Empire of Bones (33 page)

James Axelrotter moved into view. He was a small boy, wearing wrinkled clothes and sporting an overgrown head of bed-messed hair. And he was pedaling a bicycle welded into something that looked like a shark cage on wheels. A hammock was strung up inside the cage beside him, and a little canvas folding chair and a shelf were in one corner. Jax pedaled furiously, but the cage moved slowly as it drifted toward the door. Heavy bars were spaced well apart to handle any of the big beasts that might want to try for a Jax snack, but Cyrus could see a wire mesh woven between the bars that would more than deter flying vipers.

“Strange,” Niffy said.

Cyrus laughed.
Strange
didn’t begin to describe the only kid on the planet who got homesick when sleeping in a room that
wasn’t
filled with certified monsters. Jax hadn’t lasted more than a week on the run with the Smiths, away from the transmortal beasties in the Crypto wing of the zoo he’d grown up tending. He had been unable to sleep, and spent his days alternating between incredible grouchiness and designing the bicycle cage in a notebook. Once Cyrus had promised him that he could go back to Ashtown and still be a for-real Polygoner and
friend of the Smiths, the kid was as good as gone. The Boones had managed to arrange a lift back for him.

The bicycle cage and its kid engine approached at about the speed of a granny in a walker. Jax stopped fifty feet away, breathing hard, resting his hands on his knees.

“Cage looks good,” Cyrus said. “Nice work. Can you shift gears?”

Jax shook his head, struggling to speak. “Perhaps, when I’m older,” he gasped. “But with my adolescent stature …”

Cyrus smiled.
Adolescent stature
was generous. Jax was small and, short of sorcery, always would be. But he was also crazy smart, and while he could be emotional, he was almost impossible to motivate with fear. On his home turf, he was a sharp and very verbose rock. Growing up with flying vipers did that for a kid.

“You look like you’ve been swallowed and regurgitated by something unpleasant,” Jax said. “And burned,” he added. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your acquaintance.”

“Brother Boniface Brosnan,” Cyrus said. “He’s a friend.” He glanced at Niffy. “Sort of.”

Niffy grinned and nodded. “Cheers, mate. Love a full tour of the facility and all that—some other time, yeah?—but I’ve been sent to fetch a giant ferocious turtle. Is this where I apply?”

Jax began to pedal again, but slowly. The cage inched forward.

“Leon is sleeping. What do you want with him?”

“Rupert wants him to play guard dog at the courtyard entry. Ashtown is awaiting an invasion and is short on defenders. Good help being impossible to find, Rupert desires an angry turtle.”

“Leon isn’t trained,” Jax said. “He wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Let’s not worry about that,” Cyrus said. “Let’s worry about doing what Rupert wants. Can you get Leon up to the courtyard?”

Jax nodded. “Yes, but only with a massive quantity of cheese. And after that much cheese, his stomach will be quite upset and he’ll be incredibly irritable. More than he already is.”

“Brilliant,” Niffy said. “Irritation is ideal.”

“Right,” Cyrus said. “Great. Do we need to get cheese?”

Jax shook his head. “I have a stockpile of old nasty stuff. He likes it fuzzy and rotten.”

At the far end of the room beneath the waterfall, Cyrus saw a car-size shadow move. Leon, the centuries-old snapping turtle, rose out of a pool and smacked onto the tile floor in a turtle-and-water avalanche.

Niffy swore.

“I know,” said Cyrus.

“After the turtle, Rupert wants us in the Galleria,” Niffy said quietly. He looked at Cyrus. “I’m telling you now in case I die.”

Leon was bigger than some cars, his spiny shell was taller than Cyrus, his spiny tail could have sent a buffalo tumbling, and the beaked mouth in his massive, rotten-pumpkin-ugly head could bite a man in half. But the turtle was able to focus on only one thing at a time, and his favorite thing to focus on was cheese.

Cheese crumbs led him to the big wooden doors.

The zoo exploded in noisy chaos when the doors were opened and the night air rolled in. Striped bears leapt out of cages. Jaculus Vipers swirled in the rafters and slapped down onto the floor, hissing at the sight of freedom, but Leon merely moseyed. He dragged his bulk through the doorway with his asymmetrical nostrils snorting at the ground, searching for lumps of stinky cheese.

Niffy screamed, slapping the turtle. Cyrus shouted. And then Jax jumped out of his bicycle cage, smacked a lump of cheese directly in Leon’s face, and then jerked it away before he lost his arm. He hurled the cheese outside.

Leon became a snorting volcano of shell and lashing spiny tail. He cleared the doors, and Jax barely managed to shut them before something large and snarling slammed into the other side.

The rest was relatively easy. Jax climbed up onto Leon’s back, avoiding the shell spikes as the turtle heaved his weight from leg to leg. Then Jax began lobbing chunks of cheese out ahead of him. Cyrus hopped onto Leon’s huge tail and ran up it, grabbing the scaly spines, and
scrambled up to sit next to his small friend. Niffy followed the same way, but he refused to sit.

With the hard shell rocking beneath him like the deck of a reptilian ship, Cyrus couldn’t help but smile—even with the planes still trailing away as the panicked residents of Ashtown fled. The smell of doom wasn’t as strong as the smell of turtle.

By the time Leon had reached the great courtyard, he was wheezing and tired. He paused by the towering sculptures that rose out of the fountain in the center of the lawn and shoved his head into the pool, bubbling furiously.

The courtyard was empty. Cyrus stood up on the shell of the gurgling turtle, looking at the big stairs and pillars that led to the heart of Ashtown. The tall wooden door was open, and yellow light flowed out around the shape of Rupert Greeves, standing alone.

Two more small planes whined up into the night sky, one after the other, wingtips blinking. Ashtown was bleeding out.

“Okay, Leon,” Cyrus said, tapping his foot lightly. “Let’s go.”

Leon looked up and geysered water out of his nostrils, and Jax lobbed a piece of cheese toward the big open door even as Rupert Greeves turned away.

When the exhausted turtle had finally climbed the stairs, Cyrus saw that Rupert had looped a heavy chain
around the base of one of the pillars. The chain ended in a thick belt strap. Leon collapsed onto his belly and shut his eyes. Niffy hopped off and walked into the bright hallway. Cyrus helped Jax cinch the leather strap tight onto Leon’s baggy back leg, as thick and coarse as an elephant’s but with webbed feet and banana-long claws. Leaving Leon panting, they hopped over the turtle’s tail and jogged into the glowing hall.

The Galleria was virtually empty. After an empty acre of wooden chairs, no more than fifty people were scattered through seats in the front. There were white-haired heads that belonged to Sages, hunched in clusters. There were staff members, terrified and young, scattered in bunches. Big Ben Sterling stood against a wall with his arms crossed. Young men and women—Journeymen and Explorers—sat upright in the front rows. All of them had their eyes forward, focused on Rupert Greeves.

Cyrus jogged down the center aisle between the chairs, flanked by Niffy and Jax. His Keeper looked up at him, his face burned and battered, his eyes quiet with sadness. Cyrus had expected defiance in Rupert Greeves. He had expected a battle roar and confident, quick steps and surety of purpose. Rupert was still wearing all black—cinched shorts and pocketed shirt, tight sleeves and leggings. His hands were on his hips, and he let his head sag forward between his broad shoulders.

Rupert Greeves looked heavy with death, like a man
at his mother’s graveside, like a man beside a deathbed. The Order was dying.

Cyrus stopped. Jax slipped into a chair. Niffy sat down across the aisle.

Cyrus stood in the middle of the aisle, all in black himself, counterpoint to his Keeper.

Rupert rolled his head slowly, and then looked up at the vaulted roof. His voice was low.

“Father of our Lord, vouchsafe to bless this grave in which we are about to place the bodies of thy servants.”

Cyrus looked around. He had heard those words before. Was this a funeral? There were no bodies. And then cold realization drained through him. There were bodies. About fifty of them, sitting in chairs.

Rupert looked at the sparse crowd. His voice was rough.

“The fallen Brendan,” he said.

“Hail,” one voice replied quietly.

The crowd was silent.

Rupert exhaled slowly. Then he squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Cyrus knew his Keeper well enough to know that Rupert had chosen his course.

“You,” Rupert said, “few and faithful, Sages, Keepers, Explorers, Journeymen.” He looked up at the back rows. “Staff. The Order, in her decay, does not deserve you. She does not merit your courage, your blood, your lives. She has betrayed you, and yet you are faithful. I, Rupert
Greeves, Blood Avenger, standing for this moment in the Order on behalf of our older brother, Brendan, thank you. You are my brothers and my sisters. You are my betters. I am ashamed that these halls I love cannot defend you. I am ashamed that you who are willing to remain to face our Order’s ancient enemies and the terrors of her darkest years must see such disarray.” Blinking, Rupert looked from face to face. “The dross has burned away. You are the gold, the true treasure of Ashtown. And now the gold goes beneath the hammer.”

Cyrus heard a girl sob. He looked over to see little Hillary Drake, green eyes and curly hair, sniffing into her apron. She was the last of an old family, now unable even to meet the standards for Acolytes. She wasn’t here out of courage. She had nowhere else to go.

Rupert cleared his throat and continued. “The assets of the Ashtown Estate belong to those who chose to remain, and they are to be used in the preservation of this Order. What you carry away in your hands may be the only seeds of Ashtown to survive these final days. You must choose wisely and quickly. Sages, gather volumes. Staff, assist them. Keepers, choose from the collections. Explorers, the Estate planes must be prepared to leave with your load of refugees and relics for the African Carthage Estate in four hours. Journeymen, we will not leave our dead unburied. Our Brothers of the cloth still lie in the chapel where they were murdered.”

The small crowd was restless.

“We didn’t stay just so we could leave,” a thin boy in the front said. Cyrus didn’t know him, but he agreed.

“You stayed,” Rupert said, “to preserve and defend the Order of Brendan, and that is what you will do.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Members, rise.”

Everyone in the front rose. The staff, Niffy, and Jax remained seated. Rupert looked back at the nervous groundskeepers, porters, and housekeepers.

“Rise,” Rupert said. “Courage is your only qualification. You are truer members than all who fled.”

Even Hillary Drake stood.

“The Order entrusts her remains to you. Regrow her greatness if you can.” He sighed, and for a moment, his formality fell away from him. “Whatever gold and silver is still in the vaults should be divided equally among you before you go. Work quickly, and as fairly as you can.”

Small gasps and whispers did laps through the staff. Cyrus suddenly understood why Sterling had stayed. Or he thought he did. But the big cook’s face was grim.

Rupert drew himself back up, raised his hands, and shifted his voice.

“Flesh and blood of Brendan, the storm grows,” Rupert said. He was beginning the chant of departing. Cyrus had only seen it used a few times, and always at funerals. It had once been meant for earthly treks, but
now most members just signed a book and slipped away without any ritual.

“Let us fill our sails,” the crowd replied. The voices were scattered and uneasy.

“The storm grows!” Rupert shouted.

“Let us spread our wings!” the crowd said, and this time their voices were in time. Even Sterling had shouted out the reply. He was no longer leaning against the wall, and his big fists were clenched.

“The sea rages!” Rupert said.

“Let our ships till her waves!”

“Flesh and blood of Brendan,” Rupert said, “let us give …”

“And not count the cost!” the crowd shouted, and Cyrus with them.

“Let us fight …”

“And not heed our wounds!”

“Let us toil …,” Rupert said, and Cyrus could see that his Keeper’s eyes were wet.

“And seek no rest,” Cyrus said. He forgot the crowd. He looked at Rupert, and Rupert looked at him.

“Let us labor,” Rupert said.

“And seek no reward,” said Cyrus.

“Until our dust is dust,” said Rupert.

“And our ash is ash,” said Cyrus.

The room was silent.

Rupert dropped his arms. “Yeshua defend us,” he said. His voice was a whisper.

Beside Cyrus, Jax wiped his eyes. Cyrus didn’t bother wiping his. He didn’t care if his cheeks were wet. He knew what had just happened. A trek of travelers had been blessed.

And Rupert Greeves had presided over his own funeral.

The big man up front breathed evenly. Body no longer sagging, but relaxed and ready. Eyes no longer weary, but alight with victory.

“Cyrus Smith,” Rupert said, “Journeyman of the Order of Brendan, Ashtown Estate, come forward.”

Cyrus blinked. Then he wiped his cheeks quickly and walked forward, stopping even with the front row.

“Cyrus,” Rupert said. “Will you take up my badge when I fall? Will you defend and avenge the blood of your brothers and sisters in this Order? Will you go with these people and be their Avengel? If so, kneel, and prepare—”

“Nope.” Cyrus shook his head. “Absolutely not. No way.”

Rupert’s mouth hung open for one slow moment before he clamped it shut.

“I know what you’re doing,” Cyrus said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”