CHAPTER 14
Syrus hadn’t bothered looking up at the ghastly, shrieking things tethered to the roofs. He put his hands over his ears and ran as fast as he could, their cries following his progress until they died away at the gates of Midtown. A regiment of sentry wights tried to seal off the Midtown gate and called mechanically after him as he ducked through them. One persistent wight chased him all the way across the Night Emporium Bridge and almost to the Dials before it was reined in by its own warding field and returned to its proper post. Human sentries picked up where they left off, chasing him through Lowtown.
In the end, Syrus lost them only by cutting through the maze of alleys that led to the Lowtown Refinery. Just before dawn, he found himself alone, staring up at the glowing smokestacks, the scent of burned bone filling his aching lungs.
Stupid witch, he thought, gulping at the foul air. Why couldn’t she see reason? He’d never get into Midtown again after that episode. And how was he to get her to understand if he couldn’t speak to her again? What did the Manticore need her for, anyway? He realized that he didn’t even know. He was just acting on orders, unsure of whether anything he hoped would come to pass as a result.
He clutched at the iron-spiked fence to hold himself up. The nevered bars stung and he pulled away. Somehow, when he did so, the bar slid off its base, leaving a gap in the fence wide enough for him to slip through. He stared. Someone had obviously been filing away at the fence in secret, trying to escape. The gap was wide enough that he might be able to slip his family through it if he could just get them out. But was the fence armed with banshee alarms like the houses in Midtown?
He looked around. No one was about. He slid his hand through the gap in the bars. No werehounds came, no alarms sounded. All he heard was the steady chugging of machinery deep within the Refinery.
He was through the fence almost before he’d decided what to do. The nevered bars stung his skin until he stood completely within the fence’s perimeter. If the witch wouldn’t help and if the Manticore couldn’t help without her, then maybe it was time to help himself.
He had heard horrendous things about the Refineries and how the Refiners kept their secrets to themselves. Werehound guards were one thing, but the illusion mines were another. It was said that if you stepped on one, a beautiful illusion sprang up all around you that held you in thrall until guards came or the mine itself blew. And in the green-glowing darkness, one edge of tile could just as well be a trip plate as another. He’d had three cousins who’d tried to break into this Refinery on a lark once. (No one ever tried to break into the Imperial Refinery near the Tower. That would have been suicide). Only one of them had come back to tell the tale, and he hadn’t made it inside before the werehounds chased him off. He was the only reason Syrus knew about the mines, but also the reason why no one had tried breaking into this Refinery again.
Still. Syrus had come through the fence. He wasn’t going to allow something to catch him while he stood here like a complete ninnyhammer, as Nainai used to say.
There was a long, paved courtyard, and then what looked like another fence. He swallowed a raw burning in his throat. Surely if someone had managed to file this fence down, they’d done so on the inner fence too?
He knelt and picked up some gravel at the edge of the tiled courtyard, enough to help him get across to the other fence, he hoped.
He skidded the stone across the tiles. Nothing. He followed the pebble’s path as best he could, wishing that he had the witch’s unused powers so he could float above the ground. He gritted his teeth against the thought that he wouldn’t be in this mess if she’d only see reason. He forced himself to concentrate on following the pebble instead.
Syrus was very nearly across, his muscles clenching, his mouth cotton-dry, when the stone he threw triggered a mine. A gout of green flame sprung up around it and the pebble popped as it shattered into dust.
Trembling, Syrus heaved another pebble and inched forward.
He was almost to the fence when he heard the howling.
It was worse than the banshee alarms because he knew exactly what it meant if he was caught. He scrabbled over the last of the tiles, forgetting entirely about testing them, hoping only that he would find the gap in the fence in time and that more werehounds would not be waiting on the other side.
He was oblivious to the pain of the nevered bars as he desperately rattled them, trying to find the loose one. He cursed under his breath. He could hear the hounds now, their claws clicking across the tiles as they picked their way toward him. The Refiners had made them specifically to guard their precious Refineries. No one knew how they’d done it, and no one dared breathe that it had to do with magic. The Cityfolk said such things were heresy.
Syrus didn’t really know what heresy was, but he did know that at least the werehounds were behind instead of in front of him. That would have been a good thing, except that there were no loose bars in this fence. They bayed as he pulled himself up the bars. He bit his lip against the numbing pain, refusing to look behind him.
But before he could pull himself higher, teeth sank into his heel. For one swift moment, he was sure the pressure had broken his ankle. He kicked at the werehound’s nose with his other foot as hard as he could. It winced, and its teeth slid out of his foot, but it still had a firm grasp on his boot heel. He dug the toe of his undamaged boot down into the other and pushed it off. Then, he pulled with all his strength, leaving the werehound with a mouthful of worn leather. He came down hard on the other side, falling to his knees in agony. He couldn’t see his foot very well, except that it was slick with blood. Whether he could stand and walk on it, he had no idea.
He looked up and saw the white werehounds fighting over the scraps of his bloody boot until nothing remained. He wouldn’t get out that way. And he’d have to move fast if he wanted to keep his freedom.
But how would he keep guards or hounds from following his blood trail? He tore a broad strip off the bottom of his cotton shirt beneath his coat. As best he could in the green-tinged gloom, he bound his foot and tried to stand on it.
A little voice inside warned him that now might be a damn good time to use the Architect’s summoning stone. But just a little farther and he might at least be able to figure out a way to free his family and any other Tinkers enslaved by the Refiners.
He hobbled toward the door and found it locked, but then he heard rattling on the other side. He slunk back against the wall. A guard emerged, wedging the door open with a bit of wood. He investigated the hounds along the fence, shouting at them when they continued to fight.
Syrus didn’t waste the opportunity. He slipped through the shadows and into the open door.
The chill was the first thing that hit him. It was face-numbingly, bone-achingly cold inside. Syrus had expected something entirely different. And the smell was strange; the chill masked it to some extent, but he could still get a whiff of something dead. Or dying.
He hurried up the stairs and along a corridor, his heel aching with the pain. Luckily, the cold floor was slowing the blood flow, but he didn’t know how long he could stump along on it before he was forced to hop on one foot. He was quite sure he couldn’t run very far. He palmed the summoning stone. Would an Architect really come to him if he summoned one here? Or had it all just been talk?
Another door led him to a catwalk, and he was now at the core of the freezing building. He edged along, watching carefully for guards or workers until he found a spot along the catwalk where he could sink down and take stock.
Beneath his feet, the giant Refinery boiler boomed and pulsed, steam belching occasionally out of its joints. The noise was so loud that his heart struggled against it, slipping back and forth between his own rhythm and that of the machine. Phosphorescent icicles coated the rusting pipes. Figures moved in the steam-shrouded gloom—Tinkers, he was quite certain, though he wasn’t close enough to tell whether any of them were from his lost clan.