Ashtown Burials

by N. D. Wilson

  That had been hours ago.

  At least she was alive. That made bad things better. She wasn’t in a bear’s stomach or a turtle’s stomach or a dozen different viper stomachs.

  He would have gotten a longer look if the Quick Water hadn’t squirted out of his fingertips. Now it was on the floor, wedged behind the biggest jar of miniature pickles he had ever seen.

  The pickle jar was taller than he was, but only because he was tied up and strapped into a chair.

  The chair was bolted to the floor in front of a large butcher-block table.

  Patricia adjusted her cool body on his neck, and the keys scraped quietly against his collarbone. Once again, Cyrus rocked himself forward in his straps and tried to look at the clear fungus ball he’d dropped. When he’d finally managed to get it out of his pocket, he’d only had a few seconds to look before the guards had come in, untied him, searched him, tied him back up, and left.

  Cyrus leaned harder, but he could see nothing. Groaning, he sat back up.

  Dennis was tied and lying on his back. There had only been one chair in the enormous pantry. His eyes were wide open and he was watching Cyrus. Occasionally, he grunted. A pot holder had been shoved into his mouth. Cyrus’s too, but he’d managed to spit his out.

  “Hang in there, D,” Cyrus said. “They won’t leave us in here forever.”

  Dennis grunted, widening his terrified eyes.

  “That’s what you’re worried about,” Cyrus said. “Right. Me too. I just hope they don’t cook us. I don’t want to be eaten.”

  He looked around the crowded shelves. Spices. Grains. Hanging sausages at the other end. An entire wall of garlic. Another of dried peppers. “But why else would we be in here?”

  Dennis rocked from side to side, and then rolled onto his face. His hands were tied behind his back. He arched his back and shook his head, fighting the pot holder.

  “Go,” said Cyrus. “You can do it.”

  Slow steps thumped on the stairs. Bells jingled.

  Big Ben Sterling ducked down through the low doorway and into the pantry. No hat, no beard net or apron, no sign that he’d been cooking. He was carrying a large glass of something brown.

  “Lads,” he said, raising the glass. “I drink to you, and to all boats and bridges that have ever been burned.” Knocking back half the liquid, he sat on the table in front of Cyrus, banged the glass down, and smacked his lips.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus asked. “What the heck is going on?”

  “What is Ben Sterling doing?” the cook asked, massaging his knees. “Why, I’m taking a night off and lying low, Brer Fox. For this last supper, I was nothing but a saucier and prep cook. As for your other question, well, that’s outside of Ben’s control.”

  Dennis grunted and bounced on his stomach.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gilly,” Sterling said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Are you going to kill us?” Cyrus asked. “You can have the tooth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Let me go and I’ll get it for you.”

  “The tooth, the tooth.” The cook drained his glass and licked the rim. “Soon enough, lad.”

  Cyrus jerked against the straps. The cook watched him without a smile. His eyes were heavy.

  “I loved this place,” Sterling said. “In its way and mine. Ben Sterling’s done right by the Order, but has the Order done right by Ben Sterling? Tonight it ends, lad. The living have dwelt above the Burials long enough. Let them lay their heads down and be silent.”

  “Are you drunk?” Cyrus asked. “Do you want the tooth or not?”

  Sterling smiled. “You have it, do you? Where would you tuck a thing like that? Your little nook in the Polygon has already been searched. You swallow it? Tell an old cook and I’ll believe you.”

  Cyrus breathed slowly. He could feel the keys against his skin. He could give them away right now, but then what? Sterling wouldn’t let him go. What reason would there be to keep him alive?

  Sterling continued. “Rupe would like us to believe that he has it. But maybe it’s in your sister’s hands. There were only so many people in that room when poor Maxi was done in.” Sterling shrugged. “When you’re all lined up and watching each other’s pain, the truth will bubble out.” He looked at his empty glass. “But my coin is on little Nikales, Nolan the Thief. He’s snake-slippery. Undying Nolan. Unaging Nolan. He just sheds his skin and slinks away. He’s a dark one, lad.”

  Cyrus lifted his head. “Let me try to find him,” he said. “He’ll give the tooth back. He told me I could trust him.”

  Sterling filled the room with laughter. “You had it hid a moment ago. So Nolan does have it, then? He told you to trust him? And you did, didn’t you? And he took the tooth and disappeared. Why does Nolan want it, lad? Would you like to know? It isn’t pretty. Nolan wants to die. Nikales was fifteen years of age—a poor Persian boy—when the hero Gilgamesh went diving for the fruit of life. And he found it, too, at the bottom of the Persian Gulf—he plucked it from the lost garden and the living tree. But when he rose from the waves and lay gasping on the beach, the thief saw his chance. He snatched the fruit and fled, eating as he ran. But it wasn’t to be so easy. Gilgamesh cursed that boy for a serpent and a thief. Oh, Nikales lived on—even when old Gil cut him down. He remained young, but as an undying serpent. Three thousand years and he still looks to be a lad, unless you stare into his eyes. Three thousand years, that boy has been peeling off his snake skin.”

  Sterling slapped the table. Then he leaned forward and winked at Cyrus. “Wherever Nolan is, he has that tooth in his hand, a smile on his face, and not a spark of life in him.” He paused, tugging his beard. “But maybe not.”

  Dennis had stopped squirming. He was up on his side, staring at the cook.

  Cyrus’s heart was racing. “You’re working for Phoenix, aren’t you?” He kicked his bare ankles against rope. “Did you help him take Dan? Did you want Maxi to kill us?”

  The cook shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Cyrus. Things have gone as things have gone, and Benjamin Sterling will play his part to the end.”

  “What end?” Cyrus asked.

  The cook’s face grew suddenly serious. “I am not drunk, Cyrus Smith. Far from it. But tonight … I wish I were. I’d remember less in the morning. Goodbye, lad.”

  “Wait!” Cyrus said. “You knew my dad. You cooked us his favorite meal. You must have liked my parents. Why are you doing this?”

  Sterling didn’t answer. He was looking at the Quick Water, peeking out from behind the pickle jar. He slid off the table—legs bending beneath him—crouched carefully, and picked it up.

  Frustrated, Cyrus banged his head back against the chair. “Please! Just let us go.”

  Sterling peered into the Quick Water. Sighing, he glanced back at Cyrus. His mouth twitched into a smile, but his eyes were heavy.

  “You may look Cataan, lad, but you’re a Smith through and through.”

  Footsteps drummed on the stairs.

  Sterling hesitated, but then he nestled the liquid ball into a pile of onions on a crowded shelf and eased quickly away.

  Four men tumbled into the pantry.

  “Storm or no storm, Greeves or no Greeves, Phoenix is coming in,” one of them said. “Rhodes is ghost-white and pig-sweating. Rupe grilled him good, but he didn’t crack. Not yet, at least. Still no sign of Nolan.”

  “Greeves is bayin’ for you, too, Ben,” said another. “And he made a scare speech to the whole dining hall. They’ve gone gun-ready, every last one of them, and they’re as edgy as wildcats. He’s been in and out of the kitchen.”

  “Why do you think I’m not in the kitchen?” Sterling asked. “I’ll speak with him after his meal. He has been served, hasn’t he?”

  The men grinned.

  “He grabbed something,” said the first. “And special deliveries have been made to all the guards. We should have some fun with this pair before the action starts.”

  Cyrus bit his lip and twisted in his chair to see S
terling.

  The cook shook his head. “Leave them for Phoenix.”

  “Why?” All four men were confused.

  “Why don’t you go watch the show?” said the first man, grinning. “We’ll stay and cut off their toes. Shouldn’t take too long to learn what they know.”

  “Get out,” Sterling said. “Out! I know orders, and I know what Phoenix wants, and it isn’t dead or toeless boys. What there is to get, he’ll get, and no one else. Out of my pantry until your heads hold something more than air!”

  The four men squeezed quickly up the stairs and a door slammed behind them.

  Sterling sniffed loudly and moved over to the shelf beneath the onions. From the shadows in the back, the cook pulled out an old mayonnaise jar. It was full of clear liquid.

  “Strong stuff,” he said loudly. “Remarkable. If I should ever find myself needing to save a life”—he pulled an eyedropper out of his apron and set it on the jar—“I think I’d use two drops beneath the tongue.”

  Looking at Cyrus, Sterling curled his own tongue and clicked it behind his teeth. “Farewell, lad. And to your sister, too.” He scratched his beard and smiled. His eyes were hollow. “You’re right,” he said. “I did have a fondness for your father and his bride. Old Billy Bones lived two years running on the road. Don’t know if I could do half that, but it might be time to try. It might.”

  He climbed the stairs. His voice tumbled back down. “You were a good porter, Dennis Gilly! One of the best.”

  A door opened and shut. Bolts slid.

  Cyrus looked at Dennis, again trying to writhe his way to his feet. He looked at the Quick Water, nestled into the onions, and at the mayonnaise jar with the eyedropper. He still had little idea what was happening, but he’d picked up enough, and none of it was good.

  “Come on, Tigs,” he said. “You can see us. Now find us.”

  Antigone heard the clock strike eight—through the trees, through the wind and the rain and the early storm darkness. She looked down at the small, heavy box in her hand. The sides were wooden, but broken up with the mounding backs of smooth brass tubes. On top, black-and-white images shot past on a glass screen, bulging even more than an antique television—like a slice off a crystal ball. Staring into it gave her a headache.

  Antigone blinked and shook her head. An hour ago, in the dining hall, she’d listened to Greeves address the Order. But she hadn’t stayed to watch the members react. Greeves had hurried her outside, given her the box, attached her to Diana Boone, and disappeared. Supposedly, the box showed her what one of Rupert’s flying “hunters” was seeing. But the images moved too fast. She’d barely been able to make out the lake.

  When she’d tried her Quick Water, she had seen Cyrus’s fingers and thumbs but only briefly. After that glimpse, the Quick Water had only shown distortion, shadow, and dim greenness. Olive green. Pickle green. Forest green?

  While the images had flitted through her hands—treetops, tree trunks, odd shapes, and glowing windows—she had searched every trail through the trees between the zoo and the main buildings. She had kicked every bush. Twice. Next, she was going to start looking under individual blades of grass. She didn’t care how hard it was raining. She didn’t care if her stupid flashlight had died. She didn’t care if the black clouds had swallowed the sun and killed the day’s last light. She was not going to stop until she had found her brother.

  Diana Boone came striding down the path wearing a hooded raincoat. The wind whipped it around her. She carried her own box.

  “Tigs!” she yelled, and Antigone flinched. She was soaking wet for the second time in one day, her feet were blistered, her legs were chafed, her soaked leather jacket was lead-heavy. Cyrus was missing, and a psycho had her mother and brother. She didn’t want anyone calling her by the name Cyrus had given her.

  Diana slowed down and stopped beside her. The wind and the trees were fighting. Somewhere close, a big branch popped free and tumbled to the ground. Trunks groaned.

  “I brought you a better coat.” Diana held out a large parka shell.

  “Too late,” Antigone said. “I drowned an hour ago.”

  “Put it on.”

  Antigone did. It didn’t matter one way or another.

  “Gunner’s got nothing. And he did a pretty full sweep. He just stopped into the kitchen to grab a bite. You should, too. It would help. As for me, I went to all the entrances and down to the harbor. The hunters haven’t turned up anything, no one’s seen anything, and believe me, they’re looking.”

  Antigone looked down at her box. Trees warped and flashed. And then she saw two shapes—girls, standing in the rain. A flash was all she needed to recognize herself. She looked up. A shape sliced through the air and the rain above them. Slowing, an enormous dragonfly circled around and paused, staring at Antigone from two compound eyes the size of tennis balls. Two more shapes shot by above it, wings clattering like machine guns. Her dragonfly turned and shot away through the trees. It was the first time she’d managed to see it.

  Antigone’s mouth was open, but she didn’t even taste the rain.

  “Rupe raised them, and he has all of them out,” Diana said. “One patrolling for every guard, and a couple extra hunting for your brother. But they won’t be able to fly much longer in this storm.”

  Antigone looked back down at her box. “And I see what they see.”

  Diana leaned over Antigone’s shoulder. “It takes a lot of getting used to, especially when you’re trying to fly behind them. They have three-sixty vision and they’re crazy fast. The translator does what it can, but you’re still left guessing a lot.”

  Diana grabbed Antigone’s arm and began pulling her up the path. “It’s time to find Rupe. He might have learned something.”

  Stepping out of the trees, they met the full force of the wind. The main building of Ashtown loomed on top of the hill, guarded by an unshaken stone regiment of rooftop statues, lit windows eyeing the storm.

  Antigone’s rain hood snapped up in the wind. It actually did help. She looked at the overly confident, overly nice, overly competent girl beside her.

  “What am I going to do?” she asked. “My mom, my brothers …”

  Diana threw her arm around Antigone’s shoulders as they marched up the hill. “You’re going to hang in there,” she said. “That’s what you’re going to do. You’re a Smith. I’m a Boone. We don’t roll over.”

  A bundled and hooded shape was moving down the hill, carrying a pack on its back. Beneath the swirling raincoat, two rod-thin legs were visible.

  Antigone stepped down the hill to follow him.

  “Hold on,” Diana said. “We’ll tell Rupe where he is. He’s heading to the harbor.” She looked down at the screen in her hand, and then over at Antigone’s. “Check your water ball again.”

  Antigone dug into her pocket. The Quick Water glowed in her hand, but the wind and the rain made it impossible to see anything clearly.

  “It’s lighter than it was,” Antigone said. She tucked her hand under the bottom of her coat and ducked her face down inside the neck.

  A moment later, she popped her head back out. “It’s Cyrus. He’s tied up. And those might be Dennis’s feet!”

  She held out the neck of her oversize coat. “Quick! Where are they?”

  Diana Boone only needed a second.

  “That’s Sterling’s subpantry,” she said, popping her head back out and squinting down the hill at Sterling. “It’s under the kitchen floor.”

  Sterling was slipping on the wet grass, sliding down to the airstrip.

  “The guards will stop him,” Diana said. “Come on.”

  With the wind pounding their backs, Antigone and Diana turned up the hill and began to climb.

  Benjamin Sterling braced himself and slid, staggered, braced himself, and slid again. The storm was more than just another thunder banger, blowing in off the lake. This was one to remember, and he would remember it.

  The boats were bobbing and rocking in the
harbor. Spray was washing over the jetty. The two little guard shacks were glowing, but he couldn’t see any motion inside. He hadn’t expected to.

  His bag was heavy, but he hadn’t taken as much as he was owed. Just a few trifles from the collections—things stolen by the Order and then tucked away and forgotten. Some spices. His books of recipes.

  How much were two legs worth?

  The O of B wouldn’t miss any of it. They wouldn’t be missing anything. And Phoenix wouldn’t notice, either. His eyes would be searching for a different prize.

  Sterling stopped. He’d reached the first body. Jenkins. Facedown in the grass. An old guard. A good guard. Sterling stepped over him and continued on. He couldn’t walk by the guardhouse. Not without looking in.

  He slipped forward. A moment later, he pulled open the door.

  Four armed men had fallen into a tangle on the floor. A fifth was facedown on the small table. Guns and flickering dragonfly screens had been useless. All five had been good men. But Phoenix had no use for them, and they had no use for Phoenix.

  Guilty meat, guilty bread, a guilty thermos of coffee sat innocently on the table.

  Sterling moved on.

  Hobbling out on a dock, he stopped at a pretty little teak skiff. It had belonged to Cecil Rhodes. Now it would belong to Benjamin Sterling.

  The angry lake and the rushing wind were killers, but the legless cook could only smile at the storm. The wind was an old friend promising freedom. And the seething water was nothing like as dangerous as the North Sea in its winter fits or the Caribbean in a hurricane or the Cape of Storms when the boneyards beneath the cliffs were hungry.

  He drew the anchor and unfurled the small sails, tacking starboard, out and around the jetty. Close-hauling the sails, he put his nose as tight to the wind as he could, plowing and bouncing through the heavy freshwater waves.

  When his course was steady and his beard was dripping like a loaded sponge, he reached into the deep pocket of his oilskin coat, and he smiled.

  A tiny ball of liquid perched on his thick fingertips, glowing—the small ball he’d pinched from Cyrus’s Quick Water. Ben Sterling would see what happened. He’d know the end of the story. The kitchen always knows.