The Drowned Vault (33 page)

“Okay,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to contact Gil.”

“How?” Dennis asked.

“He probably has Antigone’s Quick Water. I’ll hold up messages or something. I’ll figure it out. But I’m going to tell him that if he gives us Antigone—and Rupert, if he has him—he can take Phoenix and do whatever he wants to him. I’ll even tell him where Phoenix is—as much as Dan knows.”

“Lad,” said the Captain. “That’s a steep gamble. This Phoenix holds the tooth. If the dragons take it, the world sinks in a worse slough. But if we take it, e’en the dragons
can die and rot. Then ho for a war that can be won, for victory and new treaties writ in dragon blood. We must go for the tooth above all else, even Avengels and sisters.”

“I know,” said Cyrus. “But we race them. We get there first. We beat Phoenix and get the tooth. And then, like the Captain and like Arachne, we keep our promise, just not how the transmortals expect. We give them Phoenix but no tooth.”

“It all sounds so easy,” Nolan said.

“Phoenix won’t roll over,” said Alan. “I won’t say it’s a bad idea, but he’ll have men and defenses. We’ll be betting everything on our little band to win a race and then a battle, and with little time for preparations.”

The Captain pointed at the gold ring on Cyrus’s thumb—the ring that had tumbled from the Radu Bey block when he’d unlocked the Captain. Cyrus looked down at it. He’d forgotten he had it on.

“You hold the blood talisman of Radu Bey,” the Captain said. “Charmed gold. I kept it sealed and hid. Now that it’s out, he’ll trace his own scent easy enow. No need to race. Lead and let them trail behind. Gil and his hounds will be baying at these doors if we wait.”

Cyrus inhaled slowly and looked around the room, waiting for objections. His eyes settled on Dan. His older brother looked nervous. Dan crossed his arms, then nodded.

“Right,” said Cyrus. “That’s what we’ll do. I need my
Quick Water.” He faced Arachne. “Will you help me talk to Gil?”

Arachne rose and moved quietly toward Cyrus.

“As for taking Phoenix,” Big Alan said, “have you any thoughts to that? We have guns in the planes and in this house, but not much else.”

Robert Boone stepped in from the hall and leaned against the jamb. Jeb was behind him. “That’s not all we have, Brother Elephant.” He picked at his teeth with his toothpick, then looked around the room. When his eyes passed over Diana, he smiled. “My name’s not Boone by any kind of accident. My pappy could snare a ghost in high mountain wind using nothing but twine and moonshine. I think we might be able to do something about old Phoenix.” He looked at Cyrus. “Not saying I care for the plan. The dragons will want the Reaper’s Blade, not Phoenix. And that’s not a trade I can allow, two souls on the block or twenty.”

Cyrus clenched his jaw. He knew they couldn’t give the tooth to the
Ordo
, not for anything. Of course he knew that.

“Maxi wanted the tooth, too,” Cyrus said quietly. “He wanted me to trade it for Dan.” Flashes of memory tumbled through his head. Rupert fallen. Nolan fallen. Fire. Maxi’s grinning face and nothing but a key ring in his own hand and the cold dark tooth jutting out between his knuckles.

Adrenaline whispered through his body, and on his neck, Patricia sensed it. She slithered slightly, tightening. Cyrus could still feel his final lunge, the crunch of bone. He could still see the keys dangling against Maxi’s dying face.

“I didn’t make any trades,” Cyrus said quietly.

“No,” Boone said. “No, you didn’t. But just so we’re clear, I’d rather see the underside of my own tombstone than have that tooth go to the likes of Radu Bey.” He looked from face to face. “I hope that’s what sets those in this room apart from Bellamy bloody Cook and the cowards and compromisers of Ashtown—a willingness to die rather than bow and scrape before the darkness.”

Captain John Smith rumbled a long amen in his chest.

“The Order can rot,” Boone muttered. “If this doesn’t destroy it, maybe we will after. It’s just another institution that’s tried to master free men.”

The Captain’s rumble stopped and he eyed Boone.

“The O of B is still real, Pa,” said Diana. “Our oaths are real. We’re still in it, and if Rupe’s alive, he’s still Avengel; not even the Brendan can remove him while he’s in the field.”

Captain John Smith drew himself up, facing Boone. “Sir, the ants serve queens. Hornets defend a hive. Wolves hail a chieftain, and the great apes bend to their silver king. The tides to moon, the moon to earth, the
earth to sun. Man hath the divine seal, but even he must be mastered.”

Boone smiled with tight lips, wry eyes sparkling. “Well then, I stand corrected.”

Cyrus jumped in. “You all can argue more later. We need guns. And whatever Mr. Boone might need to trap Phoenix. Dan can tell you what the place looks like. Mr. Boone, Mr. Livingstone, I’m sure you’ll come up with a plan, but make sure the Captain likes it.”

“But don’t mind me.” Nolan sighed. “I can hate it.”

Cyrus backed toward the door, and Arachne followed him. Alan Livingstone and Robert Boone were eyeing each other like two dogs at a park, deciding if they were friends.

“How long till we’re ready to fly?” Cyrus asked.

“Thirty,” Boone said. “Maybe sooner. I keep the birds ready.”

Cyrus nodded. “Okay. Thirty minutes. Oh, and Jax and Dennis,” said Cyrus. “You’re staying here.”

Relief washed over Jax, but Dennis flushed embarrassment. Cyrus ducked quickly out of the room before there could be another discussion.

Arachne crossed her legs and set down her spider bag. Cyrus had already shut the bedroom door. He grabbed his bag from beside his bunk and sat on the floor across from the wide, icy blue eyes.

“It is hard for you right now,” Arachne said.

Cyrus inflated his cheeks. “Yeah, it is.” He set a little oilcloth pouch in front of Arachne. “I’m doing my best. Now you do yours and maybe we will get Rupert and Antigone back.”

“If you rush at Phoenix,” Arachne said quietly, “he will be unready.” She looked down at the pouch. “What
exactly
do you want me to do?”

Cyrus stared into her cold blue eyes. “Try to find out … from the room, or from Gil’s face … if my sister is …”

“Dead?”

Cyrus nodded. “And Rupert, if Gil took him. If he has either of them and they’re still alive, then make Gil our offer. Do you need a paper and pen?”

Arachne shook her head, unlaced the pouch, and let the Quick Water roll out and wobble on her palm. Cyrus and Antigone had found it by accident in one of Ashtown’s African collections. When divided in half, each ball looked out of the other, regardless of distance. Antigone and Diana had used it to find Cyrus when the treacherous Ashtown cook, Big Ben Sterling, had tied him up in one of the kitchen pantries. Now Cyrus hoped it would be just as useful.

The small ball of liquid fungus behaved a lot like mercury, but instead of being silver, it was clear. It quivered and wobbled on Arachne’s palm. She traced the
surface with one fingertip, then looked up at Cyrus, surprised.

“This is real,” she said. “I expected a Victorian imitation. This is wild-grown. African.”

Cyrus shrugged. He didn’t know what that meant or why it mattered, but Arachne seemed encouraged. She was humming.

When Cyrus had used the Quick Water, he had simply held the ball up to his face and stared into it, seeing whatever was in range of Antigone’s half, bent and warped by the shape of the sphere. But Arachne placed the blob on the carpet in front of her and dragged her fingers through it, separating it into strands. Then she separated those strands again. As she did, the strands tried to bead up into balls, but her fingers forced them back down and stretched them out, like noodles made of water, and then even thinner. Like threads. After a quick hiss through her teeth, Arachne’s spiders marched through the carpet to help. With her small servants lining her fingertips, Arachne began to weave.

Cyrus watched as the Quick Water became a cloth. The cloth became a clear sheet of liquid glass. Arachne leaned over it and peered through.

Still looking down, she raised one hand into a slice of morning sunlight that was pouring in through the window. She smiled at Cyrus, then twisted her fingers. Beams of light flashed down from her fingers like she was
holding a dozen tiny mirrors, pouring through her water window in the floor.

After a moment, she spoke.

Antigone opened her eyes. Her body ached and her head felt like a gong, still vibrating from her fall. She was upright, but a little off the ground, pinned to a brick wall. Thick leather straps held her arms and legs tight.

Antigone blinked slowly and looked up. The ceiling was stadium-height, six or seven stories up at least, and paned windows lined the walls just beneath it, letting in a waterfall of morning light. She could actually see birds up there, slowly circling perches.

Down at her level, rows of freestanding bookshelves ran all the way out of her blurry focus. Some held spines, and some scrolls. There were chairs. And tables. And more shelves. And partition walls. And art. And statues.

Halfway between floor and ceiling, there was a room mounted on a towering stone column. It was missing two of its walls, and it was smoking.

She’d fallen from that? No wonder she hurt all over. She tugged at the leather straps that held her to the wall. Strange, having straps like this in a library—if that’s what this place was.

Where was Rupert? There were empty straps next to hers and sticky blood on the floor beneath them.

“Rupe?” Her voice echoed a little. When the echo
died, she heard nothing but the muffled sound of feathered wings and her own breathing.

“Rupe!” She screamed the name long and hard, half expecting a librarian to appear to shush her. At least, she expected
someone
to appear. No one did.

There was a table, no more than fifteen feet in front of her, tucked into the shadow of a two-story shelf. She squinted at it. Her leather jacket and her bag were on one end. The contents of her bag had been spread across the table—some clothes, the little box with the Chinese lantern globe that Skelton had left them. A knife. Canvas shoes. Hair bandanas. The oilcloth pouch with her half of the Quick Water. The mouth of the bag was open; she could just see the shimmery curve of the strange African fungus. She stared at it, hoping that Cyrus was looking.

As she inhaled to yell again, an old man shuffled out from behind a shelf and stood in front of her. He had a bulbous nose, a bald head, and eyebrows in need of a lawn mower. A straggly beard covered his cheeks and chin. He was wearing a child’s hooded sweatshirt with a zipper, baggy corduroy trousers rolled up around his ankles, and red wool socks that had been forced into flip-flops. Across his chest, his sweatshirt excitedly announced a single word.

Soccer!

Scrunching his face as he examined Antigone, he tugged at loose white hairs on his throat.

“I’m Antigone Smith,” Antigone said. “Who are you?”

The old man began to rustle through her belongings on the table.

“Hey!” She tugged at her straps. “Stop touching my stuff!”

The man found a dry granola bar in her bag, took a bite, and dropped into a chair. Grinning and chewing, he mumbled something in another language.

“What is that?” Antigone asked. “Greek? English would be awesome. Could we use English, please?”

“Shouldn’t do it. Not these things. Not here,” the man said. His accent was rich. “Don’t like it. No.” He studied the granola bar and took another bite.

“What things?” Antigone asked. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed at her. “You.” He gestured at her straps. “This.” His eyes sank to the blood on the floor. “That.”

Antigone followed his eyes to the sticky puddle and then looked back up. “Where is he? Is Gil here?”

“Gil.” The old man snorted the name. “Gil, Gil, Gil. Doesn’t listen.” He pointed the granola stub at the room high on the column. “That one is chained. Chained up tight. For now.”

The man squeezed the last piece of the bar into his cheek and looked back at her bag, hopeful.

“That was my last one,” Antigone said. “Please, talk to me. Who are you?”

The man went back to pulling at the hair on his throat. “Mentor,” he said.

“Okay …,” Antigone said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mentor,” the man said again, tapping his chest cheerfully. “My name. I’m Mentor.”

“Mentor? Really? Like … will you be my mentor?”

“Exactly. Correct. Me,” the man said. “A name, and my name, and mentoring is named for me.” He tapped the side of his nose and waggled his eyebrows.

Antigone tried to catch any glimpse of a joke in the man’s eyes, but he seemed serious enough. He also seemed homeless and behind on his meds.

“So you’re one of the transmortals?” Antigone asked. “You’re in the
Ordo Draconis?
”

“
Ordo
. Or-do? Or-don’t!” He laughed. “Or-die. The dragons do their dragooning.” Mentor tapped his nose, then yawned slowly. “Dragons for the young. Steam and fire and fits. Too much for Mentor. Too much too muching. And Gil.”

Mentor grew serious and looked around secretively. Then he whispered the name again and nodded importantly. “Gil. Doesn’t care about books, Antigone. Nor the bottles sleeping in the cellars. Sleepy cellars. That’s where Mentor sleeps. With the bottles.” He touched his nose and yawned again. Antigone fought back a yawn of her own.

Mentor nodded at the tall stone column, capped with
the two-walled bedroom. “Fits, fits, fits. Fits and thunder. And dragons. And wolves and heroes. The old world, Antigone Smith.” He leaned forward. “Put to bed, Antigone Smith. It was. Tucked into tombs and corners under cobblestones and cobblewebs. Brendan’s children sang the lullaby. Lulla-bye-bye.”

The old man slid out of his chair and walked toward her, scratching at his
Soccer!
“Dragons sleep, Antigone Smith. They sleep long.” He was close enough for her to smell his breath—a smell like dirt and mushrooms and wine. The old man touched his nose again. “But they wake. They do. And when they do, listen to Mentor, listen. Do what needs doing.”

“I’m listening,” Antigone said. “What needs doing?”