Tiffany Trent: The Unnaturalists

“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.

I dislike when other people work in my laboratory, particularly when that other person happens to be Charles Waddingly. The Wad’s at the other bench now, puttering about, watching me like a hawk. Somehow, he’s convinced Father I need help cataloguing Pedant Simian’s latest collection, which the good Pedant brought to me because he knows I’m better than anyone at identifying the lesser sylphids. Since the incident with the Sphinx, I’m more than happy to occupy myself with this task, though I’d much prefer to be doing it alone.

I don’t need Charles to tell me how to do my work, but I’m quite certain that’s not what he’s here for anyway. He’s watching me to make sure I don’t go poking around, looking for the strongbox he and Father brought back to the Museum. It’s the only thing that could possibly lure me away from the lab, but Charles knows me less well than he thinks. I’m waiting for Father to relax, for the furor about the Sphinx to die down. I have time.

I try to ignore Charles by burying my nose in a catalog called the Ceylon Codex. The pictures are oddly drawn, brushstrokes rather than the usual illumination. There’s one that fascinates me—it looks like a bearded, horned Dragon. I try to decipher the characters next to it, odd shapes that no one can read. One of them reminds me of the characters inscribed on the bottom of my toad. The toad I no longer have.

I clench the book a little tighter and then remind myself I’ll get it back. Even if I have to sneak off to Tinkerville and rifle through every one of those rusting trains to get it.

I trace the edge of the Dragon’s scales with a fingertip. If only I could see an Unnatural like this in the wild. If I could have one wish, I’d be off in an airship tomorrow, mounting my own expedition. There are still so many Unnaturals we don’t yet understand. Yet the life of a Pedant is not mine to choose.

Unless I somehow take it.

For a moment, my fingers are still on the page. I no longer see the sylphid sprawled next to me, its tiny arms obscenely limp, but a feverishly green jungle filled with living Unnaturals. Perhaps I witness Wyverns in their mating dance, or see a Giant wading over distant hills. Perhaps I see this long-bodied, golden-horned Beast. Greenmen and dryads peer at me from their trees. The air is thick with sylphids floating around me like clouds of butterflies. . . .

Charles shouts. A golden fog buzzes in front of my face. I can barely focus before a sharp pain at the tip of my nose sets my eyes watering. Before I can swat it, something darts away, twittering madly.

“What did you do?” the Wad screeches. When he gets excited, his voice sounds more like a girl’s than mine does. I strip off my gloves, holding the end of my nose in my bare hand, dashing the tears out of my eyes with my other hand.

A flock of sylphids flits around madly. They try to escape through the skylight, tossing curses down at us that manifest as tiny darts.

It’s then I understand why Charles is so upset. He’s closest, and he’s hopping around, waving his arms around his head, literally on pins and needles.

I cover my mouth with my hand so he won’t see my grin.

“Don’t just stand there gawking! Get your father and a containment unit!” Charles yells, as he crawls under the bench for cover.

“But, Mr. Waddingly,” I say, mostly to prolong his obvious consternation, “could we not simply use that ladder and one of those butterfly nets to catch them? Perhaps then we could subdue them just enough for observation. . . .”

“What? And have them blind us with curses? You sound like a bloody Architect,” he says, almost spitting the name. “We don’t need to study them! Just get your father—he’ll know what to do! And see you don’t let them out the door, either!”