The Drowned Vault (13 page)

“Hail!” Cyrus and Antigone finally added their voices to the crowd. The echoes died and silence fell. No one moved.

From above the roof, a heavy bell rang. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Rupert rose to his feet. “Sons and daughters of the Voyager, rise.”

The mortals rose.

Rupert’s arms were behind his back, his chin up, his eyes glistening. “Do you hear the bells?”

“We hear the bells!” the crowd roared.

“Where is our captain?”

“He has reached the shore.”

“What has he found?”

“Haven.”

Rupert took one step forward. “Shall we join him?”

“No!”

He took another step forward. “Shall we join him?”

“We face the storm!” The crowd’s roar washed around Cyrus, and chills ran down his back, from his scalp to his heels.

Rupert took a final step forward, and this time, his voice was lower.

“Shall we join him?”

“Soon,” the crowd said. “We shall join him.”

Rupert seemed to relax, but he wasn’t finished. Cyrus watched his Keeper—broad-shouldered, long-legged, sharp-eyed, dark-skinned, exuding pride and strength—pace in front of the crowd.

“Sages,” Rupert said, “Keepers, Explorers, Journeymen in the Order of Brendan.” He stopped in front of the transmortals. “Allies and Tributaries, name one to lead us.”

In one rumbling motion throughout the crowd, on both sides of the aisle, those who had chairs sat down.

The process, as Cyrus and Antigone discovered, was a long one. A name was called out and seconded, and
then the person named—the oldest ones first, both men and women—made their way to the front and faced the crowd. Rupert asked if they would stand in the Order for Brendan. Most of them said they would not, and then returned to their seats. But every now and then, someone would say yes. That person would then speak about the Order, about difficulties, about mistakes, about the future, and men and women would stand up in the crowd and shout questions, and the old woman or old man would answer, and people would shout affirmations, and people would shout denunciations and boo and hiss and whistle. And when the speaker and the crowd had both grown tired, Rupert would step in and ask who wanted the person to stand for Brendan, and people would shout “We do!” all at once, and then Rupert would ask who denied them the right to stand for Brendan, and other people would shout “We do!” And the second group of shouters was always much, much bigger and much, much louder, and they shook the high windows and skylights with their whoops as the person sat back down.

Eventually, the people named grew younger. They were able to walk to the front without canes, and they stood up straight beneath the towering wall of oil portraits. They talked about the need for fresh leadership, and they talked about the Smiths, and the tooth, and its loss. They never looked at Cyrus when they spoke, but
he still squirmed in his seat, and Antigone’s hand would clench his knee.

Throughout the proceedings, Cyrus would glance over at the transmortals, and every time, he would see faces studying him—simmering eyes and jaws of cold stone. He realized quickly that they weren’t voting. Occasionally, one of them would shout a question—always about the tooth or Phoenix or him—and they would boo or cheer, but they never raised their voices when Rupert called for a vote.

And then a man strode to the front whom Cyrus had never seen. He was tall and thin, and his movements were fluid and relaxed. When he turned, he rested one hand on the holstered butt of a revolver and the other on the hilt of a sheathed machete. To Cyrus, he looked like a coiled whip or a compressed spring—maybe a cocked gun.

The man was wearing a battered pale-khaki suit. His mud-colored hair was slicked straight back, his creased skin was tan, and his face was unshaven. Gray whiskers dotted his jaw, and he turned sharp eyes straight onto Cyrus.

Rupert addressed him from the side. “Will you stand in the Order for Brendan?”

The man smiled at Rupert, and then looked back at Cyrus. His voice was Australian. “My name is Bellamy Cook, Keeper from the Barrier Estate. I will stand in the Order for Brendan.”

Cyrus was relieved when the man broke eye contact and slowly—with brows hooded low and creases at the corners of his eyes—scanned the silent crowd.

“Edwin Laughlin,” he said, “now known as Phoenix, brother to our fallen Brendan, was raised and trained in this, the Ashtown Estate. William Skelton, the late outlaw known as Billy Bones, was a Keeper in the Ashtown Estate. His Acolytes who carried and lost the Dragon’s Tooth brought it here, to the Ashtown Estate. Now Phoenix is hunting immortals and somehow”—he paused, looking out at the transmortals—“somehow, he knows where to find you.” He sighed, glancing back at Rupert and adjusting his belt. “Something only the Avengel of this Ashtown Estate should know.”

Cyrus heard the crowd shift and rustle behind him. He could feel undying eyes staring at the back of his head.

Bellamy Cook grinned and began to pace silently. After a moment, he scratched his scruffy jaw thoughtfully and then continued, doling out his words slowly like spoonfuls of ice cream.

“The world has changed. The Order needs cleaning. Old rules need erasing.” He stopped and pointed at the transmortals. “We have tributaries among us, immortal men and women forced into treaties centuries ago. They had their own worries to attend to, and their own Order. But we destroyed it.” He shrugged, still pacing. “Of
course, by
we
, I mean …” He held out his hand for the crowd to finish his sentence.

Gil jumped to his feet. “Smith!”

“Right.” Bellamy Cook paused again, nodding. “Captain John Smith, onetime Avengel to this Ashtown Estate. Hater of all immortals, and rather ironically—for a man who betrayed his own mortality—now the occupant of one of his own infamous Ashtown Burials.”

He stopped pacing directly in front of Cyrus and Antigone.

“What’s even more ironic—strangely coincidental, in fact—is that the two Acolytes with the tooth were both Smiths. This girl and this boy with the three severed heads so proudly sewn onto his sleeve are descendants of the last man before them to bloody the immortals. And now, thanks to them, Phoenix is carrying on that work and more.”

A rumble washed through the Galleria. Cyrus flushed. Antigone’s fingers dug into his knee.

Bellamy Cook raised both hands and waited until the room was silent.

“Sons and daughters of the Voyager, you must hear me. The immortals are dying. Can we protect them as the treaties require? No. But do we allow them to protect themselves? No, the treaties prohibit it.” He studied the room. “Dissolve the treaties. Make our tributaries equals
and allies, accountable to their own Order. Sweep Ashtown clean of its corruptions!”

The room exploded with noise. Scattered cheers and shocked boos swept forward from the mortals. Chairs scattered and clattered as the transmortals jumped to their feet.

With a startled shriek, the blackbird flapped up off Antigone’s shoulder and wheeled toward the ceiling.

Cyrus’s mouth hung open. Rupert strode toward Bellamy.

Bellamy cocked a wry smile and looked at Rupert. “Call my vote.”

Gil forced his way into the aisle and raised a hairy football-size fist. His huge voice plowed easily through every other noise.

“Ordo Draconis!”

Alan Livingstone jumped to his feet, as did dozens of others in the rows behind him—all with hands on weapons.

“Ordo Draconis!”
the transmortals chanted.
“Ordo Draconis!”

Cyrus and Antigone both stood as George and Silas grabbed on to them, pulling them away from the aisle.

“Open the Burials!” Gil shouted, and his followers roared approval.

Cyrus saw Jeb and Diana Boone racing down the
aisle, dragging little James Axelrotter, the zookeeper, between them.

Over their heads, three thrown wooden chairs flew into the mortal crowd. A fourth chair skipped off Diana’s head and sent her sprawling.

The first guns fired.

seven
BRUISES

C
YRUS GROANED AND TWISTED
, trying to get back to sleep. His legs, his head, his back, his … everywhere … really hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but only his right eye was working. With it, he stared at the corner of his blanket, the edge of his hammock, and his spider-sealed window. The web had been replaced, and the charred original was dangling down the wall. A large burn mark ran up the wall into a smoke spot on the ceiling.

He shut his eye. He didn’t understand. There had been dreams, too, he knew that. And they hadn’t been fun ones. The three heads had been there, and Phoenix, and someone who wouldn’t stop hitting Diana with a chair.

Somewhere, someone laughed—loud, merry, perfect. He knew that laugh. It sounded like it had freckles. Cyrus reopened his eye. Diana was somewhere close.

He tried to sit up and instead spilled out of his hammock, landing on all fours.

His head was a lot heavier than normal, and it felt
like some kind of dinosaur was trying to hatch out of his skull—a dinosaur with horns. He stood slowly, bracing himself against dizziness.

He reached up and felt for his left eye. Someone had strapped an eye patch on with a headband. Wincing, he tugged it off and dropped it onto the floor. His left eye was swollen and sticky from his eyebrow to his cheekbone.

He had a vague memory of Gil and some incredibly large woman with a thick blond braid chasing him. And Rupert and guns and a whole lot of electricity flying through the air. And fire. And falling glass.

His hands and arms and bare legs were dotted with tiny scabbed-over cuts, and someone had bandaged a large patch on his right calf. He staggered for the door and leaned against the jamb for support.

In the living room, the rug was gone and the armchair had been scorched, as had the fresh yellow walls by each window and around the door. Except for the door, the webs had all been thickly replaced.

Nine heads turned and looked at Cyrus. Cyrus lost focus, blinked, and then looked from face to face, forcing himself to recognize the shapes. Jax, Dennis Gilly, Hillary Drake, Antigone, George and Silas Livingstone, Nolan, Arachne, and Diana Boone.

Seven of them were seated in a circle. Nolan and Arachne stood by the door.

Little Jax stood up. He had a large bruise on his cheek but seemed fine otherwise. “Good morning, Cyrus. I’m glad you’re alive. You looked dead last night.”

Cyrus grunted and studied the others. Dennis had two black eyes and a possibly broken nose. Hillary seemed fine, but terrified. Antigone had small burn blisters on her left arm and a bandage on her right. George and Silas were polka-dotted with bruises. Nolan badly needed to shed—his skin was peeling off in large patches. As for Arachne, she looked as perfect as ever.

Diana Boone had three butterfly bandages on her forehead, up by her hairline. She smiled and waved for Cyrus to sit down. Cyrus eased himself off the doorjamb and shuffled forward.

“You okay, Cy?” Antigone sounded worried. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Cyrus managed a smile. “Couldn’t get back in the hammock. What’s everyone doing?”

Antigone looked around the room. “They all slept here. Not much choice. The riot lasted for hours, and even when it was over, there were still transmortals lurking around. Nolan got everyone in through the heat vents.”

“It wasn’t a riot,” Dennis said quietly. “It was a war. The hospital is overflowing.”

“It would have been worse,” Diana said. “But Rupe was ready for it—as ready as anyone could have been. The transmortals did have the right to be there, so he
couldn’t stop that. But Field Rule meant the O of B members were all armed. The bullets don’t kill, but they slow ’em down a bit. Rupe also had half a hundred heavy charge guns with Keepers all through the crowd.”

“You should see the kitchen,” Hillary said. “And the dining hall. Everything is smashed, and they barely got the fires out.”

Cyrus reached up and lightly touched his swollen eye.

Arachne stepped forward and smiled. “Believe it or not, it’s actually looking better than it did last night. How does it feel?”