The Mapmaker's Sons (6 page)

Tom turned next to a piece of parchment mounted on the wall to his right. A knife pinned it to a rough beam, holding it aloft. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a map. But it was not the map Umbrey had shown him in Professor Lost's office. This was a hasty affair—just scribbles, really—but easily understood.

The Five Kingdoms,
the map's heading read. Each kingdom had been plainly sketched and identified. Aquat, an island chain surrounded by raging seas. Incendia, a city ringed by fiery volcanoes. Terrum, a land of thick forests. Ventus, a range of mountains beset by frosty winds. And in the center of it all, the
dark heart of the map, Divino, branded by a glowing red eye. It was there the knife had been thrust.

The Beyond was merely a dark, shadowy suggestion of land bordering Aquat and Terrum on the map's western end. A great, looming mass of uncharted territory, at least as depicted on this map. Tom remembered seeing a great deal more detail on the map that had been his father's.

He glanced around the stark room, but there was nothing more for him to see. He hesitated, then stepped closer to the map. He lifted his hand and touched the parchment experimentally. Nothing happened. He tried again, focusing intently as he waved his hand inches above the map's surface.

A harsh bark of laughter sounded behind him. Tom whirled around to find the blond boy watching him. He stood with one shoulder propped against the doorway, his entire being radiating haughty superiority. A cool smirk played about his lips as he arched a pale brow and said, “Wrong map.”

Tom dropped his hand. “I know.”

“Do you?” The boy heaved a sigh and brushed past him. He grabbed the knife by the hilt and pulled it from the wall, tucking the jagged blade into his belt. His eyes locked on Tom's as the map fluttered to the floor between them. “Get dressed.” He turned and left the room.

Tom gave the bundle of clothing the boy had indicated earlier a cursory glance, shoved back the drapery, and stepped outside. His intention had been to storm after the boy and demand to see Umbrey, but the scene that greeted him froze him where he stood.

The woods were gone. The Lost Academy was gone. In their place was an open-air market of some sort, but one that looked like it might have existed hundreds of years ago. Men and
women bundled in ragged clothing shouted out their wares. Crowded stalls, braying donkeys, wooden carts, and tables scattered with goods filled the square. He saw cheeses wrapped in plain cloth, loaves of coarse bread, baskets of shriveled vegetables. Gutted fish and slaughtered fowl hung from sturdy stakes. A few of the vendors' children played underfoot, their lips tinged blue with cold, while pigs rutted in the mud and stray dogs fought over rancid scraps.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Bromley Market,” the boy replied. Tom's shock must have shown on his face, for the blond boy regarded him curiously. “It's different in your world—where you come from?”

Tom gave a choked laugh. “A little bit. Unless you want to go backward a thousand years.”

“Primitive, are we? My apologies. How we hate to disappoint.” Anger tightened the boy's features as his gaze swept over Tom. “You were supposed to change your clothes,” he snapped.

“Not until somebody tells me what's going on.”

“Not so loud!” The blond boy drew back into the shadows of the hut. He wore a heavy woolen cloak that covered him from neck to midthigh. He pulled the hood up over his head, effectively hiding his face. “It's very simple,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the hood. “There is a map, which will lead us to a very valuable sword. Your assistance is required to reach that sword before Keegan does. Once we've accomplished that, you are free to return to your vastly superior world.”

“And this place, this market, is part of—”

“Divino.”

Tom nodded, mentally placing himself on the map he'd seen inside the hut. “Who are you?”

The boy turned sharply. Some fleeting, wounded expression flitted through his pale eyes. The question obviously stung, though Tom had no idea why that would be. The boy quickly recovered, however. His expression hardened, and his lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. “Porter,” he said.

“I'm Tom. Tom Hawkins.”

“Hawkins?” he repeated with a frown. “What's that?”

“My name.”

Porter looked at him for a long moment, then turned away. He picked up a rock and threw it at nothing. “No, it isn't.”

“I think I know my own name.”

Porter shook his head. “Your father was a mapmaker. A cartographer. That's who you are, plain and simple. Tom, the cartographer's son.” Though his face was half-hidden by his hood, there was no mistaking the mocking smile that curved his lips. “I know. Perhaps you prefer Tom, the Cherished One. Tom, Savior of Us All. Tom, the Long-Lost Son. How anxiously we've awaited your arrival.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't,” Porter said brusquely. “My mistake.”

Tom studied him for a beat. “Look, did I do something to offend you?”

A mirthless smile touched Porter's lips. “You mean, besides being born? No, I suppose not.”

On that note, Porter pointedly fixed his gaze on the marketplace, and Tom, more than willing to have their contentious conversation end, did the same. But in the silence that followed, his thoughts were anything but quiet.
Is it different in your world?
Porter had asked. His
world.
Which meant what? He remembered the storm, and the dark portal through which he had passed, but little else. Where was he, exactly, and where had Umbrey gone?

He surveyed the scene before him. Bromley Market, Porter had called it. A grim, dirty place. Tom scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, he might be able to connect to the Lost Academy and a way home. He couldn't find a single familiar face. After a few minutes of watching the comings and goings, however, he found his gaze repeatedly drawn to a particular person. A child. A young thief, by the look of him. He was no older than ten, Tom guessed, and was dressed in rags, his tattered clothing wholly inadequate against the icy slush and bitter wind.

The boy stood alone in the center of the market, his eyes darting to and fro, his fingers twitching. His entire being radiated hunger and desperation. The longer he waited, building his courage, the more attention he drew to himself. He'd drawn not only Tom's notice, but that of several shopkeepers as well. It was only a matter of time until he was caught.

“Leave it,” Porter said. “The boy's of no consequence to us.”

Tom turned, unaware he'd been so obvious. “What will happen to him?”

Porter shrugged. “He'll be beaten and he'll learn.”

“Being beaten will teach him not to steal?”

“No. It will teach him to be a better thief.”

It was a cruel joke, but obviously he was joking—wasn't he? But Tom saw no signs of humor in Porter's face as he gave a resigned sigh and pushed off the wall. “We can't stay here any longer; it's too dangerous.”

“Who are we waiting for? Umbrey?”

“No.” Porter turned away from the market, shielding his face with his hood. “He and his men are gathering supplies.”

“Then what—”

“A man was to meet me here with three Letters of Passage. Forgeries, naturally, but good forgeries. Good enough to get us through the city gates and past Keegan's guard.” He scanned the crowds, his fingers drumming impatiently against his side. “He and his wife run a stall near the east end of the market. I'll find him.” He moved to go, then turned back, sending Tom a stern glare. “Wait for me here. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. And if you've any brains at all, you'll change your clothes. That knitted shirt looks like women's clothing.”

Tom scowled at him in response, but the effort was wasted. Porter strode away without a backward glance.

An icy wind whipped across the square. Soon Tom's teeth were chattering. His black hooded sweatshirt—the one with the logo of his favorite snowboard company—did little to block the wind. He thought of the warm woolen cloak, a twin to the
one Porter wore, lying on the chest inside, and silently debated the merits of freezing to death versus putting his pride aside and slipping it on.

Just as he turned to go inside and grab it, a high-pitched shriek tore through the market square. The boy, Tom thought instinctively. A quick glance confirmed it.

“Thought you could take from me, did you? I'll show you what thieves get from me!” An enormous man in a bloodied apron clutched a braid of sausages in one fist, the boy's skinny arm in the other. “You saw it!” the butcher cried to the square at large. “I caught him plain as day!” He lifted the terrified boy off the ground and shook him hard. “I'll show him what we do to thieves around here!”

He drew back a beefy fist to deliver a blow that would surely loosen the boy's teeth, if not snap his neck.

“No!” the boy screamed.

Tom moved without conscious thought. He grabbed a fistful of eggs from a nearby vendor's stall and sent them flying. The first two eggs splattered the butcher's apron front; the third struck him beneath his ear. Gobs of runny yellow yolk matted his beard and dripped down the side of his neck. The butcher staggered backward, blinking in stunned surprise. He shook his head as though to clear it. Then his gaze slowly traveled the marketplace, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Meeting the butcher's stare with a cool grin, Tom calmly tossed an egg up and down in his palm. The butcher let out a bellow of outrage and shoved the boy aside, just as Tom had intended, and lurched toward the new object of his wrath. Tom held his ground, not moving until the stench of the butcher's fouled and bloody apron was upon him. Then, twisting sideways
and down, he ducked under the butcher's arm, tugging the sausage links free as he sprinted away.

“Boy!” Tom shouted.

The young thief, running from the butcher as quickly as his legs could carry him, skidded to a stop and turned.

Tom tossed him the sausages. The boy's dirty face lit up in a dazzling smile. He caught the links and fled, disappearing into the crowded square.

Satisfied that the boy was safe, Tom dodged lightly between the vendor stalls. Behind him he heard the butcher's heavy breath and rank curses as the man fought to keep pace. It was just as Tom had suspected. While the man might have been the size of an NFL linebacker, he moved with the grace of a hippopotamus stuck in mud, knocking over carts and tables as he ran, his fury increasing with each oafish misstep. The distance between them grew.

Tom's intent had been neither heroic nor complicated. He'd reacted to the boy's plight the way he did to most situations: impulsively and instinctively. All he'd wanted to do was prevent the butcher from snapping the boy's neck. After that, the boy was on his own. Tom figured he'd sprint through the crowded market, then snake back around and hide in the hut until Umbrey or Porter returned. With any luck, they wouldn't even know he'd been gone.

But luck has a peculiar habit of rewarding those who don't depend on it, and Tom had apparently pushed his too far. He raced toward a narrow alleyway that looked as though it might offer an escape. He realized his mistake a second too late. A dead end.

He whirled around. The butcher lumbered to a stop behind him, breathing hard. His broad shoulders nearly filled the alley's entrance. Dark fury gleamed in his eyes as egg yolk dribbled down his chin. Taking his time, the man carefully rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles, and strode toward Tom.

T
om frantically scanned the ground. No board, no stick, no rock. No weapon of any kind. So much for Lost's assurance that he would survive by using his brains. He swallowed hard and balled his hands into fists, knowing even as he did so that his puny attempt at self-defense was ridiculous. The outcome was predetermined. It was a classic two-hit fight: the butcher hitting him, and Tom hitting the ground.