The Mapmaker's Sons (7 page)

At least he'd go down swinging, he thought, and then the thunder of hoofbeats echoed around them. Tom jerked his gaze toward the alley entrance. The butcher wheeled around as well, but he was too late. Porter was already upon him. Racing at a full gallop, his body tucked low against his mount's neck, he brought up his leg and drove his knee into the big man's chest.

The butcher's legs shot out from under him. He hung fully horizontal for a moment, suspended in midair like a whale breeching the sea, then slammed the ground hard, landing flat
on his back. The air rushed out of his lungs with a loud, almost comical
oomph.

Porter pulled his mount around and leaned over the saddle, stretching out his arm to Tom. “Get on!” he shouted.
“Now!”

Tom, who'd never been near a horse before, let alone atop one, hesitated, but only for a second. He grabbed Porter's arm and pulled himself up, clumsily straddling the horse's rump. Porter drove his heels into the animal's flanks. Tom bit back a startled yelp as the horse reared. The animal's front hooves slashed the air, then the horse surged forward, racing through the busy marketplace, flying over tables and nearly trampling crowds. Shouts and curses followed in their wake, but Porter paid the townspeople no mind, urging his horse through the crowd at a furious, frantic pace.

Porter raced his mount to a section of town that was even more squalid than the marketplace itself, finally reining the horse to a stop before a dilapidated two-story building. Beside it was a rollicking pub, from which issued bouts of coarse laughter and shouts for ale. Porter swung off the saddle, leaving Tom to ease himself off the horse's rump.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief as his feet found the ground. He looked around. A wharf district of some sort, he guessed. Though he saw no ships or sails, the heavy tang of salt water hung in the air. He reluctantly returned his attention to Porter. While his initial reaction to the blond boy had been one of thorough dislike, some acknowledgment of the fact that Porter had saved him from a beating seemed in order.

“Um, thanks,” he began, but his words went unheeded.

“Keegan's men saw me,” Porter bit out. He reached for his knife; then a look of stark panic overtook his features. His knife was no longer there—it had slipped from his belt, Tom guessed, during their wild ride through the streets.

Porter let out a vivid oath. His fingers, tinged blue with cold, fumbled frantically with the leather straps that secured his saddlebags. His gaze whipped back and forth between the bags and the street as he tugged at the narrow bands of leather.
But the knots, having tightened in the cold, were as stiff and unyielding as tiny stones.

Tom hung back, watching in uncertainty. “Uh, can I help?”

“A blade! Quickly! Something to cut the straps!”

“Sorry, I don't—”

Porter raised a hand, cutting off Tom's words. He cocked his head, listening intently. Tom heard it as well: distant shouts, followed by the thunder of boots—the heavy rhythm of an army marching at a run. The sound drew closer. Tom could almost feel the vibration of boots shaking the ground.

“They're coming!” Tom said.

Porter fumbled one last, desperate time with the saddlebags. Finally the futility of his efforts seemed to register. He swore and abandoned the bags. Shoving Tom aside, he wheeled his mount around. He whipped off his cloak and tied it to the saddle horn, then slapped the beast hard against its flanks. Riderless, the horse took off at a full gallop, racing back in the direction from which they'd come. It shot down the narrow street, the cloak flying in the wind like a rider hunched down low.

The ruse seemed to work. A shout sounded from somewhere to Tom's left. “There! After him!”

A flash of black caught Tom's attention as a man sped past them. He wore a long cape, a sinister red eye clasped at the left shoulder. Just like the two men in the bell tower had worn. The Watch. But this time there weren't just two of them. Now there were dozens, swarming through the streets in a vicious horde. Moving instinctively, Tom jumped backward, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being seen. Porter had a different idea. He jerked open an alley door, shoved Tom through, then ducked in behind him.

Tom found himself in a dark, cellar-like room, pinned against an interior wall. “What the—” he began, but one of Porter's hands clamped against his mouth to muffle his protest, while the other hand pressed against his chest to hold him still. Harsh echoes reverberated through the wall: the sound of heavy boots and loud shouts, the smashing of bins and other street debris.

Tom moved to push him off, but Porter held him still, his ear cocked to the sounds without, waiting until silence once again filled the street. Finally he released him. Tom wiped the taste of the blond boy's hand from his mouth. Before he could utter a word, however, Porter shot him a look of blistering contempt and shoved past him. He stormed across the room to a steep flight of wooden stairs and began climbing.

Left with no choice, Tom followed. He took the stairs two at a time and found himself standing in a vast, mostly empty storeroom. The space reeked of animals, alcohol, and sweat. There was nothing of note in the room but a few empty crates and broken barrels, along with an old sack of grain. An enormous window of splintered glass filtered grimy sunlight into the room. The remaining walls and floors were constructed of poorly cut pine, full of knots and holes. A maze of thick ropes and rusted pulleys dangled from overhead beams.

Movement in one corner caught his eye. Hungry rats, each larger than his foot, swarmed the sack of rancid grain.

Umbrey rounded a partition and strode into the center of the room, his peg leg sounding a steady beat against the wooden floor. Trailing behind him was a crew of the roughest-looking men Tom had ever seen. Unlike Umbrey, who dressed in what Tom thought was probably all the rage in pirate finery—a white ruffled shirt, burgundy velvet knee breeches, and a black frock coat—his men were hulking and unshaven, their clothing caked in filth. Crude knives, chains, and assorted sinister-looking weapons were tucked into their belts. Despite their rough appearance, there was an unmistakable air of loyalty about them as they followed Umbrey into the room, stationing themselves in a loose semicircle around their leader.

Umbrey smiled broadly. “Thomas! Porter! Excellent. You've arrived. I trust you two have had a chance to get acquainted.”

“Acquainted? With
him
?” Porter released a disgusted breath and shook his head. He paced back and forth, as though unable to contain the fury pulsing through him. “Do you have any idea what he's done?” he bit out.

Umbrey blinked. “Done? What do you mean, done? What are you talking about?”

“My saddlebags are gone! Because of him! We've lost everything—Keegan's compass, our Letters of Passage, my charts and supplies. Gone, all of it!” He rounded on Tom, his pale eyes shooting sparks. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough. Do the words ‘Stay here. Do nothing to call attention to yourself,' have no meaning in your world?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Tom shot back. “Watch the boy's neck get snapped because you wanted me to be quiet?”

“That wasn't your choice to make! Now you've ruined everything! And for what? To save the life of one worthless little thief—a scrawny, nameless child no one even cares enough about to properly feed or clothe.”

“You might have been too afraid to do anything to help, but I wasn't.”

Porter jerked around as though slapped. A small, cold smile touched his lips. “Did you just call me a coward?”

Tom waited a beat, then gave a cool shrug. “The only thing I've seen you do so far is run.”

“Tom, Porter,” Umbrey warned, his voice a gravelly growl. “Don't.”

The warning went unheeded. Porter launched himself across the room and hit Tom in a flying tackle, knocking him to the ground. While Tom hadn't been looking for a fight, neither did he intend to avoid one. He might be sore later, but at the moment the only thing he felt was dislike so intense he could taste it in his mouth. The sheer pleasure of pummeling the blond boy's smug face provided an excellent release for the nervous tension that filled him. They rolled around together on the rough pine floor, trading blows. They were evenly matched, with each punch landed returned in kind.

Suddenly Tom felt himself jerked up by his collar and bodily lifted. He watched as one of Umbrey's men yanked Porter off the floor as well. Breathing hard, they sized each other up. As Tom noted with satisfaction the swelling above Porter's left eye, he
felt something drip down his chin. He wiped it off and realized his lower lip had been split. It wasn't dislike he had tasted in his mouth; it was blood.

Umbrey stepped between them. “So I have to separate the two of you like rabid dogs? Is this the way brothers are supposed to behave? In here brawling while The Watch is out there storming the streets? You think it's not enough we have a real enemy to face?”

An alarm sounded in Tom's brain, like the shrill clamor of a distant bell. He heard Umbrey's words, but their meaning somehow remained just beyond his grasp. He shoved off the grip of Umbrey's man and shook his head as though to clear it. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.
What?”

“It can't be.” Porter glared at Umbrey. “Not him. You must have made a mistake.”

“There's no mistake. I saw him the night he was born. Same eyes, same mouth, same stubborn chin. I'd know him anywhere.”

“That's it? You brought him here based on the way you remember a newborn babe to look?”

“You know better than that, Porter. You think we'd send a defenseless babe into another world without anyone knowing where to find him?” Porter opened his mouth, but Umbrey held up his hand to forestall his next words. “I saw him unlock the map. Just as you can. He's your brother all right.”

Porter's eyes searched the floor. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
“Years
we've wasted,” he choked out, “waiting for him to come, to save us all, to what end?” He shook his head, a muscle working spasmodically in his jaw. “I'd be better off alone. I'd have been out of the city by now, not trapped here with no Letters of Passage, no compass. I don't need him. All I need is the map.”

“It doesn't work like that and you know it, lad. The only way to find the sword is for the two of you to work together.”

Porter released a disgusted breath. “Then we are doomed.”

“My
brother?”
Tom finally managed to find his voice. “I have a brother?
Him?”

Surprise registered on Porter's features. He looked at Tom, then at Umbrey. “He knows nothing? Truly?”

“What is this?” Tom said. Umbrey's man moved to hold him back again, but Tom ducked away, coming to stand before Umbrey. “You told me I was the key to unlocking the map—to finding some stupid sword—to stopping this Keegan guy. You didn't say anything about
him.”

Umbrey shot a glance out the large glass window that overlooked the street. “It's a very interesting story. And you'll hear it, I promise. All in good time. But first we have to move. Before The Watch returns and—”

“No.”

Tom's throat tightened and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt something deep and heavy shift within him. The countless nights he'd spent prowling the rooftops at the Lost Academy rushed back at him. Looking. Searching for something he couldn't even name. For years he'd battled a longing he'd never understood, as though he were missing some vital piece of himself. He'd been happy enough, he supposed, but vaguely adrift, as though there were something else, somewhere else, waiting just out of his reach …

“I'm not going anywhere. Not until I know who I am. Who
he
is. Why you brought me here.”

“We haven't
time
for this,” Porter bit out.

“No, Porter.” Umbrey sighed. “Your brother's right. He should know how this all came to be.” He cast another glance out the window, thinking. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed his men. “Go below and get the provisions ready. Bring the horses around. We leave shortly.”

Once they were alone—just Umbrey, Tom, and Porter—Umbrey propped one hip atop an empty barrel and stretched out his peg leg before him. “All right then, lad. I'll tell you the tale. It's not a pretty tale, or a happy one, but I swear on my life every word of it is true.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin and looked at Tom. “You were born,” he began, “on a stormy night …”

I
t was a storm the likes of which had never been seen before, and may never be seen again—wind howling through the trees like a pack of angry wolves set loose upon the land, lightning slashing the sky, rain and sleet pouring down in sheets. Amidst that din and wail, a shepherd called Garth was awakened in the dark hours before dawn by the excited bleating of his sheep.