The Dragon's Tooth (14 page)

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 the 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

T
HE 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.”

Three stools were shoved in place. Sterling pulled one out for Antigone and stepped aside for Cyrus. “I have a rule for you two,” he said, eyeing them both. He rubbed his netted beard and then leaned down, lowering his voice. “If there’s a light on in my kitchen, you come in and make free. If there’s not, well, you come in and make free. Night or day, you two duck in. My breakfast crew will catch the crumbs. And don’t feel as if you have to use the tunnels, like some I could mention.”

He grinned and straightened.

Cyrus laughed. The man’s eyes were sharp and knowing. His teeth were gapped but brilliant white. His netted beard was thicker than a bundle of black hay. But no matter where Cyrus looked, his eyes snapped back to the man’s bouncing earrings, catching and spraying the chaos of kitchen light, chiming with every step, breath, and smile.

“Thanks,” said Cyrus. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

Nodding, the cook turned away. “Melton!” he bellowed. “Look to your sauce, man!”

A woman in white slid three bowls of fine noodles onto the rail, followed by a platter mounded with well-sauced skewers of grilled beef.

Cyrus inhaled slowly.

Antigone looked at her brother and smiled. “I’m surprised I’m this hungry,” she said. “You probably aren’t surprised at all.”

Cyrus shook his head. Nolan was scraping beef onto his noodles. “Is he for real?” Cyrus asked. “We can come in any time we want?”

Nolan nodded. “But don’t make enemies on his staff. Always clean up after yourself.”

A chuckle came from the man chopping vegetables next to them.

“How did he lose his legs?” Antigone asked.

“Lake shark,” Nolan said. “Midair collision. Motorcycle racing. Or he lost them to Thai pirates. Or he cut them off and cooked them for a cannibal chieftain. Depends on the day and on how much wine is in him when you ask.”

Cyrus shoveled in a large first bite, and the flavors swam together—soy and cayenne and peanut sauce. His eyebrows climbed in surprise. It was a combination he hadn’t tasted in more than two years—his mother’s combination.

Antigone set her fork down, swallowing. She looked at him with wide eyes. “It’s exactly the same.” She looked at Nolan. “It was our dad’s—” Her eyes flooded. Tucking back her hair, she looked up, breathing evenly. “This is stupid. I’m just tired and hungry.”

Cyrus cranked around on his stool. Ben Sterling was hugging a tall, smiling, ponytailed girl who had just pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. But the big cook was looking back over his shoulder as he did. He flashed Cyrus half a grin and winked. The girl tugged his netted beard to get his attention.

Cyrus turned back around. “It’s not like he could have known.”

Nolan rubbed his welted neck, chewing. “Oh, he knew. Your father
was
here. The kitchen knows everything.”

“Dan should be here,” Cyrus said. “That’s the only thing that could make this taste better.”

Antigone winced, knuckling the corners of her eyes. “Don’t, Cy. Please. I’m trying not to cry. I already feel like a puffy-eyed moron.”

Cyrus twisted up a mass of noodles and wedged it into his mouth.

“These are the new ones? You’re letting ’Lytes into the kitchen?”

Cyrus and Antigone spun around on their stools. The ponytailed girl was standing immediately behind them, wearing glistening, oiled boots, trousers, and a white linen shirt almost identical to Antigone’s—although she was a year or two older, inches taller, and hers was spotless and fit perfectly. Her hair couldn’t decide if it was red or brown or gold, and her tan face and arms were sun-freckled. Her sharp eyes were bright blue at the rim, but her pupils were haloed with brown. The big cook loomed behind her. It was the girl from the plane. Cyrus knew it was. The girl pilot.

Cyrus felt sweat forming on his forehead, and he almost choked, gulping down his load of noodles. Peanut sauce dribbled out the corner of his mouth. He wiped it quickly, but more kept coming.

“Are they Acolytes?” Ben Sterling asked. “How’s a cook supposed to know a thing like that?” Shaking his head and smiling, he retreated to Fire Island.

The girl scowled, but then she saw Antigone’s worried face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes widening. “I was only joking. It must have been a long day, and I’ve heard Cecil Rhodes has been a prat. The Rhodeses always are. But you’ll be fine. I grew up thinking Smiths could do anything. Sorry I wasn’t there for your presenting, or I would have yelled something rude about Cecil’s mustache. I’m just getting back from a longish trek. Do you mind?” She snagged a piece of beef off Antigone’s plate and popped it into her mouth.

She turned to Cyrus. He managed another swallow, wiped his mouth, and straightened.

“Already heard a story about you,” she said. “My cousin says he thrashed you in the hall after you tripped him.”

Cyrus blinked.

The girl laughed. “Don’t worry. I heard the real story, too. You actually called him a snot?”

“Um,” said Cyrus. “Yeah. I think so. He was your cousin?”

“Everyone is my cousin. And you were right. He is a snot. Well, I have to run to get some stitches out.” She tugged down the collar of her shirt, revealing a jagged and crudely sewn-up gash at the base of her neck. Cyrus stopped chewing. “A little run-in with a cave owl, and I’m not much of a seamstress.” She backed away. “Best of luck and all that. I hope you make it. Don’t always eat in the kitchen!” She strode toward the swinging kitchen door, ponytail bouncing as she went. One hand jumped, flicking Ben Sterling’s left ear bell as she passed.

“Who was that?” asked Cyrus when the door swung behind her.

“That,” said Nolan, “was Diana Boone. Youngest-ever woman in the O of B to achieve Explorer. She’s not even seventeen yet. Beat Amelia Earhart by one month.”

“I’m not sure about her,” said Antigone. “Wait. Amelia Earhart? You’re serious?”

“Who’s Amelia Earhart?” Cyrus asked.

Antigone slapped him without looking. She sighed. “I’m really confused. Cyrus might not mind. Confusion is one of his best friends. But I hate it. Acolytes and Keepers and Explorers? There should be some sort of, I don’t know, orientation.”

Nolan leaned over and tugged the
Guidelines
out of Cyrus’s pocket. “Everything you need is in here.” He folded back the front cover.

Still glancing at the kitchen door, Cyrus returned to twirling his noodles.

“Five ranks in the O of B.” Nolan’s breathing had leveled and his hands were barely twitching. The food had helped. “Acolyte, Journeyman, Explorer, Keeper, Sage. Each has its own privileges and chores. This morning, you would have just been accepted as Skelton’s heirs by becoming Acolytes. But Rhodes challenged, so now you have to become Journeymen before you inherit. If you don’t inherit, the Order gets everything.” He smiled at Cyrus. “Including those lovely keys. Rhodes made it even harder by applying 1914 standards—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Antigone. “We know.”

Cyrus looked at his sister, and then at Nolan. “Is that when the Order started? 1914? Wow. I guess Horace did say it was old.”