As did the black sandstorm coming over the hill.
“Into the house,” Bayne shouted. He grabbed Syrus’s shoulder and dragged him along. He shouted at the other lords. Some of them heeded him, but others didn’t. As they ran toward the garden gate, the Guards turned down the wards enough for them to pass. Those who waited too long became pillars of salt on the dark tide. Syrus looked over his shoulder as he ran. The Waste flooded right up to the gate, stopping only at the wards. Little puffs of dust flew up as if testing the field.
Bayne took Syrus by the shoulder. “In here,” he said.
He directed him upstairs and into his private chamber. Word was already spreading among the staff; there were whispers down the halls. One maid sobbed as she stared out a window at the black desert crouching at the back door.
Bayne shut the door and told the manservant to make sure no one entered. He put his musket by the door and loosened his cuffs.
“What happened?” he said, turning to Syrus. “I thought you would have returned here by now, if you’d survived.”
“I . . . got lost.”
Bayne raised a brow, then tossed him some clothes. “You’re in luck,” he said. “My bath boy just quit yesterday.”
Syrus waved a hand. “Look, that’s not important. We’re all in grave danger—”
“Well, that’s rather obvious . . .” Bayne gestured out the window.
Syrus ignored his sarcasm and finished, “But if we can just get Vespa out and get the Heart away from Charles, maybe we can return it to its rightful owner.” He struggled into his shirt and trousers.
“Us and what army? Do you not see the Guard everywhere?” There was an odd expression on Bayne’s face, as if he was only saying the words so harshly to convince himself there was no hope. He went to the window and stared out at the eye-stinging expanse of the Waste.
Syrus didn’t know what more to say. He stared at the lord’s back, the stillness of his ruffled sleeves. He felt like he was in a game of tiles. He had played his last one, his finest one, and now was just waiting to see if his opponent had anything left.
“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
