Free The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson

man glared at them from the doorway. His eyebrows were even more tremendous than Cyrus had remembered. He had a crumpled cigarette tucked above his hairy left ear, and another soggy, unlit, and thoroughly chewed cigarette dangling from his lips.
    “Mr. Donald,” Cyrus said, relieved that he could remember the man’s name. “I’m sorry to bother—”
    “Smiths,” the man snorted. “Nineteen-fourteen guidelines. What do you want with Old Donald right now?”
    Cyrus smiled and made sure he didn’t look at his sister. “Patches,” he said. “Some old patches.”
    Antigone moaned. “Cyrussel …”
    “I
will
start calling you Tigger again,” Cyrus said, still smiling. “Not you,” he said to Donald. “Just her. And only when she’s a total pain.”
    “Patches,” Donald said. “Not many patches needed now.”
    “I know,” said Cyrus. “But I also know that you keep everything. You have to have some patches.”
    Without answering, Donald turned and walked back into his shop. He hadn’t invited Cyrus in, but he hadn’t closed the door, either.
    Cyrus followed him, and Antigone trickled along behind. Arachne stayed in the street.
    The two of them tracked the man around and between the mountains of leather flight jackets and the ladders propped against them. They slid past a pyramid of riding boots and shelf after shelf of safari shirts and jodhpurs and fatigues. They pushed on, farther than they had gone before, to the very back of the shop. And there, the two of them stopped in front of a towering set of tiny drawers, like an ancient and oversize card catalog from a precomputer library. It was at least ten feet tall and fifteen wide. The wood was dark, but the stain was worn thin in places, revealing a light grain beneath. Each drawer was only a few inches across and had a little brass handle.
    Donald sniffed and leaned against it. “Patches,” he said. “What are you hoping for?”
    Cyrus scanned the drawers. “Smiths,” he said. “The old family crest. Do you have one?”
    Donald’s eyebrows collapsed down over his eyes. “I might. What will you be doing with it?”
    Cyrus shrugged. “I just want one. Or a couple. I’m a Smith.”
    “Well, I don’t have a couple,” Donald said. “I have one. And it’s not for sale. And not for display, especially right about now, with the transmor—with the immortals flowing in.”
    Cyrus cleared his throat. He had to sound confident. He had no experience negotiating for anything. “Everything’s for sale,” he said. That sounded right. “I know there’s a price or something. Just tell me how much you want.” That was wrong and he knew it. He was going to get gouged.
    Donald’s eyebrows climbed slightly and wobbled. He gnawed on his cigarette.
    Be confident, Cyrus told himself. He felt Antigone’s hand on his elbow and ignored it.
    “Can you get it now?” Cyrus asked. “Please.”
    Donald fetched a short stepladder.
    The little drawer he opened was in the very top row. From inside it, he pulled a small white cloth sleeve. Then he climbed back down, held it out to Cyrus, and chewed his cigarette.
    While Antigone leaned in over his shoulder, Cyrus slid the patch out onto his palm.
    The colors were old but still rich, and the patch’s embroidery was incredibly intricate. It was a shield, but not a simple shield. Its curves were exaggerated and … Gothic? Medieval? Flowy? Cyrus searched for words briefly, and then focused on the design itself.
    The shield was bloodred with a thin gold border. A thick gold diagonal stripe ran across it. Inside the gold stripe, there were three heads, shown in surprising detail. The upper head was the oldest and bearded. The center head had a long mustache that hung down past his jaw. The lowest head was young and clean-shaven. All of them had black hair. All of them had a stripe of red blood at the base of their necks, and all of them were wide-eyed and apparently conscious.
    Above the shield, there was an