The Broken Lands (34 page)

Ilana clapped her hands. “I know this is serious business, but can I just say again that I am having the
best
time?”

“Someone might as well be enjoying herself,” Jin mumbled as she followed Ilana to the parlor.

 

Sam returned to the main room with the two girls. He filled two cups of coffee, went back to the bedroom, and handed one to the man sitting on the windowsill.

He was exceptionally normal-looking, considering he evidently held the secrets to stopping some kind of uncanny assault on New York and Brooklyn. With his gray hair and spectacles, Burns looked like a schoolteacher. How could someone who appeared so utterly and completely ordinary be involved in something so strange?

“Look, before Jin comes back,” Sam asked, “why did Hawks tell me to find Liao and not you when this whole conversation about conflagrationeers began?”

“Jim Hawks?” Sam nodded. Burns considered. “I don't know. I've never met Hawks myself, and I'm not sure how he knows of me.”

“He's dead.”

Burns had the decency to pause for a moment. “I see.” He scratched his head. “Well, it may not be me he's worried about at all. Fata Morgana was started by . . . well, let's just say my ancestor's original partner would have been a bit more willing to talk to Jack's men, and to be won over to their cause. It wouldn't shock me in the slightest to learn that Hawks had heard of Ignis Blister. I'm not proud of my connection to him.” He sat silently for a moment, deep in thought, and then he shuddered. “I have my faults and my weaknesses, but even I can see that creating a hell at the heart of the country's largest crossroads is a bad idea.”

Jin came in from the parlor. “Ilana is a natural. She's doing a wonderful job with the fuses.” She stood in the doorway, hands behind her back, and regarded Burns with tired eyes. Sam could just see the corner of the green leather book she held. “Tell me about this plan, then.”

W
HERE HAD YOU
planned to set off your message?”

Sam sat at the writing desk in the bedroom; Mr. Burns still leaned against the window. Jin spoke from where she sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed. “The bridge. We thought it would be the fastest way to get the most people possible to read it.”

“Good,” Burns said, nodding. “The bridge is the key. That's the city's great crossroads, you see, the intersection of the bridge and the East River. The bridge is what will finally make one city of New York and Brooklyn. That's where the cinefaction has to take place. So the simple version of the plan is, instead of going there to set off your message, you go there to complete the cinefaction.”

“And the thing that makes it not as simple as it sounds is the cinefaction part,” Sam ventured.

Burns nodded and held up three fingers. “There are three things that make the claiming take hold. First, the place where the act is performed. Second, the component parts: the explosive, fire, and match, and the conflagrationeer who uses them. Third, the words of the claim. You must claim the crossroads by blood—you must say by whose blood you make the claim; by naming—you must name the city and those who will speak for it; and by the fire that you intend to set, the fire from whose ashes the city will be reborn. There is no exact invocation—it just has to include those things.”

“The location is the bridge, then? Does it matter where?” Jin asked.

“Not usually, but traditionally the conflagrationeer would compound the explosive at the highest point in the city. Which, in the vicinity of New York and Brooklyn—”

“Is the top of the bridge towers,” Sam finished. The towers were the tallest man-made structures on the whole East Coast.

Burns put a finger to his nose and nodded. “Exactly. So I suggest you set it off from there. Which brings us to the component parts.” He held out his hand to Jin. “And it brings us to the
Port-fire Book.
”

The book sat next to Jin on the coverlet. She held it out to Burns.

He put his hand on the rough leather surface, then ran his fingers around the edge, flipped the cover over, and let the pages fall open at random in Jin's hand.

“This,” Burns said quietly, “is how it starts.”

Sam glanced sideways at Jin as she watched the man with wary eyes. Then, unexpectedly, Burns took the book from her and held it out to him. “Sam. Read this and tell me what you think it means.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Sam glanced at Jin again, then stood and took up the book.

The pages were thick and ridged. The edges were uneven, as if they'd been made by tearing the paper along a straightedge. The text might've been printed, but it also might've been handwritten by someone with obsessively neat penmanship. This, unfortunately, didn't make it any easier for Sam to make sense of it. He wasn't a great reader to start with, but he had a feeling what he was looking at would've confused the heck out of a professor, too.

The page on the left could only be interpreted as a list of ingredients.
“Clarified red. The mysterious six-and-one. The yellow. The sincere. Iron.”
Jin was staring at him with a bewildered expression on her face. “There's more of that. Then the next page says,
Make the
. . . I don't know this word . . .
luting?
. . .
of the six-and-one, to a depth of three in the crucible. Make the essence of the red and the sincere, and imbue with equal parts mysterious and yellow. Make the bellows even and breathe life into the fire with the essence in the crucible like a gourd. Pulverize the iron to the grain of porcelain dust. The one and two are four and the fifth is the first of the seven.
Am I reading this right?”

“Yes, you are,” Burns said.

Sam looked up at him, then at Jin. “And the two of you understand this?”

Jin was watching him with a curious expression. “This is so strange, but I have this feeling that I
nearly
understand it. As if it could fall into place perfectly at any moment.”

“You're joking.”

She shook her head slowly. “I'm not.” Jin turned to Burns. “I'm not, am I?”

Burns shrugged. “I can't say. But if you are what I think you are, it will come to make sense. It makes perfect sense to me, but I can promise you that what I understand is entirely different from what you do.”

Now both Sam and Jin stared at him. “But . . .” Jin shook her head. “Then I'm wrong, aren't I? I really thought . . . but . . .”

“You think just because you and I understand two different things, one of us has to be wrong?” Burns asked.

“Well . . . yes. If it's a book of instructions—well, there has to be a right way and a wrong way to read it.” Jin turned to Sam. “That's only logical, isn't it?”

“If there was only one way to read a book,” Burns said with a little smile, “any book in the world—if there was only one way to read and understand it, what would be the point of reading that book?”

“But . . . but the point of a formula is to guide you to a finished product,” Jin protested. “To the same finished product, every single time.”

“Ah, but this is not only a book of formulas. It is a True Book. Listen to me, now. If you are a conflagrationeer—if you have that in you, and we all know you do—
you will be able to read the book
. I think there's a reason you and Liao have both managed to get recipes from it to work. You are . . . what is the term? Masters of methods?”

“Fangshi,”
Jin said. Then she shook her head. “Uncle Liao is a
fangshi
. I'm only the one who grinds the ingredients. A
daoyao ren
. Not a master.” But she didn't sound certain about that, and Sam thought he knew why. She'd done too much in the last few days, too much not to understand that she was more—or
could
be more—than a mere assistant.

Burns waved a hand. “I think you make too much of names. Also, Jin, the book is only part of it, and I can give you what it cannot. A book cannot tell you that there is no right way to read it, except the way that is right for you. That would be telling you what the right way to read it is.”

Sam felt a vague headache starting between his eyes.

“So the book gives me the explosive,” Jin said slowly, “and I am to be the adept who makes it. . . . What about the fire and the match?”

“That,” Burns said with a nod at Sam, “is where your friend comes in.”

Sam started. “Me?”

“You. Jin can make a match and a fuse from scratch, but no ordinary fire can be used to start a proper cinefaction. She needs tinder.”

“What kind of tinder?”

“Infernal tinder. Jack's tinder.”

Jin shuddered. “Please stop saying things they're probably listening for.”

“Jin, if we're going to end it tonight, we don't have time to quibble over words.” Mr. Burns turned to Sam. “They carry a piece of infernal coal. They must. It's necessary for the cinefaction. And if anyone can get it from them, you can.”

“Me? Why? How?”

Burns grinned. “High Walker is a gambler, Sam. He's possibly the best and greatest gambler among the uncanny. And if I understand it right, you're a bit of a card sharp yourself.”

Sam's heart skipped. “I'm—Mr. Burns, I'm not—I . . . I can't.”
I'm fifteen years old. I can barely take on the adults in Culver Plaza without getting a black eye
—
how the hell am I supposed to take on the greatest gambler among whatever insane, otherworldly creatures you count among the uncanny?

Burns was watching him with a half-smile. “Sam, we need that tinder. Walker won't just hand it over, and since you've seen him in battle, I presume you know you can't fight it away from him. No one can.”

“And you think he'll
wager
with me?” Sam snorted. “Why would he?”

Mr. Burns looked at Jin. She nodded thoughtfully, and Sam's stomach curdled. She was agreeing with him.

“Like in Sun Tzu,” Jin said slowly. “Draw them in with the promise of gain, then overcome them.”

Burns nodded and turned back to Sam. “If you tell him that if you lose, you'll give him a conflagrationeer who can deliver the city, he'll wager with you.”

“No—” Sam said immediately.

“Wait,” Jin interrupted.

Sam couldn't be sure who she was speaking to, but she was looking at him. “I'm not using you as a wager,” he snapped.

“Could you beat him?” she asked.

“Doesn't matter, 'cause I'm not doing it.”

“But
could
you beat him?”

“How the hell do I know?
I'm not doing it!
” He got to his feet and paced for a few angry steps.

“Stop sounding so indignant.” Jin dropped her head into her hands. “It would hardly be the first time a girl was won or lost in a bet. Usually it's not for such a good cause, though.”

“You don't want to do this,” Sam protested. “You don't even know—
I
don't even know . . . I lose card games all the time!” That wasn't quite true, though; generally speaking, he didn't lose unless he wanted to.
Except for the last couple of days,
he reminded himself. But whatever it was that the sharper on Culver Plaza had done to beat him, an uncanny and experienced creature like Walker would surely have even more inexplicable ways of beating an ordinary fifteen-year-old kid. That just stood to reason.

“Could you beat him?” Jin asked again. Her face was still hidden, her voice muffled, but the tone was insistent. “Tell me if you could or not.”

“Jin, I honestly don't know. I don't know what he has in the way of cheats if he decides to play a brace game, and I don't know what he can do if he plays square.” Sam swallowed and sat beside her. “I do know I'm not willing to risk you like that.”

That made her raise her head, eyes wide and unreadable. She opened her mouth and closed it again. “Sam—”

If Burns hadn't been sitting across from him waiting for an answer, if they hadn't been discussing an absolutely unconscion­able thing, and, most important, if he hadn't been an utter coward, Sam would've pulled her straight across to him and kissed her right then.

“I'm not going to risk you like that,” he repeated, reaching for her hand. “I'm not going to
lose
you like that. I won't do it.”

Jin held his gaze. “Then the solution's easy, Sam. Don't lose.”

Across the room, Mr. Burns cleared his throat. “Before we commit to this route, Jin, you should make sure you can do the job. You need to make sure you can find a recipe that'll work.”

“I thought you were certain she could,” Sam said, disentangling his fingers from Jin's. “Wasn't that the whole point?”

“She has the capability. The issue is—”

“The actual recipe,” Jin finished, pulling the
Port-fire Book
toward her. “If I'm going to do it tonight while I'm on the bridge, we can't do anything that requires more time than that. It's like the fireworks I made for the display on Friday—I knew I couldn't use formulas that needed much time to dry, or that had to be ground finer than what I could accomplish myself.” She flipped a few pages, then looked up at Burns. “So there must be more than one recipe that can be used, I hope?”

He nodded. “You are part of the compound, remember. Your involvement, your reading, your choices are part of what makes a recipe suitable for cinefaction.”

She turned back to the book, flipped a few more pages. “How will I know?”

“I don't know how you'll know,” Burns admitted. “When I read it, I can just tell.” He smiled sadly. “Usually it's a sense of shame. I read a particular page and know that if I wasn't such an utterly hopeless artificier, I could do amazing things with it. I can just sense the potential, but I know that all my failings make me the wrong person to realize any of that potential. It's a horrible feeling, actually.”