The Mapmaker's Sons (4 page)

“Of course he did.”

“Oh.” Tom's hands sat unmoving in his lap. “Um, no offense and all, and I'm sure it's totally great as far as wooden legs go. I mean, there's probably pirates all over the world who would just love to have it, but I don't really—”

“Don't be an idiot,” hissed Professor Lost. “He doesn't mean for you to have the
leg.
Your inheritance is what's
inside
it.”

“Inside?”

Umbrey nodded. “An inheritance so priceless, I couldn't let it out of my sight. I've been waiting for just this moment.” He again extended the leg toward Tom. “Take it, lad. It's all yours now.”

Tom hesitated. He looked from Umbrey to Lost, then back to Umbrey. Slowly, cautiously, he reached for the leg.

The appendage carried with it the scent of wood and grass and the sharp tang of a sea breeze, and something else, something familiar yet just outside Tom's mental grasp. It was heavier than he thought. Uglier, too. Marred by gouges and scrapes, the dark wood was stained by age, blood, and things Tom didn't want to consider too closely. There was no special engraving, no mark of any kind, not even the initials of the man who wore it.

Tom glanced inside the hollow core but didn't see anything. He gave it a gentle shake and turned it upside down. Some small, ridiculous part of his brain, stimulated by the word
inheritance,
waited for diamonds, rare coins, precious jewels, or something equally valuable to tumble out.

Nothing happened. He shook it again. The same result. His first thought was that it was empty. That the events of the evening had been some sort of bizarre trick. A prank. But Mortimer Lost wasn't the sort of man who would pull a prank on anybody. In fact, Tom could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Lost
smile
in all the years he'd been at the academy (and that without using his thumb, pinkie, or index finger).

Aware that Lost and Umbrey were watching him intently, he squinted into the limb. A faint band of color—mottled tan versus the surrounding deep brown—caught his eye. He reached inside the leg and gently fingered the pale smudge, half expecting to be rewarded with a splinter. Instead, he felt a rough piece of paper pressed up against the inner hollow of the leg. He gave a gentle tug and pulled it free.

An old map. That was all. Together, they smoothed the paper across Lost's desk, using books to press the curled edges flat.
Tom silently estimated its value, deciding it probably wasn't particularly special or expensive. He'd seen dozens of maps like it in antique shops, museums, seafood restaurants, even stuck in cheap frames and hung on walls in doctors' and dentists' offices.

Hiding his disappointment, he scanned the badly worn document. It might once have been brilliantly colored, but the ink had faded to a dull suggestion of its former glory. The detail, however, was mildly interesting. Part of it depicted things he recognized: mountains and forests, lakes, oceans, ancient cities, fortresses, caves and volcanoes, warriors on horseback, and tribes bearing spears. But sprinkled throughout were foreign symbols and strange markings, coupled with the sort of mythical creatures ancient mapmakers used to draw when they had no idea what actually existed: dragons and sea monsters, lions with the bodies of zebras, reptilian birds.

He pulled his gaze away and frowned at Umbrey and Lost. “So those guys in the belfry … were they after me, or this map?”

“Yes,” Umbrey replied.

Tom shook his head in annoyance. “Yes, what? Me? Or this?” He flicked a corner of the parchment. “It's not even a real map.”

“Not real?”
roared Umbrey, pivoting once again to glare at Professor Lost. “Not real! You never told him? You never trained him?”

“You will not speak to me in that tone, Umbrey.” Lost shot to his feet, drilling his index finger into the ledger as he spoke. “The whole point of bringing the boy here was to avoid confrontation with Keegan. Give him a normal life in
this
world, not yours. No map reading, no exploring, no battle techniques. Keegan's men were never meant to be here! I will not have it!”

Umbrey studied him in silence for a long minute. Then he
spoke. “But The Watch
was
here. Somehow they've crossed over.”

“They can't cross over! That's the whole point.”

“I won't argue facts. Keegan's found a way. Just as you did and I did and Tom did. And now that they know where to find him, they will come again. With bigger numbers and greater force. Any safety the boy has found here is gone. Our only hope is to get what's at the end of this map before Keegan does. You know it as well as I do.”

Lost opened his mouth as if to reply, then abruptly closed it, a muscle in his jaw working spasmodically.

Umbrey turned and looked at Tom. “I'll speak plain, lad, because we don't have much time. Your father was a cartographer,” he said. “A mapmaker. The best who ever lived. This map was his masterpiece. The problem is, it's locked. That's why Keegan's men were after you. You can unlock it.”

Tom frowned. “I don't have a key.”

“I didn't say a key would unlock the map. I said you could unlock it.
You
are the key—or at least part of the key.” Umbrey lifted his hand. He slowly drew it across the map, holding it a few inches above the surface. “See? Nothing. It's the same when Mortimer does it. Now you try.”

“Me? Why—”

“Do it, lad.”

With a shrug, Tom raised his hand and mimicked the motion. “There. Now what—”

Umbrey's hand shot out. He caught Tom's wrist and held it still, locking it in a grip just shy of painful. All traces of warmth had left his eyes. “I can't fault you for not knowing your past. But I will fault you for turning your back on everyone who gave their life to keep this map—and you—safe.” He released Tom's wrist. “Your father's gift is in you, lad, whether you like it or not. Whether you want it or not. It may not answer our questions just yet, but the map will speak to you if you let it.”

“I tried.”

“Try harder. This time put a little heart into it.”

Tom bit back a surge of annoyance and turned away. Having nowhere else for his gaze to fall, he studied the map. Really looked at it. As he did, a tremor of nervous anticipation shot through his belly. He felt as if he'd just reached the peak of a monster roller coaster and was about to plummet to the ground. Then, slowly, his trepidation was replaced by something else. An odd warmth spread through him. Recognition set in. The map seemed to shimmer, silently calling out to him, as though it were a living thing aching to be awakened by his touch. He took a deep breath, centered his thoughts, and drew his palm over the parchment.

Nothing. Feeling foolish, he began to pull his hand away when he felt a sudden tingling sensation surge through his fingertips. A sharp sting followed.

“Ow!” He jerked back his hand and looked at it. A miniature spear, no bigger than a pin, pierced his thumb. His gaze flew back to the map. The tiny band of tribal people shook their weapons at him, then went still.

Tom blinked. He looked at his thumb. He looked at the map. He looked at Lost, at Umbrey. “But that's not possible …”

He plucked the tiny spear from his flesh and traced his hand over the map again. Sparks shot from a volcano, salt water sprayed from the ocean, a mythical lion roared. Tom gave a shout of laughter. “What is that thing? A game? How does it work?”

Umbrey shook his head. “Not a game. A place.” He rubbed his fingers over the upper right corner of the map, brushing away a smear of dirt to reveal two bold words written in a large, ornate script:
The Beyond.

“After all those stormy nights up on the rooftop, don't you recognize it?” Umbrey asked. “That's the world you've been looking for.”

“U
mbrey? That's it? Just Umbrey?”

“If a single name's good enough for God and the Devil, I reckon it's good enough for me.”

Tom trailed Umbrey and Professor Lost across the school grounds, toward the woods that bordered the soccer fields. Entry into the woods by the students of the academy was strictly forbidden. Which meant that Tom and his friends knew their way through them fairly well, having spent several Sunday afternoons there engaged in epic battles of capture the flag. (Such outings were only possible on those rare occasions when Professor Lost left the academy grounds and put in charge Professor Warren, a man who preferred long, restful naps to keen surveillance.) Even so, Tom had never ventured deeply into the woods before.

“So you have a car parked somewhere back here, or what?”

“A car?” Umbrey gave a sharp bark of laughter. “No four-wheeled contraption can get us where we're going, lad.”

“So we're walking?”

“Aye. We're walking.”

The rain had temporarily abated, but their clothing grew
damp as the wind whipped residual droplets from the leaves. Heavy clouds parted overhead, allowing just enough moonlight to guide their steps. The ground was slick beneath their feet, yet Umbrey moved without awkwardness or hesitation, his purposeful stride unhampered by darkness, weather, or lack of a limb.

Even Professor Lost, ancient as he was, appeared to have no trouble navigating the woods. Tom caught a glimpse of the professor's profile: cheeks hollowed by age, peaked nose thrust out as though sniffing for trouble, thin lips pressed into a line of grim determination. He brought with him a furled umbrella and a leather-bound book, which he carried tucked tightly under his arm. Not exactly the kind of guy Tom would have picked for this sort of late-night escapade.

Which brought him back to the whole reason they were there in the first place. The map. His fingers itched to touch it again, to watch it come to life beneath his hands. Instead, he'd barely had a chance to see how the thing worked before it had been whisked away from him. Then he'd been hustled out of
Lost's office and thrust into their trek through the woods. Tom's gaze moved to Umbrey's peg leg, into which the parchment had once again been placed for safekeeping.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Shipping accident. Lost it a few years back. Caught it under a beam.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry I asked.”

Umbrey looked over his shoulder at Tom. “Ask all the questions you want, lad. You're in this up to your neck, much as I wish I could spare you from it.”

“All right.” Tom thought for a moment. “What does the map lead to?”

“The sword.”

“A sword? That's it?”

“Not
a
sword, boy.
The
sword. But the map won't do us any good at all if Keegan finds the sword before we do.”

Tom nodded, mulling that over. “So, let me get this straight. All I have to do is ask the map where to find this sword; it'll show me, then we grab it before Keegan does, right?”