"Oh, gosh." Antigone shivered and raised her hand. "Don't even say that right now."

"And at least this time the river just takes it away. Sharing a bag is worse, and poor Dan sitting in between us, and Mom and Dad trying to sing us out of it."

"Shut up, Cyrus."

"I'm just saying ..."

"Don't." Antigone bent over and got her hands under Horace's arms. "Help me. We have to get him to a doctor."

In the end, Antigone rode up first. Cyrus followed, his feet balancing on the outside of the wire cage, his hugging arms pinning Horace to the cable.

He had only begun to rise when the light clicked off, controlled by some kind of timer. The sound of the water faded beneath him. In the narrow shaft, the squeaking of the cages blended and echoed with the lawyer's rasping breath.

"Hold on, Horace," Cyrus whispered. "Wherever it is that we're going, we're getting closer. Hold on."

The cable bounced and shook. Above him, dimly silhouetted, Antigone's legs disappeared as she hopped out of her cage.

"Hey!" Her voice roared down the hole. "They turn quick, so you won't have much time."

Cyrus hooked his arms through the lawyer's armpits and flexed his legs, ready to lift.

His head rose into a musty room, lit only through cracks. He shoved the little lawyer at his sister, watched her stagger back into a wall, and then jumped, clipping his head on the ceiling before his cage vanished through the roof.

Antigone was coughing under the weight, sinking to the floor. Cyrus walked straight to the tallest crack of light, a seam between two doors. They were locked, but they were also thin and old, and they bent a little with pressure from his shoulder.

He backed up.

"Try one of Skelton's keys," said Antigone. "Is there a keyhole?"

"Nope." Cyrus threw himself against the doors. Wood popped, but he bounced back. "I can break it."

"You mean a rib? Maybe your shoulder?" Antigone adjusted her grip, propping Horace in front of her.

"There's just one little bolt," said Cyrus. "And it's set in old wood." He paused. What was he hearing? Voices. Shouting. "You hear that?" he asked.

Antigone nodded. "They don't sound happy."

This time, Cyrus used his foot. The wood splintered, and the two doors wobbled open onto a world of emerald and sunlight.

A b.u.t.ter-smooth lawn stretched away from the doorway. Dangling Horace between them, gripping his arms tight around their shoulders, Cyrus and Antigone staggered into the light and looked around.

They had emerged from a small building on one side of the lawn. In front of them, an enormous obelisk rose from a circular fountain. Well beyond that, the lawn ended in an iron fence. Beyond the fence, narrow roads were lined with gray stone buildings and townhouses.

Cyrus and Antigone were standing on a fine gravel path, separated from the gra.s.s with a clean, sharp cut in the turf. The path curved through the lawn until it met a much larger path and became stairs. The stairs grew into a looming forest of grooved columns guarding lean towers and railed balconies, porticoes and paned windows the size of the Archer's swimming pool, glistening in the sun. The place was a fluid behemoth of stone crowned with blue sky and a towering choir of statues. It was a museum, a palace-a hulking glory large enough to hold several of both. Two long mezzanined wings bent forward off the central structure, embracing the lawn on opposite sides.

Cyrus pulled his eyes away from the building. On one end of the lawn, a group of lean people were running in tight, synchronized formation, dressed in matching white shirts and very short shorts, changing stride and direction, accelerating and slowing as a man yelped orders from the front. But the real shouting was coming from the other end of the lawn.

Between the fountain and the stairs to the main building, a small group of adults stood with clipboards watching five sweating teenagers pedal furiously on a bizarre contraption of bicycles attached to five oversize spinning, umbrellalike propellers.

"It's like ...," Antigone began. "I don't know."

Cyrus didn't know, either. While he watched, the contraption inched off the ground and thumped back down. The adults made notes.

"Dig!" a pedaler shouted. "Dig, dig, dig!"

The five pedalers hunched over their handlebars, yelling, groaning, and whooping as they pumped frantically. The contraption shook. The big-bladed, wobbling propellers beat at the air, working to tear themselves free. And then, while Cyrus watched, the whole thing eased up off the ground. One foot at first, and then three. Yelling became laughter, and the elevation increased while adults ducked and the flying bicycle team slid sideways above the lawn. Ten feet. Twelve. Twenty.

"Cyrus!" Antigone said, tugging Horace. "Come on!"

Cyrus gaped. The design wasn't that complicated. It was just bikes and ... He needed to learn how to weld.

"Cy!" Antigone pulled on her side of Horace, dragging Cyrus toward the gra.s.s.

"Tigs, aren't you watching this?"

Twenty feet up, one of the bikes snapped and dangled. A boy dropped, flapping and screaming, and then bounced in the gra.s.s and went limp. They were all screaming now. They were falling. The pedalers pedaled but only four propellers spun. The contraption slid down through the air, faster and faster, toward the fountain.

When the first propeller hit the obelisk, it tore free, whirring off in the direction of the synchronized runners. Another flipped through the gra.s.s, stopping at Cyrus's feet. Bikes and riders tumbled down the statues and into the water. The adults made notes on their clipboards.

"Cyrus, come on," said Antigone. "We have to find someone."

The two of them, with Horace's arms over their shoulders, stepped forward off the path and onto the gra.s.s.

A sharp whistle rolled down the steps from somewhere in the columns.

"Gra.s.s!" someone shouted, and a shape materialized, double-timing down the distant stairs, running with his toes pointed out. He was short, wearing a bowler hat and a suit, and he was blowing a whistle with each breath. At the bottom of the stairs, he broke into a rigid run, but he didn't come straight toward them across the lawn. He stayed on the footpaths.

"Hey," said Antigone as he finally approached. She shrugged Horace's arm farther up around her shoulders. "Where's the hospital? We have to get this guy a doctor right away."

The bowler hat staggered to a stop in front of them, straightened, tugged his coat, and blew his whistle one last time.

"You," he said, panting, "are on the gra.s.s."

Cyrus looked down at his feet. They were about eighteen inches from the edge of the path. He looked at the propeller, dug into the turf beside him, at the wreckage around the fountain and the distant team of runners. He looked back up at the man's face. But he wasn't a man. Too young and pimply.

"They're all on the gra.s.s, too, and you're just a kid," said Cyrus. "Now tell us where the hospital is or I'll stomp on the gra.s.s."

"I'm seventeen," the kid said. "And all contact with the gra.s.s is strictly prohibited without a usage permit, excluding sheep and gardeners."

Cyrus laughed, shifting his shoulder under Horace's arm. "You're not seventeen. You look ten."

"Sixteen," the boy said. "And I can write you up."

"Yeah, right," said Cyrus. "I'm taller than you."

"Excuse me!" Antigone gritted her teeth, flashing irritation at her brother. She was sweating. "This guy has been shot, and we need to get him to the hospital or a doctor or whatever you have here."

"Please, step off of the gra.s.s."

"No." Cyrus shook his head.

Antigone stepped back onto the gravel path, tugging Horace and Cyrus behind her.

For the first time, the boy examined the limp body's face. Even his pimples went pale. "That's Mr. Lawney. You shot Mr. Lawney?"

Antigone sputtered in frustration. "No, we didn't shoot him. He was bringing us here and got shot on the way." Struggling to hold up her side of the lawyer, she heaved Horace, adjusted her grip, and began to yell. "Tell us where the hospital is, you ten-year-old tick!"

"I'm fifteen," the boy said. "And don't yell. The hospitalers are gone right now anyway. Everyone not testing is in the Galleria." He pursed his lips, lofty and disdainful. "Even the other porters left their posts. The outlaw, William Skelton, named two Acolytes, and people said they were actually coming. I don't believe it. They'd have to be crazy. But they're too late anyway."

Antigone looked at her brother, and then back at Pimples. "How late?"

The boy turned and squinted at a clock tower on the building behind them. "Well, late enough, anyhow. They'd have to reach one of the gates and be granted clearance. That could take five minutes by itself-the guards won't exactly be helpful-and they have to present themselves at the Galleria in three." He looked back at Cyrus and Antigone. "At least if the other porters were telling the truth. They don't always. At least not to me."

"Grab his feet!" Cyrus said. "Quick!"

The kid blinked beneath his bowler hat.

Antigone nodded. "Please? Hurry! We can't be late."

Cyrus and Antigone turned, swiveling Horace's toes through the gravel toward the porter. The boy bent tentatively and gripped Horace by the ankles.

"Okay?" Cyrus glanced back over his shoulder. "Great. Is the Gallery in the big building?"

"The Galleria," the boy said. "And yes. Up the main stairs."

With Horace bouncing between them, Cyrus and Antigone steered straight across the gra.s.s, beelining for the stairs.

"Hey! Whoa! Stop!" the boy yelled. "I can't reach my whistle. My hat! My hat has fallen! In the gra.s.s! My hat is in the gra.s.s!"

Cyrus grinned at his sister. Breathing hard, Antigone managed to roll her eyes. Behind them, the boy jogged on tiptoe.

When they reached gravel and began climbing the stairs, the boy stopped yelping. Puffing, keeping his breath even, Cyrus concentrated on the steps. The treads were deep, but each step was short. He would have been able to skip a stair if he'd been running alone. He probably would have skipped two. But not now, trying to keep time with his sister and dragging a body.

"Come on," Antigone gasped. "We can do this, Cy. We're doing it. We'll make it."

They reached the top and rushed forward between two grooved columns. Huge wooden doors, taller than the Archer, were closed in front of them.

"Are you ...," the kid began, gasping. "Did you come ... through the waterway? It's prohibited. Waterway's closed. Hazardous." He began coughing. "Use the wicket."

"What?" Balancing his part of Horace, Cyrus reached out with one hand and tugged on a dangling iron ring.

Horace's feet dropped, and the kid porter scrambled forward, pushing Cyrus aside. He grabbed a k.n.o.b, and a small door swung open inside the large one.

"The wicket gate," the kid said, stepping out of the way.

A bell pealed loud and long, the sound ricocheting around the stone.

"Go. You have five rings. Follow the people. I have to stay here."

Antigone ducked through the door with Horace's arm and shoulder. Cyrus and the other shoulder followed. Inside, both of them froze. The huge corridor was crowded, and every face had turned toward them. High above the mob, the ceiling was vaulted, and each vault was frescoed with maps. An enormous reptilian skin was mounted on one wall, running around a corner and out of sight. In the center of the hallway, a large leather boat perched high on a stone pedestal.

The bell rang again.

"Um, hi," Antigone said. "Is there a doctor here?"

The crowd parted.

"Go!" someone yelled. "Hurry!"

Cyrus and Antigone Smith, caked with blood and soot, dragged their lawyer through the path in the crowd, his toes squealing on the marble floor. Whispers and murmuring swirled as the crowd closed behind them.

The bell rang again.

"This way!" A man's voice echoed through the hall. "Over here!"

"He lies!" a woman shouted. "Over here!"

Cyrus and Antigone stopped. The crowd pressed in, grabbing, pulling, pushing.

"Is that Horace?"

"Is he dead?"

The bell rang again.

Cyrus looked into the faces around him. Some were angry. Some were laughing. Some were worried.

"Cy! This way!" Antigone lowered her head and plowed into the crowd. A woman was leading her toward a tall open door. They were through, but still surrounded by the mob. "Don't ring it!" Antigone shouted. Her voice bounced through the vaults, and silence fell on the crowd. "We're here! We present ourselves! Or declare ourselves! Whatever! We're here! And we need a doctor!"

The bell rang again, and the echoes died slowly.

"h.e.l.lo?" Antigone said, her head on a swivel. "A doctor, please? Our lawyer's been shot."

"Initiates, step forth!" The voice was deep-rumbling irritation.

The crowd pressed back to the sides of the enormous room, and Cyrus, regripping Horace, began to move toward the front.

"No!" Antigone pulled back. "Not until we have a doctor." She looked around the room. "He bled a lot!"

Two middle-aged, pale-faced women in white skirts edged nervously out of the crowd and then hurried forward. They took Horace and laid him gently on his back. One finger-checked his pulse.

Ma.s.saging her shoulder, Antigone nodded at her brother, and the two of them walked slowly toward the front of the huge room. Cyrus's eyes skidded through the crowd. White-haired men in safari jackets stared at him. A group of older girls in tall riding boots sneered. Behind them, deeper in the crowd, Cyrus spotted a small flock of starched nuns' hats. He moved on, past a cl.u.s.ter of fit, sweating boys in tall socks and the same short white shorts and shirts as the runners outside. They all stood with their arms crossed, each with a simple black medieval ship printed high on his cotton chest. Farther on, a young group of flushed, ponytailed girls in similar uniform whispered and giggled. Instead of a ship, each girl's shirt had a small snake curled in a ring, swallowing its own tail. Cyrus's hand went to his neck as women and men in pocketed shorts and trousers and jodhpurs scowled and stepped aside. A group of monks in brown robes with rope belts and sandals stepped backward, crossing themselves as Cyrus and his sister pa.s.sed. Cyrus tore his eyes from theirs, from the crowd, and focused on the room.

Columns of different colors, scaled like fish, held crowded mezzanines on both sides, and light streamed down through large windows. In the front, a forest of enormous portraits collaged the wall with color. Men and women stood on ships, beside strange creatures, on mountains and beaches and walls. The paintings at the top, arranged beneath the high, black-beamed ceiling, were crude and simple. Below them, the canvases became more ornate, crowded and medieval, cluttered with red robes and dragons and sea creatures. Even farther down, the styles changed again and again, until, at the very bottom, a single abstract portrait hung-a boy's face, intense in its wide strokes, colored only with red and black. In front of the portrait, the same boy sat behind an ebony table. His face was freckled and sharp. His hair was brown and strawberry, and his loose linen shirt was open at the neck, revealing a heavy silver chain. A red cloth dangled over his shoulders, and a book the size of a small hay bale was open beside him.

At one end of the table, a tall black man stood behind a paper-covered lectern with his arms behind his back. His head was shaved almost to the skin, his strong jaw ended in a tight, pointed beard, and his eyes were as sharp as they were dark. At the other end of the table, sitting open on a low pedestal, there was a long wooden box. Inside, with tattooed hands crossed and eyes closed, lay the pale and charred corpse of William Skelton.

"Cyrus," Antigone whispered. "Cyrus ..."