The Unnaturalists

CHAPTER 26

Syrus was half-woken by something tickling at his nose. He swatted at it and settled back into his quilt, grumbling about pesky flies. Then whatever it was bit his nose. Hard.

He sat straight up and hit his head on a root. He yelped, rubbing at his head and glaring at Piskel, who buzzed and hopped about the old fox’s den like a manic firefly.

“What?” Syrus growled.

Then he noticed that it was morning and that he was, once again, naked.

He had to find a way to get Bayne to make sure he transformed with his clothes on.

Bayne! Confused memories piled in upon him. He’d led the sentry wights and Guard on a merry chase getting out of the City a few days ago, but he’d finally made it to the river. The swim had been unpleasant and nearly drowned him, but he’d made it under the wall. After that, he remembered only flashes—the forest, howling at the moon, racing through a line of hobs mourning at the Manticore’s den . . .

Piskel jumped up and down so much it made Syrus’s eyes hurt trying to follow him.

“Wait. Slow down, please,” Syrus said.

The sylph came to rest on Syrus’s palm. “Now, slowly. What happened?”

Piskel pantomimed what had happened. The Manticore had died. Vespa had been taken by the Raven Guard and imprisoned with the other Elementals in the Refinery. It had been very painful to slip out through the nevered bars and nullwards, but Piskel had managed. He didn’t know when Vespa would be taken to the Waste, if that was what was meant to happen.

Syrus put his head between his knees. He had sincerely hoped and believed that if anyone could save Vespa, it would be Bayne. He’d tried to get back to her before the wedding, but had obviously failed. Now it looked as though the wedding had already taken place and Vespa had been captured. What had happened to Bayne after the wedding? Had he been captured too? Syrus certainly hadn’t expected that it would all fall to him to save the witch. They’d made no plans for this kind of emergency. Bayne had said that if they were all caught, Syrus should go as far away as he could.

Piskel tugged at his arm, urging him to get up, but Syrus shook him off. Thankfully, Piskel refrained from biting him again.

“What am I supposed to do?” he said, head in his hands. He felt very sorry for himself. Small and alone and forever forced to shift his shape at every turn of the full moon until one day he would never change back. How could he possibly do anything?

Piskel trumpeted. It sounded like he was telling Syrus to get help.

“From who? Everyone who could help is imprisoned!” Syrus said.

Piskel puffed out his chest and drew his shoulders up. He marched tall and proud around the burrow, looking at Syrus with brooding eyes.

Syrus shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

Piskel pointed off in the direction of Virulen. He grabbed Syrus’s collar and tried to pull him bodily from the den. Then he took up his pantomime of the brooding person again. He took two roles, pretending first to be a simpering girl and then the brooding man again, looking at her.

“What? Do you mean Bayne?”

Piskel nodded so enthusiastically it looked like his head might wobble off. He tugged at Syrus again.

Finally, Syrus gave in and crawled from the den.

It was as though a great fire had swept through the Forest while he slept. Though there was no smell of smoke, little bits of ash—no, black sand—drifted here and there. The trees, already leafless, now seemed to lack substance, as if whatever held them firmly knitted together had fled. Pounding and pattering and squealing filled the air as a wave of animals surged up over the rise. Syrus watched in horror as white stags and does fled through the floating dust, as squirrels and skunks and chipmunks, greenmen and hobs and sylphs flitted alongside them. They spared not a glance for him and Piskel but thundered off to the east.

Silence stretched under the failing trees until a sizzling noise drew his gaze westward. Sharp light rode a wave of darkness through the once-dense forest. Distant trees collapsed into dust and realization dawned.

The Manticore was truly gone.

And now the Waste was devouring the Forest. He didn’t know if it could leap the River, but it would devour the remaining clans in Tinkerville. He had to warn them. . . .

He started off in that direction, but Piskel frantically dragged and pushed at him, trying to force him east toward Virulen like the other animals. Soon, the Waste would sweep this part of the Forest and him with it.

Cursing in frustration, he shifted into werehound form and ran toward Virulen as fast as his paws would carry him.

Syrus was afraid that getting into Virulen would be nearly impossible, but he needn’t have worried. Animals and Elementals were trying to flee the onslaught of the Waste as quickly as possible, and in typical fashion the Lords were taking advantage. As Syrus neared the pasture, thinking to slip in under the garden boxwoods or at the kitchen midden, he heard guns firing. He shifted back into human form, clenching his fists and wishing that he had the magical power of the Architects so he could smite them for their stupidity. He retrieved his dart pipe and knife from where he had stashed them on the lip of an old cistern near the back gate before slipping through it.

Bayne stood a little off to the side. He leaned on his musket watching the others with a look of deep displeasure on his face. Syrus watched him dispatch his servant for something. Alone, Bayne half-turned toward the manor as if he’d rather be indoors than witness this hunting charade.

Syrus threw pebbles from the hedge to get Bayne’s attention.

“My lord,” he called.

He tried not to cringe when he found the barrel of the musket pointed at his chest.

Bayne lowered the musket, but raised a brow. “Where have you been?” He drew Syrus out of the hedge, cloaking him in his hunting jacket.

Syrus coughed in embarrassment. “Bayne . . . the Waste . . .”

Another musket fired and a stag went down in the field.

“Vespa’s been captured,” Syrus said. Piskel floated around them.

That got his attention.

As did the black sandstorm coming over the hill.

“Into the house,” Bayne shouted. He grabbed Syrus’s shoulder and dragged him along. He shouted at the other lords. Some of them heeded him, but others didn’t. As they ran toward the garden gate, the Guards turned down the wards enough for them to pass. Those who waited too long became pillars of salt on the dark tide. Syrus looked over his shoulder as he ran. The Waste flooded right up to the gate, stopping only at the wards. Little puffs of dust flew up as if testing the field.

Bayne took Syrus by the shoulder. “In here,” he said.

He directed him upstairs and into his private chamber. Word was already spreading among the staff; there were whispers down the halls. One maid sobbed as she stared out a window at the black desert crouching at the back door.

Bayne shut the door and told the manservant to make sure no one entered. He put his musket by the door and loosened his cuffs.

“What happened?” he said, turning to Syrus. “I thought you would have returned here by now, if you’d survived.”

“I . . . got lost.”

Bayne raised a brow, then tossed him some clothes. “You’re in luck,” he said. “My bath boy just quit yesterday.”

Syrus waved a hand. “Look, that’s not important. We’re all in grave danger—”

“Well, that’s rather obvious . . .” Bayne gestured out the window.

Syrus ignored his sarcasm and finished, “But if we can just get Vespa out and get the Heart away from Charles, maybe we can return it to its rightful owner.” He struggled into his shirt and trousers.

“Us and what army? Do you not see the Guard everywhere?” There was an odd expression on Bayne’s face, as if he was only saying the words so harshly to convince himself there was no hope. He went to the window and stared out at the eye-stinging expanse of the Waste.

Syrus didn’t know what more to say. He stared at the lord’s back, the stillness of his ruffled sleeves. He felt like he was in a game of tiles. He had played his last one, his finest one, and now was just waiting to see if his opponent had anything left.

“I tried to stop the wedding, you know,” Bayne said. “But she put that spell on me. And my father . . . he . . .” He trailed off.

“Maybe it’s time you stopped doing what your daddy tells you,” Syrus said.

Bayne turned. Syrus couldn’t see his eyes, but he worried now that he’d gone too far. Piskel squirmed inside his coat sleeve.

“You’re probably right,” Bayne said at last. “Now, what do you propose we do?”

“Piskel and I can find us a way into the Refinery, but you’re going to have to get us out. And then, we’ll just have to hope we can get the Heart where it needs to be.” He grinned.

A knock came at the door.

“What is it, Boswick?” Bayne asked, opening the door a sliver.

“Your lady wife, sir. She requests that you pack hastily and meet her in the family carriage. All who can are evacuating the estate and retreating to the City.”

“Is there a way still clear by carriage, I wonder?” Bayne asked.

Boswick shrugged.

“Well, go find out, man!”

Boswick hurried off.

Bayne gestured to Syrus to help him and together they pulled a sizable foot locker out from a little room behind a tapestry.

Bayne threw it open. “In you go.” He smiled.

Syrus stared at him.

“How else am I to get you to my town house without Charles finding out?” Bayne said. “If we are to do this, I must conserve every bit of magical strength I still possess.”

Bayne packed a few coats down and then Syrus crawled inside. Bayne threw in a few more things, and then the Architect closed the lid and strapped him in. The inside of the trunk smelled of scented paper and shoes. Syrus sneezed.

Bayne thumped the lid. “Best not do that again,” he cautioned, his voice muffled through the trunk lid.

Piskel crawled out of Syrus’s pocket and clambered up next to his face. He didn’t exactly look pleased, but there wasn’t much either of them could do about it until the trunk opened again.

After what felt like hours later but was probably more like thirty minutes, Syrus felt someone lift the trunk, grunting and protesting under its weight. He was carried out and strapped to the back of a carriage, presumably. He just hoped the Waste hadn’t reached the road or Tinkerville. He also hoped no one would toss the luggage to help the carriage go faster.

It was a long, cold, bone-shattering ride being jounced along in the dark behind the carriage, but at last the carriage came to a stop. Syrus prayed that Bayne’s new wife wasn’t in charge of opening the trunks or they would all have a nasty surprise.

Then he was lifted and carried. He heard shouting following feet that ran upstairs.

Bayne yelled, “This farce of a marriage will be annulled, I swear by all the saints!” before the door slammed.

Then he heard the straps being unbuckled and the lid was thrown back.

Bayne’s furious expression greeted him.

Syrus gulped a breath of fresh air. “Honeymoon not going too well?” He remembered how his people always made fun of a new married couple. They’d give them the clan car all to themselves one night, but they’d sure make it difficult—singing and hooting outside the window all night long. He thought it was odd that Cityfolk didn’t do the same.

“That woman is an absolute shrew!” Bayne said.

Syrus couldn’t help but chuckle. Piskel was laughing so hard that he fell out of the trunk.

“Tell me first,” Syrus said. “Is there anything left of . . . of the trainyard by the city gates?”

Bayne shook his head. “All that’s left is a narrow strip of road that’s nullwarded between the city and Virulen. It was the only way we managed to get through. Everything on the west side of the road is gone. We don’t know how long the road itself will hold before the Waste breaks through.”

Syrus went to the window and looked out between the drapes. They were in the Grimgorn Uptown house. The sloping crest of Tower Hill came down virtually into the back garden. It was an ugly, thorn-tangled view, but he barely saw it. All he could think of were his poor people sleeping, unaware that the Manticore was dead, unaware that the wave of the Waste was about to destroy them.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Bayne said.

Syrus didn’t know how much Bayne knew about the trainyard and his people, but he realized with a sinking heart that the enslaved Tinkers and werehounds in the Refineries were probably all that was left of his people now.

A single tear trickled down his cheek. He felt Piskel catch it on his tiny hand. The sylph turned it into a bit of glimmering crystal, which he gave to Syrus with great ceremony. Syrus said words of thanks in the old language and slipped the crystal into his pocket.

Syrus drew a deep breath and then said, “We must get them out. Vespa, my people, the Elementals—all of them. We must.”

He stared at the hill and the shadow of the Tower above. Just beyond it, the silhouettes of the Imperial Refinery’s smokestacks were edged in glimmering, noxious smog.

“If only there were a door into the hillside—how much easier that would be than storming the Tower!” Syrus said.

Bayne was silent. Syrus glanced back at him and saw a startled, dreaming look pass like a cloud over his features.

“You know,” Bayne said, coming to stand beside him. “I think there just may be a door. When I was a child, we summered here often. I remember playing in the garden alone once. I looked up and a Raven Guard had appeared out of nowhere. I was terrified. I remember him looking at me and then turning around and marching back into a black hole that went into the Hill. I ran inside screaming to my nursemaid. Of course, everyone thought I was being fanciful. I came to believe it was all just fancy, too . . . but . . . I’m not so certain now.”

He stared down at the deserted garden, bare and winter-gray.

“Can you find out, Piskel?” Syrus asked the sylph. “How were you able to get out, anyway?”

Piskel made gestures as if he’d moved an entire mountain just to escape.

Syrus rolled his eyes. “Look, never mind. Just . . . go scout around and see if you can find something that looks like a door, will you?”

Bayne pushed the window up and Piskel fluttered out. Syrus watched him go, a tiny light flickering through the afternoon gloom.

There was a banging at the door. Lucy Virulen’s voice sawed through the wood.

Bayne sighed. “You’d better hide in the trunk. And try to sleep. It may be a long night.”

Syrus did as he was bid, though he chafed with impatience to be doing something. He heard the door shut and Bayne’s voice warring with Lucy’s until he drifted back off to sleep.

Syrus woke to the sound of the trunk thumping open again. A candle shone in his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He sat up, stretching his sore neck and cramped limbs.

“What time is it?” he asked, as he climbed from the trunk. He hoped after tonight there were better sleeping accommodations. And then he shivered just a little, thinking that if tonight didn’t go well, he might end up nothing more than a pile of salt on the desert floor.

“Nearly dawn,” Bayne said. He handed Syrus a greasy packet of cold sausages and crumbling crumpets. “All I could steal from the kitchens,” he said.

Syrus nodded his thanks and scarfed the food down, saving a few crumbs for Piskel.

“Come. I think Piskel’s found the door. Everyone’s asleep, but I’ve no doubt they’ve got nullwards set here and there.”

Piskel swam into view, pointing toward the garden and grinning. He was obviously proud of himself. He took the crumbs Syrus offered him with a tiny bow.

Bayne was deciding between two coils of rope as Syrus dusted his hands on his trousers. He already had a pistol and sword. “What does one take to a prison break? I’ve rope, weapons, and . . . these.” He held up rusty bolt cutters almost sheepishly. “Will we need these to cut chains?”

Piskel giggled between his fingers.

“We’ll probably need a neverkey or some other kind of nulling device,” Syrus said. “Hopefully, Vespa can help us with anything more than that once we free her.”

Bayne nodded and patted a pack next to the trunk. “I have those already.” He decided on the rope and threw it in.

“And a few pebbles in case there are illusion mines.”

“Illusion mines?” Bayne swallowed.

“Yes. The Lowtown Refinery has them. I don’t see why the Imperial Refinery wouldn’t,” Syrus said.

“We’ll get pebbles in the garden.”

“Then, let’s go,” Syrus said.

Bayne blew out the candle and led the way out of the room and onto the landing. Piskel ducked up Syrus’s sleeve so as not to give them away with his light. One creaking step at a time they went down the stairs. Syrus saw shadows of palms at the corner of the staircase. The handrail was satiny-smooth under his fingers.

They sneaked past an ancient grandfather clock and the cigar smoke–laced doorway of what must have been Bayne’s father’s study. At last, they were through the kitchens and Bayne was letting them out into the garden.

Syrus scooped up some gravel as they went. Piskel crawled out from under his sleeve and led them down through the boxwood border toward the thorn-tangled slope of the Hill.

The sylph disappeared among the wicked spines for a few minutes. When he emerged, he motioned them forward.

Bayne used his sword to hack through the thorns, but it was rather ineffective and Bayne muttered about dulling the blade.

When the vague outline of a door was visible, Piskel pointed them toward the keyhole.

“Let us pray this isn’t warded such that the Empress knows when her fortress has been breached,” Bayne said, as he slid the neverkey inside.

The door swung open with the faint scent of the Refinery and ordure. They stepped into the tunnel, and the door scraped shut of its own accord. They listened to the sound echo down the corridor for a long while. Bayne waited to kindle the magic flame in his palm until they were well inside and nothing seemed to have been alerted to their presence.

Syrus tried tossing a pebble down the long expanse, but it triggered no mines. He sighed in relief.

The tunnel wound around until it came to an odd, corkscrewlike chamber. They had to step over delicate stone sills and around edges of stone that reminded Syrus of a giant snail shell. They were about to step through to the other side when they heard something that was not the drip of water or the crunch of their own feet on stone. It sounded like coins dropping. Or armored feet trying unsuccessfully to creep toward them.

Syrus eyed Bayne’s sword. It was the obvious choice. If the pistol was fired now, it could bring the entire fortress down on them. They needed more time. “You do know how to use that thing, right?” he whispered, even as he remembered the day at Rackham’s when Bayne had fought off the rookery leaders.

Bayne snorted at him. “Of course.” He unsheathed it slowly and blew the flame up into the air so that it danced above them. Bayne pinned Syrus with his gaze. “Stay here,” he said.

Bayne slid around the odd folds of rock.

“Halt! You will come with me to the Empress,” the Guard croaked.

Syrus poked his head around in time to see Bayne engage the Guard’s pike. He feinted toward the wall, forcing the Guard to swing at him. Syrus watched in admiration as Bayne ducked the Guard’s next cut; the force of the blow stuck the pike straight in the wall. Bayne spun close enough that the Guard had to release the pike or else be rendered nearly defenseless.

Bayne rained blows around the Guard’s head and shoulders, but they bounced off with green sparks. Obviously, the Guard was protected by some kind of field. Syrus didn’t know how long it would take to break through, or if the Guard would soon call his fellows to help deal with this troublesome human.

And then the Guard clapped his hands on the sword blade.

Bayne twisted this way and that, unable to swing the sword free of the Guard’s grasp. They struggled like that for several seconds until Syrus heard a fatal ringing snap. Bayne tried punching at the Guard’s shielded face, but got sizzling knuckles for his pains.

Bayne came away with the hilt. He cast it aside and, before the Guard could grab him, dropped and swept his armored legs out from under him. Overbalanced, the Guard fell heavily to the floor.

Syrus watched in amazement. He’d only ever seen some of his Tinker uncles fight like this hand-to-hand. Where had a spoiled lordling learned such tactics?

Then, all other resources exhausted, Bayne took the already loaded pistol out of his belt, cocked the hammer, and fired.

The explosion thundered down the tunnel with a burst of feathers.

“Should have done that to begin with,” Bayne said. He removed the cap from his powder bag with his teeth and reloaded the pistol with powder, patch, and another silver ball. “Best hurry now. They know we’re coming.”

Syrus followed him.

Bayne tore the Guard’s pike from the wall with a grunt. He kicked the useless sword blade aside. “That was my favorite sword, too,” he muttered.

“Why didn’t you make a sword of magic like you did at Rackham’s?” Syrus asked.

“I’m trying to save as much magic as I can until we reach the main chamber,” Bayne said. “Pity that we no longer have the element of surprise as our ally. Come on.”

They raced down the tunnel, trying to get out of it before more Guards came. All they could do now was move forward.

Bayne reached out to stop Syrus before they ran out into empty space. They were on a narrow landing. A metal catwalk to the left went down toward the Refinery floor. Syrus looked out over the cages and swallowed. To see so many Elementals held captive, to imagine so many spaces in the world devoid of life because of their absence—it was almost too much to contemplate.

Beyond the cages sat a strange throne on a raised dais, but there was no sign of the Empress or any other human. Where was Vespa? Syrus wondered. Only one way to find out.

The sound of feet coming up the metal stairs severed his thoughts. Syrus drew out his pipe.

The first few guards—regular humans, rather than Raven Guards—fell to his fairy darts.

Bayne looked back at him. “Why didn’t you just do that in the tunnel?” he asked.

Syrus shrugged. “You told me to stay back!”

Bayne glared at him. “If you have that much skill with a weapon like that, don’t listen!”

Syrus blushed.

Bayne turned to the next wave of guards and pushed them down the stairs with his pike. Fortunately, none of these had guns, nor much skill at fighting, either, when it came to all that. Syrus supposed that the place was so charged with magic that a gun might not even fire properly in here. He just hoped Bayne’s wouldn’t suddenly go off and take off a foot or bit of his leg.

Syrus leaped into the fray with his dagger, trying not to remember his cousin Raine taken down by his own hand. Piskel also bit and confounded and rained curses down on the guards.

When at last they made the ground floor, the Elementals in the cages were going wild. Singing, screaming, hooting, chanting—all begging for one thing in a myriad of voices . . . Free us . . . Free us!

Bayne looked around wildly as a lull came in the fight. He had a gash on his forehead where a thrown dagger had nicked him. Hordes of wraiths and guards—human and Raven—poured down the stairs after them.

Syrus hardened his heart against the wraiths. They might have once been his people, but the most important thing now was to find Vespa.

“Piskel, where’s Vespa?” Syrus yelled.

He and Bayne raced down the aisles of cages and things reached through the bars, crying out in pain. In the great, cloudy aquaria, water Elementals beat the glass with suckered arms and brilliantly scaled tails.

Piskel fluttered and floated, trying to get answers from his brethren above the din. At last, he came back shaking his head.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Bayne asked. “What have they done with her?”

A nearby dryad clutched at Syrus with twiggy fingers. “Do you seek the witch?” she asked. Her voice was the murmur of dry leaves. “They’ve already taken her down to the Museum for the Grand Experiment. That’s why there are so few guards. The Empress has gone down with them for the viewing.”

“So few?” Syrus laughed hollowly.

The dryad’s green eyes pierced Syrus as perfectly as one of his fairy poison darts. “Let us out and we will help you free her. The control panels are over there by the throne. Just take all the fields down. Hurry!”

Syrus and Bayne nodded. So much magic in one place made Syrus’s skin curdle. He was afraid at any moment he might find himself changing and be unable to stop. He gritted his teeth and raced across the floor toward the strange throne.

A Guard led wraiths to meet them. “Go!” Bayne yelled, lifting the heavy pike. Syrus pushed himself past them, diving for the control panel beneath the Raven Guard’s swinging ax. He had one last dart left. He’d try to hold off using it as long as he could.

He stood in front of the control panel, as the Guard loomed behind him. He tried pulling levers and turning dials, but beyond some hissing sighs in the tangle of hoses above him, he heard nothing.

Except for the swinging hiss of the ax.

He dodged just in time, and it came crashing down on the control panel right where he’d stood.

Then he heard the flicker and murmur, the stuttering sound of paralytic fields dissipating. The nevered cages sparked and steamed, and then the bars dissolved entirely.

A Thunderbird rose toward the dark ceiling and when it shook its wings, lightning flashed and echoed around the entire chamber. A Giant uncurled from his cramped confinement and stretched high above; his shadow drowning everything in the flashes of lightning.

Syrus yelled triumphantly. But there was still the Guard to deal with. He brought his ax up again and swung. Syrus just barely jumped high enough to miss being severed in two. Piskel fluttered around the Guard’s eyes, trying desperately to distract him.

And then the Giant lifted his foot. There was a gust of wind, and the Guard disappeared in a puddle of metal and feathers under huge, cracked toenails.

Syrus fell back, sure the Giant would crush him, too, but the Giant seemed as uninterested in him as he would have been in a mayfly. With a great roar, he smashed both fists down on the throne, sending sparks and smoke flying. The concussion knocked Syrus head-over-teakettle toward the cages, from which Elementals of every kind and description were pouring in a golden tide across the shaking stones.

“Syrus! Syrus!” Bayne called to him through the smoke.

Bayne lifted him from the floor. “Come on, let’s help them get out.”

“But . . . my people . . . they’re trapped somewhere in here too. We must help them!”

Pain convulsed Bayne’s face. “I know they are, Syrus, but look there—” He pointed up the stairs. Refiners, wraiths, and more Guards were pouring in, some of them toting thunderbusses whose humming charge carried under the sounds of the melee. “If we go that way, deeper into the Refinery, we and all the Elementals are doomed.”

“But . . .” Syrus reached toward the Guard-infested tunnel. He pushed away from Bayne, tottering toward the wave of onrushing guards.

“Syrus!” Bayne yelled. Before the boy knew what was happening, he was upside down over the Architect’s shoulder. Bayne raised a hand and sent a current of magic behind them, creating a great, glowing wall that nearly blinded Syrus with its light.

Then he saw a low, roofed tunnel and the Giant, stooping so he was almost crawling as he led them through it.

Bayne carried Syrus down the tunnel in a flood of Unicorns and Amphiteres, bugbears and dryads. A Kraken thundered by them at one point, desperate to get to the River. The Giant punched a hole into the living rock. The roof shuddered overhead as if in pain.

Soon enough, the winter sun shone on Syrus’s face, but all he could do was reach back toward the dark tunnel, reaching for the people he knew were still imprisoned there, even as the Elementals rejoiced in their freedom all around him.