Sea of Dragons (Quest of the Nine Isles Book 2) Page 2

  “You like, yes? Strangers always like,” he commented pleasantly.

  I was so startled I almost spit out the bite I had taken. “You speak like us?” I asked. “You understand us?”

  He gave a small shrug. “Little,” he agreed.

  He explained through stilted conversation and gestures that he had learned our tongue from the cove dwellers, who learned it from the strange sailors who sometimes landed on the shore to trade with them.

  “Maybe you can help us find someone,” Basil said to the old man. “We’re looking for a maker of maps.”

  At the mention of maps, the silver-haired man’s eyes lit up with obvious recognition. But as quickly as the spark of understanding appeared, it vanished, hidden behind a pretense of confusion. The old one shook his head and indicated in a mixture of the local tongue and ours that he didn’t understand the request.

  I wondered why he was pretending. He had been friendly enough before. Why had his expression suddenly become guarded, almost fearful?

  He suddenly seemed anxious to part with us.

  But Basil must have seen that brief flicker of recognition, just as I had. Now as the old man was trying to hurry away, he stopped him by producing a jingling coin pouch.

  “I can see you know of whom I speak,” Basil said. “Lead us to the mapmaker, and you will be rewarded.”

  The old one hesitated, nervously eying the coin purse. Greed and fear warred openly on his face. Again I wondered what he had to be afraid of. After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. Abruptly turning away, he beckoned us to follow.

  We hurried after him as he led us across the marshy open ground, past the little huts, and toward the shadows of the trees.

  “Is this really all we’re here for?” I complained to Basil as we followed our guide. “You brought us all this way just to find a mapmaker? Surely we could have had our pick of them back in Port Unity?”

  Basil seemed unconcerned at my protests. “Settle down and wait until you meet him,” he said. “This isn’t just any mapmaker. You’ll see soon enough what’s special about him.”

  I subsided into angry muttering. Then, “Why is the old man so afraid of him anyway?” I asked. “His whole behavior changed when you mentioned the mapmaker.”

  Basil shrugged. “I doubt he’s afraid. Just nervous. A man with the peculiar talents of the person we’re seeking is bound to excite some superstition or unease among his neighbors.”

  I didn’t ask what peculiar talents he was referring to since I could see he was determined to remain mysterious.

  Soon after we left the scattered huts of the locals behind, the land became even more swampy. Our guide picked his way carefully across the marshy ground, seemingly knowing where to look out for sinkholes and deep pools hidden by the grass. We followed closely in his footsteps.

  The vegetation grew more dense as we passed between thick old trees that grew so close together their boughs filtered out the sunshine. Ghostly looking branches dripping with moss reached out like claws to scratch and entangle us. Knobby roots thrust up from the muddy earth to block our path. Eventually we could go no farther, because the soggy ground was replaced with muddy water too deep to wade through.

  Looking out over the pool, I could see no clear way around it. But just as I thought we had reached the end of our road, our guide led us over to a long and narrow rise in the ground where some sort of object was obscured beneath the swamp grass. We helped clear away the weeds until the thing underneath was no longer hidden. When we were done, we stood before a battered old rowboat that looked as though it hadn’t seen use in years.

  “For fishing,” the old man explained briefly, in case we wondered why he owned such a thing. “Best way to mapmaker,” he added, pointing toward the water.

  Together, the three of us carried the boat to the shore and set it down in the muddy water.

  Now it became clear the old man had no intention of venturing farther with us. He would give us the use of his boat but would not accompany us downstream.

  Giving up on trying to persuade him, Basil paid the old man for bringing us this far and obtained directions for the remainder of the journey. Then we shoved off, just the two of us, with me in the front of the boat and Basil in the rear working the oars.

  As we slid away from the muddy shore, I caught a glimpse of the darkening sky through the treetops and realized evening was drawing on. I hoped we didn’t have far to go, because I didn’t like the idea of being out on these murky waters after dark. I could imagine all sorts of sharp-toothed creatures swimming below the surface or lurking in the tall reeds along the bank.

  It didn’t take us long to discover why we had obtained our vessel so cheaply. There were a number of cracks in the floorboards that let in slow trickles of water. I did my best to plug the leaks. That seemed to work for the time being, but there was no telling how long it would last.

  As our small craft slipped silently through the water, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something unnatural and eerie about our surroundings. I didn’t blame the old man we had left behind for choosing not to accompany us farther. In this spooky atmosphere, it was easy to believe the place might be cursed by foul magic or inhabited by some dark ghosts that would do us harm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was the stillness that bothered me most. With the banks of reeds on either side and the moss-covered tree branches drooping over the water, we should have heard the singing of frogs, the calls of birds, the hum of insects. Instead, there was no sound but the soft splashing of our oars dipping into the water.

  Basil must have shared my unease. As we navigated under and around the low-hanging branches, his mood became uncharacteristically somber, as if he wished he were somewhere else. I suspected he was beginning to regret the bargain he himself had suggested.

  The water seemed to lead in only one direction, so we paddled south, keeping an eye to both shores for signs of our destination. It would’ve helped if I had known exactly what we were looking for.

  It was dusk when we saw it, the first human habitation we had glimpsed since leaving the village behind. A rough timber dwelling, little more than a shack, was built against a steep bank. It was held above the water by tall poles and accessed by a leaning set of stairs that could be reached either by shore or by water. The place had an abandoned air, its boards rotten, its walls leaning, as if it had not been lived in for years.

  “Are you sure this is where we’ll find your mysterious mapmaker?” I asked as Basil steered us toward the high bank. “The house looks deserted.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Basil answered. But I noticed that beneath the shadow of his three-cornered hat, his brows were drawn together in worry. Maybe this wasn’t what he had been expecting either.

  We pulled up close to the shore and tied our rowboat to the rotting dock that extended into the water. As we clambered out onto the wooden platform, we were greeted by a shrill, screaming sound that split the air. Basil flinched at the unexpected noise. But I had grown up amid the wild hills of the Ninth Isle. I knew the shriek of a jungle bird when I heard it. At least it was good to know there was active wildlife nearby. Somehow the swamp was less unnerving this way than when it was silent. All the same, I brought my spear out of the boat with me. There was no telling what we might encounter here.

  Before us, a set of rickety stairs led up to the leaning shack. About half the stairs were missing or broken, and the rest looked like they could go at any time, so I held on to the splintered rail as I ascended in the lead.

  At the end of our steep climb, we reached a small porch that wrapped around the house. There was no door facing us at the front of the shack. Only an open doorframe with a sheet of canvas that might have been part of an old ship’s sail strung across the entrance.

  We hesitated on the porch. There was still no sign of anyone about the place.

  Basil’s calls of “hello” went unanswered, as did the rapping of my knuckles against the
doorframe.

  “I don’t understand,” Basil muttered. “This is how the place was described. He ought to be here.”

  I had a sinking feeling this whole trip had been a waste of time. We had come all this way for nothing. But I wasn’t leaving until I was sure. Since no one had responded to my knocking, I shoved aside the canvas curtain covering the entrance and let myself in.

  Basil followed, still muttering to himself.

  He fell silent once we were inside, and we both looked around our strange surroundings.

  It was too dim to make out the details of the furnishings, but their shadowy forms loomed around us. There was a bed, table and chairs, and a cold fireplace. I made out vague shapes pinned to the walls, pale leathery sheets covered in lines and scribbles. Maps maybe?

  Before we could explore further, we were startled by an unseen voice coming out of the darkness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “While visitors are quite welcome, I do ask that you close the curtain behind you. I am doing delicate work that could be spoiled by exposure to light.”

  I squinted into the shadows. Hidden in a dark corner that had escaped my notice before was a long, low desk cluttered with objects I couldn’t make out. Behind it sat an indistinct figure, so small and skinny it might have been mistaken for that of a child if not for the stoop of its shoulders.

  “Are you the mapmaker?” Basil asked as I moved to close the curtain.

  The shadowy stranger chuckled. “I don’t know that I have earned the right to be called the one and only. But I am certainly a mapmaker. Who is it that wishes to know?”

  I introduced us. “I am Isaura of Corthium, the Ninth Isle and the last home of dragons. And this is my kinsmen Basil of Port Unity.”

  “Those names and places mean little to me, I’m afraid,” answered the stranger. “But you have the smell of the sea and the look of adventurers about you.”

  Before I could explain our purpose in coming here, he added, “No need to hover in the doorway. Come in and make yourselves welcome. You shall have my full attention as soon as I finish this work.”

  At the invitation, I advanced farther into the room, approaching the low desk where he sat. Although the space was still dim, my eyes had now adjusted sufficiently that I could make out a little more of the speaker, a white-haired man. He was using a mortar and pestle to crush something that looked like a colorful dried plant, grinding it into powder. Although there was a lantern at his elbow, it was unlit.

  “The pigments contained here must not be exposed prematurely to harsh light,” he explained, as if reading my thoughts. “They need to age first.”

  He set aside the pestle and picked up the edges of a black paper that the fine powder he had created was scattered over. He rolled up the paper into a funnel shape, and as carefully as if he were handling gold dust, he poured the powder from the funnel into a fat bottle. Only when the contents were safely inside and the bottle had been stoppered, did he reach for the nearby lantern.

  The small light flared to life, casting a warm glow over the table, the walls, and the ceiling of the little shack. More importantly, it illuminated the hunched figure sitting behind the desk.

  His was a surprisingly youthful face, despite the white hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. Faint lines around his eyes and mouth suggested advancing age. But the wide blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles contrasted sharply with his years. They were bright and curious, like the eyes of a child.

  That lively gaze focused fully on Basil and me.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said pleasantly. “But the ingredient I was just preparing is necessary for my work and very delicate. The powder of that particular plant is rare and precious because it can only be harvested from deep below the ocean, deeper than most men can venture. Luckily, there is a young pearl diver living at the cove who sells it to me, along with my other ingredients.”

  He indicated a row of green stoppered bottles arranged across his workspace. Other similar bottles lined a crudely made shelf behind him.

  Now that the room was lit by the dancing lantern light, I could better take in all its aspects. It was a tidy and cozy little home, despite its dilapidated state. Its owner’s many possessions were carefully packed away in baskets hanging from hooks on the ceiling or lovingly displayed on the walls.

  Those walls drew my attention most. I had been right in thinking the pale shapes pinned across them were maps. There were dozens, some finished, others in various stages of completion. They held much more than the usual squiggles and scrawls I had expected. These maps were works of art, remarkable in their beauty and careful detail. Most captivating of all was how they seemed to shift before my eyes, as I turned my head to view them from different angles. Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

  “You like my maps?” their maker asked eagerly. “Please do take a closer look if you like.”

  He offered me a tool that was a round piece of glass set into a brass frame and handle. It was like a mirror, only when I gazed into the glass, it didn’t reflect my own face back at me. Instead, it enlarged the objects I viewed through it so that their smallest details became clear. The effect was startling.

  Our white-haired host was making encouraging motions toward his works of art, so I moved closer and examined one through the strange glass. Now I could make out the tiniest aspects of each piece. On landmasses, the trees and hills had been lovingly detailed with artful strokes of ink. Beaches were so carefully laid out and filled in that I could see individual grains of sand. It was hard to imagine how such fine work could be done. Along the shores, the water was painted with a mixture of colors that perfectly captured the way the sea changed hues according to depth. Somehow the maker had even captured sunlight dancing off the surface. The water almost seemed to move, the waves swirling as if they had come to life. Before my amazed eyes, white breakers rolled into a rough shore and dashed against the rocks. White seabirds circled above, darting down to snatch at tiny sea creatures stranded on the shore.

  It was more than an illusion. Somehow, impossibly, the map was a living, moving thing. Startled, I took a step back.

  “Amazing,” I said.

  Our host grinned with delight, his unabashed pride in showing off his work making him seem more boyish than ever.

  “I’m glad you enjoy it,” he said. “The work is more than my trade. It’s my life. The making of these shifting scenes is a special gift I have had since childhood.”

  Basil came to look over my shoulder. I noticed that he seemed less amazed than I by the moving maps.

  “I have seen one of these before,” he explained. “It was in the possession of a sailor at the Lucky Anchor. Or was it at the Blue Mermaid?” He scratched his chin as if trying to remember.

  At my impatient look, he continued. “Anyway, when I failed to win the map in a game of dice, I persuaded the sailor to at least tell me where he obtained it. That’s how I learned of a certain mapmaker with a remarkable ability to create highly valuable live maps. I always thought the information would be worth something one day.”

  He glanced around with a regretful expression. “Of course, I never imagined I would need it for anything quite like this.”

  I frowned, knowing he was referring to my “mad” quest to find another Sheltering Stone. It was a cause he had never believed in.

  The mapmaker spoke, drawing both our attentions back to him. “I’m surprised you would travel so deep into the swamp to see me,” he said. “Most strangers find my home difficult to reach.”

  I explained that we had hired a guide from the village who had brought us partway, that the man had given us the use of his boat but had refused to accompany us farther.

  At my description of the villager, the mapmaker nodded knowingly and smiled. “I know whom you speak of. That is old Telis, a good man but a superstitious one. Once I lived in his village. But so many of my neighbors were uncomfortable with my talent that I found it best to move
to a more secluded spot where I could live alone.”

  “I would think your skills would earn you more respect,” I said.

  The mapmaker shrugged his skinny shoulders. “People fear my gift until they need it. Then they come to me for maps, which they trade with the cove dwellers. In turn, the cove dwellers sell or trade the maps to strange sailors, whose ships sometimes anchor near their beaches.”

  He looked at Basil. “No doubt that is how your sailor acquaintance came to be in possession of one of my maps.”

  Then he changed the subject. “You have explained how you both came to find me,” he said. “Now I’m eager to learn why. What is it that brings you all this way?”

  “We wish to commission a very important map,” I answered. “One that will lead us to a legendary mountain of magical rocks, stones capable of raising a sunken island up from the bottom of the ocean.”

  Behind me, Basil gave a soft snort. He knew something of my Ninth Isle but had no faith in my plan to raise it again.

  I ignored his disbelief. The mapmaker at least listened intently. He didn’t laugh or question my story.

  Instead, he gazed past me, as if looking into a future only he could see. “If you seek the mountain of magical stones, your journey will be a dangerous one,” he foretold. “There will be no turning back. And you may not like the discoveries you make along the way.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. “Are you familiar with the mountain I search for?”

  His gaze snapped back to me, and he shook his head as if to dislodge the remnants of a waking dream.

  “I do not know your mountain yet,” he said. “But I can know it, if I choose to. Though I was born on these shores and have never ventured more than a few miles from the place of my birth, there are few places in the world hidden from me.”

  “How is that possible?” Basil asked doubtfully. “How can you map distant locations if you have never visited them?”

  “It is a mysterious power that guides my hands,” came the answer. “I do not fully understand it myself. I draw purely from inspiration, yet the lines are always true. My maps are precious to me, like children. But when they are finished, I must let them go out into the world.”