Tiffany Trent: The Unnaturalists

“Headwoman Reed!” he called.

Granny peered at him, taking the pipe out of her mouth and holding it in a gnarled hand.

The runner skidded to a stop next to Syrus, and the boy was glad that all the music box parts were on his other side. The pieces would have been scattered beyond recall otherwise.

“There’s a fine carriage on the old Forest Road,” he said. “Gen thought you’d want to know.”

Granny smiled. “He’s right.”

“They’re carrying a box of the Waste.”

Immediately, everyone of the Reed clan was at attention. Syrus’s cousins Raine and Amalthea came from around the train car, their sleeves and patched aprons sopping from doing laundry.

“What?” Granny said. All the joy was gone from her face.

“Gen’s group saw them collect it. The fools are actually taking it into the City with them.”

“I don’t know whether to let them take it inside or make them put it back where they found it,” Granny said. Murmurs rose among the clans—who would be stupid enough to try to carry a box full of the Waste around? Especially when everyone knew of its destructive power? Only the Cityfolk.

“Come along,” Granny said at last. “Raine and Syrus, bring whatever supplies we might need. Amalthea, you stay with the baby.”

To the runner she said, “Send someone back to Gen to tell him we’ll be there directly. Rest yourself here by the fire.”

She clamped the pipe back between her teeth and waited, her eyes glimmering with impatience. Syrus rolled up the music box parts in the cloth and shoved them at Truffler. “Guess we’ll worry with this later.”

The hob nodded.

Then he leaped up the rungs of the passenger car ladder to gather his things.

As the Reed clan tromped through the Forest toward the old Euclidean road, Syrus hummed a song of hopeful victory—of bulging pouches and chests full of jewels, of rich foods and warm coats. Not that the Tinkers would keep such things for themselves. But they would bring excellent prices in the market and hexshops of Lowtown, which would allow for necessities they’d been unable to afford in this lean year. It had been a long while since anyone had been foolish enough to travel along the old road, much less carrying a box of the Waste. He hoped what the runner had said wasn’t true. It had to be impossible—what box was strong enough to hold the Waste, much less keep it contained?

Syrus thought about Granny’s story as they marched, especially the lesson within the lesson. Sometimes the best attack is no attack at all. She was telling him to think differently about the City, about the problems between Tinkers and Cityfolk, but how? The Tinkers supplied the Cityfolk with workers, with knowledge of old-fangled machinery. The Cityfolk barely tolerated the Tinkers in their derelict trainyard, keeping them close only because they were useful. Syrus had often wondered why his people didn’t just leave. Even if they couldn’t return to their old home, they could at least move somewhere else. He had asked Granny that repeatedly a few years ago until he’d seen the Manticore for the first time.

And then he’d understood.

The Forest touched him gently with fiery, dreaming fingers. The rest of the year, the tree faces were obscured by leaves, but through the falling golds and scarlets, he saw the sleepy faces of a dryad or two curled behind the bark. A few fairies peeped out at him as he passed, but there were not as many as there had once been, so Granny said. Through the Forest came a humming heartbeat—the Manticore. Her life was bound to this Forest; she was the source of all that dreamed through the winter and woke to blossom in the summer. Without her, the Creeping Waste would swallow this place whole.

She was why the Tinkers stayed. Why they continued to observe the old rituals and forms despite what the Cityfolk did and said. The Tinkers were the Manticore’s and the Forest’s last defense. They stayed as a diversion and prayed that they would never have to fight openly ever again. They had done so once and lost horribly, Syrus knew. That early war with the First Emperor was when the Culls had started. And they had continued off and on up until Syrus’s childhood. There hadn’t been one since then, and Syrus hoped there would never be another one.

Uncle Gen signaled up ahead for the rest of the line to quietly fan out and take positions. Voices along the road filtered through the trees. Syrus crept up through the dried leaves and ferns without a sound. Truffler squatted next to him. Syrus was wishing there had been time for stew when the carriage came around the bend.

Then his uncle gave the signal to move forward, but the line of Tinkers stopped almost as soon as they’d begun.

Syrus watched as an old highwayman and two rotten-toothed accomplices stepped out from the opposite side of the road, halting the carriage in its tracks.

Uncle Gen humph ed and leaned on his bow.

Granny chewed on her pipe, then said softly, “Well. Ain’t this interesting?”

Every bump and rattle of the carriage makes me grit my teeth. Considering that such things are the natural order of most carriage rides, my jaws begin to ache.

I’m annoyed that I fell asleep. It appears I’ve missed everything—the onion domes of the Night Emporium spanning the bridge over the River Vaunting, the glimpses of the Empress’s Tower with its ever-circling ravens, even the seedy yet strangely alluring rag-and-bones shops of Lowtown.

“Where are we going, Father?”

I still feel groggy. Almost as if someone drugged me.

Then again, falling through a field of that magnitude could also be the reason my limbs still feel stuffed with bricks. And the reason why I pretty much fainted once Father dragged me into the carriage. I scrub at my cheek; my skin is imprinted with the pattern of the carriage upholstery.

“I would reckon,” Father says, “you mean where have we been? We’re returning to the Museum now. And home, for you.”

I don’t follow. “What?” I stare at the box at my feet, wondering what’s inside, why it’s so strongly nevered that my toes tingle.

The Wad chuckles at my consternation. “You needn’t worry, Miss Nyx. It isn’t as if there’s a bomb in there that will go off at the slightest provocation.”

I repress the urge to make rude faces at him.

Father smiles sidelong at me. He’s obviously quite proud of himself. He wraps my hand in his. “All I’ll say is that we’ve been on a mission of vast importance. All will be revealed when the time is right, you’ll see.”

It’s utterly unfair that I missed everything. Before Charles came along a few months ago, I was Father’s assistant. I helped him with all his important work. Now I’ve been shoved aside, relegated to the Cataloguing Chamber. Though I do love my work, the knowledge that I’ve been replaced—and especially replaced by The Wad—still stings. What does Father see in him? Is it just that he’s male? I am determined to prove that I can be a Pedant too, but . . .

“But, Father . . .” I begin.

His gaze, so warm a moment ago, freezes me now.

“What we carry is of the most secret and delicate nature, Miss Nyx,” Charles says as if he’s speaking to a petulant child. “Your father is showing you a kindness by not involving you inasmuch as he is able.”

I say nothing. Instead, I finger the curtain, wanting to raise it and see where we are.

Father tightens his grip on my hand. “No one must see us,” he says.

I look at him, trying to gauge his response. His demeanor worries me. This is a man I’ve never seen.

His face softens a little as if he senses my concern.

“I wouldn’t have brought you except that I feared you might be ill after your encounter. I couldn’t very well send you home by yourself nor leave you. I’m trusting you to keep silent about this. One day you will be able to tell stories about how you rode with us on this august day!”