The Dragon's Tooth ab-1

by N. D. Wilson

  Antigone looked at Cyrus. Cyrus shrugged. A moment later, the two of them were balancing carefully on the bouncing planks, passing peeling posters and bunk beds as they tried to catch up. Nolan was already out of sight.

  Somewhere in Nolan’s stuff, Antigone had discovered a long red string, and Cyrus watched her use it like a headband, tying back her damp black hair while she walked. She didn’t seem too worried about her balance. Or about Nolan.

  Cyrus tugged on his sister’s shirt and leaned forward to whisper, “You want me to go first? He did try to kill you.”

  “I’m fine,” Antigone said, pulling free.

  “Right,” Cyrus said. “I forgot that girls love moody guys.”

  “Don’t be a moron, Cy. It’s not a good time.”

  Cyrus grinned, following his sister. “When is a good time to be a moron? You should get me on some kind of schedule.”

  “You know what I want to know?” Antigone asked. She twisted back, whispering over her shoulder. “Why didn’t the spiders kill him?”

  Cyrus shrugged. “Maybe he built up some kind of immunity or he drinks their milk or something.”

  “Drinks their milk? What did I just say about morons?”

  “You two do not learn quickly.” Nolan’s voice echoed off the walls. He had stopped at the door, waiting. “Sound behaves oddly in this room.”

  “So which is it?” Cyrus yelled. “Are you immune, or do you drink spiders’ milk?”

  “I am immune to many things.” He pushed the big door open and stepped back in surprise. He’d knocked someone back onto the stairs.

  “Excuse me,” a boy’s voice said. “Apologies. We’re looking for Cyrus and Antigone Smith. Is this the Polygon?”

  Cyrus and Antigone bounced up to Nolan. The pimply porter stood beside a pretty girl with green eyes and curly brown hair pulled tight in the front and exploding in the back. She was clutching a clipboard to her chest and fidgeting nervously.

  “Hey!” said Cyrus. “It’s the ten-year-old from earlier. Thanks for your help, by the way. We wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t grabbed his legs.”

  “I’m fourteen,” the porter said. “And my name is Dennis Gilly. You’re welcome.” He nodded at the girl beside him. “This is Hillary Drake. She failed the Acolyte exam when I did, but she was placed in Accounts.” He inflated his chest. “When she heard that I was the one who found the outlaws and helped carry Mr. Lawney’s corpse, well, she knew she could ask me to help.”

  He smiled at the girl beside him. Her wide green eyes were bouncing from Nolan to Cyrus.

  “Corpse?” Antigone asked. “Horace is dead?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know,” said Dennis. “Maybe.

  Maybe not. Anyhow, Hillary asked me if I would bring her to you. I’m on break, and she has questions for you. For her forms. And well, what with inheriting from Billy Bones, and him being murdered, and people saying that you probably killed him and Horace and maybe Gunner, too, and you being all the way down here, she was a little scared to meet you alone. And the infestation notice was disturbing, too.” He looked at Hillary, and his pimples practically glowed with pride. “Not to me, though.”

  Dennis stuck his thumbs in his waistband and waggled his eyebrows. But then he looked up into Nolan’s eyes. The porter’s brows froze and then drooped slowly.

  “Which dining plan, please?” Head down, Hillary coughed the question out all at once.

  “What?” Cyrus asked. He looked at his sister.

  “What’s normal?” Antigone asked.

  “Full access, dining hall only, breakfast only, lunch only, supper only, Monday-Wednesday-Friday only, Tuesday-Thursday only—”

  “Hold on!” said Cyrus. “Didn’t Horace set us up with something? Mr. Lawney? He didn’t talk to you all about what we would do? He said the Skelton estate would cover all our costs.”

  “Um.” Hillary slowly raised her eyes. They were very wide, very green, and clearly as curious as they were nervous. “He tried. But the forms were, um, voided. Mr. Rhodes says you don’t have access to the estate. Not while you’re still Acolytes. The Order established Passage.”

  “They don’t need anything,” Nolan said. His voice was stony-certain. “No dining plan.”

  Antigone caught Cyrus’s eye. Her brother shrugged. Hillary had already ticked a box. “Maid service?”

  “No,” said Nolan.

  She ticked another box. “Access to local and/or global community aircraft and nautical vessels?”

  “No,” said Nolan.

  “Wait.” Cyrus leaned forward. “How much is that? What would it cost if I said yes?”

  Hillary’s big eyes bounced up to his and then back down to her clipboard. “Global or local?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say local.”

  “Ten thousand American dollars, per Acolyte, per nine-month Acolyteship period, with a twenty-five percent deposit due immediately.”

  “Wowza.” Cyrus laughed. “Can we defer payment until Horace wakes up?”

  Hillary coughed, confused, and she stared at her clipboard. “Due immediately.”

  “Right,” said Cyrus. “Let’s stick with the ‘no,’ then.”

  “How many aircraft and vessels will you be bringing?”

  “Um …” Antigone looked at her brother, and then at Nolan. “None?”

  “I don’t understand.” Hillary tested a small smile. “You have to bring your own or you register to use the Order’s. Most people just bring their own.”

  “Why?” Cyrus asked. “What if we don’t want to sail or fly a plane?”

  Hillary cocked her head to one side.

  Dennis laughed. “Mr. Smith, you’re Acolytes. You have to.”

  Antigone squinted at him. “We have to fly a plane?”

  Nolan sighed loudly. “Give me the book.” He snatched the Guidelines out of Cyrus’s hands and faced the girl with the clipboard. “Miss Hillary Drake, the whole package — room, board, usage fees, hangar and harbor fees, weaponry fees, tutorial fees, maids, tailors, insurance, everything — how much?”

  “I just, it would …” She flipped two pages. “Fifty-five thousand, four hundred and fifty American dollars.”

  “Each?” Nolan asked.

  Hillary nodded. “Per nine-month Acolyteship period. Twenty-five percent due upon arrival.”

  Nolan sighed. “Were you in the Galleria today when these two presented themselves?”

  “Yes. I thought Mr. Rhodes was unkind. Even if they are outlaws.” She smiled at Cyrus.

  “He was,” said Nolan. “But he was kind in another way. What Acolyte standards were applied?”

  “Nineteen-fourteen!” Hillary said, flushing angrily. “And that’s impossible. No one thinks they can do it. Nobody could.”

  Nolan flipped open the booklet and turned to the back. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Fees for Acolytes: Room and Board, one hundred fifty dollars; Light, Fuel, Craft Usage, Harbor and Hangar Fees: one hundred fifty dollars; Tailoring, Tutoring, Weaponry, Library: fifty-five dollars. Acolytes must place a fifteen-dollar deposit against their fees upon arrival.’ ” He snapped the booklet shut. “They’ll have the full package. Everything.” He pointed at the clipboard. “Write it down. Make a note. Make sure they get on every list tonight — dining, library, haberdashery, everything.” He dug a cigar of crumpled bills out of his pocket. “Here’s a twenty, and here’s a ten. Thirty dollars for the two of them. That’s the deposit paid in full. Check all the boxes.” He grabbed the big door and began pulling it closed.

  “Wait!” Hillary shoved a piece of paper into Nolan’s hand, but her eyes were on Cyrus. “Here’s the list of available Keepers.”

  “Thanks,” said Cyrus, but the door had already boomed shut. Cyrus, Antigone, and Nolan all stood quietly on the same sagging plank. Antigone took the paper from Nolan’s hand.

  “Ancient Language. Modern Language. Navigation? Flight? The Occult?”

  A spider’s whip curled up over the lowered edge of t
he plank, and Nolan crunched it quickly with his toe.

  “No languages for me, thank you,” Cyrus whispered. “Are they gone?”

  Someone knocked loudly on the door. Nolan rolled his eyes and pushed it open.

  “Excuse me,” said Dennis. “But are there really Whip Spiders in there?” Hillary peeked out from behind him.

  Nolan tugged up his sleeve, revealing his sting-tumored arm.

  Dennis froze in the doorway, his mouth open.

  “Oh, go on,” Antigone said. She folded her paper and tucked it into her pocket. “I’d like to get out of here.”

  Pushing Nolan into Dennis, she shoveled them both through the doorway and onto the damp stone landing.

  Dennis grabbed the door and slammed it shut. Standing on tiptoe, he chalked the door in large letters.

  DANGER NO ENTRY STAY OUT

  Beneath that, he drew a convincing skull and crossbones. Finally, he added his initials and the date.

  Cyrus felt a hand on his arm. Hillary’s wide green eyes were looking up at him through long lashes. She smiled. “I would love to show you the dining hall.”

  “No thanks,” said Cyrus. “Nolan’s going to show us around.”

  Antigone pushed forward, bathing Hillary in an enormously false smile. “Dennis,” she said through her teeth. “Would you please get Hillary safely back to wherever Hillary belongs?”

  “Absolutely.” Dennis held out his arm like an usher at a wedding. Hillary took it, and the two of them climbed the stairs.

  “Nonsense,” Nolan muttered. “Fees. Why do they need fees?”

  “Thanks for that, by the way,” Cyrus said. “We owe you thirty bucks.”

  Nolan picked the foul sock plug up off the stairs and crammed it back down into the floor drain. “The water discourages people,” he said. “Not many just splash in and dig around for a plug.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. Then he slapped at his stung arm, rubbing it briskly. His breath had quickened, and his eyes were bright and alive. For the first time, he looked entirely like a boy. “The venom just reached my heart.” He grinned and then exhaled and bit his lip. His whole body shivered slightly. “Pain. For a little while, it will make me feel alive. Come.” Surprised, Cyrus watched Nolan turn and begin moving up the stairs. “The map’s in the front. Find the dining hall. The unmarked space beside it is where we begin. It’s known — at least to people who actually set foot inside it — as the kitchen. You slept for a while, but we will still beat the dinner rush.”

  Antigone and Cyrus began quickstepping to keep up with him.

  “From there, we visit the place marked Upper Quarters and move into the library and a section the map calls No Access.” He shot a smile over his shoulder. “If Skelton were here, you could see the zoo. ‘Zoological Collection: Keeper Escort Required’ on the map.”

  “Why if Skelton were here?” Antigone asked.

  Nolan disappeared into the hallway. When they reached the top, he was already out of sight. “Because,” his voice tumbled back down the hall, “some locks can’t be picked.”

  Cyrus and Antigone jogged around the first corner and almost ran into him. He was standing in the center of the hall, holding up one end of a large, decorative iron grate — the cover for a bulky heating vent.

  “Skelton,” Nolan said, “was a man with keys for any lock. Rhodes will have them now — taken off of Horace by the hospitalers. Or Maxi Robes has them. Or … well”—his eyes sparkled—“maybe some runtling Acolytes got their hands on them.” He nodded at the vent in the floor. “Climb down. There are rungs tight to the side.”

  Cyrus slid his hand up to his neck. Antigone looked at her brother, eyes wide, and she shook her head. She knew what he was thinking.

  Nolan misunderstood Antigone’s look. “If you’re bothered by tight places, don’t worry, it opens up.”

  Cyrus gritted his teeth. What had Skelton said? Trust no one? Trust Nolan. He’d heard what he’d heard.

  “What if I did have them?” he asked. “Skelton’s keys. What then? What would I do with them?”

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” Antigone said, “who is the dumbest of them all?”

  She took two frustrated steps down into the vent and then dropped to the bottom.

  Nolan’s polished eyes locked into Cyrus’s. His breath was still oddly quick and short. His hands were twitching and his pulse fluttered visibly on the side of his neck. His lips quaked into a smile.

  “With you? Here? Now?”

  Cyrus sighed. “Maybe.”

  In the dining hall, in the library, and in the Galleria, Antigone’s voice rose up from the vents in the floor and poured out of the walls. “Oh, queen, ’tis true that you are dumb. But Cyrus Lawrence Smith is dumber than a pile of cow patties.”

  ten. TOURISTS AND TRESPASSERS

  THE HEAT TUNNELS were not quite six feet tall, and about as wide as a sidewalk. Dusty, cloth-wrapped pipes crisscrossed the floor and ceiling or ran in bundles along the wall. Tunnels intersected. They shifted and turned, almost always at hard angles. They dead-ended into vertical shafts, both up and down, and old wooden ladders had been propped in place.

  The train of three had climbed up and down, they had turned left and right, and Cyrus knew that he would never be able to find his way back.

  He stopped beneath a floor vent, squinting at the map in the booklet. “Where are we now?” he whispered.

  “Almost there,” Nolan whispered back.

  “These tunnels connect everything?” Antigone asked.

  Nolan nodded. “Almost. They run through every large building and beneath every external footpath. In the winter, the tunnels keep the paths clear of snow. When the furnace pits are stoked beneath the Galleria, you could roast in here. One more turn.”

  Cyrus closed the booklet and tailed Nolan into dwindling light. Antigone followed, grabbing on to the back of her brother’s shirt.

  “Cyrus,” Nolan whispered. “Many would kill for those keys.”

  Antigone’s grip tightened.

  “Maxi and Phoenix would kill for anything,” Nolan continued. “But especially for those keys.”

  “Okay,” Antigone said. “Who is Phoenix? I get that he’s nasty and mean and he’s the one who sent people to kill Skelton, but who is he?”

  Nolan turned and pressed his finger to his lips. “Whispers,” he said. “Whispers. I’ll tell you everything in a minute.”

  “And I want to talk to Greeves again,” Antigone continued. “And we definitely have to see Horace. Where’s the hospital?”

  Nolan glared back at her. Cyrus smiled and stepped on his sister’s foot. She hit him.

  They had stopped in front of a large grate mounted on a wall. Through the decorative iron, plates clattered. Singing mingled with laughter and the occasional shout.

  Nolan pushed the grate up, ducked out, and held it open.

  Cyrus and Antigone stepped into the largest kitchen they had ever seen.

  A wall of windows faced the enormous ocean of a lake. Beneath them, a small army of aprons and caps were chopping and dicing and grating and rolling and mixing on a row of tables. Another wall held a dangling mountain of copper pots ranging from dollhouse small to boil-a-whale big. The center of the room was an island of flame. Fire spurting up through grills, fire roaring beneath spitted meat, fire licking pots and gobbling every sizzling slop. Men and women with flushed and sweating faces scrambled toward ovens with mittened hands and prodded meat with long-handled prongs still too short for safety.

  “Nolan!” a voice boomed across the room. “You missed my lunch! Don’t tell me you’re here for an early supper. Back to your tunnels!”

  Nolan ignored the voice and moved casually into the kitchen.

  Cyrus shifted nervously. Antigone stood beside him.

  Nolan stopped. Beyond the island of fire, Cyrus could see a big man moving toward them. His black-and-silver hair was tied down with a handkerchief, knot forward, and each of the cooks jumped out of his way as he
eased down the line, dipping his finger in sauces and sneering at meat. He was dressed all in white, and his heavy black beard was bagged in a net. Small gold bells dangled from his ears, jingling like Christmas when he bent to sniff a pot or sip from a spoon, and as he finally moved completely into view, Cyrus felt his sister squeeze his arm in surprise.

  The man had no legs.

  Of course he has legs, Cyrus thought. They’re just … metal.

  Below his apron, two thin, bending black rods ran down into a rubber-coated ball joint of an ankle. Beneath each of those, a small triangle hoof of rubber made contact with the ground. Cyrus tried not to stare. It was like seeing an elephant with antelope legs.

  Standing in front of them, the big man put two hairy fists onto his wide hips, and he glared.

  “You bring guests,” he said. “Invaders.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Outlaws. And at this mad hour, too.”

  Nolan didn’t seem put off. “This is Big Ben Sterling, lord of the one-acre kitchen. Ben, behold the last two Smiths of Ashtown — Cyrus and Antigone.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Antigone said, elbowing Cyrus. She held out her hand. Ben Sterling swallowed it with his.

  “I know all about you two.” He winked. “Oh, the chatter today. Billy Bones picked himself quite a pair. Your ancestors were living outside the law before Skelton’s great-granddad had his first thieving thought. Rogues to the bone, you are. Bones’s new rogues.”

  Cyrus opened his mouth, confused, but Sterling waved him off. “Oh, don’t fret yourselves. Be it true or false, the kitchen hears everything, the kitchen knows everything, and I … am the kitchen.” Slapping Cyrus on the back, he whistled sharply between his teeth. “Make a hole at the rail! Three stools!”

  Immediately, the lineup at the windows compressed, and a man who had been shaking potato peels into a can scurried off after stools.

  Bells ringing, Sterling walked them toward the newly empty space. “I’ll stop and chat as chat can,” he said. “But your tour guide chooses the devil’s worst moment.”