Ninth City Burning (22 page)

She breaks into a smile then, sad but still very pretty. “You're a fine boy, Jax,” she says. “If this Legion was full of men like you, I would count myself fortunate to be part of it. But Naomi and I have no use for the kind of protection your comrades are offering. We've done well enough by ourselves until now. I think we'll keep it that way.”

I know I shouldn't feel happy, because the Legion really does need both of them, but I still get kind of giddy, talking to Rae. Vinneas is obviously frustrated, but Charles doesn't seem upset. Censor Reggidel just looks glad to be left alone.

And then Naomi speaks for the first time. She'd been so quiet until now, I thought she must be very shy, but she's just as forceful as her sister. What she says is “You can count me in.”

I
am alone on an island, a place they call Bermuda, or Area 22-53, depending on who is speaking. To me it is merely a forlorn strip of land foundering in the middle of the sea, stranded among high waves and dark clouds. Rain comes down in puffs and gusts, and though I have been afforded tall boots and some manner of slicker for protection, my face is already damp with water the wind is flinging every which way. At the same time, warm sunlight shines across my back through a gap in the clouds, a pillar of brightness sparkling with errant raindrops and trimmed in the unlikely gamboling of rainbows. The ship, what they call a “harvester,” rises into the circle of cloudless sky, shrinking away as it flees my island, until at last it is lost in the glaring sun, and the clouds roll in, washing the light away like dust taken in a breeze.

However fierce the storm here on Bermuda, I imagine it is no more than a whisper compared to the one raging aboard the harvester. By the time I set forth for this island, Rae had worked herself into a temper fit to make anyone nearby fear for his life. She was particularly dire with Charles and Vinneas, railing at them in language it would have shamed our mother to hear. Of everyone, only Vinneas was fool enough to attempt any defense, perhaps because his command of English was good enough to understand her anger but not so perfect that the precise details of her threats and oaths were readily plain. Reggidel, meanwhile, sat well back, grinning as though he could imagine no finer entertainment. By now I expect Vinneas is regretting his resistance, as Rae is not one to be quelled with words. She will keep up her fury until this business on the island is settled, and heaven help Vinneas if anything goes wrong. She has promised to flay him alive and see him dragged twenty miles by a horse saddled with his own tanned hide. For me,
Rae had only kindness and concern, riding down to the island with me and running out into the rain to hug me long and hard, saying, “I'll come back for you, Sunshine. I promise. We won't go far. I won't let them.”

Not two sunrises ago, I would have counted her words and embrace finer comfort than all the world's plushest luxuries, but I responded with nothing but a stiff-shouldered shrug. Since the moment Rae appeared, back from the dead and gathering me up in her arms, she has placed herself between me and every possible danger. In truth, it was a tremendous relief to be under her protection; I did not know how desperate and afraid I had been until she was with me again, hackles raised in my defense, and felt a measure of calm and safety I thought I had left behind forever in New Absalom. I have the notion Vinneas himself was mightily surprised when he went from champion in my sister's eyes to lowest of all the Earth's vermin once she heard the Legion's plan for me. But up there on the harvester, as I listened to her snarl and snap at those Legion men, I came to a realization. It was something that boy said, Jax (what a name!), how all the Legion's soldiers had a duty to protect him—and me, were I to join—and how he considers it his responsibility to do the same for them. To Rae I am still a child, not to be trusted with my own affairs, but I have changed since the Valley of Endless Summer. I learned I could be a protector, too. That is what the Legion is asking of me now, and I mean to do it if I can.

As the last glints of sun pass from the sky, I find myself wishing Rae were here, so I could tell her how wrong she is about me. I could summon her now, if I wished, but it would mean abandoning my test and admitting she was right. In my hand is a small device, a handle like the grip of a pistol, cast in black metal with a red button set into the top. I have merely to depress this button, and a flying machine will be dispatched to retrieve me. I am free to use the button at any time, but I resolve not to do so until I know for sure whether or not I am “fontani,” as they say, one of these creatures that make magic the way the sun does light and heat.

The black handle with the red button has one other feature of note: an array of glowing numbers counting slowly toward zero, representing the time remaining for the other players of this game to arrange the details of my test. At present, the harvester bearing Rae and Vinneas and Reggidel is busying itself with getting as far from me as possible. Meanwhile, Charles has taken his place elsewhere on this island, at a specific point roughly a mile from where I stand. The exact distance between us is known as a
“yiell,” meaning the span thelemity will project from any one source—in this case, Charles. The limit of one yiell from Charles's position is marked on the ground before me, a line in yellow paint. Already I have caught the scent of brimstone crackling in the air, as it sometimes does at the edge of anyplace filled with the magic of thelemity.

When my counter falls to zero, Charles will perform a trick called “shading.” He will no longer be merely fontani, a simple source of power, but a weapon, “fontani usikuu.” This will alter the nature of his thelemity, a shift akin to music's dropping or rising in key, so subtle as to be indiscernible by anyone except other fontani. Once this is done, I will walk across the yellow line, and if I am indeed fontani, as everyone seems to believe, I will “shade” as well and become “fontani usikuu.” Or so I have been told.

I still do not quite understand what it means to shade, or to be fontani usikuu. According to Charles, it is a thing easier experienced than described, hardly worth discussing until you have witnessed it firsthand. He did try, but it was difficult to take him seriously. Not only did his admonitions sound like so much fanciful nonsense, but Charles himself freely admitted that nothing he told me now would make any difference once the shading began. Vinneas, Reggidel, and others of the harvester's small crew had any number of poetic descriptions of fontani usikuu, none of which made any obvious sense. Near as I have been able to learn, it means to become a being cloaked in magic, like the calm at the center of a spinning storm. The one thing Charles was sure to make clear was that, whatever happened, there would be no danger to me.

I do not share Charles's confidence. As the little lit numbers click away, I feel the fear pooling in my belly. I was so sure of myself when I stepped onto this island, so determined, but in the wind and wet, my banner of courage has gone to tatters. It is as if I can see what awaits me in the swirling spray beyond that yellow line, rainy images of a long war spanning worlds and worlds, and I yearn to return to my old life, to be safe in New Absalom with Rae and Mama and Baby and all my coda with me, close around warm fires and the snow deep outside and danger far away, and know nothing of thelemity or these creatures, the Valentines.

In my hand, the counter has fallen to zero. I raise my eyes to the yellow line, some ten feet distant. It seems so harmless, a drizzle of paint on uneven concrete gathering water in shallow puddles. I will not allow myself to fear a color, or a shape. I draw one long, slow breath and begin to walk.

The line nears, and I close my eyes, feeling the wind tug at my flapping hood. It will come any moment now, the change, the shade. I steel myself, knowing there can be no retreat from here, and summoning every bit of nerve I have left, I take what I know must be the last few steps toward whatever strangeness awaits.

N
othing happens. Only when I am sure to be well past the yellow line do I stop walking and open my eyes. The island of Bermuda remains, trees bowed beneath the gathering storm, spray soaking every rock and bush. Before me are the remnants of an ancient road, broken and overgrown, not a splotch of yellow to be seen. Turning, I spot the dreaded line fully twenty paces behind me. For a time, I can only stand there looking at it.

I wonder whether I have failed in some essential piece of my test, whether there was some incantation I was meant to recite, some occult password I neglected to call. I stomp on the ground, as if that might shake my power loose, then cross the line again at a full run. Nothing still. I leap over it and back, walk down its length, arms extended as though to balance on the branch of a tree.

At last I am forced to conclude that everyone was mistaken about me. I am no being of war and magic after all, only a girl splashing in the rain, and I must press my red button or spend the rest of my life on this deserted island.

The button illuminates beneath my thumb, signaling that my only duty now is to wait for rescue. I reason it will be best to seek refuge from the inclement weather, since I am not to become any great force of nature myself. There is little nearby that would pass as shelter, but not far off I spot a number of crumbling structures, relics of this island's long-departed denizens. I choose the tallest and set off in that direction, and soon I am walking the streets of a forgotten city.

It is as fine a place as any my people have chosen for our winter refuges, excepting perhaps New Absalom and one or two other shroomtowns. The
buildings here are sturdy and well formed, many standing above their first story, a feature I have rarely seen in so ancient a place. As I walk wide avenues fringed in brush and rubble, gazing up into dark windows, I catch sight of something that gives me pause. There, at the base of an especially grand edifice of arches and pillars, is an open door spilling light outside. After staring at it a good while, I conclude it must be Charles. He has deduced that I am not one of his fontani after all and chosen this place to keep me in comfort and company until the others arrive.

The doorway and surrounding stonework are ornate and very well maintained considering their age, and I wonder whether this island is quite so abandoned as I have been told. The place I find inside is warm and brightly lit, with quiet music playing from a source I cannot quite discern. It is a long room with high ceilings, orderly and clean, with tall windows all down one side. Along the interior wall is a high, lacquer-topped counter with stools beneath and backed by shelves of multicolored bottles. The space throughout is filled with circular tables, each ringed with chairs and covered in a white cloth that falls nearly to the wooden floor. Every table is empty, save one by the far wall, where a man sits by himself, facing me.

The man looks up as I step into the room. I can make out little about him beyond his vague shape, but it is plainly not Charles. “Ah, Naomi,” he says, standing, “I've been waiting for you.” His voice is friendly, warm and welcoming, like the place around him. “Please, come and sit with me.”

He is a stranger to me, but somehow I have the impression that we have met before. Unsure, I glance back toward the door and the rain outside. “This is no day to be wandering about,” the man says. “Let's wait out the weather together. I've ordered us some food.”

The mention of food decides me soundly in his favor, as I realize I am famished. My boots leave sopping footprints as I cross to the table. “Here, let me take your coat,” says the man, moving swiftly to my back. He pulls out the chair opposite his even as he lifts the slicker from my shoulders. The table has two places set, each with a gleaming white plate and an arcane array of knives and forks. Next to the utensils aligned along the man's side is a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. They seem very familiar somehow, such that I am sure I've encountered their like before, though where I cannot say. I am still contemplating them when the man takes his place in front of me and sets the spectacles on his nose and I get my first good look at him.

He is tall in stature, and slim, dressed immaculately in a suit of delicate cut and subtly complementary patterns. His cuffs are fastened with studs rather than buttons, and he wears a glossy necktie done up in a fine little bow. He has a long face with clever features, a good fit for his build, and though he is plainly not a young man, his skin has the smooth luster of a walnut. He wears his thick hair long but slicked back. It is white at the front but deepens to gray along the ridge of his head. The overall effect is of something at once complex and effortless. I do not think I have ever met such a dapper person. The only feature I cannot quite discern is his eyes because the light has caught his spectacles in such a way as to turn the lenses a blank and glaring white.

“Horrible out there, isn't it?” the bespectacled man comments. We are seated near a window, rainwater running vigorously down the glass. Through the blurry rivulets, I catch sight of gray streets, figures leaning into the wind as they rush past. “You must be chilled to the bone. We shall have to warm you up immediately. How do you feel about lobster bisque?”

My feelings regarding lobster bisque are indeterminate because I do not know what lobster bisque is. I have eaten lobsters before, abominable creatures resembling gigantic cockroaches my coda will sometimes pull from the ocean in baskets baited with scraps of garbage. The meat is tasty enough, but hardly worth the work of prying it from their unpleasant tails and claws, at least not when there is fish or venison to be had more easily. I do not care to guess what part of the lobster the bisque might be, but as it turns out, bisque is a kind of soup, creamy and warm, in which the lobster plays hardly any part. My appraisal is favorable overall; I end up cleaning the bowl with my fingers.

“No need to rush,” says the bespectacled man. He has been served bisque of his own but has not so much as lifted his spoon. Instead, he watches me, smiling, from behind his inscrutable blank lenses. “There's plenty more coming.”

The next course is something called a “burrito.” It consists of a full meal of rice and beans and seasoned meat and innumerable other additions cleverly rolled into a patty of thin, soft bread, so that the whole thing can be eaten by hand, and each bite brings forth the full flavorful symphony. This burrito is served with strips of potato, similar in conception to what Mama or Rae or I will sometimes fry up over the fire, but so different in
effect as to seem an altogether separate variety of food. Lastly, there is ice cream and chocolate cake, which by my reckoning ought to be renamed ambrosia of the gods.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” the bespectacled man asks when the last bite of cake is gone. “The menu here is not usually so . . . inventive.”

The question is quite unnecessary, as I am presently engaged in licking the plate, but I answer nonetheless. “Yes, thank you.” I set the plate down, and a man in a white jacket arrives to take it away. I had not noticed him before, but I realize he must have come and gone throughout the meal, bringing out food and afterward clearing what leftovers remained. I study the man in the white jacket as he removes the bespectacled man's uneaten cake and drooping ice cream, but no matter how I angle my head, I cannot get a clear view of his face.

As he departs, I see the room is full of people. Every table is occupied, crowded with well-turned-out men and women, all engaged in quiet but animated conversation. Along the tall counter, more figures sit sipping from oddly shaped glasses while a man in gartered shirtsleeves pours from the multicolored bottles. Though I cannot recall seeing these people before, I have the impression that they have been here all along. And no matter where I look, I cannot make out a single pair of eyes. Those who do not have their backs to me are always arranged so that some object happens to cover their faces: a shoulder, a glass of wine, the buds of flowers leaning from a vase. The music that was playing when I arrived is still audible beneath the low chatter, and I see that it comes from a machine set in one corner of the room, a wooden box with a large horn attached to project the sound, which carries an odd, swaying tune, unusual but not unpleasant, and a scratchy quality I had not heard until now.

“I'm very glad,” the bespectacled man says. “I tried to order things you would like.”

“Why didn't you eat anything?” I ask, turning back to him.

“I wasn't hungry,” he replies kindly. “Now, I was hoping you would do me a small favor.”

Inclined as I am to repay this man for his generosity, I have learned never to agree to a favor before I know what will be asked of me. I try without success to look past the gleam of his spectacles. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

He reaches beneath the table and produces a rectangular wooden case,
which he sets before me, flicking the latches open as he does. Inside is a fiddle, a lovely piece of work. Like the man and his spectacles, there is something familiar about this instrument. “Where did you get this?” I say, running a hand along one wooden curve.

The bespectacled man does not answer. Instead, he says, “I would very much like to hear you play, Naomi. Would you do that for me?”

The request is neither onerous nor unreasonable. I think I would have been happy to play even if this man had not just treated me to the finest meal of my life. I lift the fiddle from its case and discover it warm to the touch. Its weight and balance remind me of holding a living thing, at once heavier and lighter than it appears. As I set the fiddle to my arm, a smile spreads across the bespectacled man's face. He makes a sign to someone I cannot see, and the swaying music ceases with a loud scratch. The silence that follows is warm, inviting.

I take up the bow and draw one long note across the strings.

For a moment, I see the rushing ocean, waves flashing in the sunlight.

The bespectacled man is watching me, his mouth drawn into a delighted smile, cheeks crinkling around the edges of his horn frames. “That was wonderful, Naomi,” he says. “Please, again.”

I can think of no reason why I should not oblige him. Indeed, though I had hesitated, fearful of overstepping myself, I am eager to continue playing. Again, I bring down the bow, drawing out a second note, lower and richer than the first. With it comes a blast of open air, spinning sky: a high, bright sun.

“Splendid, splendid,” the bespectacled man says, clapping his hands once. “Don't stop now. Go on, play whatever you like.”

But I have lowered the fiddle, unsure of myself. Something here is not right. “What is happening?” I ask him. “Who are you? What is this place?”

An image has risen from the back of my mind, a blurry tableau of faces. They are people I do not quite know, wishing me luck on an errand I do not quite recall. And then the bespectacled man speaks, and the picture fades.

“This is a restaurant, Naomi,” he answers soothingly. “You know that. And I am your host. You and I have just shared a lovely meal, and now you are delighting me with your wonderful music. You do like to play, don't you?”

“I do,” I admit.

“Then please, play on.”

It is all the invitation I require. My song is slow at first, but quickly gathers pace. It seems the fiddle itself is urging me on, all other thoughts gone in the joy of the music. Again I see the sky, now streaked in wispy clouds, and water below, rushing waves reflecting the sun in a glittering tumble. There is something else, too, a shadow behind the glare and sparkle. At first I think it must be somewhere beneath the ocean's surface, a sea monster traveling at fantastic speed, but there is no swell in the water as such a leviathan would raise. I strain for a closer look, and the waves part, as though pressed aside by some immense force. Mirrored in the ocean's surface I see the silhouette of something large and swift moving with liquid sleekness. Its shape changes from one moment to the next, and like drifting clouds, it now and then takes on familiar forms: a bird in flight, a running cat, a woman's body tucked into a dive, a bullet.

There is a second reflection, too, high above. I look up into the blue sky and spot a dark shape crossing the sun, and behind it another, like the shadow of a shadow. All around me, water sprays into the air with the force of my passing, drops glinting in the clear light. The two shadows know I am here. They alter their course, diving toward me.

“Naomi!”

It is a voice I know, and hearing it trips up my song in a jumble of notes. The bespectacled man appears just as upset as I am at the interruption, though no one else nearby has noticed. Casting about for the source of the disturbance, I see a boy standing just inside the restaurant's entrance. He is dressed in a very odd costume: an overlarge shirt and bill-brimmed cap, each emblazoned with some bizarre design. He is not only calling to me but already on his way to my table. Fortunately, a doorman in a black jacket has spotted him and steps in to discourage the boy's advance.