The Dragon's Tooth

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 pinata. 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.”

The big cook forced them onto stools while young men and women in white rushed by with trays. Sterling stopped a girl, robbed her of two plates, and slapped them down on the table in front of Cyrus and Antigone. Fried eggs. Ham. Toast.

Cyrus dug in happily. Antigone buttered a piece of toast.

“Strange times for you two,” Sterling said. “And for the rest of us. Keep your strength up, and no more fiddling about with monks. Choose your battles while you still can. Soon enough, they’ll be choosing you.”

Sterling leaned onto the table beside them. He lowered his voice. “Big Ben Sterling isn’t having a laugh now. Last night, the vice-cook was killed by an intruder. Greeves found him drowndead in the harbor. He’s spent the