The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson Page A

he would fall, and the buckets would spill. He wouldn’t drown, but he would have to start over.
    Antigone was tapping him with her heel. Then Cyrus felt her body begin to slide up.
    Slowly, arms shaking, wrists and shoulders screaming, Cyrus pressed himself back up into a handstand. Wobbling, his chin rose out of the bucket, and then his mouth, his nose, his eyes.
    Antigone was coughing, and her whole body shook.
    Cyrus gulped a breath through his mouth. His sinuses were full of water; any breath through his nose would send him hacking like his sister. He blew hard out of his nose, sending snot and water fountaining around his face. He blinked, but the room was still out of focus. Too much blood in his eyes, in his head.
    Arachne’s blurry shape knelt in front of him.
    “You’re doing well,” she said. “Halfway there.”
    Antigone coughed.
    “Tigs?” Cyrus said. “You okay?”
    “Wonder”—she hacked and spat—“ful.”
    “Lock your elbows,” Cyrus said. “Let’s not do that again.”
    He felt Antigone’s height shift in his back.
    “Have to,” Antigone said. “I can’t hold this for five more.”
    Rupert Greeves strode across the green, weaving through the tents. He was wearing long trousers tucked into high, glistening boots. A thick belt held a holster—and a long-barreled revolver—on one hip and a wide-bladed jungle sword on the other. At the small of his back, a small but heavy glass ball bounced in a pouch. He was carrying a dinner tray covered with a napkin.
    The Acolytes were all eating and talking at their tent flaps. Some still laughed or sang, but most had quiet, somber faces, far more subdued than the previous nights. Having the transmortals around was like having a pride of lions as houseguests. And these kids were in tents. All eyes followed Rupert as he passed.
    It hadn’t been a good week, not for anyone. The hospital wing was filling up quickly. The injuries were small enough thus far—broken bones, concussions, damaged joints—and they had all been caused by inexplicable accidents. Oiled stairs, broken chains on flying bikes, bursting blimps—the causes were varied. Butif things didn’t improve around Ashtown, the injuries wouldn’t remain small, and there wouldn’t be accidents to blame.
    And tonight’s assembly wasn’t likely to improve anything. Quite the opposite. Regardless, it was time to lean into the anger before it blew the Order over. It was time for the Smiths to be seen.
    Rupert could hear two more airplanes circling, preparing for descent, late arrivals no doubt carrying two more loads of transmortal trouble.
    “Mr. Greeves,” a girl said, “how many of them are there? People are saying the treaties—”
    “You’ll hear more soon,” Rupert said without slowing down. His night was just beginning.
    Once again bubbling in the bucket, Cyrus felt Arachne tap his leg. He didn’t bother to attempt a dignified dismount. Unhooking his ankle from his sister’s, he fell to the floor. His legs and stomach slammed to the ground, and water sloshed down around his shoulders and soaked beneath him.
    His head was still in the bucket, but the bucket was empty now. He could breathe.
    “Impressive.” Rupert’s voice echoed through the plastic.
    Cyrus knocked the bucket away and sat up. Antigone sat up beside him. Rupert Greeves stood above them,holding a dinner tray and wearing nicer clothes than he usually did—and weapons on his belt.
    “With Arachne’s touch, that’s months of hard training done in three days.” He smiled. “Lockdown is good for you. Now eat and change. We’re due in the Galleria soon.”
    Cyrus, sitting in a puddle, leaned back against his wobbling arms. The blood was still draining from his head, and dizziness swirled around him.
    “We’re leaving?” he asked. “We get to go outside?”
    “I think I’m going to be sick,” Antigone said, and she fell back onto the floor.
    “That’s right,” Rupert said. “You’re coming