Read The Drowned Vault for Free Online Page A

forty years or so, crests and seals haven’t mattered much in Ashtown. There were fewer great expeditions to be had and less pride in Expeditionary Badges, less pride in what remained of the old families, and less rivalry between Continent and Continent, Estate and Estate. Now one tends to see the symbol of the Order—the ship of Brendan—or the crests of trainers on the chests of paying pupils. But there are those who still keep the old crests close.”
    Cyrus reached the top and stopped in the long narrow hall that led to their rooms. There were windows, but only the size of arrow slits. The walls were cool bare stone. Antigone was waiting.
    “What was the point?” she asked when Rupert reached the top. “And why did we have three severed heads?”
    Rupert followed her down the hall. Cyrus trailed behind. “The point,” he said, “was pride in one’s family, in one’s Estate and Continent and achievements, et cetera. People who understood could look at your badges and crests and they would know who you were, where you were from, what you had done, and—frequently—what your ancestors had done. Your three severed heads became the Smith crest four centuries ago as a result of John Smith and his … achievements.”
    At the end of the hall, Antigone pushed open a little door.
    Rupert laughed. “You don’t keep it locked?”
    Cyrus shook his head. “Not usually. There’s nothing in there worth taking.”
    Antigone stopped in the doorway and looked up at Rupert. “What is the crest of the Greeveses? Is your family old, too?”
    Rupert looked from Antigone to Cyrus. After a moment, he sighed. Then he began to unbutton his worn safari shirt.
    “You two,” he said, “and only you two, get me to yammering like an old nan on her front porch.”
    Cyrus stared, confused, as the big man stripped off his shirt. The tangled web of scars on his muscled chestwas beyond sorting out. His left shoulder was dotted with what looked like bullet wounds—or maybe teeth marks—and his right side had a large old-looking T scar just above his hip.
    “Wow,” said Antigone. “What are those—”
    “No,” said Rupert. “No questions.” He jerked his safari shirt inside out, and then slid his arms back through the sleeves. Now there were patches on both shoulders—three on his right and one on his left. He slapped his right shoulder. At the top, there was a black medieval ship in a yellow circle.
    “The Order of Brendan,” he said. Then he tapped another round patch below it—silver chains knotted into the shape of a Celtic cross inside a green circle. “The old emblem of the Ashtown Estate.” Beneath the two circles, there was a long, thin red band. Inside it, a golden dragon with six wings was roaring. Rupert traced it with his finger. “That tells you that I am the Blood Avenger for my Estate—First Avengel for the Order of Brendan.” He turned and tapped the lone patch on his left shoulder—a silver chess knight with eagle wings, flying inside a dark blue shield. “The symbol my great-grandfather adopted as the sign of Greeves.” He tugged his shirt back off, inverting it again. Then he slipped it on with the patches against his skin and began to button it up. Cyrus and Antigone were staring at him. He smiled and nodded at the doorway. “Get in there.”
    When William Skelton died in the firefight at the Archer Motel, he had already made Cyrus and Antigone his Acolytes and heirs. But they hadn’t been allowed to move right into his old rooms. They’d been stowed in the Polygon until they’d made Journeyman, and that hadn’t happened until the New Year. Anything would have been an upgrade from sleeping in a crypt and walking on planks above hungry Whip Spiders, but they’d expected something more from the rooms of the notorious and wealthy outlaw.
    There were five rooms in all. The largest was a long central room with a stone fireplace at the end, two windows, and a moth-eaten Persian rug on the floor.