If the New Londoners discovered one thimbleful of talent among any of the clans, they stamped it out as quickly as you’d behead a poisonous snake. Even though the talents weren’t exactly the same as the magic they so dreaded and feared, even though they most often faded once the Tinkers reached adulthood, the Cityfolk were terrified of the Tinkers who were gifted with them. Granny said that the reason Tinker talents never developed anymore into full-blown magic was because of the disease in the land. Until that was healed, the talents would continue to flicker like candles about to go out. Still, the Tinkers refused to give up teaching their children the sacred language or the old ways, even if they never spoke it aloud where a New Londoner could hear.
Syrus often wished his talent was more useful for something besides speaking to Elementals. If he had real magic, what he would do with it! He imagined tearing down the Refinery and freeing the parents he’d barely known, if they were still alive. Tearing down the walls of the City, even. He imagined the white fires of magic burning through the Refinery smog and the Empress’s Tower opening like a dark flower to the light. . . .
A small, hairy hand pinched his arm. Truffler glared at him. “Such bad thoughts,” he said.
“C’mon,” Syrus said, “don’t tell me you wouldn’t bring the City down if your people could!”
Truffler shook his head. He was hairy all over except for his startlingly bald crown. He came only to about Syrus’s chest, so it was always hard for the boy not to think of him as an odd little child, even though he knew Truffler was older than anything he could imagine. Like most of the Lesser Elementals—trolls, kobolds, hobs—Truffler found mortal speech difficult and spoke in halting phrases.
“Not our way,” Truffler said. “Peace.”
“But the City doesn’t even belong there!” Syrus said. “It’s only there because of one Scientist’s big mistake!”
Truffler looked at him down his big nose. “Peace,” he said stubbornly.
Syrus knew it was disrespectful to argue, so he just shook his head and turned back to the music box. He reached for another tool, but Truffler anticipated his thoughts and handed him the tool kit and a bottle of turpentine.
Granny emerged from the passenger car then, her worn shoes and faded skirts almost noiseless on the iron stairs. “I didn’t just hear ye arguing with Truffler, did I, boy?” Granny asked.
Syrus kept his eyes lowered on his work as she bent near him, inspecting the stew.
“No, Granny,” he said.
“Because it’ll be lessoning time, if that’s the case.”
Syrus glanced up at her. Her dark eyes twinkled above weathered apple cheeks. She pushed aside one of her gray braids to reach into her patched coat and draw out her pipe.
“You know that isn’t really much of a threat, Nainai?” He said her title low in the old language.
She tried to look threatening, but a grin split her face after only a few seconds. Syrus loved her stories more than anything; it wasn’t a chore for him to listen as it was for some of the other children.
Granny lit her bowl with a taper, and her whiskered chin puckered as she sucked at the long-stemmed pipe.
“Did I ever tell ye about the man whose arrogance cost him his entire life?” Granny asked.
“No,” Syrus said.
Granny chewed on her pipe stem a bit. And then she began. “In a green country far from here, a man of the Feather clan found a box washed up on the riverbank. When he cleared the mud and reeds away, he read these words carved in the old language on its lid: Only the one who is strong enough can bear the weapon inside of me.
“There was no lock and no seal on the box, just that warning. Now this man was the pride of his clan—he was their war leader, because it was back in the days of fighting, and he had forced the rival clan’s daughter to be his bride. He had killed a fierce creature called a bear and wore its teeth around his neck. There was nothing he believed he couldn’t do or withstand. And he had big dreams for the clans. At the time, in that far country, our people lived under the boot heels of warlords who came into the mountains to steal our sheep and our women. This man hoped to rise up against them and throw them out of our land. He was ready to fight, and as he bore the scars of the bear on his chest, he was sure that he could stand up to anything.
“He didn’t even wait to get the chest home. He opened it right then and there, sure that the weapon inside would help him on his quest.”
Granny paused, drawing deeply on the pipe before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Syrus remembered the bits of the music box that had somehow drifted out of his fingers and into his lap. Truffler grunted at him. The smell of turpentine from the opened bottle was almost as strong as Granny’s pipe smoke.
“And then?” Syrus finally said. Because he knew she would expect him to.
“The weapon for which he was so eager was no more than a tarnished mirror. He very nearly threw it into the mud in disgust, but then couldn’t resist looking at his own proud, handsome face. Do you know what he saw?”
Syrus shook his head, though he had his guesses.
“He saw the truth. He saw that his plans for battle would destroy our people. He saw that his wife was sleeping with another man. He saw that everyone thought him a blowhard, a bully, a person of ugliness. But he also saw the man he might become.”
“And do ye know what he did?” Granny asked.
Syrus waited.
“He repacked the chest carefully and took it home. He gave away the bear claw necklace to someone in need of its power. He told his wife she was free to go to her lover. And he sent the chest to his enemies with a note that said: Let there be peace. He went on to become a great leader, and when we needed shelter, the Elementals heard his pleas and granted it to him. He was the first to enter here, and he saved our lives by the way he changed his own.”
Syrus snorted.
“What?” Granny asked. “You were expecting something else?”
“Something more interesting. More dramatic. Like he killed himself there on the river and his blood turned into something horrible. Or—”
Granny clucked at him like an aggravated hen. “That wouldn’t serve the lesson.”
Syrus looked at the bits of music box as Truffler spread its pieces on a little cloth on the ground between them.
“The lesson is this,” Granny said. “Arrogance destroys the future and masks the truth. Let go of your pride and learn who ye truly are.”
Syrus nodded, feeling chastened. It was as though Granny had again read his mind and found the thoughts there just as disturbing as Truffler had. And yet it was difficult to unthink them. Even though he hated the City, he was always the first to volunteer to help on Market Day. Something about it fascinated even as it repulsed him. He could have said it was because of many easy marks he found to pickpocket, but it was more than that. There was a mystery buried at the heart of the City that he longed to open wide.
Granny blew smoke into his face to get his attention. She laughed when he coughed and squinted at her through watering eyes.
“And learn the lesson within the lesson,” she said. “There’s more than one way to defeat an enemy. Sometimes the best attack is no attack at all.”
From within the train car, a thin wail rose. Granny frowned. “That didn’t take long,” she said. She rose, still surprisingly spry for however old she might be. Syrus wasn’t sure of her true age, but she had been old for as long as he could remember.
A disturbance at the far side of the clearing drew their attention. A runner came through, pushing past metalworkers and women at their cookfires, nearly tripping over a group of children playing tiles in the dirt.
“Headwoman Reed!” he called.
Granny peered at him, taking the pipe out of her mouth and holding it in a gnarled hand.
The runner skidded to a stop next to Syrus, and the boy was glad that all the music box parts were on his other side. The pieces would have been scattered beyond recall otherwise.