The Mapmaker's Sons (10 page)

He drilled his finger into the map. “There, you see? The boy's correct. The swamp borders the southeast corner of The Beyond, through Terrum. Not the route we had planned, but it might just work.”

“And if the sword lies in the north?” Porter countered.

Umbrey leaned back. He smiled. “An excellent question, lad. And I know of only one way to answer it.” He turned toward Tom and nodded. “Touch the map.”

Tom hesitated, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the weight of Porter's stare. Adopting an attitude of cool nonchalance, as though he did that sort of thing every day, he drew his hand over the map. It came to life, just as it had in Lost's office. The action drew a sharp gasp of wonder from the boy, and a heated glare from Porter. He lowered his hand.

“Good,” Umbrey said. “Your turn, Porter.”

Porter repeated the action, with the same result.

“Excellent.” Umbrey brought his hands together with a sharp clap. “The map speaks to you both. But we already knew that much, didn't we? Now here's where it gets interesting. According to legend, the map will only reveal its treasure when the Hero Twins—”

“Hero twins?” Tom interrupted.

“Twin sons, one light, one dark—that's you lads—lay their hands on it together.” A brief silence ensued as they studied the parchment. Umbrey looked from Porter to Tom. “Well? If you could kindly tell me,
what in blazes are you waiting for?”

Porter started as though jarred from some deep reverie, and stationed himself at one end of the map. Tom took the opposite side.

Tom chewed his lip. “What if it doesn't work?”

“It will,” Porter said. “My father swore it would once the two of us were together.”

Tom frowned. There was a sharp edge to Porter's tone, an
underlying tension that was impossible to miss.
My father.
As though Tom were an interloper to some private, personal ritual. Clearly for Porter, the map wasn't just a guide to an ancient sword. It was a physical testament to the years he'd spent with their father. Tom pictured Porter at their father's side as he sketched the map, telling stories, sharing secrets, teaching the art of cartography. Always Porter. The son he'd wanted. The son he'd kept.

The injustice of it welled up within him. He placed his fingers lightly against the edge of the map, watching as Porter did the same. He glared across the table at his brother and was stunned to see the same bitter resentment reflected back at him. But there was no time to consider it.

The parchment came alive beneath their touch. This was nothing like the spark that had shocked him back in Professor Lost's office, that light, hand-tingling buzz. This was an electric current jolting through his body, tapping some inner well deep within him and connecting him to Porter. For a brief, blinding moment, they were as one.

The map began to glow, bathing them in its warmth. As they watched, two bright sparks shot from the parchment near the southern half of The Beyond. The sparks grew until they became a pair of soaring birds, one deep crimson, the other brilliant pearl. The birds wove circles around each other, diving low to disappear into a thick forest. Within the forest, a deep blue lake shimmered through a layer of gossamer mist. The water gently stirred, then parted. From within the lake's crystalline depths rose a gleaming silver sword. It hovered in midair, emitting a brilliant white light all its own. Then, abruptly, the map flickered and dimmed, extinguishing itself like a candle in a breeze. The sword was gone, leaving the four of them blinking in its absence.

Tom's gaze shot across the map. His eyes met and held Porter's. The simmering hostility he'd seen earlier was gone, replaced by the same shock and reverence he felt within himself. Then he understood. Umbrey was wrong. It had never been a place he'd been looking for all those long nights at the Lost Academy. It hadn't even been a person. It was this. The feel of ancient parchment coming alive beneath his touch. That was
what he was meant to do. What Porter was meant to do. Their destiny had been sealed the moment they were born.

They were the mapmaker's sons.

“By God, it works!” Umbrey said, giving a shout of laughter. “And the sword lies to the south, no less! That settles it; we go through Terrum, then the Dismal Swamp.”

Porter nodded thoughtfully, his pale brows drawn together. “That'll land us in the center of Djembe territory.”

“One battle at a time, lad,” Umbrey replied, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He rolled up the map, shoved it in his hollow limb, and strapped the wooden appendage to his thigh. He gave his peg leg a loving pat. “As long as we have the map and the two of you—and now this bright lad—we'll do just fine.”

A door slammed in the room below. The shouts of Umbrey's men, coupled with the clamor of crashing swords, echoed up the stairs.

“Quickly, lads!” Umbrey shoved them toward the rear stairs. “This way!”

The Watch stormed into the room, blocking their exit.

As a group, they skidded to a stop and did a one-eighty. “That way!” Umbrey shouted, reversing direction. “The front stair!” They raced across the room to the stairwell on the opposite side. Suddenly Umbrey jerked to a stop and lurched forward, nearly bent over double. Tom whirled around to see him hobbling in a wide circle, flapping his arms like great, useless wings.

Umbrey's wooden leg was caught in a knothole in the floor. He jerked up and down, spinning in a queer half-circle, but no amount of tugging or swearing would free the limb.

“Umbrey!” Tom called.

“Go! Run, lad! Get out while you can!”

“Not without you!”

Porter skidded to a stop beside Tom. “Or the map!”

The Watch poured into the room. Umbrey's men raced in from the opposite side. They clashed in the center of the room like a breaking wave. As the battle raged around them, Tom and
Porter raced to Umbrey, each draping one of Umbrey's arms over his shoulder to support the man between them. Umbrey tugged at his leg, but it seemed the harder he tugged, the more firmly the peg tip planted itself in the knothole.

A knife clattered to the floor. Tom lunged to the ground and scooped it up. He spun around and, with a quick jerk, severed the leather straps that bound Umbrey's wooden leg to his knee. Free from that constraint, Umbrey threw himself into the battle, swinging his sword and dodging and weaving on his one good leg.

“Get it, lad! Get the map!” Umbrey bellowed—to him, Tom presumed, as Porter had somehow managed to procure a sword of his own and was attacking The Watch with barely controlled fury.

Before he could reach it, however, the small thief dove between battling swordsmen. He threw himself at the leg, reached inside, and jerked the map free. Clenching the rolled parchment in his fist, he tossed it to Tom, his small face lit up in a smile of victory. Tom caught the map and tucked it into his belt as one of Keegan's men spun around, swinging his sword at the young boy.

The boy scrambled right, missing the blade by mere inches.

Fury at the sheer brutality of the blow—a blow meant to
kill the child—shot through Tom. He surged forward, shoving the boy behind him. “Tom!” He heard Porter call his name and turned in time to see his brother, now fighting with a sword in each hand, toss one blade to him.

Somehow Tom managed to catch the weapon. He gripped the shaft with both hands and brought up the sword, trying his best to pretend two things simultaneously: that he wasn't afraid, and that he'd handled swords all his life. Apparently the act wasn't as convincing as he hoped. The guard brought his sword around, slamming it against Tom's blade with a sharp
clang!
that sent a tremor through Tom's body. The sword went flying from his hand.

The guardsman kept swinging. Tom ducked and twisted, retreating, his eyes darting around the room for another weapon. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement as the boy scrambled away, shinnying up a rope and out of the battle. Good. At least he had the sense to flee while he could.

Tom kept retreating until he felt a wall jut up behind him. He stumbled against it, pinned. The guardsman smiled a thin, evil smile. He lifted his sword, tucking the tip of the blade beneath Tom's chin.

Tom sucked in his breath, bracing himself for the impact of cold steel. But before the guardsman could drive his blade through Tom's throat, an enormous iron pulley dropped from above, landing squarely on top of the man's head. He swayed. His eyes rolled loose in his head. His sword clattered to the ground as he staggered forward, hitting the floor with a low moan.

Tom's gaze shot upward.

The boy flashed him a grin from an overhead beam, the rope he'd untied and set loose dangling in one hand.

Umbrey crashed into the wall beside him, his hands wrapped around his opponent's throat. “The map, lad! Do you have it?”

Tom ducked a punch and twisted toward Umbrey. “Yes.”

“Then go! Get out now, while it's easy!”

While it's easy? This
was easy? Both stairwells were blocked. The entire room was a scene of brutal chaos, of swords and knives and hand-to-hand battles. No way to escape.

“There!” the boy cried from his perch on the beam. “The rats!”

Tom stared across the room. The rats that had earlier been swarming the sack of grain now scurried single-file across the room, disappearing down a square hole in the floor. The hole was barely large enough for Tom and Porter to squeeze through, and impossible for Keegan's men to enter.

The boy swung down the rope, grabbed Tom's sleeve, and tugged him along. Porter stepped in beside them and gave Tom a push from behind.
“Go!”

Tom planted his feet, his gaze finding Umbrey in the middle of the melee. “What about you?”

“Me? Forget about me!” Umbrey hobbled up and down on one leg. His wooden appendage, splintered and shattered during the fight, lay in pieces on the floor. “I'll only slow you down!”

“We can't leave you to fight alone!”

“Fight? You think this is a fight?” Umbrey gave a shout of laughter. “Why, this is child's play, lad! Wait'll you see what Keegan has in store for you once you bring back the sword!” He thrust his blade at a guardsman, slicing him across the shoulder, then elbowed him in the belly, doubling the man over. He looked at Tom. “Mortimer's journal—”

The rest of Umbrey's words were swallowed up by the din of the battle.

“What?”
Tom shouted. “What about the journal?”

“I said—”

The young thief dove into the hole. Porter followed. A guardsman swung his blade, narrowly missing Tom's ear. Whatever wisdom Umbrey meant to impart was lost as Tom sprang forward, pitching himself headfirst down the rat hole.

R
ats crawled across his face, his skin, his hair. Slimy tails slid over his nose and lips, and sharp claws dug into his ears. Tom fought them off in a blind panic, twisting within the confines of the narrow metal tube—a grain chute of some sort, he guessed.

Abruptly, the chute ended. Tom went into free fall, tumbling through the air. He landed with a sickening splat in a steaming pile of trash—slops from the adjacent pub, most likely. He clawed his way through spoiled cabbage, moldy potatoes, soured ale, rotting fish, and stringy pork innards. And rats. Even more rats than there'd been in the storeroom, hissing and clawing one another to get at the putrid feast.

Tom staggered to his feet, gagging. Porter rose beside him, slipping and sliding through the rancid pile of slop. He shoved Tom toward a large wooden bin. The boy from the market was already there. They crouched down beside him, tucking themselves against the bin, as a set of rough-looking men raced past them, storming into the warehouse where the battle still raged.

“Good,” Porter grunted. “Let's go.”

Tom paused.

“Umbrey can take care of himself,” Porter said, correctly
reading his hesitation. Tom frowned at the unwelcome intrusion into his thoughts, the sort of mental shorthand twins were supposed to routinely use. Not that he knew much about it, given that he hadn't even known he was a twin until thirty minutes ago.

In any event, the question of whether or not they were abandoning Umbrey was answered as the sound of shattering glass exploded above them. A body—one of Keegan's Watch—soared through the air, landing with a heavy thud on the dirt-packed street. The first body was soon followed by a second.

“Follow me!” the boy whispered.

They zigzagged through the narrow streets, keeping close to buildings to avoid being seen. After several minutes of running, they ducked behind a mass of empty crates to watch an old man herding goats into a cart. “Old Raynard,” the boy said. “His route carries him through my village at daybreak.”

Porter studied the man. “You think he'll help us?”