “Isn
’
t it a little rudimentary to be sure?”

Nudd unrolled the scroll. At the top was the same picture: three goblin heads, forming a sort of triangle, each with pointy ears and sharp teeth. It looked almost identical to the map.

“Aye. Tha
’
was nae jus
’
a drawin
’
. T
’
was me dad
’
s sign.
” He scanned the roll of paper, which was written with some form of pictographs I didn
’
t recognize. When he reached what he was looking for he frowned, then laughed. “Look like we
’
ll be helpin
’ ea
ch other, aft
e
r all,” he said.

“Planning to explain?” Jackaby asked.

“Tha’s more
’
n a map. What ye
’
ve go
’
is a contract. Me dad signed fir th
’
tribe. Musta bin near t
’
start o’ th’ settlment, or he
’
d nae
’
er
’
ave agreed. It appears I
’
ll be helpin
’
ye reach th
’
island after all. And ye
’
ll be helpin
’
clear a very old bit o
’
red from th
’
books. We pay our debts.” He tossed the last of the brew into the back of his crooked mouth and slammed the goblet back onto the table with a bang.

* * *
The Ship

The chief led us over swaying scaffolds and along narrow bridges as we crossed to the far side of the goblin village. Along the way he told us about his tribe
’
s origins in the western world. Hearing of riches and vast tracts of untamed land, Nudd
’
s father, Ludd, had sought to establish a goblin empire on the shores of the new continent, but he needed money. The goblins were resourceful, but wits and grit would not build a vessel or stock it with rations or supplies, so Ludd struck a deal to gain in one single night all the capital they would need. Their financier would never see the goblins again. He would, in fact, be hanged within the week.

“So that
’
s how the Bold Deceiver managed it,” I said, ducking under a spiderweb of brass pipes as I kept after the chief. “Fleming never set foot in America. Your father set up all the challenges. He drew the map, and he buried the treasure at the end of it.”

“Aye, and on an islan
d
only one
o’
our own ships could reach. Tha’ rock is on a . . . what’sit? Thrash hold.”

“A threshold?”

“Aye, t’win this world an’ the Annwyn. Humans kinna find it withou’ help. Don’t y’ fret. Goblin craft have more’n a little goblin in ’em. She’ll get y’ there.”

We rounded a bend and I could see several vessels moored in a crowded dock. The ships bobbed in the choppy breakers,
look
ing about as reliable and seaworthy as a pair of worn-out old boots. “We aren
’
t traveling in one of those, are we?” I asked, nervously.

“Nae! Those
’
d na’er get ye where ye’re goin’.”

I relaxed a fraction, and then Nudd chuckled and pointed upward.

“Ye
’
ll be needin
’
her.”

Forty feet up, tethered to a rocky outcropping, hung a huge, oblong balloon, roughly the shape of a massive, lumpy pickle. It was a patchwork of canvas and leather scraps held together with jagged stitches. Suspended beneath it by a series of thick ropes was a basket, roughly the size and shape of the rotted rowboat where we had landed several quests back. Brass fittings lent a regal air to the goblin dirigible, in much the same way a bit of gold trim might lend a sense of dignity to a pile of horse droppings.

“Splendid!” Jackaby clasped his hands together, beaming like a schoolboy at Christmas. “We
’
ll have her back to you by morning!”

The airship sagged and creaked in protest under our feet. We were barely on board when Nudd snapped the tether with a flick of a crooked dagger, and we drifted away from the rocks.

With Jackaby at the helm, the vessel swayed wildly with every gust of wind, and within a few minutes of our departure, one of the ropes securing the basket to the balloon simply slid away, twisting like a snake as it plummeted into the waves below. “Are you quite certain this is safe?” I called over the rush of wind.

Jackaby gave me a wink from the helm. “I am quite certain this is an adventure! Come hold the wheel steady for a moment while I check on the engines.”

I crawled warily toward him as the basket leaned and creaked in response to my slightest motion. The dirigible was controlled by a wide ship
’
s wheel, such as I had seen many times before, and if I held my gaze very carefully above the horizon, I could just imagine that we were in a quiet boat, drifting along the surface of the ocean.

Once I had a firm grip on the wheel, Jackaby swung himself up on a low rope and hopped into the back of the basket with a thud. “Oh, Rook, look at this! Marvelous tinkering. It’s been retrofitted with a compact boiler to run on coal and steam rather than the usual goblin fuel.”

“What’s the usual goblin fuel?” I asked.

“Smaller, less popular goblins, generally.”

“You have interesting friends, sir.”

Jackaby fiddled with a few compartments, tapping gauges and dials behind me. After a minute he mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “Oh, dear.”

“What?” I called. “What is it?”

“Nothing! Nothing, just admiring the steamworks.”

We rode on for several hours, Jackaby and I taking turns at the helm. The sun crept toward the horizon behind us, its light brushing the clouds ahead with golds and oranges, reflected brilliantly in the calm ocean waves below. At times a low cloud would drift beneath us, and our own shadow would ripple and dance across its billowy surface as we passed. It was quietly breathtaking.

“We may have a small problem.”
Jackaby
’
s voice shook me out of my serenity.

“What is it?”

He flipped open a little iron grate, revealing the last, dying lumps of coal in an ashy heap. He flipped it shut again with a clink.

“We
’
re out of fuel?”

“I was hopeful that it might last long enough to manage the trip out, and then we could use this for the return journey.” He pointed to the single cherry-red party cracker in his bandolier. “But the engine burned through our stores faster than I had anticipated. It seems increasingly unlikely that we will reach our destination.” As if to confirm my employer
’
s doubts, the boiler sputtered and the airship shuddered and rocked. “Such a shame. This is closer than anyone
’
s come in
three hundred years—which is something, I suppose.”

“What? No!” I said. “I know you want to do the thing properly, but we’ve hit every point on the map—surely you can’t object to using that cracker to finish the trip?”

Jackaby pursed his lips. “Nudd knows the magic of his people. He said that the island rests on a pocket between our Earth and the Annwyn. We need the dirigible. Think of it as our compass. Even a carefully aimed transapparative hop without it would likely leave us on this side of the veil, dropped in the middle of the Atlantic without a rock to cling to. I don’t know about you, but I doubt I could manage the swim back to shore.”

The mechanism behind him hissed, and with another rumble, the airship began to sink and lose altitude. Jackaby sighed and glanced at the approaching waves. He walked toward me and held out the lonesome red tube. “Even if we could manage it, this is the last popper. I’m afraid it’s over. You finally get your birthday wish, Miss Rook. We’re going home. I
’
ll let you do the honors. Just think of where you
’
d like to be, and our destination will appear.”

“But . . . but we
’
re so close!” I said. I peered out over the waters. On the horizon I could just make out the shimmering silhouette of a patch of land creeping into view. It wasn’t fair.

“
I am sorry, Miss Rook.
” Jackaby held out the tube. “But it really is the last one.” The patchwork balloon deflated rapidly above us, flapping wildly in the rushing wind. My feet lifted off the floor and my stomach lurched as the airship completely fell from the sky. I gripped the rickety basket with one hand and clasped the cracker with the other. Just as the sparkling waves threw themselves at the plummeting dirigible, I tugged.

* * *
The Island

The darkness smelled of wet leather and smoke. I pushed the lifeless balloon off of me and blinked into the light. From a lump in the mess before me came a muffled grumbling as Jackaby attempted to free himself from the same.

“You brought it along? I do
not
have the space in my offices to accommodate a craft this size. I hope Nudd can send an envoy to pick it up as soon as . . . Oh.” He fell silent as the material dropped away from his face. “Oh, Miss Rook. What have you done?”

The island was small. The whole space could have fit easily within a city block, and it was occupied only by rocks sparse vegetation. A border of pearl-white sand defined the perimeter, and a single leafy tree stood in the center. I glanced behind me. Although we were surrounded by water, the island was not technically in the ocean at all. The rippling waves lay thirty feet below us with the circle of land hanging above them like a balloon.

Jackaby stepped up to the island’s edge and peered over, sending a spray of sand drifting down in the wind. “Hmm. A touch ostentatious, but the effect is impressive,” he said.

“We’re floating!” I said. “Is this goblin magic?”

“There appears to be a dual-dimensional suspension matrix woven through the framework of the landmass.” He scowled at the dirt beneath his feet. “On the Anwynn side it likely manifests as deviations in directional energies, while on our end we experience a pronounced gravitational anomaly.”

“So that’s a yes,” I nodded. “It’s marvelous!”

Jackaby looked up at me and a curious glint crept into his eyes. “Well, Miss Rook?”

“Well?”

“With the last of our resources, you have bypassed any hope of a safe return in favor of this chance at a final step. So? We’re here.”

The burial site was not difficult to find—a convenient spade had even been left at the base of the lone tree. Its handle had long since crumbled, but the head was sufficient to scoop away the sandy soil. Within a matter of minutes, I struck something solid. I pushed aside the earth until I had outlined a rectangle of metal.

“This is it,” I said.

When the artifact was exhumed and the last clods of dirt knocked free, we found ourselves looking at a simple lockbox made of hammered pewter or tin. With a little coaxing, a circle of silver on the top rotated to reveal a keyhole.

“A bit small for the payroll of an entire army, don’t you think?” I held the box and tilted it to blow the dust from the keyhole. Something inside clunked heavily. At least it wasn’t empty. “Gold?” I guessed.

“Fleming had to pay the goblins with something,” Jackaby said. “The constructions and enchantments we passed were not erected cheaply. There’s no telling how much of his loot was even left to bury.”

Jackaby produced the magpie’s key and I took it reverently. It fit smoothly in the hole and turned with a gentle click. I opened the lid and we stared into the box.

“Huh,” Jackaby said. “Well. It’s gold
colored
.”

Inside the box was a stout glass jug. It was filled with a liquid that was really more amber than gold, and plugged with a cork sealed with wax. Beneath it was a single piece of paper with handwriting on it. I pulled out the note.

The writing was cleaner than the map had been, but the ink had dripped in several places and the whole job looked a little rushed. It read as follows:

The word that lives, lives only to be read

So purpose grants new life unto the dead

By daylight mine own heart will cease to beat

Yet my heart’s purpose ever was deceit

In this pursuit thou hast become my last

So raise a glass to bold deceivers passed

Thou shalt find little else at journey’s end

Yet there is whiskey in the jar, my friend.

I read the poem twice before handing it wordlessly to Jackaby.

We might have been killed. This mad quest had nearly turned us into turnips and reduced us to rabbit food. It had dropped a castle on our heads and dropped us out of the sky. Now we were stranded on a remote island in the middle of the ocean, one that no earthly ship could find even if it wanted to, and it had all been a cheeky bandit’s last laugh.

“Oh.” Jackaby said soberly. “Oh, I see. I suppose an apology is in order.”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“No, you were quite explicit in your request for a birthday without fuss, and I seem to have gotten us into quite a lot of it for nothing. I assure you, I—are you laughing?”

I wiped a tear from my eye and sat back on the sand, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “for the treasure hunt. I honestly cannot think of a finer way to have spent my birthday.”

He looked skeptical.

“Purpose, sir. It’s nice to have purpose. It’s not about the treasure—it’s about the hunt.”

“That, Miss Rook, is an irresponsible and irrational sentiment, and one of your finest qualities.” He plucked the glass tumblers from his sack and nestled them into the sand. “Shall we drink to the Bold Deceiver, then?” He took the bottle out of the lockbox and wiggled loose the cork.

“How about we drink to adventure, instead?”

“After my own heart.” Jackaby gave me a proud smile.

My father drank whiskey. He used to say it tasted smoky, like a fine cigar. Fleming’s whiskey tasted like turpentine and rotten shoe leather, and it sucked the moisture from my mouth as though I had swallowed a sponge. Jackaby managed to stop coughing before I did, but he kept smacking his lips and rubbing his teeth with his tongue.

“I’m no connoisseur,” I croaked when I could feel my face again, “but I think perhaps these spirits passed their prime after the first hundred years or so. Oh, lord, I’m still tasting it.”

In the morning, the goblins—as meticulous about collecting dues as they were about paying debts—would come searching for the borrowed dirigible, and I would never again be so grateful to repay a loan. Chief Nudd would invite us aboard, polishing off the rest of the bottle and cackling as he listened to our story, and Jackaby and I would be back in New Fiddleham by teatime. For that one night, however—my night—we lay on either side of a campfire on a magical floating island, watching the setting sun cast ripples of amber across the vast Atlantic.

My birthday did not pass unmarked, as I had hoped. Far better, it was marked with a big red
X
.