“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 th
e 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.
CHAPTER FIVE
FAMILY TIES
Tom 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.
At least he’d go down swinging, he thought, and then the thunder of hoofbeats echoed around them. Tom jerked his gaze toward the alley entrance. The butcher wheeled around as well, but he was too late. Porter was already upon him. Racing at a full gallop, his body tucked low against his mount’s neck, he brought up his leg and drove his knee into the big man’s chest.
The butcher’s legs shot out from under him. He hung fully horizontal for a moment, suspended in midair like a whale breeching the sea, then slammed the ground hard, landing flat on his back. The air rushed out of his lungs with a loud, almost comical oomph.
Porter pulled his mount around and leaned over the saddle, stretching out his arm to Tom. “Get on!” he shouted. “Now!”
Tom, who’d never been near a horse before, let alone atop one, hesitated, but only for a second. He grabbed Porter’s arm and pulled himself up, clumsily straddling the horse’s rump. Porter drove his heels into the animal’s flanks. Tom bit back a startled yelp as the horse reared. The animal’s front hooves slashed the air, then the horse surged forward, racing through the busy marketplace, flying over tables and nearly trampling crowds. Shouts and curses followed in their wake, but Porter paid the townspeople no mind, urging his horse through the crowd at a furious, frantic pace.
Porter raced his mount to a section of town that was even more squalid than the marketplace itself, finally reining the horse to a stop before a dilapidated two-story building. Beside it was a rollicking pub, from which issued bouts of coarse laughter and shouts for ale. Porter swung off the saddle, leaving Tom to ease himself off the horse’s rump.
Tom breathed a sigh of relief as his feet found the ground. He looked around. A wharf district of some sort, he guessed. Though he saw no ships or sails, the heavy tang of salt water hung in the air. He reluctantly returned his attention to Porter. While his initial reaction to the blond boy had been one of thorough dislike, some acknowledgment of the fact that Porter had saved him from a beating seemed in order.
“Um, thanks,” he began, but his words went unheeded.
“Keegan’s men saw me,” Porter bit out. He reached for his knife; then a look of stark panic overtook his features. His knife was no longer there—it had slipped from his belt, Tom guessed, during their wild ride through the streets.
Porter let out a vivid oath. His fingers, tinged blue with cold, fumbled frantically with the leather straps that secured his saddlebags. His gaze whipped back and forth between the bags and the street as he tugged at the narrow bands of leather. But the knots, having tightened in the cold, were as stiff and unyielding as tiny stones.
Tom hung back, watching in uncertainty. “Uh, can I help?”
“A blade! Quickly! Something to cut the straps!”
“Sorry, I don’t—”
Porter raised a hand, cutting off Tom’s words. He cocked his head, listening intently. Tom heard it as well: distant shouts, followed by the thunder of boots—the heavy rhythm of an army marching at a run. The sound drew closer. Tom could almost feel the vibration of boots shaking the ground.
“They’re coming!” Tom said.
Porter fumbled one last, desperate time with the saddlebags. Finally the futility of his efforts seemed to register. He swore and abandoned the bags. Shoving Tom aside, he wheeled his mount around. He whipped off his cloak and tied it to the saddle horn, then slapped the beast hard against its flanks. Riderless, the horse took off at a full gallop, racing back in the direction from which they’d come. It shot down the narrow street, the cloak flying in the wind like a rider hunched down low.
The ruse seemed to work. A shout sounded from somewhere to Tom’s left. “There! After him!”
A flash of black caught Tom’s attention as a man sped past them. He wore a long cape, a sinister red eye clasped at the left shoulder. Just like the two men in the bell tower had worn. The Watch. But this time there weren’t just two of them. Now there were dozens, swarming through the streets in a vicious horde. Moving instinctively, Tom jumped backward, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being seen. Porter had a different idea. He jerked open an alley door, shoved Tom through, then ducked in behind him.
Tom found himself in a dark, cellar-like room, pinned against an interior wall. “What the—” he began, but one of Porter’s hands clamped against his mouth to muffle his protest, while the other hand pressed against his chest to hold him still. Harsh echoes reverberated through the wall: the sound of heavy boots and loud shouts, the smashing of bins and other street debris.
Tom moved to push him off, but Porter held him still, his ear cocked to the sounds without, waiting until silence once again filled the street. Finally he released him. Tom wiped the taste of the blond boy’s hand from his mouth. Before he could utter a word, however, Porter shot him a look of blistering contempt and shoved past him. He stormed across the room to a steep flight of wooden stairs and began climbing.
Left with no choice, Tom followed. He took the stairs two at a time and found himself standing in a vast, mostly empty storeroom. The space reeked of animals, alcohol, and sweat. There was nothing of note in the room but a few empty crates and broken barrels, along with an old sack of grain. An enormous window of splintered glass filtered grimy sunlight into the room. The remaining walls and floors were constructed of poorly cut pine, full of knots and holes. A maze of thick ropes and rusted pulleys dangled from overhead beams.
Movement in one corner caught his eye. Hungry rats, each larger than his foot, swarmed the sack of rancid grain.
Umbrey rounded a partition and strode into the center of the room, his peg leg sounding a steady beat against the wooden floor. Trailing behind him was a crew of the roughest-looking men Tom had ever seen. Unlike Umbrey, who dressed in what Tom thought was probably all the rage in pirate finery—a white ruffled shirt, burgundy velvet knee breeches, and a black frock coat—his men were hulking and unshaven, their clothing caked in filth. Crude knives, chains, and assorted sinister-looking weapons were tucked into their belts. Despite their rough appearance, there was an unmistakable air of loyalty about them as they followed Umbrey into the room, stationing themselves in a loose semicircle around their leader.
Umbrey smiled broadly. “Thomas! Porter! Excellent. You’ve arrived. I trust you two have had a chance to get acquainted.”
“Acquainted? With him?” Porter released a disgusted breath and shook his head. He paced back and forth, as though unable to contain the fury pulsing through him. “Do you have any idea what he’s done?” he bit out.
Umbrey blinked. “Done? What do you mean, done? What are you talking about?”
“My saddlebags are gone! Because of him! We’ve lost everything—Keegan’s compass, our Lett
ers of Passage, my charts and supplies. Gone, all of it!” He rounded on Tom, his pale eyes shooting sparks. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough. Do the words ‘Stay here. Do nothing to call attention to yourself,’ have no meaning in your world?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Tom shot back. “Watch the boy’s neck get snapped because you wanted me to be quiet?”
“That wasn’t your choice to make! Now you’ve ruined everything! And for what? To save the life of one worthless little thief—a scrawny, nameless child no one even cares enough about to properly feed or clothe.”
“You might have been too afraid to do anything to help, but I wasn’t.”
Porter jerked around as though slapped. A small, cold smile touched his lips. “Did you just call me a coward?”
Tom waited a beat, then gave a cool shrug. “The only thing I’ve seen you do so far is run.”
“Tom, Porter,” Umbrey warned, his voice a gravelly growl. “Don’t.”
The warning went unheeded. Porter launched himself across the room and hit Tom in a flying tackle, knocking him to the ground. While Tom hadn’t been looking for a fight, neither did he intend to avoid one. He might be sore later, but at the moment the only thing he felt was dislike so intense he could taste it in his mouth. The sheer pleasure of pummeling the blond boy’s smug face provided an excellent release for the nervous tension that filled him. They rolled around together on the rough pine floor, trading blows. They were evenly matched, with each punch landed returned in kind.
Suddenly Tom felt himself jerked up by his collar and bodily lifted. He watched as one of Umbrey’s men yanked Porter off the floor as well. Breathing hard, they sized each other up. As Tom noted with satisfaction the swelling above Porter’s left eye, he felt something drip down his chin. He wiped it off and realized his lower lip had been split. It wasn’t dislike he had tasted in his mouth; it was blood.
The Mapmaker's Sons Page 4
