The Mapmaker's Sons

by V. L. Burgess

  He jumped.

  CHAPTER TWO

  INHERITANCE

  Tom threw himself out of the arched recess in the tower wall, scrambled pell-mell down the chapel roof, and flung himself into the waiting branches of the sugar maple. He dove out of the tree and hit the grass hard, rolling to break his fall. Before he could stand up and dash back to the safety of his dorm room, a black boot slammed down on the hood of his sweatshirt, pinning him to the ground.

  “Thomas Arturius Hawkins.”

  Icy dread coursed through him. That voice belonged to only one man. Tom braced himself as best he could and peered over his shoulder, gazing up into the ancient, scowling face of Mortimer Lost.

  The headmaster glared down at Tom, his razor-thin mouth pinched in a tight frown. His right eye twitched furiously. “Mr. Hawkins,” he said, Tom’s name rolling off his tongue in an icy hiss, “you will stand up this instant and give a full account of this deplorable episode.”

  Tom rose slowly to his feet. Before he could utter a word, however, Professor Hubert, Lost’s second-in-command, steamed across the lawn. Unlike Professor Lost, whose long, lean frame was attired in his customary gray three-piece suit despite the lateness of the hour, Hubert’s squat form was clothed in an almost comical ensemble of fuzzy purple robe and matching slippers, with some sort of net slipped over the helmet of tight curls that was her hair.

  “What is the meaning of this, Professor?” she demanded. “I was awakened from a sound sleep. Is there an emergency? A fire? A robbery?”

  “Hardly,” Lost said. “It appears that Mr. Hawkins has chosen this evening to better acquaint himself with the inner working of the bells.”

  “I can explain—” Tom began, but stopped abruptly as the one-legged man joined their circle.

  Professor Hubert’s flabby jaw dropped in shock. That was expected. It was Lost’s response to the man that fascinated Tom. A flicker of unhappy surprise flashed across the old man’s face, followed by a look of sour distaste.

  “Umbrey,” Lost said flatly. “If there was trouble afoot, I should have guessed you’d have something to do with it.”

  The pirate—Umbrey, apparently—arched a single dark brow, a smile of mocking amusement playing on his lips. “My, my, Mortimer. Was that an actual attempt at humor? A pun? Trouble afoot?”

  Professor Lost’s face darkened. “It was a simple statement of fact. Leave it to you to twist my meaning for your own nefarious purposes.”

  A sharp gust of wind whipped around them as lightning flashed. Umbrey glanced at the sky. “It appears the storm is almost upon us. Perhaps we should discuss this evening’s events inside.” He turned to Professor Hubert. “And I should hate for so lovely and delicate a lady to be caught in such awful weather.”

  Professor Hubert, whom Tom considered about as lovely and delicate as a prize pig, went pink with pleasure. She giggled. “Why, I don’t believe we’ve met—”

  Lost gave an impatient snort. “Thank you, Professor Hubert. That will do. I suggest you return to the dormitories and check for damp footwear. I highly doubt Mr. Hawkins was alone in this little escapade.”

  The threat of his friends being punished for something that had been his idea jolted Tom back to the events in the belfry. “It was all my fault,” he rushed out. “You can’t blame anyone else. It was my idea to climb the tower. But it wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. There were two men—”

  “Later, lad.”

  Tom’s gaze shot to Umbrey. The man studied him with a look of quiet solemnity, sending him a silent message to curb his words.

  Lost didn’t miss the signal. He drew himself up to his full height. “It is I who will determine who should be made to answer for their part in this ill-conceived adventure, Mr. Hawkins, not you,” he announced. “I trust that is perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  “Very well.” Lost gave a tight nod. “Come with me.” He hesitated a moment, his lips pursed unhappily as he looked at Umbrey. “Both of you.”

  As Professor Hubert strode off toward the dormitories, Tom trailed Umbrey and Professor Lost across the manicured grounds and into the school’s administrative offices. The building was familiar to Tom but seemed eerie at night, lit only by low-wattage security lights. The steady hum of powered-down computers and fax machines surrounded them as they moved past rows of stark beige cubicles; sterile and anonymous, they belonged to the various nurses, secretaries, recruiters, accounting personnel, cooks, and custodial staff employed by the school.

  Mortimer Lost unlocked the door to his office, flipped on a light switch, and ushered them in. For an instant, Tom’s tension over the trouble he was in was replaced by curiosity. He had never been inside Lost’s office before.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookcases loomed over them, covering every inch of wall space. Volumes of every size and shape were crammed onto the shelves, crowded together with ancient urns, statues of Greek and Roman gods, and a variety of miscellaneous plaques, photographs, and potted cacti. Brown drapes sagged listlessly over the one window. Tom suspected that the room was perpetually gloomy, even on the sunniest of days. An enormous desk, dark and ornate, squatted upon a threadbare Oriental rug. Lost’s chair sat on one side of the desk; two additional chairs were arranged on the opposite side.

  A globe rested on the desk—a globe so bright and shiny, it was undoubtedly a recent purchase. Spying it, Umbrey gave a shout of laughter. “I always suspected you had a sense of humor, Morty, old boy. I guess this proves it.”

  Embarrassment flooded Lost’s cheeks. “It means nothing,” he snapped. “Just a silly trifle. Don’t call me Morty. And put that down before you shatter the blasted thing!” He waited for Umbrey to return the globe to its stand, and then continued speaking. “I will deal with you in a moment, Umbrey. First, there is the matter of Mr. Hawkins’s deplorable conduct this evening.”

  “Only just this evening?” Umbrey asked. “What about the other times?”

  “What other times?”

  “I’d wager the lad’s been prowling about your rooftops for at least a year. Isn’t that right, Tom?”

  Tom sucked in a sharp breath, an odd sense of betrayal battling with utter disbelief. It was impossible that Umbrey had known about this. How had he known about it?

  A spark of approval lit Umbrey’s rugged features. “You’ve been up there looking for something, haven’t you, lad? During storms, I’d wager. You remember.”

  “Nonsense, Umbrey. He can’t remember,” Lost returned dismissively. “It isn’t possible.”

  “Remember what?” Tom stared from one man to the other. “What can’t I remember?”

  Mortimer Lost continued as though he hadn’t heard Tom. He pulled out an enormous leather-bound ledger and set it on his desk. Opening it with a flourish, he rapped a gnarled knuckle against the worn pages. “The punishment for breaking the rules—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Umbrey interrupted. “Tom won’t be here to receive it.”

  “Of course he will be. The rules are very clear. Very clear, indeed. Written down in precise detail so there can be no misinterpretation. If the purpose of your visit this evening is to undermine the structure and order of this academy—”

  “Keegan has the stones.”

  Mortimer Lost paled as though he’d been slapped. Although his gaze remained fastened on Umbrey, his eyes took on a faraway look. “I see.” In a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, he asked, “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” Lost sank down into his chair. He swallowed hard and gave a tight nod. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Trembling fingers toyed with the edge of his desk. “That is distressing news. Most distressing indeed.”

  In all his years at the Lost Academy, Tom had never seen Mortimer Lost like this. Lost was cold, harsh, and stern, almost to the point of cruelty. Thoroughly unlikable in all respects. And unlike the rigid headmasters depicted in movies and books, no heart of gold beat within
his withered chest. But at that moment, he didn’t appear intimidating at all. He looked utterly deflated, like a plastic pool toy that had been popped and left to shrivel in the sun.

  “I’m sorry,” Umbrey said gruffly. “There’s no easy way to tell it. And there’s more. Worse, I’m afraid.”

  Lost turned to Umbrey, his face a mask of bewilderment. “Worse? How can anything be worse?”

  “Keegan’s men were here tonight.”

  ”The Watch? No. That’s not possible. They could not have found us.”

  “They did.” Umbrey looked at Tom. “Tell him what happened in the belfry.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom said, his head spinning. “What’s going on? Who’s Keegan? What stones are you talking about? And what does any of that have to do with those two freaks in black capes who tried to grab me tonight?”

  Professor Lost regarded him steadily. “Black capes with a red eye affixed thus?” he asked, indicating his left shoulder.

  “Yes, but … how did you know?”

  Lost exchanged a look with Umbrey. He let out a long breath and rose to his feet. He still appeared shaken, but he was rallying fast. “If I could have a moment, gentlemen. I should like to collect my thoughts.” He moved to the window and parted the drapery. Outside, the storm had finally broken. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, rain poured down in sheets. The clock quietly ticked off the minutes. After what felt like an eternity, Lost spoke. “I believe, given the circumstances, that allowances can be made for this evening’s unbecoming spectacle.”

  Umbrey smiled. “I thought you might see it my way.”

  Lost returned his smile with a disapproving scowl. His gaze moved over Umbrey’s person. “I suppose you brought it with you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” said Lost, waving his bony fingers impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”

  “All right, then.” Umbrey looked at Tom. He puffed out his chest and announced dramatically, “I’ve come to deliver your inheritance. Something your father meant for you to have.”

  “My father?” Tom studied him in confusion. He shook his head. Although he didn’t remember it, he’d been told he’d spent his infancy moving through various foster homes until he was old enough to be permanently placed at the Lost Academy. The words father and mother were not part of his vocabulary. “No. There must be some mistake. I was given up for adoption. I never had a—”

  “Given up?” Umbrey bellowed. “Never had?” He pivoted toward Lost, sheer disgust darkening his features. “You didn’t tell him anything? No wonder the boy looks as blank as a toad’s brain.” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Tom, you were never given up. It was supposed to be temporary. A week or two. A month at most. Just until things could be … sorted out.”

  “But … you mean … why didn’t anyone ever—”

  “It’s an interesting story, lad, one I promise to tell you, but I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of time at the moment.” Umbrey raised his peg leg and propped the wooden stump against the edge of Lost’s desk. Leaning forward, he unlatched the buckles that fastened the leather thongs to his thigh, and began to unwrap them. “Not unless you want to be here when a few more of those fine gentlemen you met in the belfry return,” he muttered as he worked. “A course of action I personally would not recommend. Not if you want to live long enough to see your fourteenth birthday.”

  With a quick tug, he jerked the peg leg free from his knee. Straps and buckles dangled in the air, leaving a stump of raw pink flesh where the wooden limb had rested just seconds earlier. “There!” he cried, smiling broadly as he held it toward Tom. “Go ahead, boy,” he urged, “take it.”

  Tom froze. “Uh … that’s my inheritance?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what my father wanted me to have?”

  “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.