The Broken Lands (29 page)

“We'll go back to the hotel.” Ambrose drained his glass and clapped it down on the mahogany. “Obviously.” He stood just a bit unsteadily and waved his arm. “Let's go.”

“He ran out of Ja—of stories about the fellow in question about two hours back,” Tom said to Sam under his breath. “Been working on that bottle ever since.”

“The Broken Land?” Jasper frowned and turned to Sam. “Isn't the young lady's fireworks company booked there for a while? If those two malcontents are looking for fireworks, why would you want to go where they're likely going to look first?”

“Have you seen it?” Ambrose retorted. “It's a huge, monstrous,
gigantic
hotel. There's no reason for us to accidentally cross paths with them. I'm not suggesting we sit at the bar and hope they don't suddenly have an urge for a cocktail. I have a suite of rooms. Hell, we can rent another one and keep Hawks and Susannah separate if we want to. When Jin surfaces, she can have her own room in a whole other
wing
.”

“Who's paying for all these suites?” Hawks asked idly. “Out of curiosity.”

“Please. I have an
expense
account
. And I'm just drunk enough to use it.”

Hawks gave Ambrose an appraising look. “I wondered if you were going to turn out to be good for something other than sopping up a bottle of old orchard.”

“I'm a
journalist,
” Ambrose said with exaggerated dignity. “This is part of my
process
.”

“I'll wait here with Sam,” Tom offered. “I'm guessing he isn't gonna want to leave just yet.”

Hawks turned to Jasper Wills. “You're going to have to clear out for a while, too, Jasper. You got somewhere to go?”

Jasper drew himself up tall. “My dear sir, I have lived in this town my entire life. Of course I have somewhere to go.”

“And it's not, well, just
upstairs
or anything?”

“I'll take a ferry over to Richmond if it'll make you feel better. Just as soon as Sam and Tom and Jin are on their way.”

Just then, the door of the saloon burst open. Sawyer, the man Sam had last seen in the flowery parlor on Columbia Heights, stood in the doorway. He looked battered; his face was bruised and his blond hair was matted down with what Sam hoped—but doubted—was dirt.

His eyes settled on Hawks. Mike hovered behind him in the doorway. They must have escaped together.

“Sawyer? What are you doing here?” Hawks rose from his seat, scowling. “We can't be in the same place, man. You know that.”

The younger man's busted-up face twisted in pain. He glanced from Hawks to Susannah. “Arabella's dead.”

“So I've been given to understand.” Hawks put a hand on Sawyer's shoulder, but his face was hard. “And I'm sorry for it, for you and for the fact that we haven't got time for mourning.” He gestured at Susannah. “But Arabella, it seems, was not the inheritor. Miss Asher is.”

“What?”
Sawyer turned to glare at her. Recognition dawned on his face, then fury.
“You?”

Susannah's expression was full of sorrow, but she stood tall as she faced him. “I loved her too, Mr. Sawyer.”

From the look Sawyer gave her, his reply was not about to be pleasant. Hawks interrupted before he could get a word out and spoke deliberately. “Sawyer, there are still three of us left. We have that, at least, to be glad of.”

“To be glad of,” he repeated. He shook his head. “That's what you think? That
this
should make her death somehow
fair?
” He rounded on Susannah. “Is that what you think as well?” he spat.

“Sawyer!” Hawks barked. “Pull yourself together! She's dead and it's a shame, and although I am well aware of your feelings for her, I feel bound to point out that you brought it on her yourself when you disobeyed my instructions, and worse, you nearly got yourself killed at the same time!”

“If it's anyone's fault, it's yours!” Sawyer snarled back. “You said you would send someone. It took you nearly a whole day to do it!” He shot a hateful look at Susannah. “And
you
. She died for
you
.”

“My timing was not to blame,” Hawks said coldly. “Nor was Susannah. What Arabella did for her is between the two of them. What the blazes has gotten into you? Do you have any idea how much trouble we're in?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Sawyer snarled. “The difficulty is, I simply don't care anymore. The Devil take this place. Arabella's dead, and someone needs to pay.”

There was a new current in the air, something in his voice as he spoke the last sentence that made Sam want to run.

Hawks sensed it, too. “The ones who killed her will pay, Sawyer,” he said carefully.

“That's too much to trust, and too long to wait.” The blond man put his hand into his pocket. When he pulled it back out, he held a small pistol. “I think I'd rather
you
paid, Hawks. You and that mulatto.”

It happened so fast, Sam barely had time to yank Susannah to the ground before four shots erupted, shattering the air. They seemed to come from everywhere.

Then the smoke was clearing, and Mike was lowering his gun in the doorway, and James Hawks and Sawyer lay coughing and bleeding and dying on the floor. And just that quickly, only one of the five protectors of the cities remained: Susannah Asher, who fought her way out of Sam's grip, shoved herself to her feet, and stumbled across the room to retch behind the bar.

 

Jin came up on Mammon's Alley from the beach, only half paying attention to her surroundings. She had the
Conflagrationeer's Port-fire Book
open in one hand; she had picked a formula at random and was reading it over and over, unable to decide if she was hoping it would suddenly make sense the way the others had, or if she wanted it to remain incomprehensible. With her gaze on the book, she'd nearly walked right past Sam, Mike, and Tom Guyot without noticing them.

“Jin,” Sam called, jumping down from where they sat on a pile of empty barrels. Tom looked up from the strings of his guitar and nodded a hello, then went back to his plucking.

“Oh. Hello.” Unforgivable. At a time like this, to have broken one of her cardinal rules for wandering unfamiliar places . . . she was so annoyed with herself that it took her another beat to notice the looks on their faces. “What is it?”

“Hawks and Sawyer are dead,” Sam said dully. “Shot each other. Right in front of us.”

“What?”

Mike rose abruptly from his barrel and stalked around the corner of the building without a word. Sam went red faster than Jin had known was possible, and he buried his face in his hands. “What a mess,” he muttered. “All the rest of Hawks's b'hoys went running for the Points practically before his body hit the ground. Mike stayed, 'cause he said Hawks's last instructions were to do whatever he could to help me.” He ground his palms against his eyes and groaned.

Jin looked from Sam to Tom—who said nothing—to the corner where Mike had disappeared. “Why did he just leave like that?”

“Mike shot Sawyer, I guess,” Sam said indistinctly, his face still hidden. “Trying to save Hawks. And Sawyer wanted to kill Susannah, too.”

Jin stared at him. After all that, after all they had done to warn Sawyer, to get Susannah to safety. “But . . . why?”

“Sounded like he blamed them for Arabella van Cortelen dying.”

“But that's . . . that's . . .”

“Stupid, I know.” Sam rubbed his face and looked up. “But now Susannah's the only one left.”

“Where is she? Is she all right?”

“I think she's a little shocked. We all were. She's safe, though. Did you get what you needed?”

She shook her head. “The man I went to see wasn't there. I'm going to have to go back to the wagon after all. But I spent the walk here figuring out exactly what I want to do, and I think it'll work.” She hesitated. “Well, the fireworks part'll work. Whether it will accomplish what I want it to . . . well, I guess there's no way to know until we try.”

“The fireworks part? What, exactly, is it you're planning?”

Despite everything, Jin smiled. “I want to write a giant message for both cities to read, a message that will get thousands of people talking and ruin this thing those two creatures are using to search for Susannah.” Her smile widened a little as she pictured it. “A giant, burning message in the sky over the river.”

“And you can do that? Write actual words with fireworks?”

“Sure. Words are easy, although I'm going to need a big space and some extra hands to help me assemble everything.” Jin looked up at the late-afternoon sky and watched a trio of seagulls wheeling overhead. “There isn't time to do it before nightfall, but we can have it ready for tomorrow evening.” She glanced at Sam. He wasn't going to like the next part. “And I'm going back for the display tonight.”

“It's not safe,” Sam protested. “Not that I expect it'll stop you, but they're going to be there looking for anyone associated with Fata Morgana.”

“I know it, but no one's warned Mr. Burns or Uncle Liao.” That was only part of it, though. She hesitated, not sure how what she had to say was going to sound. “I need to see something good, Sam. I need it, or I think I might break.” Tom Guyot hadn't spoken in all this time. Jin dropped onto a barrel next to him and watched his shaking fingers as they ran over the strings. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Bit of a . . .” His fingers stumbled on the strings and he winced at the discord. He clenched his quaking hands. “Just didn't expect to see that kind of thing again, that's all.”

“That kind of thing?” she repeated softly.

“The hate. The violence, that close.” He lowered the guitar so that the rounded end of it sat on the ground, and he stared, unseeing, at a spot at the top of its neck. When he didn't continue, she followed his gaze and saw the little metal piece that held the strings away from the wood. It was a bronze color that didn't match the rest of the tin guitar, and when she looked closer, she could just make out flattened letters on its surface. It had once been something else, and had been remade to become a piece of this guitar.

A medal.

“That's from the war, isn't it?” she asked hesitantly.

He smiled a little. “Sure is. Medal of Honor. There were three of us who were given this award. Three Negroes, I mean.”

Sam came to stand on Tom's other side for a look. “Wow. I didn't know you won a medal.”

“I don't know about it being the kind of thing you win,” Tom said sadly. “Must seem right foolish, to break it up and make it into a piece of a guitar.”

The gesture didn't come easily, but Jin put an arm around him and leaned her head on his shoulder. “No,” she whispered. “I think it makes perfect, beautiful sense. I think if that bit of metal had a choice, it would rather be part of something that makes you happy than something that reminds you of a time you were sad.”

Tom reached up to pat her hand. “That's how I figured it, darlin'.” He sighed. “All right, then. Sam, you best go apologize to Mike. Let's get on our way.”

 

Mike pulled the horses to a stop in the circular drive at the Broken Land and hopped down to help Tom out and up the hotel stairs. Then he drove Sam and Jin around the building to Fata Morgana's little camp near the stables.

Sam leaned out. “Doesn't look like anyone's home.”

“Meaning, at first glance you don't see any maniacal evildoers. That doesn't really tell us much.” Jin watched the quiet encampment for a moment, then sighed. “Mike, do you mind staying with the coach, so we can get out of here in a hurry?”

“Not a bit.”

She nodded to Sam. “I think I should be able to find everything I need in the storage tent.”

They dashed to the shadows of the tents. Sam followed Jin to the center one, pulled open the door flap so she could slip inside, then ducked after her and immediately scrambled so as not to sprawl onto the plank floor.

Jin winced and turned to look at him apologetically. “Watch that step up.”

“Thanks.”

“There should be some empty crates over along that wall. If you can find them, bring us two.”

The tent was full of piles of boxes labeled with odd mishmashes of words and Chinese characters and shedding bits of the straw and sawdust that had been used as packing material. Sam left Jin wandering among them and went in search of the empties. The odor in the room made his heart speed up just a touch: gunpowder and sweetness, the same scent he caught when he was close to Jin.

He found a stack of huge, empty crates and brought them back just as she returned with an armful of thin metal letters, each about a yard tall. He reached out to take them from her and yelped as his good intentions were rewarded with five distinct jabs in his burned hand. It was like getting stuck with a fork.

“Careful, careful. There are spikes on them. That's where the explosives go.” She piled the letters gently into one of the crates. Shaking her head, she reached for Sam's hand and examined it. “Please stop injuring yourself in stupid ways.”

“I don't know how I was supposed to know there were spikes,” he grumbled.

“Well, looking first would've done it, I think. At least they didn't break the skin.” She ran her fingers across the burns one last time, sending goose flesh up his arms. “Just wait here and don't touch anything.”

He obeyed, watching and feeling rather useless as Jin came and went, adding items to the crates and to her rucksack and then going back for more. Finally she brushed straw and sawdust from her clothes and slung the bag over her shoulder. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

She picked up one of the crates, stuck her head out of the tent, and peered both ways.