Ferran's Map

  He had seen something strange in Martin’s study the night before, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind: an old map splayed out on his brother’s desk. It didn’t look like a blueprint for a new estate, or a piece of land his brother might purchase. No, it was sketched in faded ink, the edges worn and creased, and it looked…complex.

  Ferran, as a treasure hunter, had an affinity for old maps and considered himself a specialist of sorts. He had seen hundreds, both real and fake. But why would Martin—who loved horses, numbers and good business—take an interest in a faded old map?

  He walked up the staircase and past Danica’s bedroom to the upper floors. He knew Martin would take another hour or so inspecting the dozens of steeds in his well-stocked stables. His brother had always been an avid equestrian.

  He finally reached Martin’s private study. The door was locked, but that wasn’t an obstacle. He rummaged in his pocket for two thin, hooked needles—lock picks--and inserted them into the brass knob. After a bit of finagling, the door clicked open.

  Martin’s study was exactly as it had been the night before, except Ferran didn’t see the map. With a frown, he began shuffling through papers on the desk. Land deeds. Contracts. A few half-penned letters to various lords around the city. He glanced over a few, but read nothing of interest.

  The left bottom desk drawer was locked. With a few quick twists, he sprung it open. Small leather-bound books were inside. He saw a carefully folded piece of parchment tucked between the pages of the top notebook, and identified it immediately. The map was wrinkled and worn, stained with age.

  He gently pulled it out and unfolded it, then laid it on the desk. The map was about sixteen inches long and ten inches wide. A confusing network of intersecting lines crossed the page, too intentional to be nonsense. After a long moment, he detected square symbols for buildings and dark circles for monuments. A small scale in the corner explained land elevations.

  He sucked in a quick breath. It was a blueprint, a very old one, that showed the original layout of the sewer system beneath the city.

  “But why?” he murmured, unconsciously pulling a cinnamon stick from his pocket. He sucked on it for a moment in thought. The spicy, burnt flavor made his tongue sting. “Why would he have this?”

  The map was very detailed, showing not only access points but larger drainage tunnels. Truly, a brilliant design. The sewer system followed the same natural model as water running off a mountain. Tributaries ran down from the windmills to the King’s palace and The Regency, bearing fresh water. Following the pull of gravity, those same lines eventually connected to larger and larger pipes and tunnels that eventually emptied into the Crown’s Rush, where wastewater was naturally swept into The Bath and then over the waterfall.

  Ferran ran his finger eagerly over the map, thoroughly absorbed. Six main drainage tunnels emptied into the city’s canals, which then flowed into the Rush. He frowned and counted again, then traced the lines back with his fingers, trying to find the origin of each one. The city’s sewage system seemed larger than was actually needed; all sorts of tunnels didn’t connect to the main drainage run-offs. His finger found a rather large access tunnel that appeared to run beneath The Regency, perhaps under this very manor.

  “Strange,” he murmured.

  He pocketed the map and bent over the drawer in search of something more. He thumbed through a few notebooks, finding ledgers full of numbers: loans, gambling debts, unlabeled tallies, who knew…but a few with notes written in his brother’s elegant, swirling script. One notebook was full of information about the Temple of the North Wind and the first construction of the King’s palace. He leaned close to the page, discerning his brother’s small, curled handwriting.

  Then his Cat’s Eye glimmered at his wrist. Ferran glanced at it. A sharply sweet scent, like mint and lavender, filled his nose as a single word passed through his mind—Caprion.

  Light from the Harpy’s wings came through the window. Ferran turned to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Was Caprion flying in broad daylight? Had the man lost his mind?

  Ferran turned to the window and unlatched it just as the Harpy drifted down from the overcast sky. He hoped the heavy clouds would keep him hidden from view. The grounds were mostly empty due to the weather, and he didn’t see any servant boys lingering in the courtyard below.

  Caprion entered the room with a gust of cold wind. His wings brought a shower of snow from the roof that immediately soaked the finely woven rug on the floor. Ferran winced; Martin would definitely notice that later.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, irritated.

  Caprion fixed him with a firm stare, his violet eyes dark and solemn. “The weapons are gone.”

  Ferran didn’t quite understand. He frowned. “The weapons…you mean, the Dark God’s weapons?”

  Caprion nodded shortly. “They were taken from the ship. I tried to retrieve them, but the Shade opened a portal and escaped. I spent hours trying to track them down.” He hesitated. “I suspect one of our own betrayed us.”

  Ferran drew in a slow breath, trying to arrange his thoughts. The news shocked him.

  “Silas?” he finally said. “Did Silas take them?” The Dracian pirate had a thirst for gold and a questionable conscience at best….

  “No,” Caprion said. “The assassin, Viper.”

  Ferran crossed his arms. “Crash was here at the manor last night,” he said. “Did you see him take the weapons?”

  Caprion shook his head, though his confidence remained. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see the thief’s face. But it was one of the Sixth, I am certain, and who else would know their hiding place?” The Harpy searched Ferran’s eyes. “Was Viper with you the entire night?”

  Ferran thought back. “No,” he said slowly. “He left with Sora when she retired….”

  “Is he here now?”

  Ferran’s frown deepened. “Actually, no,” he said. “I haven’t seen him since last night. I thought he went with Sora to the Flower District….” With growing alarm, Ferran realized he hadn’t seen Crash anywhere in the manor since their initial meeting with Martin. “There must be an explanation. He wouldn’t betray us….”

  “I must speak with Sora,” Caprion said. “Where is she?”

  “The Flower District, on the west side of The Regency. You’ll see street signs….” Ferran put a hand on the Harpy’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. The shopping district will be crowded at this hour. If anyone sees you….”

  Caprion barely seemed to listen. “Sora could be in danger,” he said, turning to the window. “I must go immediately.”

  “You can’t just fly through the city! You’ll start a riot!” Ferran repeated.

  “The clouds are low enough. They will hide me,” Caprion said. Then, he murmured in a dire tone, “If Viper has sided with them, the Shade might already have her. I must go.”

  Caprion opened the window again and leapt easily into the open air. Ferran watched in vague admiration. The Harpy dived into the wind. His wings glimmered briefly against the muted daylight, and a strong breeze lifted him up and away. In seconds, he disappeared among the clouds.

  Ferran rubbed the Cat’s Eye on his wrist. If anything happened to Sora…Lori’s going to kill me, he thought. And he would kill anyone who touched her.

  He shut the window again, sat down heavily in Martin’s plush leather chair, and placed his head in his hands. The weapons were gone. He didn’t know for sure if Crash would betray them, but Caprion’s suspicions made too much sense. He had seen too much of the world to think the assassin innocent. How else would the Shade know the location of the sacred weapons aboard the ship?

  Ferran's first instinct was to leave the manor and find Sora, but Caprion would arrive much sooner. By the time he had readied a carriage and made his farewells, another hour would have passed. I hope she’s safe, he thought. Perhaps Caprion is mistaken and Crash didn’t take the weapons. Sora is a stron
g girl. She can defend herself.

  She had a Cat’s Eye, and that necklace would protect her at any cost.

  The distant thrum of footsteps caught Ferran’s attention. He looked up. A female voice drifted down the hall; a maid was humming as she went about her housework. With a sigh, he stood up and briefly scanned the desk, pocketed Martin’s notebook and the map, closed the drawer and locked it.

  He hesitated. Was it wise to leave Martin’s papers so disorganized? His documents had obviously been rifled through. Would his brother notice?

  Ferran shrugged. If Martin brought up the map, what of it? Perhaps he could ask him some honest questions. I highly doubt my brother has taken a sudden interest in plumbing.

  And if Martin didn’t mention the missing map, perhaps he was hiding something more.

  He waited for the maid to pass and left Martin’s office, carefully locking the door behind him. Then he moved down the hallway, away from the maid’s voice.

  Ferran felt the folded parchment in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to find a quiet, secluded room where he could pore over each line. A familiar tingle began at the base of his neck—anticipation. This map contained a hidden puzzle, a secret he couldn’t wait to uncover, and he was itching to get started.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sora climbed into the carriage and with a quick rap on the roof, told the driver her destination. She didn’t know exactly where Lord Seabourne might be in the Gentleman’s District, but she had to look.

  Within minutes she had left the Flower District behind. Her carriage passed a large opera house, a beautifully landscaped park, and several streets of small, exquisitely decorated shops. Finally she entered the Gentleman’s District, proclaimed by a decorative brass sign planted on a broad street corner. Here, the store fronts were made of sturdy brick and polished wood, with large thatched windows displaying various goods. Sora saw leather workers, tailors, barbers, tobacco shops, pubs and more. Only two highborn ladies walked the street. They looked like proud family matriarchs, with graying hair and lined faces. She guessed that young, unmarried women did not frequent this area.

  Luckily, she spotted Lord Seabourne’s carriage on the second avenue they turned down. She tapped smartly on the roof, and the driver pulled over to the side of the road. Sora didn’t wait for him to hand her down, but exited by herself, stepping onto the windy street.

  The driver looked down from his bench at the front of the carriage. “Milady,” he said, “Are you certain of your destination? This is the Gentleman’s District.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Just wait here for a moment.”

  He tipped his velvet hat. “Do be careful,” he said.

  Sora looked around, wondering which shop Lord Seabourne might have entered. Her eyes landed on a large sign outside the building in front of her: Brookworth’s Distinguished Club. Gentlemen Only.

  She gripped her skirts, uncertain. Filled with burning curiosity, her first instinct was to dash headlong into the club to see if the Captain was inside. But as a lady, she would not be welcomed, and her presence might cause quite a stir.

  As her eyes scanned the road, she noticed an alley to one side of the building. It looked deserted. Perhaps she could circle around the club and catch a glimpse of Lord Seabourne through one of the many windows. If not, she might just have to wait until he returned to his carriage.

  Sora lifted her heavy skirts and walked carefully along the slick cobblestones to the side of the building. The alley was wide and clean, the snow fresh and unbroken. A series of low, dark windows ran along the side of the building. She tried to see through them, but the glass was thick and distorted to protect the privacy of the patrons. She gnawed her lip as her feet carried her further and further from the main street. Should she look for a back door? Perhaps a cook or waiter might help her.

  * * *

  Crash sat on the rooftop on the overhang of the second story, watching Sora walk down the alley.

  She looked different, far from the fierce and wounded girl on the Lost Isles, when dirt smudged her cheeks and saltwater matted her hair. Now she resembled the other ladies in The Regency—doll-like, fragile, proper and clean—just like the night they met. He remembered that first sight of her clearly: a small speck on the ballroom door, spinning before an audience of the Second Tier. Later, when she ran into him face-to-face, he recalled the fear and startling innocence of her wide blue eyes, her green Cat’s-Eye stone glinting mysteriously at her neck.

  That was selfish of him to take her for her necklace. He had ripped her from her life, purely for his own devices. You bastard, he thought. He owed her a debt that could never be repaid.

  His memories shifted uneasily through his mind as he continued to watch, with no intention of doing anything else.

  Without warning, a shadow portal opened nearby. Cobra materialized on the roof next to him, and sank down at his side. His fellow assassin gave off a tense, eager energy despite the heavy cloak obscuring his features.

  “Well?” Cobra hissed, and followed his gaze to the girl below. “Our master grows impatient. Why are you stalling?” He asked the question in a mocking tone. Cobra knew very well why. Cerastes doubtlessly knew as well. His Grandmaster risked nothing; he knew his Viper might fail, and most likely planned on it.

  Crash lingered on his options. He could bring Sora to the Shade to save Burn’s life, but then, could he save them both? He wasn’t sure. If he refused to obey, he would bring Cerastes’ wrath down upon them all—Lori and Ferran as well. That was a recipe for disaster. He had now put Sora in more danger than he had ever intended.

  Cobra hissed slowly between his teeth. “A pretty young blossom,” he said, gazing intently at the girl below. “Too pretty for you.”

  Crash felt a deep yearning to draw his knife and shove it through Cobra’s throat. He knew this kind of assassin well—too impatient, too ruthless—the kind that savored inflicting pain as a necessary evil of their practice.

  “Act,” Cobra pressed him.

  Crash clenched his teeth. “Not yet,” he murmured.

  “Do I sense hesitation? Are you betraying us so soon?” Cobra taunted. “If you don’t grab her, then I will.”

  Crash didn’t reply.

  With an idle shrug, Cobra turned and dropped silently into the alley.

  Crash tensed. A curse fell from his lips. His gaze fastened on Sora, who went slowly from window to window, still trying to see into the pub; she hadn’t noticed Cobra’s descent.

  Now what? If he followed, she would see the two assassins together and think Crash had joined the Shade. And what if Cobra attacked her?

  She has a Cat’s Eye, he thought. She couldn’t be easily transported by magic. He suspected the Cat's Eye would block Cobra from using the fifth gate. He would have to wait and act as needed.

  * * *

  Sora may have been distracted, but she wasn’t deaf or blind. She saw a shadow flicker out of the corner of her eye, and heard a soft, muffled thud as a body landed in the snow. Not a bird, she thought. She glanced up briefly, but saw no one. Still, she felt certain she was no longer alone.

  As she attempted to peer sightlessly through the darkened window before her, she wondered what to do. If she retreated from the alley, would she be followed? Better to face the stranger, she decided. Her unseen visitor might be from the Shade, and she didn’t want to turn her back on an assassin.

  Finally, she straightened up. “Show yourself,” she called. Her eyes scanned the alley. A cold wind gusted by, carrying flakes of snow and dead leaves. She waited.

  A familiar figure stepped out from behind a pile of broken crates. He wore a splint on one arm, a new addition since their last encounter. “Hello, dear,” Cobra said.

  She remembered his name, and her stomach twisted in disgust.

  “You…” she seethed. Surprisingly, she was not afraid, but filled with bitter anger. “Where is Burn?” she demanded.

  The assassin approached her at a gliding walk. “Your Wolfy friend is in cap
able hands,” he sneered. “Never fear; he is alive. I will make you a deal. Come with me, and I’ll release him.”

  Sora took several steps back, trying to keep her distance. She remembered Cobra’s hands vividly—he could debilitate her with a single touch. She wouldn’t let that happen again.

  “If you kill him, I’ll murder you,” she growled.

  “How rude,” he mocked. “And here I thought you were a Lady.”

  She reached for the knife in her bodice and drew it. She didn’t have any other weapon.

  Cobra’s eyes followed her hand, then crinkled behind his cowl. “How endearing,” he murmured. “You didn’t tell me she was so feisty, Viper. This is truly a delight,” he called over his shoulder.

  Viper? Sora glanced around the alley. Her eyes scanned the rooftops, but she did not see Crash anywhere. Still, Cobra’s words left her cold with doubt. Was Crash here, or was Cobra toying with her?

  She tightened her grip on her dagger. “Come any closer, and you’ll regret it!” she warned even as she grew nervous. The Shade rarely traveled alone. How many more assassins were hiding on the rooftops? Was Crash among them?

  Don’t be silly, she thought, even as she glanced over her shoulder at the mouth of the alley. She was too far away to make a run for it. Besides, the street beyond was all but deserted. She would find no safety there.

  “I didn’t come here to fight, but to make a deal,” Cobra repeated in his oily tone. He halted a yard away. “Come with me, and we’ll release the Wolfy.”

  Sora hesitated. For a moment, she actually considered his offer, but she wasn’t fool enough to make deals with the Shade. The sad truth was that Burn might already be dead, and she would be handing herself right over to the enemy.

  “Why?” she called instead. “Why does Cerastes want me?”

  Cobra sneered. “My Master has use of you.”