Chapter 31: Mapmaker (Patreon)

The following morning, Elliot awoke alone in his cramped room. Hadrian had claimed the bed, leaving him on a bedroll. There was a small window that let in a wedge of light, but the space otherwise resembled a large closet. The proprietors of Yarba’s Bracelet seemed nice enough, a couple of retired delvers who loved to show guests the hallway with only a glass floor separating its occupants from the several thousand foot drop to the water below. There was a short note left on the bed that read: Gone to hunt. Practice until I return.

Elliot sighed, wondering how breakfast was supposed to work. Then he started his body weight exercises. When his muscles were screaming, he moved outside to run the length of the branch in sprinting intervals, with quite possibly the best views of any run of his life. Then an hour of practicing [Detailed Appraisal], and finally he reluctantly began work with his spatial pocket.

There had been some progress with his control, and he was now able to move it quickly between objects, although only when empty. He could also manipulate the boundary more effectively so that instead of a box it could take on a somewhat rectangular shape, although still with the same total volume.

It was by far the most boring part of his training. He sat silently, eyes closed, kneading the border of the storage space with his will and feeling its tiny—almost invisible—fluctuations.

After another hour the door opened and Hadrian stepped through, blood soaking the front of his leathers.

Elliot looked up and winced. “What did you kill? It must have been right on top of you.”

Hadrian frowned. “Blood is something you will have to become accustomed to if you walk this road.”

“Oh of course,” Elliot said, rolling his eyes. “How true. I’m sure all the great powers of the world are constantly covered in old monster blood and smell like fish.”

Hadrian maintained his scowl. “I do not smell like fish. And you need to get ready.”

“Get ready? What does that mean? I already did the basics.”

The hunter pulled out a bushel of rolled scrolls from the pouch on his belt. “Put on more presentable attire. You will be applying to the Mapmakers Guild.”

Elliot opened and closed his mouth. “What?”

“We need a suitable story for you. Many places, such as this, will not delve too deeply into your identity. Others though, particularly those where Breka and I will be more thoroughly questioned, will look closer. You lack both the skill and the knowledge to portray a plausible merchant under duress.” 

He waved the scrolls at Elliot, who took them belatedly. 

“These,” he continued, “are your way in. Study them now, as the book merchant could arrive at any time.”

Slowly unfurling one of the four scrolls he’d been handed, Elliot saw a map. It was simple, but penned cleanly without shakiness or errors. It depicted a forested coast, with two small harbor towns and about five square miles of total coverage. “You want me to memorize the maps?”

“Not memorize. Just familiarize yourself with the outlines. You will need to be able to claim that you drew them.”

“Oh,” he replied, “Okay. I can draw, but I’ve never done a map before.”

“They will not require a practical demonstration, just a portfolio. You will only seek an entry level membership.”

“Why mapmaking?” Elliot asked. Even as the question left his mouth though, the idea began to tickle his imagination. Exploration, cataloguing new species, mapping the terrain as he went. It sounded nice. But there was no room for nice right now, not unless nice helped him get closer to finding Rowan.

“It is difficult to disprove or test on a whim, explains why you would search out a wandering merchant to travel with, and will allow for some personal eccentricity.”

Elliot frowned at the last addition.

“Additionally, the Mapmakers Guild is a powerful entity. Their patronage is nonexistent for the level of membership you will seek to acquire, but the name alone may grant some leeway in certain exigent situations. Study now. You do not have much time.”

Elliot obeyed, beginning to pour over the sheets of parchment as Hadrian sat on the floor and practiced with his wrought-iron skill cube. Elliot quickly realized the fourth scroll was a summary of basic information about the locations depicted on the other three, and with that the work passed quickly. 

Once he was feeling fairly comfortable with the material, he paused. Hadrian was still sitting silently. In fact, he hadn’t so much as twitched for the entire time Elliot had been studying.

“Hadrian,” Elliot said, “why are you always training or hunting? You never stop.”

The other man’s features stayed serene, eyes closed, glowing cube in hand. He did not reply.

“I get that you’re, you know, in a business where power is important. But if you’re not training me or doing something for Breka you’re either with that cube or hunting monsters.” Elliot paused. What had started as an idle question was, he realized, starting to make him uncomfortable. Why wasn’t he working as hard as Hadrian? The hunter was far ahead of him in power but he never stood still, every minute spent working. His throat tightened. Why couldn’t he do that? “How do you do it? How do you push yourself to never stop?”

Hadrian must have sensed a change in tone because his eyes eased open, and his burgeoning scowl softened. “I was built into what I am from a very young age. In my family, there is no path but the path toward the pinnacle. Despite leaving them behind, I find myself unable to desist.” He closed his eyes again. “You are working hard for your sister, and should not feel shame for your efforts. I would not lie to you about this.”

Elliot clenched his right hand into a fist, squeezed, then released. “Thanks.”

Hadrian just made a humming noise, then his eyes snapped open. “The book merchant is here. Compose yourself.”

Elliot sucked in a breath, setting his shoulders. “Right.”

Less than a minute later, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Elliot called out.

Grik stepped into the room, looking far more presentable than yesterday in green and white linen tunic and trousers. The dresser was absent. “Good morning to you both! I hope you had a pleasant rest.” He seemed more relaxed this morning, back to the ease he’d shown on the road. “Are you ready to tour the guilds? Any preferences?”

“He would like to see the Mapmakers Guild, and register as an initiate,” Hadrian said, rising to his feet. The cube was out of sight.

“An initiate?” Grik asked, eyebrows climbing, “you draw maps? You never said that.”

“Oh, you know,” Elliot replied, rising as well. “Just a hobby of mine. Why not make it official.”

“Well, fantastic then. I was planning on offloading the grimoire which maps the northern Gerrwood tomorrow, but if we’re headed to the Mapmakers Guild then I’ll just get it done in one go. Do you mind if we stop at my lodgings so I can grab it?”

“Not at all.”

They headed trunkwards. Navigating the slabs of bark took practice, with a small hop needed every ten feet or so to clear the larger edges. A strong wind blew, and sunlight falling through twisting leaves cast a pattern of dappled shadows over the branch.

It was less than a half hour to Grik’s lodgings—a cozy-looking inn set against the main trunk—and then with the grimoire in hand they set off for the Eastbranch which held the guildhalls.

Elliot let Grik narrate the journey, spending his time appreciating the impossible sights all around. Mundane buildings became spectacles when set against the view of the vast wilds beyond.

“I’m also happy to report that I received the latest essays from Adenicius,” Grik said with a small smile.

It took a moment for Elliot to place the name, the events of the last day having driven any thought of the Iludean pseudo-revolutionary from his mind.  “No offense, but why do people find this guy so fascinating?”

Grik shrugged. “It’s rare to see someone in power speaking against the system that supports them. And everyone loves a fallen royal. Perhaps he’s a hypocrite, but despite being clever enough to survive Rhodean politics, his stance is significantly more hindrance than help. He could cultivate far more support if he toed the line. Some will always view him as a traitor for the luxuries he enjoys and the company he keeps, seeing his talk of freedom as a useless indulgence, while others see him as the last real warrior for the cause of independence. I personally find him interesting, and I hope he’s sincere. Also—” he raised a finger to point, “that’s our destination.”

An unusually large building took up the whole of the branch ahead, topped in a wide glass dome that sparkled blindingly in the morning sun.

“Let me introduce you,” Grik offered as they walked up to the front entrance. “My work overlaps with theirs from time to time, and I’ve sold them a fair number of my finds. I’ll put in a good word.”

Past the wide double doors, a single massive room stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling. Three layers of balconies were tied together by a central spiral staircase, and the walls were covered with bookcases. Light fell through the glass dome and lit the space brightly, with no need for lamps or glowstones. There was a small desk staffed by a single clerk immediately in front of the entrance, and she looked up as they entered.

“How can I be of service?” she asked, smiling. Her polite, upbeat tone reminded Elliot of his own time in customer service. She was older, with grey hair and wrinkles, but any hint of grandmotherly energy was suppressed by the dozens of scars on her face and shoulders, including a vicious looking crescent that curled across her left eye.

“Hello,” Grik said with a wide smile, “my name is Grikarium Tsoan, and I’m here to finalize a sale with Master Kent.” He gestured at Elliot. “And this is my friend Elliot; he would like to register as an initiate. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and would make a fine candidate.”

“Welcome,” she replied. “For yourself Master Tsoan, a room will be prepared.” She gestured to the far wall, which boasted a few doors presumably leading to individual reading rooms or offices. “And you sir are in luck,” she said, looking at Elliot. “One of our assessors is on the floor right now, and if you give me your portfolio, and your visitor registration, I can check to see if he has availability.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Elliot said, passing over the satchel he’d used to carry the maps, then fishing out his registration. “Do you mind if I look around while I wait?”

“Feel free to peruse the first floor, which is our public section. You can follow me, Master Tsoan.” She tilted her head in a deferential gesture and turned toward the back wall.

“If you want general material, start over there,” Grik said, pointing to the first shelves on the left as he turned to follow the clerk.

Elliot started towards the indicated shelves, practically rubbing his hands in anticipation. Ever since his arrival here, so many things that he had taken for granted on Earth had been denied to him. Not having a basic sense of where he was geographically would have been unthinkable back home. The nations he knew about, primarily the Broken March, Rhodea, and Iludea, all seemed to lie in a rough line under the steppes to the northeast and the Gerrwood to the northwest, but that was about the extent that he’d figured out. Finally, he would be able to start outlining a rough plan for his journey south.

As he got close enough to read titles, his excitement grew. World Atlas, A Geographical History of Condyn, The Riverways of Hadra, the list of names went on and on. It was the closest he’d come to Wikipedia in weeks.

Then he paused, his eye catching on a book at the far end of the shelf: The North of Condyn. That would be a good start. From what Breka had said information got sketchy once you passed the Crowns. Getting as much as he could about the first third of the journey was probably all that was practical for now.

Drawing the book out of its place on the shelf and flipping it open, he skipped through a few pages of introduction and paused at the first map. His eyes widened. He kept flipping, page after page of maps breaking down the north. The more he saw, the faster he flipped.

What? How could this possibly make sense?

Across all the maps, and there were many, he estimated that about seventy percent of the total landmass was uncharted territory. The northwestern extent of the Gerrwood was just the local blank space, wherever he looked there were swathes of land marked with just a name and no further details. The Pellwood Expanse, the Hornspires, the Yellowtear Wastes, Baltiar’s Rest, they went on and on.

Everywhere he looked, all he saw were obstacles. And this is the part that’s supposed to be easy.

His lips twisted. This was going to be even harder than he’d thought.