The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy) (18 page)

Until the stranger did appear

And with his hooded cloak drew near

Demanding to be ushered in

And claiming kinship with the king.

The guard refused; the stranger fought.

His hood fell back and as they sought

To pin him his arms and bind him tight

The stranger hurtled into flight.

His cloak fell free; his wings spread wide

And showed the stranger had not lied.

The emerald leaves with which he flew

Were Mark of Vine and proved him true.

The guard leaped up with mighty bounds

And tore the stranger to the ground.

He fell to earth with broken wings

And broken pride unknown to kings.

The Iron Mark had brought him low.

The cruelty of the Mark’s harsh blows

Was paid by all the guard in kind:

The cost of being metalmind.”

Her voice trailed off, yet the vivid images stayed in Sophia’s mind. “What does that mean—‘The cost of being metalmind?’”

Grandmother Pearl inclined her head. “Why don’t you tell her, dear, about the Mark of Iron?”

Sophia looked past the old woman’s chair and saw with surprise that Theo was standing on the deck in the near darkness, out of sight, but apparently not out of earshot. She realized she had briefly forgotten all about both her nausea and her anger. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved closer and sat down. “The Mark of Iron,” he said quietly, “may be any bone made of metal. Most often it is a person’s teeth. They are sharp and pointed, and they tear.”

Sophia recoiled. “They tore the man’s wings with their
teeth
?”

“They were defending the gate. They were only doing what was expected of them.”

Grandmother Pearl nodded. “It’s true that the guards argued in their defense that they had been protecting the gate. And there was, they claimed, no way for them to know that the stranger was in fact a nephew to the king, returning to Nochtland after years on the northern frontier. The king, however, declared that the Mark of the Vine should have been proof enough.”

“What happened to the king’s nephew?” Sophia asked.

“His wings were shredded by the guards but over time they re-grew, like new leaves.”

“But the guards were put to death,” Theo added.

Grandmother Pearl turned toward him. “The guards were sentenced to death, yes, and the long enmity between the two Marks began to deepen. It had been a mere dislike before, a suspicion, but with the execution of the palace guard the gulf between them grew. The Mark of the Vine is held to be a sign of privilege and aristocracy. Among the royals, the mark often emerges as wings. For others, it might be a patch of skin, a lock of hair, a pair of fingers. The palest weed, if you’re lucky enough to be born with it, is enough to make the humblest child a blessed one. Those who have the Mark are favored in the Baldlands, and those who don’t have it—ordinary people like you and me—attempt to emulate it. The Mark of Iron is held to be a sign of barbarism and disgrace. Today, no one with the Mark of Iron would dare set foot in Nochtland. They’ve all been driven out. The royal family have come to see conspiracy in the smallest piece of metal. It has gone from being disdained to being criminal.”

“Not farther north,” Theo put in.

“Very true,” Grandmother Pearl agreed. “The raiders in the north wear their iron teeth with pride, and they take no shame in baring them to all the world. You will even see them in Veracruz, and on the roads around the city. Still, they all avoid Nochtland. Fair to say?”

Theo gazed out toward the water. “For sure. People with the Mark of Iron have a way of ending up on the wrong side of the law, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And some will class those with the Mark of Iron as wild men—or worse. It’s not unusual to hear them called ‘creatures’ or ‘animals’ by those who are especially narrow-minded, which is why I warn you.”

“But are those with the Mark of Iron really so terrible?” Sophia asked.

“Of course not,” Theo scoffed. “The raiders I know are no worse than anyone else. They’re just people—some good and some bad.”

“So you see,” Grandmother Pearl said, “it’s a cruel way of thinking, that has divided people in the Baldlands over many decades.”

Sophia realized that the sun had set completely. The sky was dark and filled with stars, and a slender moon hung on the horizon. “So that’s what they mean when they talk about ‘creatures.’”

“Well,” the old woman said, “there are also what you and I would call creatures
—
animals from other Ages and strange beings you don’t see on land or sea.”

“Like the Lachrima,” Theo said. Sophia rolled her eyes in the darkness.

Grandmother Pearl was silent for a moment. “Yes, like the Lachrima.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t hold with superstition, but there are some on board who wouldn’t like to hear you say that word. It’s thought that naming them brings them closer.”

“Who would have thought? Pirates
are
afraid of something, after all,” Theo said, grinning, the somber air that had previously taken hold of him apparently banished.

“Oh, yes! We like gunfire well enough, but apparitions and Lachrima are another matter.”

“Have you ever heard one?” Theo wondered avidly.

“I have,” she said somberly. “The first time was long ago, in the Baldlands, but only a few years back, when we were in Havana, I heard one haunting a ship called the
Rosaline
.”

“They’re not just in the Baldlands, then?” Sophia asked.

“They’re most often found there, but you might hear one almost anywhere. This one had been aboard the
Rosaline
for weeks. The poor sailors were at their wits’ ends. When they came ashore in Havana, they abandoned ship, and the captain couldn’t convince a single soul to return. In the end, either the captain or someone else cut the ship loose, letting it drift empty with nothing but the Lachrima. If it hasn’t sunk, it’s out there now, sailing around the world with its lone passenger. Eventually it will no doubt fall to pieces—an empty vessel on an empty sea. The Lachrima will disappear and fade with time.”

“Oh, they
disappear
,” Sophia said with sudden comprehension. She thought back to Mrs. Clay’s story and the Lachrima’s abrupt vanishing at the border. “How? Why?”

“Hard to say. It’s for this reason that they appear to some as monsters, to others as phantoms, and to still others as only a distant sound. In Xela they appear most in the last form; people refer to the crying as
el llanto del espanto,
‘the spirit’s lament.’ No one knows how they disappear. They are not understood well at all, poor creatures. But my sense is that they comprehend their fate. They know that they are disappearing. And they are terrified of it. Wouldn’t you be?” Grandmother Pearl pushed herself to her feet. “Well, with that I’ll leave you. Have I distracted you from your seasickness?”

“Yes, thank you.” Sophia said earnestly. “I forgot all about it.”

“Good. Tomorrow we’ll talk of happier things, no?” She rested one hand on Sophia’s forehead and then let her hand float until it found Theo’s forehead. “Good night, children.”

“Good night, Grandmother Pearl,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing it gently.

“Ah!” she said, gripping his hand between both her own. She felt his scars almost tenderly. “That’s why you gave me your left hand before, dear boy.” She smiled down at him. “There’s no shame in this hand, Theo. Only strength.”

He gave a forced laugh, but didn’t reply.

“Only strength,” she repeated, patting his hand. “Good night. Sleep well.”

17

A
Swan
in the Gulf

C
ALIXTA
AND
B
URTON
Morris came from a long line of pirates. Their parents and grandparents had sailed the dangerous waters of the Caribbean when every ship, regardless of its sail, was a potential enemy. No one who met Calixta and Burr, as he was known to all, suspected at first from their easy manner the tragedy that lay in their past. In fact, it was the tragedy itself that allowed them to enjoy life so fully; they knew it could be taken away in an instant.

They had been twins, two children among seven. Their mother had been the daughter of a pirate captain. Their father was the first mate of the infamous
Typhoon
. For years they sailed together, along with their growing family, until the captain of the
Typhoon
, in his zeal to maintain his ship’s reputation, attacked an ambitious rival. The battle was long and bitter, and when it ended the ships were nothing more than burnt shells.

Calixta and Burr, less than a year old at the time, lay together in their baby basket and drifted on the charred remains all the way to shore. Grandmother Pearl was one of the
Typhoon
’s few survivors, and though the fires caused her to lose her sight, she stayed with the basket and protected the infants with all her remaining strength.

It was Grandmother Pearl who raised them, and it was she who chose the
Swan
, the ship sailed by kindly old Captain Aceituna. Though Aceituna called himself a pirate, he had grown cautious in old age, and he sailed only the safer routes. He dedicated himself to shipping the rubber tapped in the southern Baldlands to the United Indies and New Occident, where the material was used to make Goodyears, boots, and other valuable commodities. The “weeping wood” grown on the outskirts of the Triple Eras had made many people, including Aceituna, quite rich.

Of course the tragedy of their family’s death hung over Calixta and Burr, but Grandmother Pearl and the others on the
Swan
made life for the two children as happy as they could. When Aceituna retired, leaving the ship in their care, Calixta and Burr vowed that the
Swan
would never become like the
Typhoon
. They did not aim for greatness; they aimed for prosperity. The
Swan
never attacked without provocation. The Morrises laughed good-naturedly when pirates from other ships mocked them as the “polite pirates.” “Better polite than dead,” Burr always replied. “Besides,” he would sometimes add, “why look for a fight when the best fights always come to me?” Calixta kept track of the routes sailed by other pirates and mapped the
Swan
’s path to prevent unexpected confrontations.

On her second night aboard, Sophia had occasion to study the ship’s nautical charts, and it gave her the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She had already decided to ask Burr and Calixta for help in reaching Nochtland. She had no choice, but even if she had been able to get there without them, she would have asked. The way that Burr had helped her on the dock in New Orleans and the fact that Calixta had saved her pack when she easily could have either left it or taken it for herself had paved the way. Grandmother Pearl’s kindness convinced her further. The pirates clearly had nothing to do with the Sandmen and Montaigne, and it could only help, she decided, to tell them what had happened to Shadrack.

She sat on the deck surrounded by lanterns, poring over the charts and weather maps that Burr had brought from his cabin. He and Calixta were a few paces away, attempting to teach Theo the rudiments of sword-fighting. Grandmother Pearl sat listening to them with a smile.

“Molasses, don’t stand there facing me like you’re asking to be skewered,” Burr counseled. “Turn your body sideways.”

“It’s heavy,” Theo protested, pacing backward with the sword in both his hands. “I’d rather just use a revolver.”

“And lazy to top it off,” Burr said, advancing toward him and rolling his eyes at Calixta. “Calixta’s half your size and she wields that sword you’re holding like one of her hat pins.”

“Half his size?” she exclaimed, whirling on her brother and disarming him with the wooden pole she held. “What do I look like to you, a fat fish?”

“Fish aren’t nearly as vain as you are, dearest,” Burr replied, dodging the pole and rolling across the deck to retrieve his sword. “And they don’t look as charming in ruffled petticoats,” he conceded, turning back to Theo. “Use your other hand,” he said, “the one you apparently like to use as a dartboard.”

Theo grimaced and passed the sword to his scarred hand. “I’m just saying, a revolver’s a lot easier.”

Burr quickly loosened a length of rope near him and Theo looked up, too late, and was trapped beneath a sprawling fishing net. “Agh!” he shouted, dropping the sword with a clatter and struggling against the knotted ropes.

“Pistol wouldn’t do much for you now, would it, Molly?”

“We just bought that net last month,” Calixta complained.

“He’s not going to cut through it. Look at him.” Burr chuckled as Theo fought to disentangle himself. “What were you saying about fat fish?”

Sophia, who had been entirely absorbed with the charts she was studying, suddenly let out a gasp. “Oh!” she exclaimed, holding up a paper map. “This is Shadrack’s!”

“Who, dear?” Grandmother Pearl asked.

Sophia collected herself. “My uncle, Shadrack Elli. He made this map.”

“Did he, now?” Burr said with interest. He and Calixta peered over her shoulder. “Ah, yes! Quite a map, that one. This island,” he said, pointing, “is so remote that most people have never even heard of it. Only pirates ever go there. And yet this map is incredibly exact. Every stream, every rock—it’s remarkable.”

“Yes. It’s a lovely map,” Sophia agreed, gazing down at the fine lines drawn in her uncle’s familiar hand.

“How does he do it? He’s never been there, I’m sure.”

“I don’t really know,” she admitted. Shadrack was an exceptional cartologer, of course, but even with all that she knew of his methods, there were many that still eluded her. “He probably talked to an explorer. That’s how he makes a lot of his maps.”

“But with this degree of precision?”

“He’s good at that. If you describe something to him, he can make a perfect map of it.”

Calixta shook her head. “But people never
know
entirely what they see. They always forget things or miss them. Are all his maps like this?”

“Well,” Sophia replied, hesitating, “he really has all kinds of different maps.” She paused a moment longer and then slowly reached into her pack. “In fact, this map he left me is very different. I still haven’t been able to make sense of it.” Sophia drew out the glass map, which she had left awake. Its etched lines shone faintly. “You see, Shadrack didn’t run off with an actress. He would never do something like that,” she said, giving Theo a scathing look just as he emerged from beneath the fishing net. “He was kidnapped. He left a note telling me to find a friend of his in Nochtland, and he left me this. The men in New Orleans—the Sandmen. This is what they were after.”

Burr gave her a keen look while Calixta sat down beside her.

“It’s a glass map,” Sophia said. “Have you ever seen one?”

Calixta and Burr shook their heads. “They won’t have heard of it,” Theo said. “They’re common in the Baldlands, but nowhere else.”

Burr raised his eyebrows. “Can we take a look?” She nodded, and the two joined her.

“Describe it for me, will you?” Grandmother Pearl whispered.

“It’s a sheet of glass,” Sophia said, “that in the moonlight becomes covered with writing. Most of it in other languages.”

“Here it says in English
You will see it through me
,” Burr said.

“But that’s just the writing,” Sophia said.

“What do you mean, ‘just the writing’?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the glass.

“It’s a memory map.” Now that she was confronted with it again, she felt reluctant to experience the memories she knew it contained. “Theo and I have read it before. I think it’s the same wherever you place your finger.”

“And then what happens?” Calixta asked.

“You see the memories that are in the map.”

For a moment the pirates stared at Sophia in disbelief, and then Calixta leaned forward. “Me first.” She eagerly placed her fingertip on the glass, and immediately her expression changed. She closed her eyes, her face still and thoughtful. When she took her finger away, she shuddered.

“Heavens, Calixta. What is it?” asked Burr.

“You try it,” she said shortly.

He touched the glass surface, his expression grave as the memories flooded his mind. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said slowly, when they had run their course. “What, exactly, is this map
of
?”

“We don’t know,” Sophia said. “My uncle left it for me. I’d never seen it before. And it’s strange that it’s all writing. I have no idea when or where it’s from.”

“I’d like to try it, dears,” Grandmother Pearl said, reaching forward. “If one of you will just guide my hand.”

Sophia did so, and as soon as she touched the glass, the old woman gasped. Sophia drew her hand away. “No—I want to see the whole thing,” she said, and Sophia placed her finger once again on the smooth surface.

“Did your uncle ever mention such an event in another context?” Burr inquired.

Sophia shook her head. “Not that I recall.”

Grandmother Pearl finished reading; her face was withdrawn, her brow furrowed.

“The thing is,” Sophia said with some consternation, “I don’t know that much about memory maps. I was only starting to learn about them. Shadrack said that they come from people’s memories of the past. That’s really all I know.”

“Are you very sure, love?” asked Grandmother Pearl.

“What do you mean?” Sophia asked.

“I wonder,” the old woman said. “It reminds me of something. The part in the memory when something heavy is rolled off the edge, and then everything is destroyed. It sounds so much like an old legend my mother used to tell me. Could the map be a story? Could it be something made up?”

Surprised, Sophia returned to the glass map. “I don’t know. Shadrack says a map can only contain what its author knows. I suppose that could be a story, as long as it’s true. It bears the mapmaker’s insignia, which means whoever wrote it swore to make an accurate account. What’s the legend?”

Grandmother Pearl leaned back in her chair. “It’s a story I never told you, Calixta and Burton, because it’s too sad and terrible. In truth, it was very foolish of my mother to tell it to me.”

Burr smiled at her. “Well, now we’re all grown up, Granny. Do your worst.”

Her face lit up with tenderness. “You foolish boy. This story strikes terror into any heart, young or old. It’s a story about the end of the world. I believe my mother told it to me because she was haunted by it herself. She called it ‘the story of the boy from the buried city.’”

—18-Hour 20: Grandmother Pearl’s Story—

“
T
HE
STORY
GOES
like this.

“In a city far away, in a time yet to come, there’s a boy—an orphan. The boy is an outcast; no one wants him because of a terrible burn on one side of his face. He doesn’t know where the burn came from; he only knows that it has left him marked forever, and that no one loves him because of it. He wanders the streets alone, and he is cast out of every doorway. Then, in great sadness and despair, he climbs all the way to the high temple, where, at the top of five hundred steps, the stone god that protects the city sits on a ledge. He asks the temple seer how he has come to be what he is and how he can change it. The seer stares for a long time at the bones that fall in a pattern before her, and finally she tells him this: ‘You are not from here,’ she says. ‘You are from an underground city. That is your true home. That is why no one here loves you and you do not belong.’ The boy asks her how he can get to the underground city, but the seer does not know. She too recoils from his burnt face. ‘All I know is that the stone god protecting us will fall before you find it.’

“The boy is haunted by this knowledge, and he searches through the entire city for some entrance, some doorway, some tunnel to the city underground. He never finds it. Finally, in desperation, he devises a plan. He will make the stone god fall. He will destroy the city and find the passage underground in the ruins. He has been too unloved, after all. Perhaps if there were one person in the city he could think of kindly, he would be unable to do it. But there is no one he can think of in that way. He runs all the way up the five hundred steps and from there to the ledge where the stone god sits. The boy is small, but the stone gives way easily and falls. The entire temple begins to crumble around him, and as he races down the five hundred steps, the fires begin.

“The city burns for a whole week, until nothing but ash remains, and the boy picks through the rubble, searching for the entrance to the underground city. What he finds surprises him. There are entrances to the underground city everywhere—in almost every building and on every street. But before the fire they were carefully boarded up; they were sealed and covered and hidden; it seems when the city was created, everyone was intent on keeping whatever lay underground out.

“The boy follows one of the passages deep into the ground. He travels for hours. And at the end he finds the city that the seer promised him. It is a beautiful city, built underground from shimmering stone. It has vast pools of water and wide walkways. Precious metals line the roads and jewels wink at him from the doorways. There is only one difficulty. The city is empty. As the boy walks through it, he hears his own footfalls echoing through the vast, deserted caverns. He spends many days exploring the empty city, and on the fifth day he discovers, to his surprise, another person. At the very center of the underground city he finds an old—very old—man, who says he is a seer. The boy sits down wearily before him. ‘I have had enough of seers,’ he says. ‘So I won’t ask you my destiny. But tell me. Why is this city empty? Where have all the people gone, and why are you still here?’