The Map by William Ritter Page A

surrounded by water, the island was not technically in the ocean at all. The rippling waves lay thirty feet below us with the circle of land hanging above them like a balloon.
    Jackaby stepped up to the island’s edge and peered over, sending a spray of sand drifting down in the wind. “Hmm. A touch ostentatious, but the effect is impressive,” he said.
    “We’re floating!” I said. “Is this goblin magic?”
    “There appears to be a dual-dimensional suspension matrix woven through the framework of the landmass.” He scowled at the dirt beneath his feet. “On the Anwynn side it likely manifests as deviations in directional energies, while on our end we experience a pronounced gravitational anomaly.”
    “So that’s a yes,” I nodded. “It’s marvelous!”
    Jackaby looked up at me and a curious glint crept into his eyes. “Well, Miss Rook?”
    “Well?”
    “With the last of our resources, you have bypassed any hope of a safe return in favor of this chance at a final step. So? We’re here.”
    The burial site was not difficult to find—a convenient spade had even been left at the base of the lone tree. Its handle had long since crumbled, but the head was sufficient to scoop away the sandy soil. Within a matter of minutes, I struck something solid. I pushed aside the earth until I had outlined a rectangle of metal.
    “This is it,” I said.
    When the artifact was exhumed and the last clods of dirt knocked free, we found ourselves looking at a simple lockbox made of hammered pewter or tin. With a little coaxing, a circle of silver on the top rotated to reveal a keyhole.
    “A bit small for the payroll of an entire army, don’t you think?” I held the box and tilted it to blow the dust from the keyhole. Something inside clunked heavily. At least it wasn’t empty. “Gold?” I guessed.
    “Fleming had to pay the goblins with something,” Jackaby said. “The constructions and enchantments we passed were not erected cheaply. There’s no telling how much of his loot was even left to bury.”
    Jackaby produced the magpie’s key and I took it reverently. It fit smoothly in the hole and turned with a gentle click. I opened the lid and we stared into the box.
    “Huh,” Jackaby said. “Well. It’s gold
colored
.”
    Inside the box was a stout glass jug. It was filled with a liquid that was really more amber than gold, and plugged with a cork sealed with wax. Beneath it was a single piece of paper with handwriting on it. I pulled out the note.
    The writing was cleaner than the map had been, but the ink had dripped in several places and the whole job looked a little rushed. It read as follows:
    The word that lives, lives only to be read
    So purpose grants new life unto the dead
    By daylight mine own heart will cease to beat
    Yet my heart’s purpose ever was deceit
    In this pursuit thou hast become my last
    So raise a glass to bold deceivers passed
    Thou shalt find little else at journey’s end
    Yet there is whiskey in the jar, my friend.
    I read the poem twice before handing it wordlessly to Jackaby.
    We might have been killed. This mad quest had nearly turned us into turnips and reduced us to rabbit food. It had dropped a castle on our heads and dropped us out of the sky. Now we were stranded on a remote island in the middle of the ocean, one that no earthly ship could find even if it wanted to, and it had all been a cheeky bandit’s last laugh.
    “Oh.” Jackaby said soberly. “Oh, I see. I suppose an apology is in order.”
    “It’s all right, sir.”
    “No, you were quite explicit in your request for a birthday without fuss, and I seem to have gotten us into quite a lot of it for nothing. I assure you, I—are you laughing?”
    I wiped a tear from my eye and sat back on the sand, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “for the treasure hunt. I honestly cannot think of a finer way to have spent my birthday.”
    He looked skeptical.
    “Purpose, sir. It’s nice to have purpose. It’s not