The Drowned Vault

by N. D. Wilson

  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

  CYRUS 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?”

  “Like someone slammed a baseball in there and it won’t come out.” He pointed at the charred walls. “What happened here?”

  Nolan laughed. “What happened is that I nobly defended your stronghold while you slept.”

  Diana raised her eyebrows. “You did?”

  Nolan shrugged. “Diana helped. As did the charge gun she brought. Unfortunately, despite the strength of the spinster’s webs—Gil tried to tear through the door—they do burn.” He looked at Arachne. “And I’m afraid he now knows which team she’s chosen.”

  Arachne sighed, and her eyes seemed to pool with sadness. “Gil can be nice. He just doesn’t react to fear very well.”

  Silas arched his one and a half eyebrows and looked at Cyrus. “We’ve seen some rough nights, but that was the roughest.” George nodded as his brother continued: “I thought you were a goner for a little while. You got hit with a flying statue and dropped like a sack of mud. Mr. Greeves had a glass grenade in his belt that he threw into the mob as they were coming for you, and the electric arcs and the shards caught you a bit when it exploded. Barely missed us. We haven’t seen our dad, but Diana said that she was in the hallways with him for a while and that he was fine—having fun, even.”

  Diana nodded. “When I left, he was with Jeb and yelling things in something that sounded pretty Zulu.”

  “I’m sure it was,” George
said. “It’s his favorite language for fighting.”

  “So …,” said Cyrus. “What exactly happened? I don’t remember much.”

  Antigone shook her head. “It wasn’t fun, Cy. When Rupert tossed his grenade, they were trying to tear off your patch.”

  “Did they get it?” Cyrus looked around the room for his jacket. “Tell me they didn’t get it.”

  “My stitches don’t tear, Cyrus Smith.” Arachne’s voice was quiet. Cyrus didn’t know if she sounded more exhausted or sad.

  Antigone continued. “Rupe gave you to Nolan, and he dragged you into a vent.”

  Cyrus looked at Nolan. The pale, peeling boy smiled slightly.

  “How’d it all end?” Cyrus asked the room.

  Diana crossed her legs and leaned back against her arms. “People ran and people hid. Rupe and Big Alan and Jeb and the other Field Captains shocked and dropped and chained transmortals in the halls for hours—sometimes retreating, sometimes pushing forward. A lot of them came to and broke free, but a few didn’t. They’re locked up deep for now. Gil and the others eventually retreated into collection rooms and barricaded themselves in. That’s when things got quiet.”

  “Footsteps.” Nolan raised his hand. Peeling skin dangled from his fingers like paper flags. He jumped toward the door and picked up a charge gun leaning against the jamb. Arachne stepped back as Diana drew a revolver and followed Nolan.

  Everyone else scrambled to their feet.

  “Quiet,” said Nolan, and he flipped a switch on the butt of his gun. The electric charge grew, whining in Cyrus’s ears as he held his breath. He couldn’t hear anything else. And then someone rapped quickly on the door.

  “Unlock. It’s Rupert.”

  Arachne stepped toward the door. “Password?” she asked. She crouched down and lowered her hand to the floor. A brown spider slipped out of her sleeve and darted beneath the door.

  “What?” Rupert sounded confused. “I truly hope I didn’t set a password.”

  The spider returned and climbed into Arachne’s hand. She nodded, then stood and unlocked the door. Rupert Greeves came in, a charge gun dangling from a strap over his shoulder. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, but his shirt was bloodstained, the top buttons were missing, and the collar had been torn halfway off.

  He had bruises—or dirt, or smudged blood—on his neck, and the old scars on his chest were a sticky mess. His holster was empty, but his wide-bladed sword was still in its sheath.

  Rupert shut the door and looked around at the clustered group. “Well, the Polygoners all seem to be alive.” He managed half a smile. “Excepting Cyrus. Well done. Mr. Gilly, Miss Drake, you can return to your duties. Diana, your brother needs you at the airstrip.”

  Dennis and Hillary smiled at the group, and then hurried through the door. Rupert patted them each on the shoulder as they left.

  Diana holstered her revolver, then mock-saluted Cyrus and Antigone. “Polygoners, ho!” she said.

  “Hey, Di,” Antigone said. “Thanks. Seriously.”

  Diana grinned back over her shoulder as she left. “We’ll do it again sometime.”

  Rupert assessed George and Silas Livingstone. “You’re not mint in the box, but you don’t look too terrible. Your father might be disappointed—he had to have a nostril stitched back on. He wants you in the dining hall.”

  “Right,” Silas said. “He’s okay, though?”

  “He’s more than okay,” Rupert said. “He’s spitting fury and battle cries into a stack of pancakes.”

  George laughed, and the two brothers nodded silent goodbyes and hurried out of the room.

  Jax stepped forward. His cheeks were flushed. “Mr. Greeves, do I need to head back to the zoo?”

  Rupert seemed surprised. “Don’t you want to? I’ve never known you to want to be anywhere else.”

  The thirteen-year-old zookeeper shuffled his feet and pulled on his ear. Antigone was grinning. Cyrus saw his sister glance at Arachne, and then he understood. Arachne smiled slightly.

  “Well, Mr. Greeves, I’ve always been interested in spiders. I collected thousands of webs for years and used them in the exoskeleton I wear for protection in the Crypto wing. It’s incredibly bulky for me. But, Miss Arachne …” He glanced into Arachne’s eyes, and then looked quickly back at his feet. His cheeks grew even redder. “The spiders do what she says. Do you know how strong a spider-woven sheet of silk could be? I want to learn.”

  “Jax,” Rupert said softly. “You can’t. Not any more than you could watch a bird and then grow feathers. What Arachne does, she does by nature.”

  Arachne moved toward Jax, and her smile was genuine. “By second nature, at least.” She touched Jax on the arm, and he looked like he might melt. “James, someday soon I will weave you a sheet and you can make what you will. I’m pleased you like my creatures.”

  Jax nodded, unable to speak, and then he made his way toward the door. He paused, looking at the burnt web tatters dangling against the wall.

  “Take them,” Arachne said.

  Beaming, Jax snatched up the shreds and hurried out into the hall, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Jax!” Rupert yelled after him. “I need two pairs of squid at the cube if you can!”

  “Yessir, Mr. Greeves!” And the young zookeeper disappeared.

  Rupert sighed, shut the door, and turned around. “I am left with two Smiths and two discontent immortals.”

  Nolan laughed and dropped into the armchair. “Oh, we hardly count as that.”

  “How bad is it out there?” Arachne asked. “What did they do?”

  Rupert crossed to the window and looked at the charred walls. “They did enough. Gil, in particular. But they were smart, and now those I didn’t lock up have retreated out of sight. The Estate is as smashed up as it’s been since a similar night when I was a boy, and yet they didn’t kill anyone.” He glanced back. “And they could have killed many. That mob clearly had orders—rules of engagement from some authority. I think only Cyrus was really in danger of death. That riot was their shot across our bow. They want the O of B to fear them—to fear an uprising in which hundreds might die. But they didn’t want our fear to become deep anger, as it would have if they’d given us a stack of bodies.”

  “Why not?” Cyrus asked. “I don’t understand.”

  Rupert continued, now eyeing the ceiling. “Then our terror would work against them—strengthening our resolve, convincing us that we absolutely must not dissolve the treaties that bind their powers. Their goal is the resurrection of their own Order, not our destruction. For now.”

  Nolan leaned against the wall and crossed his pale, knotted arms. “And have they succeeded? What will happen to the transmortal treaties?”

  Rupert studied him. “You want to be thrown to Gil without the Order’s protection?”

  “No,” Nolan said. “I’ve had enough of Gil to last all my lifetimes, as you well know. I’m not interested for myself.”

  “Gil is not in charge,” Arachne said quietly. “And the Ordo Draconis never died; it simply lowered its voice.”

  Rupert managed to swallow slowly before he spoke. “What do you know, Arachne? What have you held back?”

  Arachne said nothing. Rupert turned to Nolan.

  “What do you know?” he asked.

  Nolan shook his head. “I steer clear of my own kind. All I know is that Gil went romping with that mob in the Galleria. Cyrus wearing his gory badge around didn’t quiet things any, but they would have rioted even if he’d arrived waving an Ordo Draconis banner.” He looked at Rupert and nodded at Arachne. “Press her. She knows more than she says.”

  Arachne’s cheeks flushed. “I have always honored my treaty.” All around the room, spiders began to trickle out of cracks and corners as she continued. “Rupert Greeves, I have always told you what I know, but not what I guess. What I knew yesterday is not what I know today. All of my friends, the only family I have had for centuries, have always thought that
I was foolish trusting a man like you. Now they call me a traitor to my own kind. Do not mistreat me.”

  Rupert studied the flowing puddles of spiders on the floor, all racing toward Arachne’s feet. When he spoke, his voice had softened, though not much.

  “What do you know today that was a mystery yesterday?”

  Arachne was a statue. Spiders surrounded and covered her feet. They swirled around Rupert’s legs, too, and up onto his boots. He didn’t move. Cyrus and Antigone backed away.

  “You need your army before you speak?” Rupert asked.

  “Radu Bey,” Arachne said quietly. “The last Dracul.”

  Rupert shook his head. “John Smith destroyed him after he sent those three heads on Cyrus’s jacket rolling. Just before Smith was sent into his own Burial for breaking his vows and becoming a transmortal himself. I’ve read the account.”

  “Radu Bey is alive,” Arachne said. “And the Ordo with him. He is behind the mob. And yes, the Smiths are to be killed.”

  “How do you know this?” Rupert asked. “You were in here all night.”

  Arachne nodded at her quietly rippling spiders. “You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  “Okay,” Cyrus said, inching forward carefully. “I’m really tired of not understanding any of this. Is this really all because they’re angry about the tooth?”

  Rupert sighed. “The tooth is resurrecting an old war and an older fear. I had wondered why Phoenix turned to hunting transmortals. But this is reason enough. The Order is in peril. We may be overthrown by our own tributaries.”

  “I don’t get the treaties,” Antigone said. “If the transmortals want out of them to go fight Phoenix, what’s the problem? And what do the treaties even do? Couldn’t Gil just ignore whatever old piece of paper he signed anyway?”

  Rupert shook his head. “Centuries ago, the Order offered the nations of men their only possible protection from the transmortals. They were subdued one by one, some with great difficulty, others with no difficulty at all. With the transmortals functionally colonized and their behavior restricted, the Order assumed responsibility for their protection—from men who still hated and feared them, and from each other. Every transmortal has a unique treaty, though many are similar.”