The Dragon's Tooth (18 page)

“Don’t rush your answer, now.” He pressed cold lips against Dan’s forehead, then straightened and turned away.

Anger and panic inflated Dan’s veins. A roar filled his lungs, but it rose from his chest as silent as a breath.

Cyrus Smith jerked, opening his sleep-clouded eyes. He blinked, his mind still half-dreaming. In the doorway, Nolan was writhing, jerking at his skin, scraping his naked body with a knife, peeling off translucent sheets, stepping out of his legs like reptilian socks. The skin, empty and weightless, floated out to the clattering spiders.

Cyrus closed his eyes, and he was running through deep, cool sand toward two unconscious bodies stretched out on the beach—his brother beside his mother.

thirteen

TOOTH TALES

Y
AWNING
, C
YRUS KICKED
his blankets to the floor as he stretched. His legs flexed and shook. His hands pressed against cold stone. Stone? In the Archer?

Cyrus sat bolt upright.

Antigone was facing him, sitting stiffly on her own stone bed. She tapped the bridge of her nose.

“You have some goop.”

Cyrus slapped at his face and then ground his knuckles into his eyes.

The lights were on in the Polygon, and Nolan was missing. His blanket was folded neatly and his pillow was perched on top of it. Antigone’s black hair was freshly wet and pulled back tight. Her eyes were tired. She already had on her riding boots, and her ragged safari shirt was tucked in. A piece of paper and the
Order of Brendan, Guidelines for Acolytes, Ashtown Estate, 1910–1914
sat open beside her.

“We’re done for, Rusty,” she said. “Listen to this.”

Cyrus yawned again. His sister picked up the booklet.

“Are you listening?”

Cyrus nodded.

“ ‘In order to achieve the rank of Journeyman, Acolytes must be tested in the following areas before the end of the year in which they were presented: Linguistic: Competency in one ancient language and one modern (in addition to their mother tongue) is required. Celestial Navigation: Acolytes must complete a three-day open-sea voyage without instruments (may be tested in pairs). Weaponry: Acolytes must achieve the rank of Free Scholar with dagger, foil, and saber, and the rank of Marksman with small-caliber pistol and rifle. Aerocraft: Acolytes must complete pilot qualification in the Bristol Scout biplane or comparable (to include advanced maneuvers and solo flight). Medicinal: Acolytes must be competent in the diagnosis and herbal treatment of infectious disease, the resuscitation of the drowned, the setting of bones, and the amputation of limbs.’ ”

Antigone looked up at her brother. His eyes and mouth were wide. “Yeah,” Antigone said, nodding. “The amputation of limbs. And that’s not all. ‘Physical Fitness: Apart from specific exclusions granted by the community of Keepers, Acolytes must be capable of running a grass-track mile in under six and one-half minutes, submerging for a duration greater than two and one-quarter minutes, and free diving to a depth of ninety feet. Zoology: Acolytes must show themselves capable of handling creatures of at least five distinct and deadly species. The Occult: Acolytes must demonstrate themselves to be impervious to hypnosis and intrusive telepathy.’ ”

Antigone sighed and spread the open booklet over her knee. “Should we go home now or wait until they kick us out?”

Cyrus tried to clear his sinuses and ran a hand through his matted hair. “Look on the bright side, Tigs.”

“What bright side would that be, Brother Optimist? I have to learn how to amputate a limb. And shoot a gun. And they want us to fly a plane? That has to be illegal. So please, share with me the sunny bright side.”

“No math,” Cyrus yawned. “As long as there’s no math, I’m fine.”

Antigone burst out laughing. “Cyrus Lawrence Smith! How deluded can a kid be?”

“Who’s the kid? And I can be as deluded as I need to be. Everything gets harder if you start going on and on about how hard it is. This will be tough enough without you giving up beforehand.”

“Cyrus,” Antigone said. “You’ve always hated school.”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “What’s your point? This isn’t school. We decided to come here for a reason, Tigs. Because we came here, Rupert Greeves is trying to find Dan. He
will
find Dan. And after Dan comes back, we’re going to stay here until we learn how to do all those things you just read, and then we get Skelton’s estate, and then we’re going to buy a big house in California right on the cliffs, and we’re going to move back to the ocean and not worry about money and never eat waffles again.” He smiled. “Plus, you have to admit it would be pretty cool if we could actually do all those things. Flying planes? We’d be like, I don’t know …”

“Journeymen in the Order of Brendan?”

“I was going to say ninjas. But you’re right. And we’d be the hardcore 1914 version, the kind that live in the Polygon—the Polygoners.”

“You really think we can do this?” Antigone’s eyebrows reached maximum arch. “We’re going to learn languages and fencing and free diving and flying?”

Cyrus flopped back onto his bed. “And we’ll amputate limbs. I wonder how you practice that? And we have until New Year’s. That’s practically forever.”

“Right.” Antigone puffed her cheeks. “Practically.”

Cyrus laughed. “And maybe Christmas will distract everyone and they won’t notice that we haven’t learned anything. And if that doesn’t work, we can always be squatters down here with Nolan. Where
is
Nolan?”

Antigone stood up. “I don’t know. But I want breakfast and a toothbrush and a bathroom, and I want some different clothes, and I want to know where the laundry is. And I want to know what Rupert found out about Dan. And I want to find out when we can visit Mom.”

She tucked the tutor list and the
Guidelines
into her pocket, and walked out into the big room.

“Come on, Cy. You’re dressed already.”

When they finally reached the great hallway outside the Galleria, Cyrus stopped, yawning desperately and rubbing his head. His hair was sticking straight out in back like the feathers on a duck’s butt, and it felt just as oily and water-resistant. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to curl up against a wall and go to sleep. Antigone tugged on his arm and kept him moving.

He watched the mapped ceilings go by, bumping into people and muttering apologies, but when they passed the leather boat on its pedestal, his eyes drifted to the corridor that he knew led to another hallway and two big black doors and a man on a column with a hole in his head. The whole thing felt like a strange dream, and for a moment, he wondered if he should tell his sister about what he’d seen. But only for a moment.

The hallway was crowded, and Antigone was moving slowly in front of him. Most of the people were heading in the same direction—toward the dining hall. But a fair number were leaving—women chewing muffins and carrying fencing sabers, men in flight suits munching bacon, teams of boys and girls in white. Everywhere, Cyrus saw guns on hips. All the passing people looked at Cyrus, at his face and his hair, and all of them smiled.

From down the hall, small bells began to ring, echoing from every wall. The river of people paused and separated. Antigone saw her chance.

Dropping her shoulder, she forced her way into the opening channel in the middle of the hall. With Cyrus jogging behind her, she hurried around the corner and straight toward the dining hall doors. Thirty feet away, a line of monks was coming in the other direction. Ten men in brown rope-belted robes paced in time, chanting something in a strange language. The second man in line was ringing the small bells. A bald, fat-faced man in the very front held a long, thick green bamboo rod, using it to slap at any feet or hands or thighs that encroached into the monks’ center path. Looking up, he saw Cyrus and Antigone, and his small eyes lit up.

“C’mon!” Antigone grabbed her brother’s arm and raced toward the door.

Spitting unintelligible wrath, the thick monk hustle-shuffled to beat them.

Antigone reached the doors and blasted through. The monk, shouting, jumped after her, knocking Cyrus away. The clatter and chatter in the dining hall died as every head turned.

The monk grabbed Antigone by the back of the shirt, raised his bamboo rod, and lashed it down across her neck.

Cyrus saw the first blow, he saw his sister drop to her knees, and the last vapor of sleep steamed out of him.

“Porca spurca!”
the monk screamed, and he raised his rod again, but Cyrus was already above his sister. He took the next blow across his raised forearm, feeling nothing but the heat of his own anger. The monk struck again, this time at his ribs.

The bamboo bounced off his side, and Cyrus kicked hard for the monk’s groin, sinking his foot deep into a low-hanging belly instead.

The monk gasped, doubling over, breathless.

Cyrus jumped for the bamboo, wrenching it free with both hands. As shocked monks peered through the doors and hundreds of breakfasters watched in openmouthed silence, Cyrus raised the bamboo rod like a baseball bat. The wheezing monk’s head bobbed in front of him like a piñata. Cyrus hesitated. Then, sliding his hands apart, he brought the rod down over his own knee.

It snapped easily. Two feet of green bamboo jumped free, spinning across the room, clattering onto a platter of sausage.

The monk dropped to the floor.

Cyrus, seething, teeth clenched, stepped over the whimpering monk with what remained of his bamboo club raised.

“You don’t ever touch my sister,” he said. “Ever.”

He looked at the rest of the monks and then threw the broken rod at their feet.

“Cy, c’mon.” Antigone was on her feet, one hand on her neck, tugging her brother from behind.

Cyrus turned. Hundreds of eyes were on him. Some had jumped from their seats, but the fight had been over too quickly for them to intervene. Now they sat slowly.

Standing by the kitchen door in a white suit, Cecil Rhodes grinned and mock-applauded.

Antigone steered Cyrus toward the buffet line. A chubby man in front, wearing a too-small leather flight jacket, stepped away to let them in, staring at the ceiling the whole time, refusing eye contact.

Flustered, Antigone handed Cyrus a plate and grabbed one for herself. A long red welt stood out on her neck. Cyrus eyed the crowd, beginning to eat again.

“We came to eat, Cy, and we’re going to eat. I don’t care what they think.” She knocked the bamboo out of the sausage and shoveled a pile onto Cyrus’s plate. “Thanks, though.” She smiled and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You just beat down on a monk.”

Cyrus set down his plate and rubbed his forearm. The anger was fading, replaced with pain. He grinned at his sister. “That wasn’t me. I’m not a morning person. There’s another person inside me that does all the morning things.”

“No,” said Antigone. “The scary part is, I think the morning you is the real you. The older you get, the more that will be you all the time.”

“Oh, gosh,” said Cyrus. “I hope not. The morning me is always either angry or tired.”

With loaded plates, they turned to find a table. The nearest one, surrounded by girls in white workout wear, immediately emptied.

Antigone and Cyrus sat down.

Working on his first sausage, Cyrus looked around the room. The monks were back, and they’d brought Rupert. They were pointing at him.

Rupert Greeves moved toward them with long strides. He didn’t look happy.

“And … darn it,” said Cyrus. “Tigs.”

Antigone looked up as Greeves reached them. With two big hands, he pulled them up to their feet and leaned his head down between theirs. His whisper was thick and smelled of breakfast.

“That, Cyrus, is not exactly how I want these things dealt with in future. And, Antigone, please do not race the monks unless you intend to lose. You have both made my job more difficult. Leave your plates. Go into the kitchen and eat something there. I’ll feel better when you’re out of this room.”

He straightened and slapped their backs. “Kitchen duty,” he said loudly. While smiles spread and whispers were passed from table to table, he turned and hurried back out of the dining hall.

Cyrus looked at Antigone. She shrugged, and together, they made their way to the swinging door and walked into the sounds of a kitchen waging war on a thousand eggs.

Big Ben Sterling whistled at them, wiping floured hands on his apron. Behind him, on the other side of the wall of windows, clouds were building towers while wind frothed the lake. Sterling waved them toward two empty stools near their spot from the night before, and he lumbered to meet them.

Before they’d reached the stools, his heavy hands gripped their shoulders and his netted beard slid down between their heads. A gold bell grazed Cyrus’s cheek, jingling in his ear. Springs creaked in metal legs.

“Good to see you’re still alive,” he said. His breath was sweet. “But you’ll need food if you’re to survive a second day in Ashtown.”