The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy) (11 page)

Sophia looked apprehensively at the blank expanse that bordered New Akan to the west and south. She folded the map slowly. “We should pack,” she said. “Maybe we can catch the midday train to Charleston.”

—9-Hour 03: Leaving for Charleston—

S
OPHIA
RETRIEVED
HER
new pack from where she had left it by the front door. She had never imagined it would be put to use so soon. Pulling a small leather trunk out of the wardrobe in her bedroom, she began stowing her clothes, soap, a hairbrush, and a pair of blankets. Though her everyday boots were comfortable enough, she decided to take the laced leather shoes that she used during the school year for athletic competitions. If nothing else went as planned, at least she would be able to run as fast as her feet could carry her. Theo watched from the doorway. “You can borrow any shirts of Shadrack’s that fit,” she said, without looking up. “And his socks are in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. But you probably remember seeing them there yourself.”

“Very kind of you,” Theo said with a smile, acknowledging the barb. “So you’re still mad?”

“I am fine,” Sophia said, pushing down on the blankets so that they fit.

“All right, if you say so. I’ll be back in a bit—I have to get some shoes.”

Sophia closed her trunk and opened her pack. Sewn from durable, waterproof canvas, it had multiple pockets inside and out. She tucked her pencils, erasers, and a ruler into the pockets. She took a spare pillowcase from her wardrobe, wrapped the glass map in it and put it inside her current drawing notebook alongside Shadrack’s note. The book and atlas fit nicely. Steeling herself, she went once more to Shadrack’s room and opened the bureau drawer where he kept their currency. After folding the bills into a small leather purse beside her identity papers and her lifewatch, she closed the bureau. She tidied the drawers that Theo had left open and straightened the bed. Then, with one last look around the room, she slung the pack’s straps over her shoulders and headed downstairs to find maps for their trip to Nochtland.

When Theo returned, he was wearing a pair of handsome brown boots that looked worn but well cared for. He seemed very pleased with himself. “Where’d you get those?” Sophia asked suspiciously.

“Nice, aren’t they? I went around the block until I found a cobbler, and then I just went in and told him that I’d paid for and left a pair of size ten boots there months earlier and had lost the slip. He searched around in the back room and came back with these. He said he’d been on the verge of throwing them away!”

“Well, I hope someone doesn’t stop you on the street and ask for them back,” she said tersely. She carefully rolled the maps that lay before her on the table and placed them in the new roll-tube. “I have plenty of maps for the rail journey, and I found a map of Nochtland, but there’s nothing with enough detail for the border and nothing for the whole piece of the Baldlands between the border and Nochtland.”

“I told you—I know that part,” Theo said. “No need for a map.”

They heard steps on the stairs. “I’ve packed you some food,” said Mrs. Clay as she entered, handing Theo a basket that appeared full to the brim. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.” Her eyes grew teary. “I’m sorry, Sophia dear, for all of this.” She cleared her throat. “Are you packed?”

“We’re ready to go,” Sophia said.

Mrs. Clay embraced her warmly. “Do be careful, dear. Don’t worry about me or the house—we’ll be fine. Just take care. I have your schedule, and I’ll be here to tell Shadrack what happened should he return.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clay.”

The housekeeper shook hands with Theo. “You must take care of each other,” she said. “And may the Fates look after you well.”

10

The White Chapel

O
N
A
HIGH
hill surrounded by pines at the northern edge of New Occident stood a sprawling stone mansion bleached white by the sun. The mansion’s windows sparkled in the bright light, and the silver weathervanes on its peaked gables gleamed. A dirt road with a single rail track wove through the pines and up the hill, circling at the entrance. There was no movement along the track. A few crows flapped lazily up through the pines toward a stone cross on the mansion’s highest peak. At one end of the mansion, connected by a narrow archway, stood a chapel. The crows wheeled and cawed and then came to rest on its stone cross. As they claimed their perch, the entire scene became one of perfect stillness—even peace. The pine trees, the streaming sunlight, the pale mansion, all formed a serene landscape. But inside the chapel there was no stillness. In the cavernous vault, a purposeful movement was gathering momentum.

Shadrack sat alone, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles bound to the legs of the chair. He was staring up at the ceiling, his head resting against the cool stone wall behind him. The floor had long since been cleared of its pews, so that the chapel appeared more a workroom than a place of worship. Shelves weighed down by thousands of books lined its walls, and the numerous long tables were covered with piles of paper and open books and ink bottles. At the front of the chapel, where the altar would have been, stood a huge, black furnace. The furnace was, at the moment, unlit. It stood quietly in the company of its bellows and tongs and a pair of charred leather gloves. From the tools and materials scattered around it, the furnace appeared to have a single purpose: making glass.

Shadrack watched the furnace’s creations circling silently through the chapel vault far above him: hundreds of large glass globes in a gliding constellation, controlled by a single mechanism that rose up from the center of the floor. The metal gears connecting them—not unlike those of a clock, to Shadrack’s inexpert eye—must have been well-oiled, because they emitted no sound. He watched the globes’ smooth, endless rotations. He had been staring for hours.

The globes’ surfaces were not still. Each seemed to shiver with a perpetual motion that appeared almost lifelike. The light streaming through the stained-glass windows reflected off them onto the stone walls and ceiling. They were too high up for Shadrack to see clearly, but this delicate trembling only added to their beauty. As they dipped closer, the globes seemed at times to reveal subtle shapes or expressions. Shadrack felt certain that if he watched for long enough, the pattern they traced would become clear.

He was also trying with all his might to stay awake. He had not slept since leaving the house on East Ending Street. In part, he had been trying to work out who had taken him captive. The men who had seized him were Nihilismians. It was evident from the amulets that hung from their necks: small or large, metal or wood or carved stone, they all bore the distinctive open-hand symbol. But they were unlike any other followers of Amitto that Shadrack had ever known, and he speculated that they belonged to some obscure, militant sect; for apart from the amulets, they all carried iron grappling hooks. Shadrack could tell by the way they used their weapons in the rooms of his house that they were practiced. Most disturbingly, the silent men all bore the same unusual scars: lines that stretched from the corners of their mouths, across their cheeks, to the tops of their ears. They were gruesome, unchanging, artificial grins, etched onto unsmiling faces.

Once Shadrack had persuaded them that they had found what they were looking for, they had ended their assault on the house and retreated into unresponsive silence. The ride out of Boston in the coach had been a long one, and he had tried—with only partial success—to map the route. It had been difficult once they blindfolded him and placed him in a railway car, but his inner compass told him that they had traveled north several hours, and from the occasional gust of cold wind he suspected that they were no more than an hour or two south of the Prehistoric Snows.

All the anger he had felt when they first captured him had slowly faded during the day-long journey. It had changed to a sharp-edged attentiveness. The night air, as they emerged from the railcar, had felt cool but still summery. He had smelled pine and moss. The scarred Nihilismians had brought him directly from the railway car to the chapel, tied him to a chair, and removed his blindfold. Then they had disappeared. The slow movement of the globes had soothed the remaining sting of his anger, and now he felt only an intense curiosity as to his circumstances and surroundings. His captivity had become another exploration.

As he stared at the globes, he suddenly heard a door open somewhere near the altar. He turned to look. Two of the men entered the chapel, followed by a woman wearing a cream-colored dress with tightly buttoned sleeves. A blond linen veil hid her features entirely. As she approached with a quick, easy step, Shadrack tried to make out what he could from her bearing without being able to see her face.

The woman stopped a few feet away from him. “I have found you at the end of a long search, Shadrack Elli. But not the Tracing Glass that I sought—where is it?”

The moment Shadrack heard the woman speak, the meaning of her words became indistinct. Her voice was beautiful—and familiar: low, gentle, and even, with a slight accent that he could not place. Though her words betrayed no emotion, their sound threw him into a tempest of inchoate memories. He had heard her voice before; he knew this woman. And she must know him, too; why else hide her face behind the blond veil? But despite the rushing sense of familiarity, he could not remember who she was. Shadrack roused himself, trying to shake off the feeling that had taken hold. He told himself to concentrate and to give nothing away in his reply. “I’m sorry. I gave your men what they asked me for. I don’t know what glass you mean.”

“You do, Shadrack,” the woman said softly. She took a step closer. “You and I are on the same side. Tell me where it is, and I promise I will put everything right.”

For a moment, Shadrack believed her. He had to make a monumental effort to hear the meaning of her words and not just their sound. “If you and I are on the same side,” he said, “then there is no reason why I should be tied to this chair. In fact,” he added, “there is no reason why your Nihilismian thugs should have dragged me from my house in the first place.” As he spoke, he found the effect of the woman’s voice fading. “Why not let me go, and I promise
I’ll
put everything right.”

The woman shook her head; her veil quivered. “Before I do anything else, I really must insist that you tell me where it is.” She rested her gloved hand lightly on his shoulder. “You fooled my Sandmen, but you won’t fool me. Where is the Tracing Glass?” she whispered.

Shadrack stared as hard as he could through the veil, but even this close it revealed nothing. “I have dozens of glass maps. Or at least I did, before your ‘Sandmen’ broke most of them. Perhaps you should look through the pieces—the glass you want is probably there.”

The woman let out a small sigh and stepped away. “I thought it might be this way, Shadrack. Still, I am glad to have you here.” The woman’s tone was calm and only slightly troubled, as if she were discussing a trifling concern with a friend rather than issuing threats to a bound man. She indicated the swirling glass globes above her. “You may be the greatest known cartologer in New Occident—perhaps in the world,” she said. “But you will forgive me for saying that I believe I am the greatest
unknown
cartologer.” She gazed up at the globes and spoke to them, rather than to Shadrack. “I would have benefited from your company before now. Years and years of work,” she said quietly. “Trial and error—mostly error.” She once again looked at her captive. “Do you know how difficult it is to create a spherical glass map? The glass-blowing technique alone took me ages to perfect, and working with a sphere adds a whole new dimension—if you will—to the mapmaking. Still,” she said softly, “the effort was well worth it. Don’t you think?”

“I’d really have to read them for myself to determine their quality.”

The woman turned abruptly. “Yes—why not? I’ve wanted nothing more for quite some time.” She signaled to the two men, who were standing some distance away. “That desk,” she said, pointing. Without untying Shadrack, the two men snagged the chair with their grappling hooks and dragged it to a heavy desk that stood several feet away. It held a glass globe on a metal stand.

The woman untied his hands. “Go ahead—please. Look closely.”

Shadrack rubbed his wrists and, after a keen glance at his captor, turned his attention to the globe. It was slightly opaque—cloudy—and about the size of a human head. The metal base was intricately wrought—copper, it seemed—and the glass was perfectly smooth. It shimmered with the uneasy movement Shadrack had observed. For several moments he stared at it uncomprehendingly, and then he realized that the play of motion within the globe was created by grains of sand. They moved with some unseen power, circling gently through a kind of dance. They showered down, grazed the bottom of the globe, and arced upward again. Suddenly the sand fell into a pattern, and Shadrack saw an unmistakably human face gazing out at him.

He recoiled. “This is not a map of the world. It’s a map of a human mind.”

The woman inclined her veiled head toward him, as if conceding a point. “You are very close.”

Shadrack had not yet touched the globe. Now, with some trepidation, he placed his fingertips gently on the smooth surface. The memories that surged into his mind were more powerful than any he’d ever experienced. He was assailed by the smell of honeysuckle and he heard the ring of laughter in his ears; he had been tossed into a honeysuckle bush, and he felt the crush of leaves under his hands as he tried to free himself. He recalled getting up and running over a damp lawn and then tripping, falling headlong into the grass. He felt the wet blades against his cheek and the smell of soil in his nose. The memories were those of a child.

Shadrack pulled his fingertips away with a gasp and gazed again at the cloudy globe. He shook his head. “It’s remarkable.” His voice was frankly admiring. “I’ve never experienced such powerful smells, sights, sounds. I confess to being curious: how have you mapped such vivid memories?”

The woman leaned forward and touched her gloved fingertip to the globe. “You must know from having made memory maps yourself that no matter how much you try, people always hold something back. The memory is still theirs, after all. As the cartologer you only gather a dim echo.”

Shadrack shrugged. “Better a dim memory than none at all. All maps are like that. They only express an outline, a guide, to a far richer world.”

“Yes, but I do not want outlines. I want the memories themselves.”

Again, he stared intently at the blond veil. “That would be impossible. Besides,” he added, with a note of admonishment, “one has one’s own memories.”

The woman didn’t speak. Then she reached out and gently touched the globe again with a gloved finger. She lingered a moment, then pulled away and spoke, ignoring Shadrack’s last words. “It is not impossible. I have accomplished it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The memories are so vivid because they are
complete
. They are captured whole in those grains of sand.” She spoke as if describing something of great beauty.

Shadrack looked at the globe with consternation. “And what of the person they belonged to? The boy—or man—who had these memories?”

“The memories are no longer his.”

“You stole them?” The woman shrugged, as if she found the word clumsy but apt. “I don’t believe you,” Shadrack said. He faced the veil in silence. “How did you do it?” he finally asked.

The woman let out a quick sigh of satisfaction. “I knew you would be interested. I will show you the process sometime. For now, I can tell you that it involves submerging the subject in sand and then using that sand to make a globe. It is a beautiful method. But the results—even more beautiful. You see, the globe you are looking at is not the map. This”—she indicated the constellation of globes circling overhead—“is the map. This is the map that led me to you.”

“Then you will have to read it for me,” Shadrack said acidly, “because I see no map in that collection of stolen memories.”

“Do you not?” the woman asked, sounding faintly surprised. “Look more closely. See how they move—gliding, drifting away, suddenly drawing near. All those memories are connected. Someone passing someone else in the street. One person catching a glimpse of another through a window. Someone finds a lost book here, someone gives it away there. Someone discovers an old crate full of glass panes, and another person sells them in a market. Someone buys one of the panes and makes a cabinet of it. Someone steals the cabinet. Does this sound familiar? It may have occurred before your time. There is a story—a history—circling over your head, and the map it draws has led me to you. I have taken many memories to find the Tracing Glass, and you with it.”

Shadrack found it difficult to speak. “Then you have wasted your time.”

“No,” she said quietly. “I have learned much. Far more than I expected. You see—people’s memories are richer than they know. They ignore memories that seem unimportant, but to the careful reader they spring out, full of meaning.” She lifted the glass globe and turned it lightly, then replaced it before Shadrack on the desk. “This last one was the key. Read it again.”