“Won’t you?”
“I will.” I wish those two little words didn’t feel like a binding spell.
CHAPTER 16
Syrus perched on the gold damask settee in the Architect’s sitting room. The room was paneled in gilt and white, with long gold curtains that shut out New London’s eternal gloom. There was a great fireplace at one end of the room, held up by kneeling marble nymphs. Above the mantel hung an ancient tapestry of a blue Wyvern in a golden field embroidered with white lilies. Syrus sensed a great weight of tradition in that tapestry, but what it meant or what it might have to do with the Architect, he was uncertain.
A book was open on the Tinker boy’s lap and he glanced down at it, flipping its thick pages to and fro, though he couldn’t read the City words. He was nervous as a caged hob. Though the Architect had taken good care of him since his rescue—seeing to his wounds, bringing him meals, keeping a fire going with his own hands—Syrus knew something was amiss. He was locked in the room and had been strictly warned not to even try escaping.
“Everything depends on your cooperation,” the Architect had said that first morning. “If you allow curiosity to overwhelm your judgment, everything will suffer for your foolishness.”
That had naturally made Syrus think of the Cull. He was sure the Guard had come because he’d helped the Harpy. And while he didn’t repent of saving her, he knew he must act with the utmost care, especially after his latest misadventure at the Refinery. But that had been weeks ago. Syrus was now mostly healed of his wounds and the need to bring the witch to the Manticore was stronger than ever. He was beginning to think he might have to break free after all, despite the Architect’s admonitions.
Voices rose in the next room.
Syrus crept closer, pleased that he barely limped now. He supposed if he was Cityfolk, he’d be leaving offerings at Saint Pasteur’s chapel.
A man’s voice—not the Architect, someone much older—was saying, “Bayne, you will do your duty or suffer the consequences.”
“You have another son.”
A woman’s high-pitched, incredulous laughter. “But he is not the eldest. You are our heir—”
“But you have another son!” The Architect’s shout made him sound like he wasn’t much older than Syrus. He was so much younger than the Tinker had thought when they’d first met. How could an Architect be so young? He must have worn a glamour that night they’d saved the Harpy.
And now here he was arguing with his parents like some spoiled lordling. Which in fact was exactly what it sounded like he must be. What did they want him to do? Syrus wished he could send Truffler through the door so he could listen and report back, even if his words were halting.
The voices rose and fell and then the man spoke a final declaration. “Enough. The offers are in my study. You will select the two best candidates, or you will leave this house forever. You have put us in bad enough straits with your behavior as it is, Bayne. Someone of your station masquerading as a Pedant! It’s despicable and childish. Why in the name of Saint Newton would you do such a thing?”
The Architect grumbled something Syrus couldn’t catch.
“You owe us this much,” his mother said. “I know you will do your duty.”
Silence stretched. Syrus leaned in as far as he could, trying to hear.
He nearly fell into the floor when the door was pulled open. “S-s-s-sorry, my lord,” Syrus stammered.
The Architect shook his head. “If you must call me anything, call me Bayne.”
“But I thought—”
“Hal Lumin was my identity at the Museum while I investigated certain matters of interest to my brethren. But Bayne is my true name. I entrust this to you now that you may know I am worthy of trust.”
“I suppose you heard every word.”
“Well . . .”
The Architect raised a brow.
Syrus peeked out into the bedchamber beyond. He glimpsed vaulting ceilings, a monstrous carved bed with a sugar-mountain of white coverlets and pillows before Bayne snapped the door shut.
“Whatever you may have heard, you can’t imagine the full truth of it,” the Architect said.
“Let me guess. Spoiled lordling gets bored and decides to slum it, but his parents catch him at it and try to force him into marriage, dashing all his low-class fun. That about the long and short of it?” Syrus asked.
Bayne scowled. “Only part of it.”
“Which part?”
“The last bit. Minus the low-class fun,” Bayne said.
“So, who’s the lucky girl?” Syrus asked.
The Architect paced over to the window, twitching back the curtain and looking out. “I don’t know yet.”
“Why not shack up with the witch? You being two birds of a feather and all.”
“You can’t possibly understand what you’re suggesting,” Bayne said. “It would be too dangerous for her and me, especially now that my parents have discovered at least part of my secret.”
“But—”
“Enough. It cannot be. They would not look favorably upon her, especially since I met her at the Museum where I was . . . slumming, as you put it. The only way to preserve my involvement with the Architects is to do what my parents say. The secret of my magic must remain hidden at all costs.”
He locked eyes with the boy. Syrus nodded in agreement, hoping that would lessen the intensity of the Architect’s regard.
The tension passed as Bayne’s gaze dropped to Syrus’s foot. “How is your wound?”
“It’ll do,” Syrus said. “I won’t be dancing any jigs at the gin palace tonight, but it’ll do.”
Bayne chuckled. “Is that something you normally do?”
“Oh, every now and then.”
Bayne gestured to the settee nearest the fire. “Let me see.”
The boy obeyed. Curious as he was, he didn’t want to rouse the man’s ire any further. He’d seen what Bayne had done to that Refiner back when they freed the Harpy.
Despite the tautness in his shoulders, Bayne unwrapped Syrus’s bindings gently enough. “I’m no physick, but I believe you’re healed, boy. Have you noticed anything else odd?”
Syrus cocked his head.
“Any odd sensations? Or . . . ?”
“Am I wanting to bay at the moon and gnaw on babies’ legbones, you mean?”
Bayne frowned. He rewrapped the bandage in silence.
“No,” Syrus said. “I’m really fine. No need to take me out behind the train and make me a head shorter.” He tried not to think of his cousin as she’d slumped against the iron railing in the Refinery, trying to breathe with her punctured lung. But her image hung there behind his eyes. It might be there forever.
“I wasn’t suggesting . . .” the Architect began.
Syrus forced himself to smile. A small smile tugged at Bayne’s lips when he realized Syrus was joking.
Bayne sat back on his heels, the buckles on his shoes shining in the firelight. The air was close and still, except for the fire’s murmur. “I’ve been thinking on what you saw. And I believe that we should alert my brethren regarding it.”
Syrus nodded. He hoped that Bayne and the Architects would help him break into the Lowtown Refinery again and free his people. Maybe they’d even convince the witch to help before they took her to the Manticore.
“And what about the witch?”
