Tiffany Trent: The Unnaturalists

“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?”