The Unnaturalists

told of the lonely mountain crags where she and her kind soared. Of sunlight on dark wings, of snow falling between her talons and the ground. Of flight and freedom and the eternity of wind across the peaks.

And then Syrus understood why mythwork horses drew the carriage. Real horses would have been driven mad by the Harpy’s song. It took every ounce of his strength to stand still. The clear rapture of her voice pierced him to the core. Her song confirmed what the Manticore had told his people long ago. When the Greater Elementals were killed, the land and all the creatures they had once protected would be consumed by the Creeping Waste.

Syrus knew what had to be done. The Harpy must be freed.

Syrus moved toward the river. A long, hairy arm grabbed the edge of his patched coat. The boy looked down and saw Truffler trying to cover both his ears with his free arm. The hob shook his head.

The door in the wall opened. A crowd of sexless people in hooded cloaks and goggles emerged, escorted by floating everlights. They were Refiners, the engineers who kept the City Refinery running day and night. A strange machine rolled out with them, its black dome mounted over a nest of hoses and wiring. They also carried thunderbusses—long guns that shot a blast of energy at any Elemental—or human, for that matter—who defied them.

All of this should have frightened Syrus enough to send him skittering back to Tinkerville, but the Harpy’s song sheared him to the bone. Somehow he had to get her free before anything happened to her.

“No. No,” Truffler said, grasping at his coat. The hob hated water with a passion and he groaned as Syrus stepped into the river. Then the hob’s hairy weight nearly pushed Syrus under as the creature clutched him around the crown of his head, trying to keep from getting wet. The River Vaunting was freezing and swift, and it occurred to Syrus only now that perhaps something might be living here, another Elemental that would happily suck him down to the bottom and devour him.

Luckily, there was nothing but the current to fight against. He pushed hard until he managed the other side without drowning or dunking the terrified hob. When Syrus emerged, he was covered with the gooey, cold sludge that rode the rapids. He gasped at the awful smell—like burned bone.

Truffler made soft clucking noises and shook his head as Syrus crept toward the cage.

“Foolish. Foolish,” he whispered.

Syrus was close enough that he could see the Harpy’s sad eyes through the cage. She had the feathered feet, body, and wings of a giant owl, but the head and shoulders of a beautiful woman with straggling, dark hair. Power radiated from her in waves so strong it lifted his hair off his neck. He had never been so close to an Elder Elemental—serving the Manticore had always meant that his people kept a respectful distance from her den.

The Harpy watched him. Her song trickled to a melodious, insistent hum.

The time was now, but Syrus wasn’t sure what to do. The Harpy might very well eat him when she was free. She might scoop him up with her talons and carry him off to her mountains, break his body on the crags, and pick his bones. He didn’t care, though, and not just because she’d enspelled him with her song. The world would be sadder and smaller without her. What was his life compared to that?

Pick the lock, the Harpy hummed.

Truffler put his hairy hands over his eyes and peered between his fingers.

The cage was between Syrus and the group of Refiners, and he was able to sneak close to it without being seen. He could feel the dark magic infusing the bars and the lock. He had half-hoped he could sing a charm of opening, but if the Harpy couldn’t open it, he knew he couldn’t. He’d have to do things the old-fashioned way. He didn’t have his lockpicking tools with him, but he drew a thin, sharp bone out of his sleeve, which had a number of potential uses. His hair fell in his eyes and he pushed it away with fingers clammy with green Refinery-slime.

Hurry, the Harpy sighed, her mournful eyes trained on the approaching Refiners.

Syrus shrugged off Truffler’s imploring fingers. It was going to be difficult with just one bone. And since the lock was nevered . . .

Syrus heard shouting over the Harpy’s humming. The iron horses stood still, the mythlight in their eyes dimmed to pale flickers.

He crept under the cage and peered around one of the spoked wheels.

Mist uncoiled from the trees and slithered toward the Refiners. It grew into a swaying snake of darkness and the Refiners fell back before it, raising their thunderbusses.

Syrus clutched at Truffler as the snake split into five people hooded in shadow. The Harpy hummed to herself above them.

“Architects,” Syrus hissed. The Architects of Athena were an ancient fraternity devoted to the destruction of the Imperial order ever since the execution of their founder, Princess Athena. He’d never seen them before; wild stories were told of how they fought their enemies with dark magic. Certainly, the Empress blamed them whenever something went wrong.

“Watch this,” Syrus said.

Truffler shook his head and squatted under the cage, covering his bald pate with his hairy arms again.

Free me, the Harpy sang above him. Her talons thrust through the bars and retracted quickly as the nevered poles sparked.

“Let the Harpy go,” one of the Architects said. His voice was a rich tenor that Syrus felt he would know anywhere if he heard it again. It sounded very Uptown, very posh. How did a man with such a recognizable voice keep himself disguised?

“You have no authority here, Architect,” a Refiner sneered.

“We don’t need any,” another Architect said.

While they quibbled, Syrus rose and started examining the lock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Lead Architect’s hands shape the air into a globe of swirling mist.

Syrus levered the thin end of the bone into the lock.

The Refiner’s thunderbuss ejected a gout of energy.

The Architect didn’t move. He lifted the globe, and it caught the energy until it blazed. Then he threw the light back in the Refiner’s face. Goggles burning blue, the Refiner fell to the ground.

The lock shuddered to life. Iron teeth splintered the improvised lock pick and tried to bite Syrus’s fingers, too. Tiny iron arms sprouted and seized his wrists. The Harpy’s dark eyes held his. Her serrated tongue rolled over three rows of teeth.

Syrus screamed.

Everyone turned.

Before he could blink, the Lead Architect was beside him. Syrus smelled strange things—mushrooms, crushed roses, tarnished silver.

“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.