The Drowned Vault (19 page)

“Smart,” Rupert said, squinting against the light. He
pointed at the closest corner of the main building. “No windows overlooking this spot, and the roof peak behind us keeps us invisible to the courtyard and the other buildings. Old Billy Bones could have kept this up for a long time. Probably did.”

Cyrus looked around. “Yeah, but what do we do now?”

Rupert smiled. “A philosopher stood on one leg in the middle of a road, unsure of what to do. ‘What is the best and wisest step? Where shall I put my foot?’ he asked. A farmer passing with an ox gave him his answer. ‘Put it down,’ he said. And so the philosopher did, but his other leg rose up. ‘Terrible advice!’ he yelled. ‘My predicament hasn’t improved. Where shall I put this foot?’ And again, the farmer told him, ‘Put it down.’ ”

“And …,” said Cyrus.

“And this time when the philosopher put his foot down, he put it squarely in a pile of the ox’s dung. Concluding that the farmer was either a trickster or a fool, he left his foot there and never moved again. As for the farmer, he walked on to Rome.”

Rupert met Cyrus’s eyes and laughed. “Your father loved that one.”

Cyrus groaned. “So the joke is that philosophers are stupid and farmers aren’t?” He blinked and shook his head, looking around at the rooftop. “Why are we even talking about this right now?”

Rupert grinned. “Two reasons, Cyrus Smith. First, the next step is always right in front of you. Pick your feet up and put your feet down. Second, we are most definitely standing in the dung right now. Your first trek starts now, and it’s madness. Are you ready?”

Cyrus nodded.

Rupert pointed over the wood toward a small jagged peninsula sticking out into the lake. “You will go back and get everyone else, and you will have them gathered at the base of that peninsula in one hour. Keep them hidden in the trees.” He looked back at the harbor. “As for me, I will go steal Gil’s plane. It’s the only one big enough for all of us, and the justice of it appeals to me. I’ll pick you up on the peninsula.” He slapped Cyrus’s shoulder. “Can you find the way back?”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “Can you steal the plane?”

“It’s right in front of me,” Rupert said. “I’m going to keep walking till we’re through this patch of dung.”

The return trip was easy enough for Cyrus, though he wished he wasn’t barefoot. He would put on his boots when he got back to the room, but what he really wanted were his canvas shoes. They were probably sitting right where he’d left them, next to the entrance to the water cube.

When he finally was in the ceiling above Skelton’s rooms, he knew he had time to spare. Not a lot, but enough to quickly pack his own bag.

“Tigs! We gotta go!” he shouted. He’d grab the Quick Water, and his boots, and Skelton’s old rice paper globe.

He scurried onto the rope stairs and froze halfway down. The place was full of smoke. Dennis, Hillary, Jax, Antigone, and Diana were huddled on the floor with packs in their laps. Antigone raised a finger to her lips.

“Arachne! Demon spinstress!” Gil’s voice boomed through the walls. Plaster smashed.

Arachne and Nolan appeared in the doorway. No Jeb. No Horace. Arachne had her sagging satchel of spiders slung over her shoulder. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Nolan was carrying two packs. Cyrus’s leather jacket was buckled onto one of them.

“Are you ready?” Arachne whispered. “Where’s Rupert?”

“Ready or not,” Nolan said quietly. He lobbed a pack at Cyrus. “That web in the door won’t burn, and it might be hours before they get a flint knife sharp enough to slice through it, but I can’t say the same for the stone walls—Gil’s almost through.”

Antigone was already on her feet. Diana Boone stood beside her. She looped her strawberry ponytail in half on top of her head, cinched it tight, and slung on her pack. Then she smiled through the smoke.

“Take us away, Cyrus Smith.”

nine
DUNG PATCH

C
YRUS WAS WORRIED
. He kicked a lump of soft insulation off the path, ducked a rafter, and glanced back.

“The Quick Water …”

“Is in your pack,” Nolan said from the back of the line. “Like I said already.”

Antigone was right behind Cyrus. “It’s in a little pouch, Cy. Don’t worry.”

But he wasn’t really worried about the strange liquid fungus. He was worried because they had lost too much time trying to figure out how to get the stupid rope stairs to reel back up into the ceiling. Leaving them down for Gil to find would have been ridiculous, but he’d almost had to. How long had they spent on that? Five minutes? Ten? It didn’t matter now. They’d gotten it done. Now they had to hurry.

He glanced back at the line trailing through the rafters behind him. With this many bodies on the old boards, the wood was visibly sagging. They were probably mysteriously cracking plaster ceilings everywhere.

Ahead, he spotted the chimney. “Okay,” he said to Antigone, pointing. “You see that? We’re almost through this part.”

Antigone nodded. She wasn’t used to seeing her brother stressed. She also wasn’t used to seeing him responsible for anyone but himself.

“You’re doing good, Cy,” she said. “Seriously.”

“Whatever,” said Cyrus. “I’ll be doing good if we make it.”

Getting up the chimney took a lot longer when also head-shoving a pack up the hole. And Cyrus did it twice, once with his own pack and once with the ridiculously heavy and suspiciously sloshing pack that Jax had been carrying.

Finally, standing in a line with his friends on the roof, Cyrus realized that the rest of the way would be even harder. He didn’t know if there were paths through the woods, and if there were, he didn’t know where they led or if he could trust them. And once they were down inside the trees, even the general direction of the peninsula wouldn’t be as obvious as it was from the roof.

At least Gil’s plane was still anchored outside the harbor. Cyrus figured they had about twenty minutes to get down and get through the wood. He hoped.

“Okay,” Cyrus said, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm. He’d missed lunch. Was it lunchtime? It had to be. His legs felt wobbly. And his temples throbbed like
twin volcanoes. He looked at his sister. She was giving him her best worried look—eyebrows together and up. Cyrus managed a smile, but Antigone wasn’t buying it. She brushed back her hair. For some reason, Cyrus focused on the scabbed gash on her forehead—that morning’s gift from Gil.

Pick up your foot and put it down. Do the next thing. Even if you’re standing in dung and stepping into more. Not a pleasant thought when barefoot. He’d been so worried about reeling up the rope stairs, he’d forgotten to grab his boots.

Nolan was studying the old rope ladder that dangled over the gutter edge. “This held Rupe?” he asked. “It’s seen a lot of weather.”

Cyrus pointed over the woods. “See that peninsula? We need to be there. Pretty much right now.” He looked at Diana. “Can you get us there once we’re on the ground?”

She nodded.

“Tell me if I go wrong. C’mon. Jax, you first.” With that, he tossed Jax’s pack down into a thick bush.

They made it safely to the ground, though it took longer than Cyrus was willing to think about. The ladder’s rungs had been overgrown by ivy; finding them hadn’t been easy, especially descending three stories of vertical stone wall.

Everyone slipped back into their packs. Cyrus handed his to Jax and took the bigger one.

“Okay,” he said. “Now we have to run.”

Picking a gap between trees, Cyrus began to jog.

Bare feet are great for running on grass. They can even be great in the woods—with a path. But ten strides in, Cyrus was once again wishing he’d grabbed his boots. Nettles. A hunk of granite. Branches. His toes refused to find soft earth. But he didn’t slow down. He wove between trees and over mounds, trying to maintain a pace that he knew the others could maintain. With a lighter pack, little Jax was doing better than he had in the attics. Now it was Hillary Drake who lagged, and Dennis Gilly lagged with her. Nolan had Hillary’s pack strapped to his chest, but she was still struggling.

A long branch took a swipe at Cyrus’s face, and he kicked a root when he ducked it. Ahead, he had to choose a path over, between, or around two large moss-covered boulders.

“Cyrus!” Diana yelled behind him.

He stopped and looked back, expecting to see Dennis and Hillary leaning on a tree, panting. But they were right behind him—flushed and scratched and sweating, but still with the group. Hillary kept her wide green eyes on him, clearly waiting for his rebuke.

Nolan—pregnant with Hillary’s pack, and with his own on his back—was breathing as easily as a sleeper, and his face was dry of sweat. Arachne stood beside him, somehow still seeming fresh and pale, wearing all black
and carrying only her spider satchel. Jax staggered to a stop beside her, wheezing.

Diana and Antigone were both sweating, breathing hard but evenly. Antigone tucked back her hair and put her hands on her hips. Cyrus smiled, and his sister smiled back. Antigone might prefer the books, but she had been training.

“You’re drifting east,” Diana said. “Tick a few more degrees north.”

Cyrus nodded and glanced back at the boulders. Around the left side, then.

Hillary staggered forward, gasping. Her cheeks were red, and her forehead shone. She had a habit of looking only at Cyrus—something Dennis obviously hoped to change. “Why are we going?”

Antigone looked at Cyrus with eyebrows raised. Then she turned to Hillary. “Did you want to stay?” Antigone asked gently.

“I’m just staff,” Hillary said. She glanced at Dennis and Jax. “We don’t go on treks.”

“You’re a Polygoner,” Cyrus said. “We have to run, but you don’t have to. If you’d like to stay, you can.”

“Hillary!” Dennis practically stomped. “We talked about this! The O of B is changing. The treaties! The paper dragons! Gil is trying to kill them. We’re going with Rupert.”

“Mr. Greeves frightens me,” she said simply.

Something fluttered through the leaves above them, landing on a branch above Antigone. Cyrus looked up at the red-winged blackbird.

“Cyrus?” Antigone asked, glancing at Hillary. Cyrus nodded.

Nolan slid Hillary’s pack off his stomach and held it out to her.

“You can stay,” Antigone said. “No one is trying to hurt you here. And we won’t be angry. But don’t tell anyone anything. You’re still a Polygoner.”

Hillary took her pack. “What about Jeb?”

Diana laughed. “You can talk to Jeb about anything.”

“And Mr. Lawney?” Hillary asked.

“No,” said Cyrus. “Let’s leave him out of things.”

Hillary nodded seriously and began to back away. Dennis was frantic.

“Hillary,” he said, and his voice wobbled. “You really—”

Antigone cut him off. “Don’t confuse it, D,” she said. “Not right now.”

Up in the tree, the blackbird shrieked, flapping and hopping in place. In the distance, they could hear plane engines rumble.

Trailing shouted farewells, the gang of seven scrambled up and around the boulders and raced off into the wood.

Hillary Drake and the blackbird watched them go.
After a moment, the blackbird dropped off its branch and glided through the trees.

Hillary turned and began to walk back to Ashtown. Walking was nicer than running. She stopped to pluck a lady’s slipper, then slid it into her hair.

Sprinting through the trees, barely keeping pace with the Smiths, lashed by brush and beaten with branches, Dennis Gilly began to cry.

Bellamy Cook stood at the long row of windows in the Brendan’s high quarters. He was looking out at the lake, past the statues that guarded the rooftop below him. His new rooms were nice enough—if he decided to keep the O of B’s tradition and reside in Ashtown.

He heard the door bang open and the long heavy stride that could only belong to Gilgamesh. There were others with him.

“Where are they?” Gil demanded. “Bellamy, so help me, I’ll snap you in two and fling you through the glass if you’re hiding them. The dragons were a courtesy.”

“A courtesy,” Bellamy said quietly. The water below him was dark beneath the heat-hazy sky. “Right, mate. Is that what that was? Courtesy would have been waiting till I’d had the chance to formally remove Rupert bloody Greeves from his bloody office. There are protocols, you ox, and I’ve already trodden on as many of them as the Sages will allow. I’d rather the Order not regret their
choice the day of my anointing. Courtesy would have been waiting two bleeding ticks before trying to kill the kids.”