The Unnaturalists Read online

  Truffler shook his head. He was hairy all over except for his startlingly bald crown. He came only to about Syrus’s chest, so it was always hard for the boy not to think of him as an odd little child, even though he knew Truffler was older than anything he could imagine. Like most of the Lesser Elementals—trolls, kobolds, hobs—Truffler found mortal speech difficult and spoke in halting phrases.

  “Not our way,” Truffler said. “Peace.”

  “But the City doesn’t even belong there!” Syrus said. “It’s only there because of one Scientist’s big mistake!”

  Truffler looked at him down his big nose. “Peace,” he said stubbornly.

  Syrus knew it was disrespectful to argue, so he just shook his head and turned back to the music box. He reached for another tool, but Truffler anticipated his thoughts and handed him the tool kit and a bottle of turpentine.

  Granny emerged from the passenger car then, her worn shoes and faded skirts almost noiseless on the iron stairs. “I didn’t just hear ye arguing with Truffler, did I, boy?” Granny asked.

  Syrus kept his eyes lowered on his work as she bent near him, inspecting the stew.

  “No, Granny,” he said.

  “Because it’ll be lessoning time, if that’s the case.”

  Syrus glanced up at her. Her dark eyes twinkled above weathered apple cheeks. She pushed aside one of her gray braids to reach into her patched coat and draw out her pipe.

  “You know that isn’t really much of a threat, Nainai?” He said her title low in the old language.

  She tried to look threatening, but a grin split her face after only a few seconds. Syrus loved her stories more than anything; it wasn’t a chore for him to listen as it was for some of the other children.

  Granny lit her bowl with a taper, and her whiskered chin puckered as she sucked at the long-stemmed pipe.

  “Did I ever tell ye about the man whose arrogance cost him his entire life?” Granny asked.

  “No,” Syrus said.

  Granny chewed on her pipe stem a bit. And then she began. “In a green country far from here, a man of the Feather clan found a box washed up on the riverbank. When he cleared the mud and reeds away, he read these words carved in the old language on its lid: Only the one who is strong enough can bear the weapon inside of me.

  “There was no lock and no seal on the box, just that warning. Now this man was the pride of his clan—he was their war leader, because it was back in the days of fighting, and he had forced the rival clan’s daughter to be his bride. He had killed a fierce creature called a bear and wore its teeth around his neck. There was nothing he believed he couldn’t do or withstand. And he had big dreams for the clans. At the time, in that far country, our people lived under the boot heels of warlords who came into the mountains to steal our sheep and our women. This man hoped to rise up against them and throw them out of our land. He was ready to fight, and as he bore the scars of the bear on his chest, he was sure that he could stand up to anything.

  “He didn’t even wait to get the chest home. He opened it right then and there, sure that the weapon inside would help him on his quest.”

  Granny paused, drawing deeply on the pipe before exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  Syrus remembered the bits of the music box that had somehow drifted out of his fingers and into his lap. Truffler grunted at him. The smell of turpentine from the opened bottle was almost as strong as Granny’s pipe smoke.

  “And then?” Syrus finally said. Because he knew she would expect him to.

  “The weapon for which he was so eager was no more than a tarnished mirror. He very nearly threw it into the mud in disgust, but then couldn’t resist looking at his own proud, handsome face. Do you know what he saw?”

  Syrus shook his head, though he had his guesses.

  “He saw the truth. He saw that his plans for battle would destroy our people. He saw that his wife was sleeping with another man. He saw that everyone thought him a blowhard, a bully, a person of ugliness. But he also saw the man he might become.”

  “And do ye know what he did?” Granny asked.

  Syrus waited.

  “He repacked the chest carefully and took it home. He gave away the bear claw necklace to someone in need of its power. He told his wife she was free to go to her lover. And he sent the chest to his enemies with a note that said: Let there be peace. He went on to become a great leader, and when we needed shelter, the Elementals heard his pleas and granted it to him. He was the first to enter here, and he saved our lives by the way he changed his own.”

  Syrus snorted.

  “What?” Granny asked. “You were expecting something else?”

  “Something more interesting. More dramatic. Like he killed himself there on the river and his blood turned into something horrible. Or—”

  Granny clucked at him like an aggravated hen. “That wouldn’t serve the lesson.”

  Syrus looked at the bits of music box as Truffler spread its pieces on a little cloth on the ground between them.

  “The lesson is this,” Granny said. “Arrogance destroys the future and masks the truth. Let go of your pride and learn who ye truly are.”

  Syrus nodded, feeling chastened. It was as though Granny had again read his mind and found the thoughts there just as disturbing as Truffler had. And yet it was difficult to unthink them. Even though he hated the City, he was always the first to volunteer to help on Market Day. Something about it fascinated even as it repulsed him. He could have said it was because of many easy marks he found to pickpocket, but it was more than that. There was a mystery buried at the heart of the City that he longed to open wide.

  Granny blew smoke into his face to get his attention. She laughed when he coughed and squinted at her through watering eyes.

  “And learn the lesson within the lesson,” she said. “There’s more than one way to defeat an enemy. Sometimes the best attack is no attack at all.”

  From within the train car, a thin wail rose. Granny frowned. “That didn’t take long,” she said. She rose, still surprisingly spry for however old she might be. Syrus wasn’t sure of her true age, but she had been old for as long as he could remember.

  A disturbance at the far side of the clearing drew their attention. A runner came through, pushing past metalworkers and women at their cookfires, nearly tripping over a group of children playing tiles in the dirt.

  “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 wit
h 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 humphed and leaned on his bow.

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

  CHAPTER 3

  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!”

  I nod slowly and bite my questions back. I’ve found that the best way to get what I want these days is to outwardly comply. Later I will look in Father’s files or his laboratory and discover whatever it is I wish to know.

  The carriage judders wildly over the road. If the driver isn’t careful, he could easily break a wheel or axle.

  Then, the carriage stops.

  The driver’s voice is muffled and tinny as it comes through the speaking tube. He’s not talking to us, but to someone outside. The horses stamp and their harnesses jingle. The carriage creaks as I hear the driver get down and again when he unfolds the steps and climbs up them to open our door.

  “Ye must come out, gentlemen, lady,” he says.

  “Whatever for?” Father says.

  But the driver just shakes his head and disappears back down the metal stairs.

  “Not a word about the box,” Father whispers to us.

  The Wad and I both nod and follow him outside. Trees rustle their flaming robes along the road. We’re in the Forest. Instinctively, I make the sign against irrationality to protect myself from pixie infestation. It’s all I can do, since we’ve had no time to don nullsuits, if Father and Charles even remembered to bring them. Most young ladies my age would be terrified if they found themselves so unshielded on a Forest road that’s likely teeming with Unnaturals.

  But not me. I look around in unabashed wonder at the sun in the autumn leaves, the endless march of trees. I’m more interested in what sort of sylphids inhabit this stretch of road than in the three men with yellowing lace cravats and rusty-looking swords advancing on us.

  They’re perhaps the most pitiful excuse for highwaymen I’ve ever seen, except that I’ve never seen a highwayman in the flesh before. When ground travel between
New London and Scientia became nearly impossible due to the Creeping Waste, most of the brigands disappeared or took to the skies. But now they’re here, looking hungry and, if anything, bored.

  “We’ll have your valuables now,” says a man with a ratty wig and bad teeth I can see even from here.

  Father coughs. “We have no valuables to speak of, sir. But our purses are yours.”

  The highwayman frowns. He gestures with his rusty blade toward the carriage, and one of his men climbs inside.

  “A strongbox, boss!” the man says as he backs out of the carriage.

  I look from Father to the Wad to the driver. All of them stand still, barely daring to breathe, like Museum specimens caught in a paralytic field.

  “Bring it out,” the boss says.

  I move forward. “Touch that box and we’ll all die!” I shout. I have no idea whether it’s true or not, but it has the desired effect.

  Everyone looks around. Father’s mouth forms a tiny o. The Wad’s eyes narrow.

  The brigand snarls at me and moves again toward the box.

  “I mean it!” I say. “If you want us all to die in a blaze of etheric energy, by all means, continue.” I make myself look as tall as I can and fold my arms across my chest.

  The boss glares at me, and his lackey looks back and forth between us, trying to figure out what to do.

  A voice comes from the trees.

  “She doesn’t jest, highwayman.”

  Several people step out, thin and stocky, boys, men, and a few girls. All I can see in the gathering gloom are their patched coats, their fur-lined bandoliers. The girls in their checkered headbands hang back. The chicken feather on one old granny’s hat licks the dusk like a white tongue.

  Tinkers.

  I know of them, of course. I’ve seen them from afar in the markets, selling their mechanical wares from bright-painted wagons. But I’ve never been allowed to do more than watch them covertly from a distance. Aunt Minta always sends the maid to buy from them. For while their wares are reliable, they themselves are not. Or so Aunt Minta says. She’s sure they all carry pixie infestations or sylphid sickness, though I’ve reminded her often enough that they must pass under the wards of the City gates before they can enter. The wards should clean them of any such contamination.