Ferran's Map (52 page)

He ran a heavy hand through his hair and
groaned, feeling like he had just stepped on a wasp’s nest. What if
the Shade tracked them to his brother’s doorstep? The full
implications of the
Dawn Seeker’s
fate became clear. Whoever
burned down the ship meant it as a message. What if the Shade tried
to burn down the Ebonaire house as well? What other destruction
were they capable of?

He slowly refocused. Silas was yelling at
him. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you!” the pirate
bellowed. “Have you no idea how much coin this venture has wasted?
Thousands in gold, all sunk to the bottom of The Bath! You bastard!
I’d kill you, but I expect you to pay me back in full!”

Ferran abruptly reached into his pocket,
withdrew
The Book of the Named
and offered it to Silas.
“Would this suffice?” he asked.

The pirate’s eyes widened. He paused
mid-rant, the stream of words cut off from his mouth. Then he
grasped the book in his eager hands. “You found it!” he said.
Sudden glee lit his face and he released a loud whoop. “Aye! Forget
the ship, I can order a new one built—this book is priceless! I
never thought I’d see it again. You’ve done the impossible, my
friend.” His entire demeanor changed. Silas grasped Ferran firmly
and kissed his cheeks, then ran off to the stables with
The Book
of the Named
clutched to his chest. Ferran could already hear
him shouting to his crew: “Liven up, lads! Break out a deck of
cards. Tomorrow is a new day!” He soon disappeared from sight.

“Was that wise?” Lori asked dryly. “We need
that book, and Silas isn't very intimidating to an assassin. They
might try to steal it back.”

Ferran raised an eyebrow. “No, perhaps that
wasn’t very wise,” he admitted, “but the book belongs to him for
now. It’s part of his collection, remember? I’ll borrow it back in
the morning.”

Lori sighed. “Well, at least that’s done
with. Where did you find it?” She gave him a searching look. “Is
that where you disappeared to all afternoon?”

Ferran nodded. “I’ll tell you later tonight.
In the meantime, I have another surprise for you.” He indicated the
carriage behind him. “I’ve recovered another valuable asset...but
he's injured. Can you take him to the stables and have a look?”

Lori frowned in confusion, then turned to
the carriage and held her lantern high. After a moment, she gasped.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Burn?” she stuttered. “He's
alive?”

“Yes, but he’s sorely in need of your
skills,” Ferran said.

“Of course,” she replied, already walking
toward the carriage door. Then she paused, turned and gave him a
strange look. “On the off-chance,” she said, “did you see Sora
today?”

Ferran felt a sense of foreboding. “No.”

“She’s missing, and Caprion as well.” Lori
paused and adjusted her cloak. “I’m sure they’re fine, but with
Crash joining the Shade, and Sora out by herself…I’m trying not to
worry….”

Ferran sensed the hesitation in her voice,
and instinctively took her hand. Her fingers were cold. He warmed
them briefly with his own. “Sora is strong. She can protect
herself,” he said gently. Then he glanced at the falling snow. It
thickened into an opaque curtain before his eyes. Soon the front
drive would be impassible, and the servants wouldn't be back until
tomorrow to clear it. For the time being, they were snowed in.

“Ferran,” Lori finally said, “if something
happens to my daughter...what if the Shade take her...?”

He released a white plume of breath. “Let's
not assume the worst,” he said, trying to sound confident. “We have
no options now. We'll have to wait until morning. Let’s hope she's
with Caprion and they’ve found shelter from this storm. It’s going
to be a harsh night, and Burn needs us now.”

Lori looked unsatisfied with his answer, but
didn’t argue. She pushed past him to assist Burn from the carriage.
Ferran felt a sense of unease. He watched her for a while, wishing
he knew what to say. If the weather weren’t so dangerous, he would
take a horse from the stables and go search for Sora himself, but
that would be a foolhardy venture on a night like this. He would
likely turn up dead from exposure in the morning.

With a sigh, he reluctantly turned back to
the manor and entered the rear door of the kitchens; he owed his
brother a few words. The map still rested in his pocket. Why would
it lead him to the Shade's hideout? He didn't want to assume the
worst—but perhaps Martin had secrets of his own.

He strode through the silent kitchens, down
a narrow servants' corridor and into the main foyer, then stopped.
The front door of the manor stood open. His brother sat on a wooden
bench nearby, still dressed in costume. Donwick stood beside him
with a tray of hot tea. Ferran's quick eyes noted the bandage on
his brother's forearm. His costume appeared wet and his hair
drenched. He must have just returned from the parade.

His brother looked up at the sound of
Ferran’s boots. “Ah,” he said. “I wondered where you went.”

Ferran looked him over. “What happened?” he
asked, attempting humor. “Did you fall in the snow?”

Martin wearily tossed his heavy mask to the
ground. “Actually, I fell into the river. Damn cold. Horrible luck
at the parade today. A group of bastard peasants attacked the royal
family.”

Ferran blinked. A ripple of shock moved
through him. “What? Who?”

“The King's Guard says it was a group of
farmers angry about the plague,” his brother replied. “I don't know
if that's true. With all the madness in this city, last thing we
need is an assassination attempt. Lord Seabourne couldn’t catch all
the traitors. They shot flaming arrows from the rooftops. A few
boarded small skiffs and tried to attack the royal family head-on.
An arrow struck my float—the whole barge went up. I had to abandon
ship.”

“Goddess’ bells,” Ferran uttered.

“Indeed,” Martin nodded, then stood up
stiffly. “Managed to burn my arm something fierce. I need to change
out of these clothes—but perhaps you'll join me soon upstairs? A
glass of malt wine on parade night is family tradition.” He started
toward the large staircase to the upper floors, motioning for
Ferran to follow. “Come, brother. I'll meet you in my study in
twenty minutes. Donwick, bring up our best bottle of wine and a
plate of cheese!”

Donwick bowed shortly and strode away as
Martin ascended the staircase. Ferran watched him thoughtfully, put
a toothpick in his mouth, and followed.

* * *

Ferran looked up when Martin entered his
study twenty minutes later, wearing a simple white shirt, black
breeches and a blue velvet dinner jacket. He looked warm and
comfortable, if a bit sore after his fall in the river. Ferran sat
in a large armchair next to Martin’s desk. A large fireplace warmed
the room with the scent of burning pine.

His brother didn’t acknowledge him
immediately, went to his cabinet and took out a thick cigar, then
lit it. After a few puffs, he offered the cigar to Ferran.

Ferran felt his hands itch, but
declined.

“I’ve noticed some of my papers are missing
and I think know where they went,” Martin said casually. Ferran
watched him fill a cup of malt wine to the brim; apparently, Lord
Ebonaire planned to make a night of it.

Ferran chose a direct response. He had spent
the last twenty minutes considering how to confront his brother
about the map, and he wasn’t in the mood for word-sparring. “What
are you hiding, Martin?”

“Nothing at all,” his brother replied
easily. “I assume you had a nice, long look at that map, and maybe
rifled through a few drawers?” Ferran met his gaze. “The King is
building a new clock tower; you might have heard about it. We’re
funding the construction. But a few drainpipes were in the way, so
we needed to look over the original plan. Nothing unusual about
that.” He opened his hands, as though to show he had no cards up
his sleeve.

Ferran placed his palm solidly on the desk.
Despite twenty years of absence, Martin was still his younger
brother, and he could hear the lies on his tongue.

“I know trouble when I see it, Martin,” he
said. “This map is unusual, to say the least. Was it drawn by the
King’s own hand? Why seek the original? Why not a copy?” He
searched his brother’s face. “Have you run into some bad business?
I can help you.”

“Help me?” Martin demanded. His jaw
tightened. “Why would you help me? Our father exiled you. You just
want a share of the profits.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

“That’s truly what you think of me?” Ferran
asked, his hand still pressed onto the desk. “That after so long,
I’d drag myself here just to worm my way back into the family
fortune?” He stood up and turned to walk away abruptly.

“No, Ferran, wait,” Martin said suddenly,
going around his large desk and pausing halfway. “I spoke wrongly.
It was unfair of me to accuse you. I’ve been grappling quite a bit
with our family's past since your arrival....”

Ferran turned to face him with a raised
eyebrow. “Have you now?” he asked. “By that, I assume you mean
my
past.”

“Father exiled you, and I did nothing!”
Martin burst out. He ran his hand through his long, dark hair; a
few strands fell around his face. “The family could have revoked
your exile twenty years ago, but instead, we let you slip off on
your own. I let father kick you out on the streets. I wanted the
title, Ferran. I wanted your birthright.”

Ferran allowed his brother’s words to settle
between them, like the snow falling outside the window. Finally, he
replied, “I know.”

Martin blinked. “You do?” And then said,
with an ironic smile, “I suppose you would. Quite the realist, I
presume?”

Ferran shrugged. “I’m not naive.”

“Then you know I’m a selfish man at
heart.”

“What Ebonaire isn’t?” Ferran grinned lazily
and thrust his hands in his pockets. “That was twenty years ago,
Martin. If I still held a grudge, you would know it. I didn’t come
here for gold, or any claim to my title. Honestly, life has treated
me well...”
as well as to be expected.
“I simply thought it
was time to make an appearance. I never had a chance to see Father
before he died. You are my true family. I only wish I’d come sooner
so I could have met your wife.”

Martin stiffened at that, then seemed to
relax. He clasped his hands behind his back and casually turned to
a nearby window in thought. Ferran watched the flurries of snow
turn into solid white sheets.

“It really should have been you,” Martin
finally said.

Ferran almost snorted.
No,
he
thought. “How so?”

Martin’s words sounded bitter as he sipped
his wine. “Father prepped you so thoroughly, for all your life,
until you left. I wasn’t ready to take over the business, and
father was never pleased with my performance. Said I had no
imagination, and wasn’t willing to take risks. And then,” waving
his glass, “when I decided to take a risk, it all fell through.
Perhaps he was right. Every choice I made was wrong."

“Seems our father was a hard man to please,”
Ferran commented dryly. He wondered what risk Martin referred to.
He couldn’t quite feel sorry for his brother.
Such a hard life,
running this golden palace,
he thought ironically. Hardship of
a different sort, but not what he would call daunting.

“I’ve had many dark thoughts of late,
Ferran,” Martin said solemnly. His brother gave him a piercing
look, perhaps inspired by the wine, his cigar, or the heat in the
room. “Our family has enemies, you know. I worry, now that my wife
is gone and I haven’t remarried, what might happen to Danica. She
is so young. I fear one day those enemies might come for our
family, or for me, and she won’t be ready.”

Ferran thought of Sora, so strong and
independent, and only a few years older than Danica. “Nonsense,” he
snorted. “She will survive. She’s an Ebonaire. Your enemies
wouldn’t stand a chance. Besides, she would see them coming down
your long front drive well in advance—it's far too long.”

Martin smiled sadly, and Ferran realized his
brother was gravely serious. “I worry about the Ebonaire line,
should anything happen to me. Simeon is young. He wouldn’t know how
to handle our accounts.” Martin abruptly reached into a drawer and
withdrew a stack of leatherbound papers almost six inches thick.
“This alone is not even one-quarter of the trade contracts and
disputes we deal with every year. I used to hire bookkeepers and
stewards to manage the accounts, but it’s hard to know whom to
trust. I caught too many hands in the cigar box, so to speak….”
Martin gave him a pointed look. “Some I still employ because I have
to, but I
must
always check the numbers
and make sure it all adds up. Beyond all that…” he sighed. “Simeon
is a spendthrift. He burns through his allowance like reeds being
fed to a fire. If the Ebonaire fortune were to fall into his
hands….Well, one can’t keep a fortune by spending a fortune,
hm?”

Ferran frowned. Yes, he recalled his father
saying much the same throughout their youth. Where was Martin going
with this?

His brother raised his glass in a mock
salute. “I wish to make an announcement at First Winter’s Ball,” he
said, “and I would like you to be there.”

Ferran didn’t know what to say. “Martin,” he
said slowly, “you don’t need to reintroduce me to society. I didn’t
come here to lay claim to anything….”

“I know,” Martin said. “And that’s why it
must
be you, don’t you see? Father thought you were an
irresponsible, thieving rake when he exiled you. But that’s not the
man I see before me.” He paused and examined his wine glass
thoughtfully. “Taking the map shows keen observation and
intelligence, and a certain boldness I have to admire. You always
were the bold one, Ferran. Fearless, I imagine.”