The Name on the Map

Haldren returned with mud up to his knees. I showed him the print. He studied it for a long time, then set a chair against the door and sat down. His sword lay across his knees. Only then did he tell me that the first trader had been dead for eleven years.

The second was dead too. At the third name, he fell silent. I remembered a courteous man in a threadbare coat, and a horse that had never lifted its head. He had described the road without looking at the map. ‘He wanted me to add a well,’ I said.

We left at dawn, if that grey brightening deserved the name. Two other guards came with us. Beneath the thorns on the old path we found fresh hoofprints. Behind the chapel, there really was a well. A small brass key hung from its windlass.

Haldren didn’t take it. He merely held an open hand beneath it. ‘The key to our house,’ he said at last. ‘My brother had it when he disappeared.’ The younger guard stepped back. I took out my sketchbook because my hands needed something ordinary to do.

Something struck stone down in the well. Three times. Haldren knelt at the rim. I caught his cloak before I knew why. Four lanterns were reflected in the water, although we carried only three. The fourth was moving slowly upwards. That place on my map still has no name.