A Delivery to Darkshire

I am a cartographer. Some people think a good map makes its bearer brave. In Duskwood, it mainly tells you exactly how far you are from a lighted window. That evening, the nearest window was a very long way off.

The Night Watch had ordered road maps. I carried them in a waxed cover beneath my cloak, counting the lanterns on the way to Darkshire. Something moved between two of them. I stopped. It stopped too. When I walked on, I heard footsteps again. They weren’t mine.

A guard with a grey moustache was waiting at the gate. ‘Don’t turn around,’ he said, as casually as if he were mentioning the rain. He led me into the light before looking back. There was nothing between the trees. He barred the gate anyway. He gave me his name over the second cup of tea: Haldren.

His finger paused over an abandoned chapel on my map. ‘That path is gone.’ I showed him my notes. Three traders had confirmed the route, independently. Haldren asked for their names. I pushed the list across the table.

Outside, a bell rang. Once, then twice. By the third stroke, Haldren was already at the door. ‘Stay here.’ I would have obeyed. But my list lay on the floor, and beside one of the names someone had left a fingerprint in fresh, damp earth.