The Unnaturalists (20 page)

Voices rose in the next room.

Syrus crept closer, pleased that he barely limped now. He supposed if he was Cityfolk, he’d be leaving offerings at Saint Pasteur’s chapel.

A man’s voice—not the Architect, someone much older—was saying, “Bayne, you will do your duty or suffer the consequences.”

Bayne?
Syrus thought. Hadn’t the witch called him Hal after the rumble in Lowtown? Who was he?

“You have another son.”

A woman’s high-pitched, incredulous laughter. “But he is not the eldest. You are our heir—”

“But you have another son!” The Architect’s shout made him sound like he wasn’t much older than Syrus. He was so much younger than the Tinker had thought when they’d first met. How could an Architect be so young? He must have worn a glamour that night they’d saved the Harpy.

And now here he was arguing with his parents like some spoiled lordling. Which in fact was exactly what it sounded like he must be. What did they want him to do? Syrus wished he could send Truffler through the door so he could listen and report back, even if his words were halting.

The voices rose and fell and then the man spoke a final declaration. “Enough. The offers are in my study. You will select the two
best candidates, or you will leave this house forever. You have put us in bad enough straits with your behavior as it is, Bayne. Someone of your station masquerading as a Pedant! It’s despicable and childish. Why in the name of Saint Newton would you do such a thing?”

The Architect grumbled something Syrus couldn’t catch.

“You owe us this much,” his mother said. “I know you will do your duty.”

Silence stretched. Syrus leaned in as far as he could, trying to hear.

He nearly fell into the floor when the door was pulled open. “S-s-s-sorry, my lord,” Syrus stammered.

The Architect shook his head. “If you must call me anything, call me Bayne.”

“But I thought—”

“Hal Lumin was my identity at the Museum while I investigated certain matters of interest to my brethren. But Bayne is my true name. I entrust this to you now that you may know I am worthy of trust.”

And because I’ve already heard it anyway,
Syrus thought. The boy nodded.

“I suppose you heard every word.”

“Well . . .”

The Architect raised a brow.

Syrus peeked out into the bedchamber beyond. He glimpsed vaulting ceilings, a monstrous carved bed with a sugar-mountain of white coverlets and pillows before Bayne snapped the door shut.

“Whatever you may have heard, you can’t imagine the full truth of it,” the Architect said.

“Let me guess. Spoiled lordling gets bored and decides to slum it, but his parents catch him at it and try to force him into marriage, dashing all his low-class fun. That about the long and short of it?” Syrus asked.

Bayne scowled. “Only part of it.”

“Which part?”

“The last bit. Minus the low-class fun,” Bayne said.

“So, who’s the lucky girl?” Syrus asked.

The Architect paced over to the window, twitching back the curtain and looking out. “I don’t know yet.”

“Why not shack up with the witch? You being two birds of a feather and all.”

“You can’t possibly understand what you’re suggesting,” Bayne said. “It would be too dangerous for her and me, especially now that my parents have discovered at least part of my secret.”

“But—”

“Enough. It cannot be. They would not look favorably upon her, especially since I met her at the Museum where I was . . . slumming, as you put it. The only way to preserve my involvement with the Architects is to do what my parents say. The secret of my magic must remain hidden at all costs.”

He locked eyes with the boy. Syrus nodded in agreement, hoping that would lessen the intensity of the Architect’s regard.

The tension passed as Bayne’s gaze dropped to Syrus’s foot. “How is your wound?”

“It’ll do,” Syrus said. “I won’t be dancing any jigs at the gin palace tonight, but it’ll do.”

Bayne chuckled. “Is that something you normally do?”

“Oh, every now and then.”

Bayne gestured to the settee nearest the fire. “Let me see.”

The boy obeyed. Curious as he was, he didn’t want to rouse the man’s ire any further. He’d seen what Bayne had done to that Refiner back when they freed the Harpy.

Despite the tautness in his shoulders, Bayne unwrapped Syrus’s bindings gently enough. “I’m no physick, but I believe you’re healed, boy. Have you noticed anything else odd?”

Syrus cocked his head.

“Any odd sensations? Or . . . ?”

“Am I wanting to bay at the moon and gnaw on babies’ legbones, you mean?”

Bayne frowned. He rewrapped the bandage in silence.

“No,” Syrus said. “I’m really fine. No need to take me out behind the train and make me a head shorter.” He tried not to think of his cousin as she’d slumped against the iron railing in the Refinery, trying to breathe with her punctured lung. But her image hung there behind his eyes. It might be there forever.

“I wasn’t suggesting . . .” the Architect began.

Syrus forced himself to smile. A small smile tugged at Bayne’s lips when he realized Syrus was joking.

Bayne sat back on his heels, the buckles on his shoes shining in the firelight. The air was close and still, except for the fire’s murmur. “I’ve been thinking on what you saw. And I believe that we should alert my brethren regarding it.”

Syrus nodded. He hoped that Bayne and the Architects would help him break into the Lowtown Refinery again and free his people. Maybe they’d even convince the witch to help before they took her to the Manticore.

“And what about the witch?”

Bayne froze. For a moment, naked despair clouded his eyes until he closed them. “She will soon be at Virulen,” he said, standing and putting his back to Syrus. “We can find her there and persuade her to go to the Manticore after we meet with the Architects.”

There seemed to be no brooking his argument. He was resolute.

“All right,” Syrus said, despite a gnawing sense of misgiving. The Manticore had said he must bring a witch to free both the Elementals and his own people. But he had grown tired of waiting and hoping that the witch would comply.

Bayne must have seen his unease, for he returned from the fire and laid a hand on Syrus’s shoulder. “I understand your impatience. We’ll go tonight. It’ll be dangerous and difficult because of . . . certain matters, but never you mind. I’ll sort all that out. Just rest and be ready.”

“All right,” Syrus said. He would give the Architect this one chance, but if all went awry, Bayne’s key would be in his pocket before dawn.

Syrus had fallen asleep waiting, but when the door clicked he was wide awake. The fire had burned into embers and the book Syrus had been idling through for days—maps of Old London—had slid to the floor.

Bayne slipped into the room, holding a candle rather than the everlantern most Cityfolk would have used. “Come,” he whispered.

Syrus followed past the hulking bed and a massive wardrobe that threatened to trip him in the dark.

“They’ve nevered the door against my leaving, but not against a skilled lockpick.” Bayne’s smile was ghoulish in the flickering candlelight. He handed Syrus the tools of his trade.

The boy rolled his eyes and bent to the task, hoping it wouldn’t be like the Harpy’s cage. His wrists still smarted just thinking of those little iron hands grasping them.

As the tumblers turned, there was a spark and a fizz. One jolt whizzed into Syrus’s thumb. He shook his hand, cursing.

Bayne watched him expectantly. “Once the lock is sprung, I can disable the rest.” Syrus sighed and turned back to the work.

At last, the door opened. Bayne whispered something and Syrus saw a faint web stretched between the doorposts dissolve into glimmering nothingness.

The house was vast and echoing; Syrus felt swallowed by it. They crept through everlit halls hung with dour portraits and mounts of things both Elemental and not. Down a curving, creaking staircase, back along another hall, through the silent kitchen with its spit-boy snoring by the hearth, and to yet another door Syrus was forced to pick open. Then along a cobbled corridor, through a garden and a courtyard to an iron side gate that sizzled with warding magic.

“A moment,” Bayne said. He stretched his palms toward the gate. Then he paused, looking over at Syrus. “Can you run if required?” he asked, glancing down at Syrus’s foot.

Syrus nodded, grinning.

The next thing he knew, Bayne seized him by the sleeve and
pulled
him. One moment, they were on one side of the fence, the next they were on the other, running madly through the deserted Uptown street while a banshee alarm wailed behind them. The Empress’s Tower reared so very close on its hill that Syrus thought he could almost see faces looking out at him from the windows. The Imperial Refinery coughed green smoke just beyond it.

“Couldn’t avoid that one, I’m afraid!” Bayne shouted. He grabbed the boy’s sleeve again and yanked him through space and darkness and wailing alarms to stand before the maw of a cave on the River Vaunting.

Syrus put his hands to his head to stop everything from spinning. “Think you could warn me first?” he gasped.

Bayne chuckled. “That was a bit rough. The danger and suddenness and all that. Didn’t have much time to prepare.”

“Why couldn’t we have just done that from your room to here like we did the other night?” Syrus asked. His temples throbbed.

“A little more difficult getting out than getting in. And the summoning stones . . . well . . . their magic is older and more refined than what little we’ve managed to learn in these dark days. The stone draws me to it; I can’t help but go to it. But on my own, without a witch. . .
Pffffft
.” He gestured lamely and half-smiled.

“Without a witch? She makes you stronger?” Syrus asked.

“Indeed,” Bayne said. “Which is why we’ve been hoping one would arise for so very long. Without her, we’re rather like a hive of drones without a queen bee. Everything depends on her.”

Syrus nodded, though he wasn’t exactly sure about all this talk of drones and bees and whatnot. Sounded like something
Nainai
would’ve understood much better than he did.

“But don’t tell her I said so,” Bayne added suddenly. “Wouldn’t want her to get a swelled head.”

“I think you’re too late to prevent that,” Syrus said.

Bayne chuckled. “She’s a saucy thing, is she not?”

“Minxish is more what I’d say,” Syrus muttered. He glanced at the Architect. Shadows hid most of his face, but the City lights from far above tricked out a glimmer of something that chased the
amusement from his expression. That hardness, whatever it was, wherever it came from, returned.

Bayne looked up at the wavering everlights of the Night Emporium and the phantasmagoric smoke of the Refineries. “We’d best get moving,” he said. “Getting back into my family’s house won’t be easy.”

The stench of the river mud and City offal slimed the back of Syrus’s throat. He coughed as they climbed over detritus and battered rock. He had been down on the shores of Lowtown, where the mudlarks scavenged the refuse caught in the river bend. But he’d never been this far—never had he imagined anything like this existed within the walls of New London. Crumbling columns and pediments carved with weathered faces loomed over them. Even higher, armless dancers, faceless gods, and curving tails of Elementals wormed through the cliff face.

“What is this place?” Syrus whispered.

“It was a city once, a temple of learning where men came in peace to treat with the Elementals. Now it’s a ruin. It’s also a convenient hiding place. No one comes here for fear of what may lurk, even though the Museum up above is built on the old city’s bones,” Bayne said.

The Architect opened his palm and a light sprang into it, a pure, living flame, so very different than the sickly green everlanterns all the Cityfolk used. Syrus followed him under the shattered eaves and through the labyrinth of fallen ceilings and vanished doors, while the river’s muttering echoed in the cavern ceiling overhead. Things looked at him out of the shadows—little nyxes or water sprites or other things he couldn’t guess in the darkness. Syrus missed Truffler fiercely and wondered if he would ever see the hob again.