The Unnaturalists

CHAPTER 4

As the carriage departed, Syrus’s clan gathered round to see his haul. They exclaimed over the coins and his cousin Raine announced proudly that this was dowry enough for her to marry her sweetheart for certain.

Syrus laughed. “Who said I was giving any of it to you?”

Raine slapped him on the head and stomped away, pouting.

Rubbing his crown, Syrus gave everything over to Granny Reed, as she would distribute the wealth among her clan as she saw fit. Granny touched the toad with her forefinger and frowned at her grandson. “You shouldn’t have taken that, boy,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked. “Bring a good price in the hexshops, I’ll bet.”

“We don’t deal in this sort of thing no more. Best get rid of it quick,” she said. “It’ll bring bad trouble, if you don’t.”

“What do you mean, Nainai?” Syrus asked.

Granny smiled at him, her wooden dentures almost invisible in the dark. “You get to Gather tonight, for starters,” she said. Gathering Night came before Market Day. Some unlucky soul was chosen to gather whatever he could find of value in the Forest to take to the City markets the next day.

Syrus’s shoulders slumped, but he knew better than to complain out loud. He’d really hoped to be rewarded for bringing in such loot—getting to sleep a full night closest to the potbelly stove, for instance. Instead, he’d now be up until the wee hours, digging in the cold forest loam for night-blooming phosphors, midnight morels, whatever he could find that the Tinkers could sell.

While it was true that he was one of the best Gatherers, it certainly wasn’t something he enjoyed doing in the cold.

Granny rounded up everyone else, including the still-pouting Raine. They said quiet farewells before they disappeared back down the road toward the trainyard. Tonight, he knew there’d be roasted apples and dancing. Granny would probably tell one of her clan stories by the light of the stove as everyone bedded down for sleep. A story of the World Before or how the Manticore stole the Emperor’s Heart or . . . maybe even the story of how Granny had found him floating in the river, which Syrus thought was the best story of all. He kicked at a white pebble and sent it skittering off into the dark.

Then he sighed. Best get started. Perhaps if he hurried he could get back early.

He sang a soft calling song in the old language and soon Truffler appeared. The hob’s nose was the real reason Syrus was such a good Gatherer. He could sniff out the best mushrooms from miles away.

Syrus trudged along, complaining to himself about the dew-dampness, the necessity of wandering mostly in the dark, the possible things that might eat him without anyone knowing what had happened to him. “When you’re wailing ’cause I’m nowhere to be found,” he grumbled to his absent Granny, “then you’ll change your tune about sending me off at night.”

Truffler turned and made a hissing noise to silence him. The hairy little hob alternately walked or crawled over the ground, his giant nostrils flaring like a bellows. Sometimes he resembled a dog or pig, but was never clearly one thing or the other. Often, though, the outline of his big nose was all Syrus could see of him in the dark.

Truffler turned and pointed at the dirt. Syrus dug in with his rusty trowel and thrust the morels Truffler had discovered into his sack, except for a few which he gave to the hob as payment for his work. Syrus also always made sure to leave behind a bit of whatever it was he took. Greed didn’t pay the Gatherer, so Granny said.

The mid-autumn chill stiffened his fingers as they worked their way to the river’s edge. Virulen Forest snaked in a long tentacle between the wreck of Tinkerville, where Syrus and his people lived in the ancient trainyard, and the River Vaunting that slid from under the Western Wall of New London. Beyond the Wall, the City Refinery coughed out streamers of phlegm-colored smoke, and the river that rolled past it was slick and shiny as snot. Syrus never swam here, but it was narrow enough that it would have been easy to cross had it not been so very swift and deep.

Something caught Truffler’s attention on the other bank. “Bad. Things,” he said in his halting, gritty voice. The hob crept back toward the trees.

“Wait,” Syrus said.

Truffler stopped, crouching in the cattails at water’s edge and clapping his hands over his ears.

Syrus heard the song before he saw the singer. A prison carriage bearing a Harpy between iron bars and drawn by iron horses rattled toward a gate in the wall. Like most things from New London, the horses were powered by myth, the mysterious dust that provided the city with heat and light, among other things. The Cityfolk claimed there were mythmines far to the north in the Myth Mountains from which the dust took its name. Raw myth was brought to the Refineries, which then distributed power via steam conduits or delivered blocks of refined myth throughout the city.

Or so they said. Granny Reed said that the story of myth itself was a myth. That somehow the Cityfolk captured the souls of Elementals and bound them to their iron or ground them into dust to power their infernal machines. Syrus couldn’t believe anyone could be so cruel, so blatantly unaware of the sacredness of all life, especially that of the Elementals. And yet he knew that the City Lords still occasionally hunted and ate what Elementals they caught. He knew there were places where Elementals were held as curiosities for the Cityfolk to look upon, as though they were lower than beasts.

The Elementals his people served could be dangerous—the Manticore who ruled this Forest was a case in point—but they were the lifeblood of the land. And if you knew the proper forms for dealing with them, there generally were no problems. His people had been visiting here for as far back as they could recall; the Elementals referred to them, in fact, as the Guest People. It was only when the City suddenly appeared by the river, slamming shut the doors between this and the World Before, that the real troubles began.

Syrus still couldn’t believe what Granny said was true, though. How could the Cityfolk treat the Elementals as if they were little more than livestock? Why did the Elementals allow it? Surely they could defend themselves if they truly wished.

And yet the mythwork horses drew the Harpy onward, their eyes pulsing with mythlight.

At first, he saw only the Harpy’s talons gleaming as they reached through the bars of her cage. They gripped and retracted; the bars must be nevered to counteract her magic. But the bars couldn’t stop the Harpy from singing. Her voice fell through the night, a descant of loss and abandonment intertwined with the whisper of river reeds. She told of the lonely mountain crags where she and her kind soared. Of sunlight on dark wings, of snow falling between her talons and the ground. Of flight and freedom and the eternity of wind across the peaks.

And then Syrus understood why mythwork horses drew the carriage. Real horses would have been driven mad by the Harpy’s song. It took every ounce of his strength to stand still. The clear rapture of her voice pierced him to the core. Her song confirmed what the Manticore had told his people long ago. When the Greater Elementals were killed, the land and all the creatures they had once protected would be consumed by the Creeping Waste.

Syrus knew what had to be done. The Harpy must be freed.

Syrus moved toward the river. A long, hairy arm grabbed the edge of his patched coat. The boy looked down and saw Truffler trying to cover both his ears with his free arm. The hob shook his head.

The door in the wall opened. A crowd of sexless people in hooded cloaks and goggles emerged, escorted by floating everlights. They were Refiners, the engineers who kept the City Refinery running day and night. A strange machine rolled out with them, its black dome mounted over a nest of hoses and wiring. They also carried thunderbusses—long guns that shot a blast of energy at any Elemental—or human, for that matter—who defied them.

All of this should have frightened Syrus enough to send him skittering back to Tinkerville, but the Harpy’s song sheared him to the bone. Somehow he had to get her free before anything happened to her.

“No. No,” Truffler said, grasping at his coat. The hob hated water with a passion and he groaned as Syrus stepped into the river. Then the hob’s hairy weight nearly pushed Syrus under as the creature clutched him around the crown of his head, trying to keep from getting wet. The River Vaunting was freezing and swift, and it occurred to Syrus only now that perhaps something might be living here, another Elemental that would happily suck him down to the bottom and devour him.

Luckily, there was nothing but the current to fight against. He pushed hard until he managed the other side without drowning or dunking the terrified hob. When Syrus emerged, he was covered with the gooey, cold sludge that rode the rapids. He gasped at the awful smell—like burned bone.

Truffler made soft clucking noises and shook his head as Syrus crept toward the cage.

“Foolish. Foolish,” he whispered.

Syrus was close enough that he could see the Harpy’s sad eyes through the cage. She had the feathered feet, body, and wings of a giant owl, but the head and shoulders of a beautiful woman with straggling, dark hair. Power radiated from her in waves so strong it lifted his hair off his neck. He had never been so close to an Elder Elemental—serving the Manticore had always meant that his people kept a respectful distance from her den.

The Harpy watched him. Her song trickled to a melodious, insistent hum.

The time was now, but Syrus wasn’t sure what to do. The Harpy might very well eat him when she was free. She might scoop him up with her talons and carry him off to her mountains, break his body on the crags, and pick his bones. He didn’t care, though, and not just because she’d enspelled him with her song. The world would be sadder and smaller without her. What was his life compared to that?

Pick the lock, the Harpy hummed.

Truffler put his hairy hands over his eyes and peered between his fingers.

The cage was between Syrus and the group of Refiners, and he was able to sneak close to it without being seen. He could feel the dark magic infusing the bars and the lock. He had half-hoped he could sing a charm of opening, but if the Harpy couldn’t open it, he knew he couldn’t. He’d have to do things the old-fashioned way. He didn’t have his lockpicking tools with him, but he drew a thin, sharp bone out of his sleeve, which had a number of potential uses. His hair fell in his eyes and he pushed it away with fingers clammy with green Refinery-slime.

Hurry, the Harpy sighed, her mournful eyes trained on the approaching Refiners.

Syrus shrugged off Truffler’s imploring fingers. It was going to be difficult with just one bone. And since the lock was nevered . . .

Syrus heard shouting over the Harpy’s humming. The iron horses stood still, the mythlight in their eyes dimmed to pale flickers.

He crept under the cage and peered around one of the spoked wheels.

Mist uncoiled from the trees and slithered toward the Refiners. It grew into a swaying snake of darkness and the Refiners fell back before it, raising their thunderbusses.

Syrus clutched at Truffler as the snake split into five people hooded in shadow. The Harpy hummed to herself above them.

“Architects,” Syrus hissed. The Architects of Athena were an ancient fraternity devoted to the destruction of the Imperial order ever since the execution of their founder, Princess Athena. He’d never seen them before; wild stories were told of how they fought their enemies with dark magic. Certainly, the Empress blamed them whenever something went wrong.

“Watch this,” Syrus said.

Truffler shook his head and squatted under the cage, covering his bald pate with his hairy arms again.

Free me, the Harpy sang above him. Her talons thrust through the bars and retracted quickly as the nevered poles sparked.

“Let the Harpy go,” one of the Architects said. His voice was a rich tenor that Syrus felt he would know anywhere if he heard it again. It sounded very Uptown, very posh. How did a man with such a recognizable voice keep himself disguised?

“You have no authority here, Architect,” a Refiner sneered.

“We don’t need any,” another Architect said.

While they quibbled, Syrus rose and started examining the lock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Lead Architect’s hands shape the air into a globe of swirling mist.

Syrus levered the thin end of the bone into the lock.

The Refiner’s thunderbuss ejected a gout of energy.

The Architect didn’t move. He lifted the globe, and it caught the energy until it blazed. Then he threw the light back in the Refiner’s face. Goggles burning blue, the Refiner fell to the ground.

The lock shuddered to life. Iron teeth splintered the improvised lock pick and tried to bite Syrus’s fingers, too. Tiny iron arms sprouted and seized his wrists. The Harpy’s dark eyes held his. Her serrated tongue rolled over three rows of teeth.

Syrus screamed.

Everyone turned.

Before he could blink, the Lead Architect was beside him. Syrus smelled strange things—mushrooms, crushed roses, tarnished silver.

“Foolish Tinker,” the warlock said. His voice wasn’t unkind. The Architect rubbed his hands together, energy crackling between his gloves. He touched the lock, wincing at the nevered iron, and the warlock sent a burst of energy through it that made Syrus’s teeth buzz and his eyes burn. His wrists were free, but the lock was also broken.

And the Harpy knew it.

Open the door, she sang. Come closer.

“Get underneath, boy!” the Architect shouted. He clapped his hands over Syrus’s ears and pulled him down off the cage.

He crowded in beside Syrus and nodded to Truffler, who was still hiding and moaning near the back wheel.

The Harpy threw herself against the door so hard that the carriage nearly tipped over. A rush of wings, a foul odor of carrion and feathers, and the Harpy’s talons hit the earth near Syrus’s hand.

He snatched his fingers back, wondering if they were really all still there.

A wild, gold-ringed eye peered at him.

Come with me, she sang, sweeter than songbirds.

Syrus couldn’t help noticing that she also drooled.

“Enough!” the Architect said. “You have your freedom, Harpy. Take it while you can!”

It wasn’t the proper form of address at all, Syrus knew. Not by a long shot. But he was so stunned that his stiff lips couldn’t make the words.

The Harpy bowed and lifted off, her owl-wings carrying her into the night.

The only sound now was their breathing and distant moans from injured Refiners. The other Architects had already vanished. Syrus shifted away from the warlock. The boy could just make out the edge of a bone-white mask under the man’s hood.

“Good thing she didn’t have arms,” Syrus said, to break the silence.

Truffler snorted.

“Indeed,” the Architect said.

Syrus felt the Architect’s gaze on him even if he couldn’t see it. “You were very foolish to attempt what you did. That Harpy would have polished you off as a midnight snack and thought nothing of it.”

Syrus began to protest, but the warlock stopped him. “But you were also very brave. We Architects are remarkably fond of this combination. Perhaps you might aid us every now and then in our work?”

Syrus didn’t know what to say. An Architect—one of the most powerful, devious, and wanted sorts in all the Empire—asking him to help them? What could he really do?

And then he thought about what Granny had said. Maybe this was the no-attack she was talking about. He nodded. Any road, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what would happen if he refused.

“Very good,” the Architect said. Syrus heard a slick smile in the Architect’s voice. Apparently, he’d been thinking the same thing. “We will let you know should the need arise.”

Syrus tried to keep his jaw from dropping. Truffler covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

“Well, then,” the Architect continued, watching the Refiners collect themselves and their broken machine. “You should be off before they take it into their heads to catch you.”

He pressed something round and flat into Syrus’s palm.

“Here is our token. If you have dire need of us, clasp it and whisper this spell: Et in Arcadia ego.”

“Et in—” Syrus began.

The Architect clapped a hand that smelled of lizard skin over Syrus’s mouth. “Not now, boy! Dire need! Dire!”

Syrus nodded and the Architect dropped his hand. “Dire need. Yessir.”

“Good. Now off you go. I’ll keep watch until you’re safely across the river.”

“Thank you, sir,” Syrus said.

But the Architect had already turned his back and was peering beyond the carriage wheels to make sure no one was creeping closer to them. He signaled that Syrus should make haste.

Syrus scuffled out from under the carriage, shivering in the chilly night air. Truffler leaped on his back and climbed astride his head as he waded into the river.

“Nainai will never believe this,” he muttered, as the icy water clutched at his waist.

Then again, he thought, she just might.