THE
SKIN MAP
OTHER BOOKS BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
KING RAVEN TRILOGY:
Hood
Scarlet
Tuck
Patrick, Son of Ireland
THE CELTIC CRUSADES:
The Iron Lance
The Black Rood
The Mystic Rose
Byzantium
SONG OF ALBION TRILOGY:
The Paradise War
The Silver Hand
The Endless Knot
THE PENDRAGON CYCLE:
Taliesin
Merlin
Arthur
Pendragon
Grail
Avalon
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome
Dream Thief
THE DRAGON KING TRILOGY:
In the Hall of the Dragon King
The Warlords of Nin
The Sword and the Flame
A BRIGHT EMPIRES NOVEL
Quest the First:
THE
SKIN MAP
STEPHEN R
LAWHEAD
© 2010 by Stephen Lawhead
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail
[email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lawhead, Steve.
The skin map / by Stephen R. Lawhead.
p. cm. —(Bright Empires ; no. 1)
ISBN 978-1-59554-804-7 (hardcover)
1. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.A865S57 2010
813’.54—dc22
2010017750
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 WC 6 5 4 3 2 1
In Memory of
Katherine
“Why is the Universe so big?
Because we are here!”
JOHN WHEELER, PHYSICIST
Contents
Part One: The Old Straight Track
Chapter 1: In Which Old Ghosts Meet
Chapter 2: In Which Lines Are Drawn, and Crossed
Chapter 3: In Which Wilhelmina Takes Umbrage
Chapter 4: In Which Unwanted Attention Is Roused
Chapter 5: In Which Kit Attends a Lecture at the Royal Society for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge
Chapter 6: In Which Kit Acquires an Apostle Spoon
Part Two: The Macau Tattau
Chapter 7: In Which Wilhelmina Lands on Her Feet
Chapter 8: In Which Wilhelmina Proves Her Mettle
Chapter 9: In Which Fragile Hopes Are Cruelly Dashed
Chapter 10: In Which Kit Entertains Second First Impressions
Chapter 11: In Which Efforts Are Made and Actions Taken
Chapter 12: In Which a Notable Skin Is Honourably Inscribed
Chapter 13: In Which Respectability Suffers a Serious Setback
Part Three: Black Mixen Tump
Chapter 14: In Which the Intrepid Travellers Are Nobbled
Chapter 15: In Which Kit Makes a New Friend
Chapter 16: In Which Wilhelmina Changes History Much for the Better
Chapter 17: In Which Wilhelmina Joins the Merchant Navy
Chapter 18: In Which Arthur Meets an Avenging Angel
Chapter 19: In Which Kit Is Mistaken for a Footpad
Part Four: The Green Book
Chapter 20: In Which Luxor’s Nefarious Trade Is Advanced
Chapter 21: In Which Social Climbing Is Indulged
Chapter 22: In Which Confidences Are Frankly Exchanged
Chapter 23: In Which Lady Fayth Takes the Lead
Chapter 24: In Which an Understanding Is Reached
Chapter 25: In Which the Alchemy of Coffee Is Discovered
Chapter 26: In Which a Sealed Tomb Gives Up Its Secrets
Chapter 27: In Which the Emperor Awaits a Mysterious Visitor
Part Five: The Man Who Is Map
Chapter 28: In Which Promises Are Made to Be Broken
Chapter 29: In Which Dragons Are Not Confined to Statues
Chapter 30: In Which a Mystery Is Confronted
Chapter 31: In Which the Quality of Mercy Is Strained
Chapter 32: In Which Turnabout Is Fair Play
Chapter 33: In Which Nature Takes Its Course
Chapter 34: In Which a Tour Guide Is Engaged
Chapter 35: In Which an Alliance of Consequence Is Formed
Chapter 36: In Which It Is Darkest Before the Dawn
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About The Author
PART ONE
The Old Straight Track
CHAPTER 1
In Which Old Ghosts Meet
Had he but known that before the day was over he would discover the hidden dimensions of the universe, Kit might have been better prepared. At least, he would have brought an umbrella.
Like most Londoners, Kit was a martyr to the daily travails of navigating a city whose complexities were legendary. He knew well the dangers even the most inconsequential foray could involve. Venturing out into the world beyond his doorstep was the urban equivalent of trial by combat and he armed himself as best he could. He had long ago learned his small patch of the great metropolitan sprawl; he knew where the things most needful for survival were to be found and how to get to them. He kept in his head a ready-reference library of street maps, bus routes, and time schedules. He had memorised the pertinent sections of the London Underground tube schematic; he knew the quickest ways to work, and from work to his favourite pubs, the grocers, the cinema, the park where he jogged.
Sadly, it was rarely enough.
This morning was a perfect case in point. Only minutes before, he had stepped out the door of his flat in Holloway on a jaunt to accompany his girlfriend on a long-promised shopping trip. Oblivious to the fact that he had already embarked on a journey of no return, he proceeded to the nearest tube station, flapped his Oyster card at the gate, stormed down the stairs as the train came rattling to the platform, and leapt aboard as the beeping doors began to close. He counted off the first two of the four stops to his destination and was just allowing himself to imagine that all was running according to plan when he was informed at the third stop that the line was closed ahead for routine maintenance.
“All passengers must change,” crackled a voice through tinny loudspeakers. “This train is terminated.”
Joining the grumbling pack, Kit found his way once again to street level, where a special bus had been provided for tube users to continue their journey—but which was artfully hidden at the far side of King’s Cross station. The fact that it was Sunday, and that Tottenham Hotspur was playing Arsenal, had completely slipped his mind until he glimpsed the waiting bus and the queue of Tottenham fans stretching halfway down Euston Road. Unwilling to wait, he quickly devised an alternative plan for meeting Wilhelmina: just nip across the road and take the Northern Line from King’s Cross to Moorgate, then take the train to Liverpool Street, change to
the Central Line, and get off at Bethnal Green; from there it would be a quick bus ride up to Grove Road. A brisk walk through Victoria Park would bring him to Wilhelmina’s place on Rutland Road. Easy peasy, he thought as he dived back into the Underground.
Once again, Kit fished his Oyster card from his pocket and waved it at the turnstile. This time, instead of the green arrow, the light on the pad flashed red. Aware of the foot traffic already piling into him from behind, he tapped the card against the sensor again and was awarded with the dreaded “Seek Assistance” display. Terrific. He sighed inwardly and began backing through the queue to the scorn and muttered abuse of his fellow travellers, most of whom were dressed in football jerseys of one kind or another. “Sorry,” he grumbled, fighting his way through the press. “Excuse me. Terribly sorry.”
He dashed for the nearest ticket booth and, after negotiating an obstacle course of barriers and railings, arrived to discover there was no one around. He rapped on the window and when that failed ran on to the next window where, after a vigorous pounding, he managed to rouse the attendant. “My Oyster card doesn’t work,” Kit explained.
“It’s probably out of money,” replied the agent.
“But I just topped it up a couple days ago. Can’t you check it?”
The agent took the card and looked at it. He swiped it through a terminal beside the window. “Sorry, mate.” He pushed the card back through the slot. “The computer is down.”
“Okay, never mind,” Kit relented. He started digging in his pockets. “I’ll put five pounds on it.”
“You can do it online,” the agent informed him.
“But I’m here now,” Kit pointed out, “in person.”
“It’s cheaper online.”
“That is as may be,” Kit agreed. “But I have to travel now—today.”
“You can pay at a machine.”
“Right,” said Kit. Down on the platform below, he could hear the train clattering in and he hurried to the nearest ticket machine—which, after repeated attempts, refused to accept his five-pound note, spitting out the limp bill each time. The next machine along was for credit cards only, and the last of three was out of service. Kit ran back to the booth. “The ticket machine won’t take my money,” he said, sliding the fiver through the gap in the window. “Can you give me coin? Or another bill?”
The attendant regarded the crumpled bill. “Sorry.”
“Sorry what?”
“Computer’s down.”
“But I can see the money there,” Kit said, frustration mounting. He pointed through the window to a change machine cartridge stacked with rows of coins waiting to be dispensed. “Can’t you just reach over and get some money?”
“We’re not allowed to take money out of the machine.”
“Why not?”
“It’s automatic, and the comp—”
“I know, I know,” grumped Kit, “the computer’s down.”
“Try one of the other windows.”
“But there’s nobody at the other windows.”
The attendant gazed at him pityingly. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Reduced service on Sunday.”
“No kidding!” cried Kit. “Why do you even bother coming to work?”
The attendant shrugged. Directing his gaze past Kit, he called, “Next!”—although there was no one in line.
Accepting temporary defeat, Kit made his way back up to the street. There were numerous shops where he might have changed a five-pound note—if not for the fact that it was Sunday and all were either observing weekend hours or closed for the day. “Typical,” sniffed Kit, and decided that it would be easier, and no doubt faster, just to walk the three or so miles to Wilhelmina’s. With this thought in mind, he sailed off, dodging traffic and Sunday-morning pedestrians in the sincere belief that he could still reach Mina’s on time. He proceeded along Pentonville Road, mapping out a route in his head as he went. He had gone but a few hundred paces when he began to experience the sinking feeling that he had become completely disoriented and was going the wrong way—something that had happened to him before around the no-man’s-land of King’s Cross. Realizing that he had to head north and west, he turned left onto Grafton Street, tooled along avoiding a barrage of roadwork, and quickly reached the next street north—an odd little lane called Stane Way.
So far, so good, he thought as he charged down the narrow walkway—really, nothing more than an alley providing service access for the shops on the parallel streets. After walking for two minutes, he started looking for the crossing street at the end. Two more minutes passed . . . He should have reached the end by now, shouldn’t he?
Then it started to rain.
Kit picked up his speed as the rain poured into the alley from low, swirling clouds overhead. He hunched his shoulders, put his head down, and ran. A wind rose out of nowhere and whipped down the length of the blank brick canyon, driving the rain into his eyes.
He stopped.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he flipped open the screen. No signal.
“Bloody useless,” he muttered.
Drenched to the skin, water dripping from the ends of his hair and tip of his nose, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. Enough of this, he decided. Abort mission. He made a swift about-face and, shoes squelching with every step, headed back the way he had come. Good news: the wind ceased almost at once and the rain dwindled away; the storm diminished as quickly as it had arisen.
Dodging one oily puddle after another, he jogged along and had almost regained the alley entrance at Grafton Street when he heard someone calling him—at least, he thought that is what he had heard. But with the spatter of rain from the eaves of the buildings round about, he could not be sure.
He slowed momentarily, and a few steps later he heard the call again—unmistakable this time: “Hello!” came the cry. “Wait!”
Keep moving, said the voice inside his head. As a general rule it kept him from getting tangled in the craziness of London’s vagrant community. He glanced over his shoulder to see a white-haired man stumbling toward him out of the damp urban canyon. Where had he come from? Most likely a drunk who had been sleeping it off in a doorway. Roused by the storm, he had seen Kit and recognized an easy mark. Such was life; he prepared to be accosted.
“Sorry, mate,” Kit called back over his shoulder as he turned away. “I’m skint.”
“No! Wait!”
“No change. Sorry. Got to run.”
“Cosimo, please.”
That was all the vagrant said, but it welded Kit to the spot.
He turned and looked again at the beggar. Tall, and with a full head of thick silvery hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, he was dressed in charity-shop chic: simple white shirt, dark twill trousers, both sturdy, but well-worn. The fact that he stuffed the cuffs of his trousers into his high-top shoes and wore one of those old-timey greatcoats that had a little cape attached to the shoulders made him look like a character out of Sherlock Holmes.
“Look, do I know you?” asked Kit as the fellow hastened nearer.
“I should hope so, my boy,” replied the stranger. “One would think a fellow would know his own great-grandfather.”
Kit backed away a step.
“Sorry I’m late,” continued the old man. “I had to make certain I wasn’t followed. It took rather longer than I anticipated. I was beginning to fear I’d missed you altogether.”
“Excuse me?”
“So, here we are. All’s well that ends well, what?”
“Listen, mate,” protested Kit. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“What a joy it is to meet you at long last, my son,” replied the old gentleman, offering his hand. “Pure joy. But of course, we haven’t properly met. May I introduce myself ? I am Cosimo Livingstone.” He made a very slight bow.
“Okay, so what’s the joke?” demanded Kit.
“Oh, it is no joke,” the old man assured him. “It’s quite true.
”
“No—you’re mistaken. I am Cosimo Livingstone,” he insisted. “And anyway, how do you know my name?”
“Would you mind very much if we discussed this walking? We really should be moving along.”
“This is nuts. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Ah, well, I think you’ll find that you don’t have much choice.”
“Not true.”
“Sorry?”
“Listen, mate, I don’t know how you got hold of my name, but you must have me mixed up with someone else,” Kit said, hoping to sound far more composed than he actually felt at the moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know you and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Fair enough,” replied the stranger. “What would it take to change your mind?”
“Forget it,” said Kit, turning away. “I’m out of here.”
“What sort of proof would you like? Names, birth dates, family connections—that sort of thing?”
He started off. “I’m not listening.”
“Your father is John. Your mother is Harriet. You were born in Weston-super-Mare, but your family soon moved to Manchester, where your father worked as a managerial something or other in the insurance trade and your mother was a school administrator. When you were twelve, your family upped sticks again and resettled in London. . . .”
Kit halted. He stood in the middle of the alley, wrestling with the twin sensations of alarm and disbelief. He turned around slowly.
The old man stood smiling at him. “How am I doing so far?”
Even in the uncertain light of the alley, the family resemblance was unmistakable—the strong nose, the heavy jaw and broad brow, the hair that rippled like waves from the forehead, the broad lips and dark eyes, just like his father’s and obnoxious Uncle Leonard’s. It was all of a basic design that Kit had seen repeated with greater or lesser variation in family members his entire life.
“Since university—Manchester, Media Studies, whatever that is—you have been working here and there, doing nothing of any real value—”