Racing With Dragons: The Mapmaker's Sons, Book 1

by V. L. Burgess

  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.

  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 boot slammed down on the hood of his sweatshirt, pinning him to the ground.

  “Thomas Hawkins.”

  That voice belonged to only one man. Bracing himself, Tom 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. A tick above his right eye twitched furiously. “Mr. Hawkins,” he said, Tom’s name rolling off his tongue in an icy hiss, “you will stand 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 like a battleship on full alert. 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 a fuzzy purple robe and matching slippers, a net of some sort slipped over the helmet of tight curls that was her hair.

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

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

  “The bells? At this hour?”

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

  Professor Hubert’s flabby jaw dropped in shock at the sight of the pirate. That was to be expected. A pirate strolling the grounds of Lost Academy. A pirate whose appearance, odd to begin with, looked decidedly worse after his brawl with the two caped men. The laces had come loose on his ruffled shirt, his knee breeches were torn, and his dark hair stood out on end, as though he’d been the victim of an electric shock. It was only natural that Professor Hubert appear gobsmacked.

  It was Lost’s response to the man that fascinated Tom. A flicker of unhappy surprise flashed across the headmaster’s face, followed by a look of sour distaste. Unfathomable as it seemed, Lost appeared to know him. His next words confirmed it.

  “Umbrey,” he 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. Mocking amusement played 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 smoothed back his hair, turned to Professor Hubert and gave a formal bow. “I should hate for such a lovely and delicate lady to be caught in such dreadful weather.”

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

  Lost released 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. “Wait! 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. You see, there were these two men—”

  “Later, lad.”

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

  Lost didn’t miss the signal. He bristled and drew himself up, his skeletal body towering over them both. “This is my academy, Umbrey. I will determine how to handle the events of this evening, not you. I trust that is perfectly clear to the both of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  Umbrey gave a loose shrug. “Have it your way, Morty.”

  A brittle silence followed as Lost pursed his lips, seeming to search for a solution to Umbrey’s presence. Unable to find one and apparently unwilling to leave the man to his own devices, he grudgingly said, “Very well, then. Come with me. Both of you.”

  Professor Hubert strode off toward the dormitories, while Tom trailed Umbrey and Lost across the manicured grounds and into the school’s administrative offices. The building was familiar to Tom, but eerie at night, lit only by low-wattage security lights. The steady hum of powered-down computers echoed around them as they moved past rows of stark beige cubbyholes, sterile and anonymous, home to the various nurses, secretaries, teachers, and custodial staff employed by the school.

  Mortimer Lost withdrew a key from his coat pocket, unlocked the door to his office and ushered them in. For an instant, Tom’s tension over the trouble he was in was replaced by curiosity. Though he’d incurred Lost’s wrath on many occasions—far too many occasions—punishment had always been doled out elsewhere, usually at the scene of his crime. He had never been in the headmaster’s office before.

  He stepped inside. 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, boring black and white photographs, and taxidermied animals whose parts were sadly missing—bald patches where there should have been fur, gaping holes in place of eyes. Not a tooth, beak, or claw in sight. Dim light filtered through a room Tom suspected was perpetually gloomy, even on the sunniest of days.

  In other words, exactly what he’d always imagined Professor Lost’s office would look like. Everything as dry, dusty and dull as the man himself.

  An enormous beast of a desk, carved of dark wood and likely obscenely heavy, squatted upon a threadbare Oriental rug. Lost’s own chair sat on one side of the desk, two additional chairs were arranged opposite. Lost seated himself, then gestured for Tom and Umbrey to sit as well.

  Tom obeyed. Umbrey did not. Instead he strode to the bookcase—his wooden leg rapping against Lost’s floorboards—and seized a globe from a shelf. The sole item of interest in the otherwise drab room. An orb so bright and shiny it appeared to glow. Umbrey gave a shout of laughter and gave the globe a spin, twirling it atop one finger like a basketball player showing off for a crowd.

  “Well, well, well,” he crowed. “Look at this.”

  “A small source of perspective,” Lost sniffed. “It’s important for one to know one’s place in the world.”

  “Ha! One’s place in the world. And you think this bit of spherical nonsense will tell you that?”

  “Of course not. I simply found it amusing.”

  “Amusing, you say. Why, I’d bet my withered—”

  “Umbrey! That’s quite enough!”

  The two men shared a look. A sly grin split Umbrey’s cheeks.

  “I’d hoped you were still in the game, Morty, old boy. I guess this proves it.”

  Embarrassment flooded Lost’s cheeks. “It proves nothing,” he snapped. “It’s 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. “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 aske
d. “What about the other times?”

  “Other times?”

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

  Tom sucked in a sharp breath. His gaze shot across the room to where Umbrey stood. Until that moment, it had felt as though he and the pirate were on the same side. Precisely what side that was he couldn’t define. The anti-Lost side, he supposed. His second reaction was one of utter disbelief. Impossible that Umbrey had known about his habit of scaling the rooftops. How had he known? He’d never set foot on academy grounds before, that much was certain. Tom would have noticed a one-legged pirate roaming about.

  Watching him, 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,” Lost said. “He can’t remember. Not possible.”

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

  Mortimer Lost 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 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. In a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, he asked, “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “As certain as I’m standing here.”

  “Ah.” Lost 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, Umbrey. 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. As much fun as blisters on a marching band. 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 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. I don’t believe it. You must be mistaken. They could not have found us. They could not have gotten through. We are protected here.”

  “Maybe that was once true, but no longer. The tide has shifted.” Umbrey turned to 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. “Men in black capes with a red eye affixed thus?” He indicated 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 looked 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, and 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, 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 swept over Umbrey’s person. “I suppose you brought it with you.”

  “Of course.”

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

  Umbrey faltered. “What do you mean? Here? Now? Just like that?”

  “Of course now. Of course here. What did you have in mind?”

  “It’s not the sort of thing you just blurt out, is it? Shouldn’t there be some sort of, I don’t know, ceremony?”

  “Ceremony?”

  “Yes. You know, something special to mark the occasion.”

  “I am familiar with the meaning of the word.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Alas, I seem to have exhausted my supply of miniature cakes and festive hats. Let us assume the trumpets have blared and the angels have sung. Will that suffice?”

  “No cause to get snippy with me, Morty. I was simply trying to do this properly. Well. All right, then.”

  Umbrey spit into his palms and slicked back his hair. Brushed the dirt from his britches and tugged at his shirt cuffs. Once satisfied, he drew himself up, puffed out his chest and announced dramatically, “Thomas Arturius Hawkins. I have come to deliver your inheritance.”

  Tom frowned. “My what?”

  “Inheritance, lad. Something your father meant for you to have.”

  Tom studied him in confusion. Then he shook his head. Although he obviously didn’t remember it, he’d been told he’d spent his infancy moving through various foster care 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, disgust darkening his features. “You didn’t tell him anything? No wonder the boy looks as blank as a toad’s brain.”

  “I can hardly be credited for that particular expression. You should see him in his algebra class.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom said. “Wait a minute. What’s this about a . . . father?”

  “Tom, you were never given up,” Umbrey said. “Not the way you’re thinking. 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 tell me—”

  “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 thirteenth birthday. As for me, I prefer to keep my skull intact and my innards safely tucked away behind my belly.”

  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. “All set. Go ahead, boy,” he urged, tipping the wooden limb in Tom’s direction. “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, 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—”

  “Oh, for the love of Harriet’s pie,” hissed Professor
Lost. “Think, Mr. Hawkins. Think. 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. For years I’ve been waiting for just this moment.” Beaming, he thrust it 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 sweat 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 expected. Uglier, too. Marred by gouges and scrapes, the dark wood stained by age, blood, and things Tom didn’t want to consider too closely. It bore 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. Same result. His first thought was that it was empty. That the events of that 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 or pinky).

  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.