The Drowned Vault

by N. D. Wilson

  The path turned left at an attic junction, and then left again. It led Rupert and Cyrus past a large camp of sleeping bats. Judging from the smell, the bats and all their bat friends had been camping there for quite some time.

  The plank path dead-ended at a brick wall.

  “Right there.” Cyrus pointed at a rumpled-up pile of insulation between two rafters. An old ladder had been bedded down inside the pile.

  The ladder was a rickety one, but it held Rupert easily enough. Cyrus followed his Keeper up over the brick wall and onto a long slope of fir planks that must have been above a vaulted ceiling. A path had been worn smooth by others—or perhaps only by Skelton over time. They disturbed a smaller camp of bats and discovered a deposit of brittle ancient carnage left over—most likely—when some cats had discovered a favorite pigeon roost.

  They climbed and they slid, and they walked silently over precarious planks listening to muffled voices through the ceilings beneath them. And all the way, Cyrus watched as—one by one—the last of the red paper dragons that had clung to Rupert’s wet clothes slipped off and settled in the dust among the rafters, where they would stay, perhaps for always.

  “Rupe?” Cyrus asked. “What does the dragon mean? And the crests on it …”

  Rupert ducked beneath another rafter. “Inside it. The crests were in the dragon’s belly. It’s a message, and an old one.” He glanced back. “A death sentence. The Ordo has claimed us for its own. The Dracul decree. They would issue them to kings or popes or sultans when they intended to take one of their subjects.” He laughed. “Or one of their cities. Or one of their nations. It was a warning to stand back—to expel the condemned and provide no aid or protection. And—with very few exceptions—it was obeyed.”

  “We were in the dragon’s belly?”

  “We are,” said Rupert, and he cracked a dark smile. “ ‘Shall I fear the dragon’s inners, where it keeps no armor to turn my blade?’ That from your famous ancestor, the Captain.”

  “Arachne said the other crest belonged to Phoenix.”

  Rupert grew serious again. “It belonged to the last Brendan—and to his twisted brother, Edwin Laughlin.” He glanced back. “Phoenix. And to his grandnephew, Oliver Laughlin, wherever he may be.”

  Cyrus slipped along behind Rupert. The shrunken old Brendan had been nice enough, but Cyrus had only spoken to him once before he died. He’d actually interacted more with Phoenix. Just thinking about that man sent Cyrus’s neck hair bristling—the singsong drawl; the limp; the wild all-seeing, all-sucking eyes; the ancient stained white coat; the electric tingle in his frigid touch; the voice that had probed into his mind. And Mr. Ashes—the snarling, rushing power he’d become when the coat had slipped off his shoulders.

  And Oliver Laughlin. The boy. He had sat beneath the wall of portraits in the Galleria and decided Cyrus’s fate with silent nods and silent shakes of his head. The Order had bowed to him as the rising successor. But he hadn’t cared—not about anything. And he’d turned out to be the loneliest kid Cyrus had ever met. He hadn’t hung out with the Polygoners for long. The Brendan had died, and Oliver had gone.

  Now they were inside a dragon together.

  Cyrus thumped into Rupert’s back.

  The path had terminated at a tremendously thick chimney. Bricks had been removed from one side and carefully stacked out of the way, leaving a black ragged arch behind. A rope ladder dangled inside.

  Rupert squeezed himself in and began climbing. When the avalanche of ash and char finally slowed and stopped, Cyrus held his breath and ducked into the hole.

  After fifteen feet of darkness, Cyrus reached the upper lip of the chimney and stuck his head out beneath the hazy sky. Rupert grabbed Cyrus’s forearms and rocketed him out the chimney into the daylight.

  They were standing on a copper roof—old and tarnished green. The roof sloped down past a row of mossy statues and stopped at a broad gutter. Another rope ladder had been attached to the chimney, and it ran down to the edge of the roof and disappeared into what looked like nothing but treetops and sprawling woods—the outer unkempt grounds of Ashtown. To their left, looking past the stone corners and higher roofs of the main building, they could just see the jetty, the crowded harbor, and a flock of anchored seaplanes. Gil’s was the biggest, floating on its fat belly.

  “Smart,” Rupert said, squinting against the light. He pointed at the closest corner of the main building. “No windows overlooking this spot, and the roof peak behind us keeps us invisible to the courtyard and the other buildings. Old Billy Bones could have kept this up for a long time. Probably did.”

  Cyrus looked around. “Yeah, but what do we do now?”

  Rupert smiled. “A philosopher stood on one leg in the middle of a road, unsure of what to do. ‘What is the best and wisest step? Where shall I put my foot?’ he asked. A farmer passing with an ox gave him his answer. ‘Put it down,’ he said. And so the philosopher did, but his other leg rose up. ‘Terrible advice!’ he yelled. ‘My predicament hasn’t improved. Where shall I put this foot?’ And again, the farmer told him, ‘Put it down.’ ”

  “And …,” said Cyrus.

  “And this time when the philosopher put his foot down, he put it squarely in a pile of the ox’s dung. Concluding that the farmer was either a trickster or a fool, he left his foot there and never moved again. As for the farmer, he walked on to Rome.”

  Rupert met Cyrus’s eyes and laughed. “Your father loved that one.”

  Cyrus groaned. “So the joke is that philosophers are stupid and farmers aren’t?” He blinked and shook his head, looking around at the rooftop. “Why are we even talking about this right now?”

  Rupert grinned. “Two reasons, Cyrus Smith. First, the next step is always right in front of you. Pick your feet up and put your feet down. Second, we are most definitely standing in the dung right now. Your first trek starts now, and it’s madness. Are you ready?”

  Cyrus nodded.

  Rupert pointed over the wood toward a small jagged peninsula sticking out into the lake. “You will go back and get everyone else, and you will have them gathered at the base of that peninsula in one hour. Keep them hidden in the trees.” He looked back at the harbor. “As for me, I will go steal Gil’s plane. It’s the only one big enough for all of us, and the justice of it appeals to me. I’ll pick you up on the peninsula.” He slapped Cyrus’s shoulder. “Can you find the way back?”

  “Yeah,” said Cyrus. “Can you steal the plane?”

  “It’s right in front of me,” Rupert said. “I’m going to keep walking till we’re through this patch of dung.”

  The return trip was easy enough for Cyrus, though he wished he wasn’t barefoot. He would put on his boots when he got back to the room, but what he really wanted were his canvas shoes. They were probably sitting right where he’d left them, next to the entrance to the water cube.

  When he finally was in the ceiling above Skelton’s rooms, he knew he had time to spare. Not a lot, but enough to quickly pack his own bag.

  “Tigs! We gotta go!” he shouted. He’d grab the Quick Water, and his boots, and Skelton’s old rice paper globe.

  He scurried onto the rope stairs and froze halfway down. The place was full of smoke. Dennis, Hillary, Jax, Antigone, and Diana were huddled on the floor with packs in their laps. Antigone raised a finger to her lips.

  “Arachne! Demon spinstress!” Gil’s voice boomed through the walls. Plaster smashed.

  Arachne and Nolan appeared in the doorway. No Jeb. No Horace. Arachne had her sagging satchel of spiders slung over her shoulder. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Nolan was carrying two packs. Cyrus’s leather jacket was buckled onto one of them.

  “Are you ready?” Arachne whispered. “Where’s Rupert?”

  “Ready or not,” Nolan said quietly. He lobbed a pack at Cyrus. “That web in the door won’t burn, and it might be hours before they get a flint knife sharp enough to slice through it, but I can’t say the same for the stone walls—Gil’
s almost through.”

  Antigone was already on her feet. Diana Boone stood beside her. She looped her strawberry ponytail in half on top of her head, cinched it tight, and slung on her pack. Then she smiled through the smoke.

  “Take us away, Cyrus Smith.”

  nine

  DUNG PATCH

  CYRUS WAS WORRIED. He kicked a lump of soft insulation off the path, ducked a rafter, and glanced back.

  “The Quick Water …”

  “Is in your pack,” Nolan said from the back of the line. “Like I said already.”

  Antigone was right behind Cyrus. “It’s in a little pouch, Cy. Don’t worry.”

  But he wasn’t really worried about the strange liquid fungus. He was worried because they had lost too much time trying to figure out how to get the stupid rope stairs to reel back up into the ceiling. Leaving them down for Gil to find would have been ridiculous, but he’d almost had to. How long had they spent on that? Five minutes? Ten? It didn’t matter now. They’d gotten it done. Now they had to hurry.

  He glanced back at the line trailing through the rafters behind him. With this many bodies on the old boards, the wood was visibly sagging. They were probably mysteriously cracking plaster ceilings everywhere.

  Ahead, he spotted the chimney. “Okay,” he said to Antigone, pointing. “You see that? We’re almost through this part.”

  Antigone nodded. She wasn’t used to seeing her brother stressed. She also wasn’t used to seeing him responsible for anyone but himself.

  “You’re doing good, Cy,” she said. “Seriously.”

  “Whatever,” said Cyrus. “I’ll be doing good if we make it.”

  Getting up the chimney took a lot longer when also head-shoving a pack up the hole. And Cyrus did it twice, once with his own pack and once with the ridiculously heavy and suspiciously sloshing pack that Jax had been carrying.

  Finally, standing in a line with his friends on the roof, Cyrus realized that the rest of the way would be even harder. He didn’t know if there were paths through the woods, and if there were, he didn’t know where they led or if he could trust them. And once they were down inside the trees, even the general direction of the peninsula wouldn’t be as obvious as it was from the roof.

  At least Gil’s plane was still anchored outside the harbor. Cyrus figured they had about twenty minutes to get down and get through the wood. He hoped.

  “Okay,” Cyrus said, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm. He’d missed lunch. Was it lunchtime? It had to be. His legs felt wobbly. And his temples throbbed like twin volcanoes. He looked at his sister. She was giving him her best worried look—eyebrows together and up. Cyrus managed a smile, but Antigone wasn’t buying it. She brushed back her hair. For some reason, Cyrus focused on the scabbed gash on her forehead—that morning’s gift from Gil.

  Pick up your foot and put it down. Do the next thing. Even if you’re standing in dung and stepping into more. Not a pleasant thought when barefoot. He’d been so worried about reeling up the rope stairs, he’d forgotten to grab his boots.

  Nolan was studying the old rope ladder that dangled over the gutter edge. “This held Rupe?” he asked. “It’s seen a lot of weather.”

  Cyrus pointed over the woods. “See that peninsula? We need to be there. Pretty much right now.” He looked at Diana. “Can you get us there once we’re on the ground?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me if I go wrong. C’mon. Jax, you first.” With that, he tossed Jax’s pack down into a thick bush.

  They made it safely to the ground, though it took longer than Cyrus was willing to think about. The ladder’s rungs had been overgrown by ivy; finding them hadn’t been easy, especially descending three stories of vertical stone wall.

  Everyone slipped back into their packs. Cyrus handed his to Jax and took the bigger one.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now we have to run.”

  Picking a gap between trees, Cyrus began to jog.

  Bare feet are great for running on grass. They can even be great in the woods—with a path. But ten strides in, Cyrus was once again wishing he’d grabbed his boots. Nettles. A hunk of granite. Branches. His toes refused to find soft earth. But he didn’t slow down. He wove between trees and over mounds, trying to maintain a pace that he knew the others could maintain. With a lighter pack, little Jax was doing better than he had in the attics. Now it was Hillary Drake who lagged, and Dennis Gilly lagged with her. Nolan had Hillary’s pack strapped to his chest, but she was still struggling.

  A long branch took a swipe at Cyrus’s face, and he kicked a root when he ducked it. Ahead, he had to choose a path over, between, or around two large moss-covered boulders.

  “Cyrus!” Diana yelled behind him.

  He stopped and looked back, expecting to see Dennis and Hillary leaning on a tree, panting. But they were right behind him—flushed and scratched and sweating, but still with the group. Hillary kept her wide green eyes on him, clearly waiting for his rebuke.

  Nolan—pregnant with Hillary’s pack, and with his own on his back—was breathing as easily as a sleeper, and his face was dry of sweat. Arachne stood beside him, somehow still seeming fresh and pale, wearing all black and carrying only her spider satchel. Jax staggered to a stop beside her, wheezing.

  Diana and Antigone were both sweating, breathing hard but evenly. Antigone tucked back her hair and put her hands on her hips. Cyrus smiled, and his sister smiled back. Antigone might prefer the books, but she had been training.

  “You’re drifting east,” Diana said. “Tick a few more degrees north.”

  Cyrus nodded and glanced back at the boulders. Around the left side, then.

  Hillary staggered forward, gasping. Her cheeks were red, and her forehead shone. She had a habit of looking only at Cyrus—something Dennis obviously hoped to change. “Why are we going?”

  Antigone looked at Cyrus with eyebrows raised. Then she turned to Hillary. “Did you want to stay?” Antigone asked gently.

  “I’m just staff,” Hillary said. She glanced at Dennis and Jax. “We don’t go on treks.”

  “You’re a Polygoner,” Cyrus said. “We have to run, but you don’t have to. If you’d like to stay, you can.”

  “Hillary!” Dennis practically stomped. “We talked about this! The O of B is changing. The treaties! The paper dragons! Gil is trying to kill them. We’re going with Rupert.”

  “Mr. Greeves frightens me,” she said simply.

  Something fluttered through the leaves above them, landing on a branch above Antigone. Cyrus looked up at the red-winged blackbird.

  “Cyrus?” Antigone asked, glancing at Hillary. Cyrus nodded.

  Nolan slid Hillary’s pack off his stomach and held it out to her.

  “You can stay,” Antigone said. “No one is trying to hurt you here. And we won’t be angry. But don’t tell anyone anything. You’re still a Polygoner.”

  Hillary took her pack. “What about Jeb?”

  Diana laughed. “You can talk to Jeb about anything.”

  “And Mr. Lawney?” Hillary asked.

  “No,” said Cyrus. “Let’s leave him out of things.”

  Hillary nodded seriously and began to back away. Dennis was frantic.

  “Hillary,” he said, and his voice wobbled. “You really—”

  Antigone cut him off. “Don’t confuse it, D,” she said. “Not right now.”

  Up in the tree, the blackbird shrieked, flapping and hopping in place. In the distance, they could hear plane engines rumble.

  Trailing shouted farewells, the gang of seven scrambled up and around the boulders and raced off into the wood.

  Hillary Drake and the blackbird watched them go. After a moment, the blackbird dropped off its branch and glided through the trees.

  Hillary turned and began to walk back to Ashtown. Walking was nicer than running. She stopped to pluck a lady’s slipper, then slid it into her hair.

  Sprinting through the trees, barely keeping pace with the Smiths, lashed by
brush and beaten with branches, Dennis Gilly began to cry.

  Bellamy Cook stood at the long row of windows in the Brendan’s high quarters. He was looking out at the lake, past the statues that guarded the rooftop below him. His new rooms were nice enough—if he decided to keep the O of B’s tradition and reside in Ashtown.

  He heard the door bang open and the long heavy stride that could only belong to Gilgamesh. There were others with him.

  “Where are they?” Gil demanded. “Bellamy, so help me, I’ll snap you in two and fling you through the glass if you’re hiding them. The dragons were a courtesy.”

  “A courtesy,” Bellamy said quietly. The water below him was dark beneath the heat-hazy sky. “Right, mate. Is that what that was? Courtesy would have been waiting till I’d had the chance to formally remove Rupert bloody Greeves from his bloody office. There are protocols, you ox, and I’ve already trodden on as many of them as the Sages will allow. I’d rather the Order not regret their choice the day of my anointing. Courtesy would have been waiting two bleeding ticks before trying to kill the kids.”

  “I saw my chance,” Gil said.

  “And you missed it, Gilgamesh of Uruk.” Bellamy glanced back. Gil’s face was black with soot, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot. At least he had a shirt on again. He wasn’t armed, but he didn’t need to be. And he was flanked by three other male transmortals—brutes cut from the same mold as Gil, but on a smaller scale. Bellamy didn’t like being alone with them, but transmortals were all the same in some ways—he couldn’t show his fear. He stared straight into Gil’s huge eyes. “Turns out living forever doesn’t give one a brain, more’s the pits.”

  Gil snarled. Bellamy turned back to the window, studying the harbor and the seaplanes clustered on the gray water. He knew how to fight. He could uncoil into bloodletting viciousness between two heartbeats, but he only had one gun, tucked into his belt, and a long knife in his boot. Neither would amount to much against Gil.

  Maybe he would need an Avengel after all.