The Mapmaker's Sons (3 page)

The man lifted a rope of his own, from the end of which dangled a heavy, spear-tipped grappling hook. “Useful for climbing and whaling. I've also just discovered it's not a bad weapon if you find yourself in a bit of a pinch.” His gaze traveled over Tom. “You're not hurt, then?”

“Uh, no.”

The man nodded. “Good. At least there's that.” He brought his hands together in a sharp clap, rubbing them back and forth as though to warm himself. “Well,” he said. “We don't have much time. Might as well finish what you came here to do, eh?” Without another word, he picked up a two-by-four and, with a quick thrust, shoved it in the central cog. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he turned back to Tom and winked. “Between you and me, lad, I always hated Mortimer's bells, too.”

Tom looked at the jammed cog. He turned and studied the one-legged pirate. Then he did the only sensible thing he could think to do.

He jumped.

T
om 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?”