The Drowned Vault

  “Sorry, Tigs,” Cyrus said. “But I’m here now.”

  Antigone nodded toward the bed. “Tell her, not me.”

  “Oh, come on.” Cyrus pulled a chair over from beside the window. “She’s not mad at me. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  Antigone slipped her feet off the stool and let them thump onto the floor. “Cyrus Smith!”

  Cyrus dropped into his own chair, facing the bed. Leaning forward, he picked his mother’s smooth, dark hand up off the white sheet. “Hey, Mom, I’m here.” He shot a glance back at Antigone. “Now she knows,” he whispered.

  Antigone crossed her arms, but she smiled. “Cyrus was late again, Mom,” she announced loudly. “Nothing’s changed.”

  Cyrus looked at his mother’s sleeping face. Her cinnamon skin was framed by the whiteness of her tight hair, surrounded by the bleached hospital whiteness of her pillow. She’d been asleep ever since she’d been pulled from the frigid waves in California, since Cyrus and Antigone and Dan had watched her plunge in after their father’s distant, shattered boat three years ago.

  Antigone had done their mother’s hair in a braid, pulling it back from her face. Her breathing was steady and soft, her body relaxed, like she was well rested and ready for a new day, like she might suddenly yawn and stretch and smile at her waiting children. In some ways she seemed younger—three years without a smile to crease the corners of her eyes, without a laugh to seam her cheeks, without a son to give her worry.

  Cyrus ignored the tightness in his throat. His thoughts were always a jumble beside his mother’s bed. Words ran from him.

  Something rapped on the window. Antigone stood and crossed the room to crank open the glass.

  Cyrus kissed his mother’s hand and pressed the back of it against his cheek.

  “Love you, Mom.” His voice was just above a whisper. “Lots.”

  Behind him, the red-winged blackbird hopped through the open window and perched on the sill. Antigone sat back down.

  “Keep reading, Tigs,” said Cyrus. “Whatever it was.”

  Antigone leaned back in her chair and picked up her book. She cleared her throat. “ ‘When one is attempting to reproduce a map or chart from memory, it is of the utmost importance to have first seen—truly seen—the original in the correct way, even if only for an instant.’ ”

  Cyrus groaned. “Really, Tigs?”

  Antigone continued. “ ‘One must learn to see things correctly at the first before one can recall things correctly at the second. For example, when looking at a map of an island, one might mentally overlay the shape of a twelve-pointed star on top of the chart and therefore see the unpredictable coastline in terms of the more regular, but still unpredictable—’ ”

  “Tigs!” Cyrus yelled. “You’re torturing her.”

  Antigone looked over her book. “She likes it.”

  “You’re torturing me.”

  “Yeah?” Antigone smiled. “Well, I’m okay with that.” She tapped the page. “This works, by the way. I don’t use an imaginary twelve-pointed star, but it works.”

  “Well, you and your imaginary shapes can have fun together,” Cyrus muttered. “Leave me out of it.”

  Antigone grew serious. “Listen up, Rus-Rus. You’re the one who’s insisting that we try for Explorer. At some point you need to realize that we can’t do that just by running and shooting and fencing and swimming, okay? Are you listening to me? At some point, you are going to have to read an actual book. And Nolan can’t force-feed you your languages, either. You have to want to learn … Cyrus?”

  Cyrus dropped his mother’s hand and straightened.

  Antigone set her book down. “What is it?”

  A woman’s shout echoed in the hall. On the windowsill, the blackbird hopped in place.

  “Run and fetch your precious Greeves!” boomed a male voice just outside the door. The knob turned and the door banged open, slammed against the wall, and bounced all the way shut again.

  Cyrus and Antigone both jumped to their feet.

  The knob turned again, and the door swung open again, slowly this time. A huge man ducked beneath the lintel. He was wearing white pants, white patent-leather shoes, and a white patent-leather belt. A bright turquoise polo shirt barely contained his massive torso. A carpet of chest hair crawled up from his open collar, and the same hair, though not as thick, coated his tree-trunk arms. His face had been recently shaved, but his dark beard was visible all the way up his cheekbones. His sparking eyeballs would have been big for a bull, and the thick curly hair on his head had been oiled.

  “Doors can be tricky,” Cyrus said.

  The man’s purplish lips were as thick as young snakes, and he spread them into a smile. His teeth were factory-perfect.

  “Who are you?” Antigone said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  The man gripped the door with a huge hairy hand and shut it quietly behind him. Cyrus blinked. He had six fingers, each the size of a cucumber. Cyrus looked at the other hand. Six.

  “People call me Gil.” His voice was oddly smooth and soft coming from such a big face. “And I have flown a very long way to meet the two of you.” He looked at Cyrus. “But especially you.”

  “You were the one in the plane?” Antigone asked. “You’re the idiot who landed on my brother?”

  “Yes,” Gil said. “I landed on your brother. And if I had known—”

  “Right,” said Cyrus. “Whatever. Arachne already told us. You would have made sure to kill me.”

  Gil smiled.

  “What’s your problem?” Cyrus asked. “What do you want?”

  “My problem?” Gil’s knuckle-size nostrils puffed out a breeze. “I have many problems. My home in France has been burned. My golf has become terrible. My money has become gone. My life has nearly ended. A friend’s life—a life that should have been unending—has ended. Another friend is missing. I have retraced my problems, and my problems begin with this … place.” He looked around the hospital room, and his big lips curled. Then he looked back at Cyrus. “But especially with you.”

  “Now, hold on,” Antigone said. “Cyrus didn’t do anything.”

  “Seriously.” Cyrus shook his head. “I didn’t give the tooth away, even when I could have. I tried to keep it safe.”

  “Keep it!” Gil’s shout rattled through the room. The blackbird shrieked. “Safe! No man should keep it! There is no safe for such a thing!”

  Cyrus and Antigone backed away slowly. Antigone pointed at the big man.

  “You listen,” she said. “Cyrus didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry about whatever happened to you. We both are. Okay? But we didn’t do those things.”

  Gil began to move forward. “No. The man-devil who now holds the tooth did those things. He is using it to do more things. He will not stop doing things. And why does the man-devil have the dark tooth?” Looming over Cyrus and Antigone, he waved his timber arms, smacking his knuckles against the ceiling. Another step forward and the black fan would kiss his scalp. His hair was already rustling. “No need to answer. Because you chose to keep it. Safe! Ha!” Twelve thick fingers curled and cracked. “Fools must be dealt with before villains.”

  Behind the big man, the door swung open quietly. Cyrus watched Rupert slip into the room and off to the side. Jeb Boone slipped through and to the other side. Arachne stood framed in the doorway. Both men were carrying triple-tipped spear guns. Large spools of wire were coiled beneath each stock.

  “Gil,” Rupert said quietly. “You shouldn’t be in here. Please step back.”

  Gil didn’t turn, and he didn’t step back. He locked eyes with Cyrus and grinned. “Or what?” he asked. “Little Rupert will hurt me?”

  Rupert flipped a switch on the side of his gun, and Cyrus heard it begin to hum. Jeb did the same. A moment later, tiny electrical arcs trickled between the trident tips.

  “Gilgamesh of Uruk,” Rupert said. “Stand down. You are in violation of your treaty with the Order of Brendan.”

&n
bsp; “Violation?” Gilgamesh spun around, ribs heaving beneath his turquoise shirt. “The Order is nothing. Less than nothing.” His fists clenched, and his huge shoulders flexed. “I should break your neck, Avengel.”

  “Gil, please,” Arachne said.

  “Fair warning, Gil,” said Rupert quietly. “Stand down or I will bring you down. This will be your third violation. If the Order uses force on you now, you will be eligible for Burial.” Rupert’s eyes darted to Cyrus’s, and his head twitched slightly to the side.

  Cyrus grabbed Antigone and slid toward the window.

  Still in the doorway, Arachne looked stunned. “Burial?” Her voice wavered. “Mr. Greeves, you wouldn’t.”

  Gil began to laugh. “Of course he wouldn’t. This place would be torn down around his ears first. I could hand him a sack of Smithling corpses, and he still wouldn’t dare Bury me!”

  “I can,” Rupert said. “If needed, I will.”

  In a flash, the huge man lunged for Jeb. One six-fingered hand snatched the spear gun, and the other slammed Jeb against the wall.

  Cyrus jerked in surprise as Antigone swallowed back a scream. Gil was much too quick for his size. While Jeb sank to the floor, Gil grinned, pointing the crackling spear gun at the ceiling. Rupert’s was trained on Gil’s chest. When Gil spoke, his voice was low.

  “Do not threaten me, Rupert Greeves. I am harming no one. And neither are you. See?” Swinging his gun around toward the window, Gil fired. The electrical trident snapped a crackling web of blue through the air and blasted out through the glass as Cyrus and Antigone dropped to the floor.

  Gil let his gun clatter down beside his tremendous feet. Rupert, still tense, nodded at the door. Arachne backed out into the hall.

  “The Order will make this right, Rupert Greeves,” Gil said, and he ducked out the door and disappeared down the hall.

  “I won’t play football again!” Gil shouted. “I won’t!”

  Arachne leaned back into the room. “Rupe?”

  “Keep eyes on him.” Rupert sighed. He flipped his gun off and let it dangle by his side. “Please.” He was sweating.

  Arachne nodded and reached into a canvas satchel slung over her shoulder. Three long-legged brown spiders climbed out of the bag onto her arm. She lowered them to the floor. Cyrus watched them race away after Gil.

  Arachne straightened. “If there’s anything else …”

  “There is,” said Rupert. “But we’ll speak about it later.”

  Arachne nodded and hurried away.

  Jeb was trying to stand. Instead, he sank groaning back down the floor, clutching his ribs.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Rupe, I’m—”

  Rupert shook his head. “Forget it. Stay still. Nurse!” He turned to Cyrus and Antigone. “We need to talk. Right now. Both of you Smiths come with me.”

  He picked up Jeb’s empty gun and turned toward the door. “Nurse!”

  “Coming, coming!” Two women bustled over to Jeb as Rupert strode out of the room. Cyrus and Antigone looked at their mother, then hurried after their Keeper.

  When the nurses had taken Jeb away, only the red-winged blackbird remained in the room. After a moment, she dropped off the sill, fluttered toward the bed, and perched on the back of Antigone’s chair. Cocking her head, she eyed the sleeper in the bed. Then she let out a low musical call—the kind heard all summer in the cattails beside ten thousand ponds.

  Katie Smith’s eyes fluttered. But only for a moment. And then they were still.

  three

  THE POLYGONERS

  CYRUS AND ANTIGONE TURNED sideways to squeeze through an oncoming group of men. All of them were in safari boots and shorts; all of them were fit and hard with sun-browned skin. Cyrus had never seen any of them before—they’d either been on an extended trek, or they were from another of the O of B’s Estates. The men were talking seriously, but every eye followed the Smiths as they passed.

  They knew who Cyrus was, and they knew what he’d lost.

  Antigone and Cyrus quickened their steps. The halls were crowded with the late rush to the dining hall.

  “New people everywhere,” Antigone said quietly. “Where are they coming from?”

  Cyrus watched a group of five teens approaching. Three of them he knew—Sean, Chris, and Francis—typical boring, rich-kid Journeymen who disliked the Smiths and always seemed to be vacationing with family somewhere incredibly obscure. The three of them were clustered around and chattering at two blond brothers who Cyrus didn’t know. Both of the brothers were shorter than Cyrus, but had broader, heavier shoulders and long, thick arms. They were wearing tight black T-shirts and pocketed fatigue shorts. A simple white design had been stenciled on the center of each shirt—an elephant skull with large curving tusks above crossed telescopes.

  Cyrus stared at the strange Jolly Roger and then looked into the boys’ faces. Tan skin, square jaws, and very blond hair. One of them had traded half of his right eyebrow for a lump of white scar tissue. Cyrus could still see a faint crisscross where the wound had been stitched.

  The boy with the scar saw Cyrus and Antigone as they tried to pass, and shouldered his way free of his fans.

  “You’re the Smiths?” he asked. His voice was accented, almost British, but Cyrus knew that wasn’t right. Australian? That was wrong, too.

  Cyrus nodded. Antigone looked down the hall, where Rupert had stopped and was waiting for them.

  “I’m Silas Livingstone,” the boy said. He pointed at his brother. “This is my little brother George.”

  “Hey,” said George. “You two are why we’re here.”

  “Great,” said Antigone, glancing at the three other Journeymen. They all looked like they smelled something unpleasant. “Nice to meet you. Cy, we should keep going.”

  “Wait.” Silas cocked his head, raising one and a half eyebrows. He was looking at the emblem on Antigone’s shirt. Then he looked at Cyrus’s. “What is that? A boxing monkey? I’ve never seen that before.”

  South African accent, Cyrus thought. Or something close.

  George pointed at it. “Is it your family’s crest?”

  Silas laughed. “George, that’s not the sign of the Smiths.”

  “Right.” George looked embarrassed, like he’d forgotten something obvious. “Well, it’s not a Continental crest or an Estate crest or an Expeditionary Badge. Is it a new trainer’s?”

  Cyrus looked at Antigone, and back at the two brothers. He shrugged. “I have no idea what most of that meant.”

  Antigone tucked back her hair and smiled. “It’s the sign of the Polygoners,” she said. “We got it off a World War One flight jacket. Now it’s our symbol.”

  “Smiths!” Rupert yelled. “Now!”

  “What is the sign of the Smiths?” Cyrus asked.

  Silas cocked his half-eyebrow in surprise. “The three heads?”

  “Heads?” Antigone asked. “Of what?”

  “Of men,” said Silas, confused. He seemed to think he was missing a joke. “Grand to meet you both. And no hard feelings, I hope.”

  Cyrus and Antigone continued down the hall and rejoined Rupert. Antigone glanced at her brother.

  “Heads? That’s a little weird,” she said. “And no hard feelings? What was that about? Why would there be hard feelings?”

  “They’d like their father to be named Brendan instead of your trusty Keeper. Some would take that personally, but I share their hope, as unlikely as it is,” Rupert turned and continued down the hall. “Stay close and keep moving.”

  “Where are we going?” Cyrus asked. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “We’ll talk in your rooms,” Rupert said. “Not before.”

  “Our rooms?” Cyrus said. “What about dinner?”

  Rupert laughed. “Cyrus Smith, we’ll talk when we get there.”

  Rupert carved his way through the crowded halls. Even side by side, Cyrus and Antigone fit easily in his wake.

  Three heads. Living heads? Dead heads? C
yrus liked the boxing monkey better. He watched the mapped mosaic floors slide past under his feet. He stepped over a tile street map of Rome. And then what he thought was the Grund of Luxembourg—but only because someone had told him once. He still wasn’t sure what a Grund was, but by now he was probably supposed to.

  He and Tigs had been walking over these mapped floors for a year now, and in that time Cyrus had come to genuinely like their new home. A lot. Even though the rich Skelton inheritance promised to them by the little lawyer John Horace Lawney VII had been a wash, and even though they were surrounded by people who always seemed to be giving them the stink-eye, this was the place where Cyrus had learned to fight and shoot and fly. He could wander halls lined with relics and artifacts that would have been beyond his collector’s imagination only a year ago. He knew what it was like to ride a bull shark and how its muscled sandpaper skin felt against his hands. There had been days when he had done nothing but search through faded old photographs of explorers, wondering which faces belonged to Smiths. But for all of that, he also felt stuck, almost more stuck than he had at the Archer Motel. He and Antigone weren’t allowed to leave the Estate without the permission of their Keeper, and Rupert was never around to take them anywhere off grounds. He certainly wasn’t about to let them go anywhere on their own.

  There were no classes and no real structure. Every time he looked at a book, he suddenly wanted to go for a run, or find a sparring partner, or ask Diana to take him up in one of her planes. But he was going to have to start making himself do the studying if he ever wanted to leave this place and hunt for Phoenix himself.

  Cyrus grimaced. Yeah, there was plenty he didn’t like. The looks in the dining hall. The muttered comments in the halls and the collections and even in the armory. And the fact that almost no one would train with him. That made him angry—even angrier because, on some level, the people who hated him were right. He, Cyrus Smith, had come to Ashtown carrying the Dragon’s Tooth—a dangerous relic given to him by an outlaw. And he had lost it.

  Next time … he didn’t even finish the thought. Even now, Cyrus could picture Phoenix’s face and see the beast he became without his white coat. He could feel those powerful hands, and even more powerful eyes, eyes that could close a throat and choke out breath.