The Unnaturalists Page 8

  I shrink against the seat. Accessible? Unscrupulous? “But I thought—”

  “What? That we are all dead or exiled beyond the walls of this fair City? That only Architects are heretics, as you call us?” A bitter smile thins his lips. “I think you can see that is not the case. Forbidden as it may be, there are still some few of us who practice. And even fewer still who practice for the greater good.”

  There’s an edge to his voice, a hidden dagger behind his words. Something wounds him. I can’t help it. “Who are you, really?” I ask.

  There’s a breath, a tightening of his expression. How many glamours can one warlock possess?

  “Who you see before you,” he says carefully.

  “Pedant Lumin.”

  He scowls. “Who I am does not matter. What you are, though—that is everything.”

  “Why?” I whisper. Why should I matter so much? I am no one. My father is important, perhaps, to Men of Science. I think about my desire to be the first successful female Pedant and nearly laugh out loud. That especially will now be denied me.

  “Because you are the catalyst. With your power, all kinds of things are possible. That frightens people, makes them greedy, all sorts of things.”

  “But I don’t know how to use it. I don’t know what it means.”

  He smiles. “We shall have to remedy that, Miss Nyx.”

  I chew my lip, looking at the fading magenta lantern in his hand. I make my decision. “Vespa,” I say.

  “Vespa.” He says my name as if it’s a spell or a holy charm, something blessed. The lantern dissolves into magenta butterflies which float lazily around the carriage until they disappear.

  Saint Darwin and all his apes! What am I doing? I must not let this happen!

  Just then, the carriage lurches to a halt and the driver cries out that we’ve arrived.

  Hal opens the door onto the choking stench of Lowtown. It stinks of sewage and tanneries and the ever-present odor of burning bone from the nearby Refinery. He climbs out first, making sure the stairs are stable. Then he gives me his hand. “Miss,” he bows, and that rakish grin tricks a smile from me, no matter how much I’d just sworn myself against it.

  Arthur Rackham’s is just along the alley, thank the Ineffable Watchmaker. Bells announce us when I open the door. A thin, bewhiskered man sits at the counter, a jeweler’s monocle over one eye. His mouth is pursed like a prune as he wipes blue grease over the guts of a tarnished, compasslike object.

  “Whassis?” he says. He swings to look at us, his eye hideously magnified by his monocle. Next to him on the counter squats a small jar with a lid that looks a bit like a grinning mouth. I suppress a shiver of disgust.

  “A missive for you, from Pedant Malcolm Nyx, Head of the Museum of Unnatural History and my father,” I say. I’m pleased at how steadily I manage to say it. Hal wanders over to a wall of shelves.

  Arthur Rackham nods, grumbling. He puts down the thing he’s working on and fingers a greasy rag before taking the letter. The neverseal sighs as he breaks it open. He unrolls the letter and reads it so slowly that I join Hal.

  “Do you see?” he whispers.

  I notice that the wall is blurry, rather like his glamour has been at times.

  “Look beyond,” he says.

  The usual sorts of permissible antiquities are here—soap dishes, soup tureens, tarnished spoons, chamber pots, and moldering portraits. I look beyond them, behind them. The wall of shelves shimmers like silk. Through it, I see vials of things with labels so dusty I can barely read them. I glance at Rackham, but he’s still poring over the letter, sounding out every word in hisses and whispers through his broken teeth.

  I reach through the illusion (for so it must be) and smudge one vial with a fingertip. Philtre d’Amour. Thick tomes murmur to themselves. Hexogony. Curses and Charms of the First Order. I touch the spine of the last one, about to pull it off the shelf. A little dark spark jumps from the cover, colder even than the nevered strongbox.

  “Careful.” Hal looks as though he wants to grab my hand, but he doesn’t.

  “This is a hexshop, isn’t it?”

  He nods slightly.

  I’ve heard rumors of such places, shops where heretics and the desperate go to obtain forbidden magics. Naturally, I’ve never been to such a place before and I can’t imagine why my father would send me here now. What does my father, a Rational Man of Science, want in a place like this?

  Rackham clears his throat and we return to the counter. The strange silver object near Rackham’s hand trembles. One of its delicate arms sweeps toward me, pointing like a compass finding its true north.

  The old man stares at the quivering needle and then up at me. His eyes narrow and an ugly grin splits his face. He looks rather like the jacklanterns people still carve for the Carnival of Saints.

  “You tell your ole dad that what he’s looking for is right in front of him. If you make it that far.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I say.

  The letter begins to unravel in a hiss of spitting green sparks between us and I can’t help but jump.

  When I look up, Rackham is staring at me. I feel as though I’ve once again opened Father’s office door and the Waste is stirring, stirring in the strongbox on the desk, sand spilled from an hourglass waiting to spell doom.

  He reaches forward and grips my wrist. I’d almost swear the dark jar chuckles at me. “You know very well what I mean, witch!” He spits the last word as though it’s a curse.

  “Here now,” Hal says. “Unhand her this instant!”

  I struggle against the man’s greasy grip. All I can think is that I want to be free, that this man is hurting me and therefore deserves harm himself. Before I realize what’s happening, heat crackles in my wrist. An invisible tentacle of energy snaps and Rackham yelps and releases me.

  I cover my surprise with a smirk and we make our way out, only to be confronted by a group of ruffians firmly intent on subduing us. Their faces are hard; their eyes gleaming. I don’t know if they’ve been summoned or simply take us for easy marks. Hal brushes my elbow with his fingertips as they approach. Even through coat and sleeve, his touch is like a divining rod striking a deeply imbedded river far beneath my skin.

  I’m in trouble, both from within and without.

  CHAPTER 10

  Syrus may have been a Gatherer, but finding a witch in a city that forbade magic was quite a bit different than finding midnight morels. He had searched for many days, not sure how to identify the witch he sought. He chewed at a toothpick he’d swiped from a gin palace, swaggering down an alley toward a hexshop he knew. It would never do to look out of place or afraid here. He hoped Rackham would have some information that might lead him in the proper direction in exchange for the cursed toad. Perhaps there’d be enough coin for a pork pie, to boot.

  Dark figures clotted the alley ahead not far from the hexshop door. It looked as though some rookery thugs had gotten the notion of a payday off some Uptowners. Syrus crept closer. Crates stacked by a permanently sealed door afforded cover and vantage. He spat out his toothpick and climbed them as quietly as he could, but his foot slipped on a broken slat. He peeped out from under a line of sad, gray laundry, heart crowding his throat. But all attention was focused on the two beleagured Uptowners—no one heard.

  He started so hard then that he nearly fell off the box. For the girl in the ring was none other than the one whose stolen toad he kept in his patched coat pocket. A Pedant stood beside her, bristling, his gaze defiant. What were they doing in Lowtown, at a hexshop of all places? Any Uptowner with any sense would never come here, even in what passed for daylight in this place. Syrus withdrew his pipe and loaded it.

  The leader of the rookery said something Syrus couldn’t quite catch before he tried to seize the girl. Syrus aimed and blew. His dart caught the ruffian right in the web between thumb and forefinger. The leader howled, plucking at the barbed dart once before he slid to the slimy stones. The others moved in. Syrus considered usi
ng the Architect’s summoning stone that nestled close to the toad, but he had no idea whether the man would come.

  Then the Pedant lifted his hands and Syrus saw the stone was unnecessary. Syrus’s eyes widened as the Pedant shaped a rapier from the shadows, a long blade of darkness that dissected the very air as the Pedant swiped at his foes. Though shadow may have produced it, the cuts it made drew real blood. Around the Pedant blazed a tiny light—a wee will-o’-the-wisp, by the looks of it—who bit and threw curses at his foes with gusto. The Pedant was an Architect, perhaps the very one he had encountered earlier, though he couldn’t be sure.

  The girl cast about, as though she sought either a weapon or victim. Syrus blew another dart at a ruffian who was losing his resolve with the leader down and thus moved too slowly. The dart sent him to the stones with others who moaned of their injuries. The last two decided to flee. The girl looked up and her eyes met Syrus’s over the edge of the tall crate.

  “You!” she shouted.

  The Pedant looked in his direction, his eyes flashing blue lightning. Syrus cringed.

  “Come,” the Architect said. “With this much magic discharged, I’m surprised the Raven Guard isn’t on us already. And those ruffians and Rackham, presumably”—he glanced at the still-closed door nearby—“will report us for certain. Best we thank our young benefactor there and get out of here.”

  “But he stole my toad!”

  Syrus was surprised she didn’t stamp her foot when she said it. What a prat.

  “I’m sure if he had it, he’d return it,” the Architect said, looking meaningfully toward Syrus. Syrus had the grace to blush, but then his mouth firmed. He wouldn’t return anything to a girl so stuck up, so obviously ungrateful. He and his people had saved her once and he’d helped save her again. Now all his people were dead and he alone remained. And she was still worried about a silly toad?

  “We must hurry,” the Architect implored. The will o’ the wisp floated about them, making frantic gestures of escape.

  “But, Hal . . .”

  He placed his hand on her arm and she went silent. “There’s no time,” he said.

  With one last glower over her shoulder at Syrus, the girl let the Architect usher her from the alley.

  Syrus climbed down off the crates once the alley was completely still again. Rackham had never once come out of his shop during the entire affair. Which meant either he was behind the ordeal or too cowardly to get involved. Syrus sighed. He took the toad out of his inner chest pocket. What little light was in the dim alley gathered in its carnelian eyes. Nainai had said there was a curse on it. When Syrus flipped it over, he could see the faint characters carved in the bottom. He recognized the character for magic and another character that had to do with stopping or subduing. Why had a girl like that one carried this toad? And why had she been in a hexshop in Lowtown, a place where no girl of good breeding would go?

  Only one way to find out.

  Rackham was at the far end of his shop, arranging books and other curiosities when Syrus entered. He came real quick-like when he saw Syrus’s patched coat. Hexshop owners like this were all the same—they wanted whatever a Tinker brought in, but didn’t want Tinkers lingering too long with their light fingers. It was a false prejudice for the most part; Tinker grannies always told cautionary tales of what happened when you stole an item without knowing its workings. Syrus guessed he was a victim of one of those tales even now.

  “May I help you, young sir?” Rackham asked, dusting his hands on a dirty rag. Beside him, an ugly jar gaped and gurgled. Rackham put an uneasy hand on it to quiet it.

  Another thing these hexshop owners knew—it paid to be polite, at least on the surface.

  Rackham slid behind his counter, and Syrus faced him across it. Syrus hadn’t been here in a while; all his family’s trade had been honest trade the last few years—whatever they’d found in their Gathering, mechanical bits they fixed for those who liked such curiosities. That fact made Syrus all the angrier about the Cull. Used to be the Raven Guard would come and Cull a family who were known dealers in hexes and magic, but his family had been clean for many a year.

  “May I help you?” Rackham said more forcefully.

  Syrus blinked.

  He brought out the three-legged toad and sat it on the counter. Its carnelian eyes glowed.

  “What do you think of this?”

  Rackham arranged a tattler across from him. The device whirred, its arched gears spinning until the needle pointed to the upper end of the magical potency register. The dealer looked up at Syrus as he screwed his monocle into place.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” Syrus asked. The tattler confirmed what he’d already known. This thing had enough forbidden magic in it to draw a goodly sum, at the very least. And it certainly should be good enough for the information he sought. Now it just came down to the bargaining. Luckily, his granny had taught him that, too.

  Rackham’s left eye was gigantic as he looked at Syrus. He shrugged. “Suppose not.”

  Rackham bent to inspect it, but Syrus snatched it off the countertop.

  “Eh?” Rackham asked, looking up at him. The careful expression on his face melted into something darker, more harrowed.

  “I’m interested in coin,” Syrus said, “but a fair trade for this toad also involves information.”

  Rackham frowned. He sat back from the counter, trying to feign nonchalance. But his brow was sweating, and he mopped at it, mussing the wispy hairs across his pate into disarray. He reminded Syrus a little of Truffler, and the boy frowned at the memory.

  “What kind of information?” Rackham asked.

  Just then, the shop bells chimed, and a bearded man entered. He seemed young, though beards were not generally fashionable among the younger set. He wore plain fine clothes, but the way he carried himself meant that he must come at least from Midtown, possibly Uptown. There was something about his eyes that looked familiar, something decidedly unpleasant that Syrus couldn’t place. Syrus glared at him. What was with all the Uptowners invading Lowtown today?

  The young man smiled with the same look one might give a growling bear cub and drifted to the back of the shop.

  Syrus leaned closer to Rackham.

  “A girl. A girl was just in here with a Pedant. I want to know who she was and what she wanted.”

  Rackham’s eyes went opaque, almost black. He seemed about to change his mind regarding the toad.

  “You know how rare this is,” Syrus said. “Even I know, and I don’t know nearly as much about it as you do. The more you tell me, the less coin I’ll ask. I’m giving you a fortune and you know it.”

  “But . . . I maintain a respectable relationship with all my clients and correspondents. I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  Syrus suppressed a laugh. He swept one hand around the shop. “You call this respectable? A hexshop in Lowtown?”

  Rackham’s chin wobbled. His glance flitted to the other customer.

  Syrus drew back, shoving the toad into his pocket. He half-turned toward the door. The bearded man was just at the edge of his vision, perusing a wall of antiques. It was probably an illusion; Rackham had to be hiding his contraband behind one somewhere.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere, then,” he said. He went to the door, his hand faintly stirring the bells on the latch.

  The young gentleman looked at him. The bemused smile was plastered on his face, but his eyes were sharp.

  “Wait,” Rackham said. “Wait.”

  Syrus turned, careful not to smile. The fish wasn’t quite reeled in yet.

  “Let me see it again.”

  Syrus nodded and put the toad on the counter again. The tattler needle stood at attention.

  Rackham bent over it, careful not to touch the toad for fear Syrus would snatch it away again.

  “Vespa Nyx,” Rackham whispered. He said her name casually, as though he was speaking of something else�
�the weather or something he’d found at market. “Daughter of Malcolm Nyx, Head of the Museum of Unnatural History. He was seeking”—he lowered his voice so that Syrus strained to hear—“a Manticore lure.”

  Syrus frowned. “A lure?”

  “Yes, something to trap the Manticore. To take the Heart of All Matter, presumably,” Rackham said.

  Syrus knew what he was talking about, but he wanted to be sure. “What is that?”

  Rackham gazed at him sidelong, his giant eye making Syrus want to shrink from the counter.

  “I’d think you’d already know, you being a Tinker who lives by the Manticore’s grace.”

  Syrus stared at him.

  Rackham’s fingers drifted toward the toad. “Surely you’ve heard the story of what the Manticore stole?” he whispered. “Old Man Nyx needs the Heart for one of his experiments. But before that he needs . . . a witch. That’s the only lure that will draw the Manticore from her lair.” He looked around as if a Raven Guard might step from the shadows and arrest him at any moment.

  Syrus thought of the Manticore’s strange Heart with all its wires and hoses, its pulsing red light as she’d swallowed the Raven Guard whole.

  “Why?” Syrus asked.

  “Because she’s the only one that can get close enough to the Manticore to draw it out of its den and make it give over the Heart.”

  Syrus knew the first bit to be false. Hadn’t the Manticore come out for him?

  “This girl, this Vespa Nyx—is she a witch?”

  Rackham’s lips wavered around his stained teeth. “Most assuredly. Funny that what Nyx wants has been in front of him all along. Reckon he wouldn’t want to have to sacrifice his own daughter, though.” He flung a few coins across the counter.

  Syrus nodded, pocketing his payment. He headed toward the door, aware of the bearded man’s strange gaze on his back. He regretted that he’d had to cut a deal with Rackham with the stranger nearby; surely he had heard some of their conversation, despite their attempts to muffle it.

  “Careful, boy,” Rackham said, before Syrus slid out of the door. “You may be stepping into things far beyond your ken.”