Daughter of the Burning City

by Amanda Foody

  “What’s a poison-worker?” Hawk asks.

  “Just wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “But the game isn’t finished,” Unu yelps.

  “I was going to lose anyway.”

  I slip outside to find Luca waiting for me behind the tent. He wears a grim expression. After one look at his hideous, quilted vest and his uncombed blond hair, I am reminded of the details of our conversation last night, and how his words so easily manage to be even more offensive than his clothing. I’m already dreading whatever he has come here to say.

  The guard leaves to give us privacy.

  “What are you doing here?” I snap. “You made it quite clear yesterday that I wasn’t worth helping.”

  “I was wrong,” he says. “I heard about Blister. I’m so sorry, Sorina.”

  I cross my arms and turn away. Now he decides that my case is interesting to him? I shouldn’t have sought him out in the first place. Had I been home, maybe I would have noticed Blister wandering off. Instead, I’d been wasting my time.

  “You should leave,” I say.

  “Please. I want to help you. How are you doing?”

  “Are you only being nice because you’re interested now?” Luca reddens. Last night he was all wit and calm and I-have-better-things-to-do, but now he fidgets and avoids my gaze. I’m making him uncomfortable. Oh, well. It’s not my job to keep him at ease.

  “No. I’m being nice because you look like you need it,” he says. “I have thoughts about what happened. Just hear me out.”

  I can tell he won’t leave until he’s had his say, so I let him speak.

  “So it could still be a disciple of Ovren, I suppose,” he says, his gaze focused on the grass. “But whoever they are, they do seem to be targeting your...family.”

  I shiver at the thought that someone out there, for whatever reason, wants more of my family dead. I’m not sure I can protect them.

  “The big question is why,” Luca says. “You’re the proprietor’s daughter, which could be the reason. But how well does Villiam know your family?”

  “Well enough.” That sort of thing is private. I’m not about to share our family business with him.

  “They don’t seem close.”

  I purse my lips in annoyance. “They do not spend as much time with Villiam as I do, but they are still family. Not that it’s your business.”

  “So if the killer did this to get to Villiam, they’re not doing a very good job, are they? Villiam hardly seems affected. So the killer must have a different motivation.”

  I squeeze my fists until my knuckles whiten. There are kinder ways to say something like that. My father isn’t as dismissive as Luca seems to believe. No, he doesn’t always invite my family to dinner, but he helps provide for them. He buys presents for all of their birthdays. He asks about them whenever he sees me. He’s devastated for me.

  Luca looks over his shoulder in case anyone is eavesdropping, but it is still early enough in the afternoon for the paths to be quiet. Even the nosy fortune-worker who lives beside us is still asleep—the best gossip is witnessed late in the night, when drunk patrons stumble back to Skull Gate or when her friends flock to her door to share the latest news.

  “And there is still the question of how the killer is doing this,” Luca says. “You’re convinced the illusions are simply illusions. And since you’re the only illusion-worker I’ve heard of in the past few centuries, I’m not inclined to question your judgment on the matter. I’m thinking the killer might have an unusual sort of jynx-work. The kind that might be able to kill someone who isn’t real.”

  “You didn’t say anything like this yesterday,” I say.

  “I was thinking it. But it seemed unlikely. I thought Gill was probably killed by an Up-Mountainer—however, most Up-Mountainers suppress their jynx-work, so the perpetrator is statistically less likely to be from there. But now we have a proper killer on our hands. Someone with jynx-work who does know how to use it. Where is there a large collection of jynx-workers nearby? Here, in the Festival. Which also makes sense, as it seems odd that someone outside the Festival would target you so specifically. You’re not that important.” He speaks so quickly I almost grow dizzy.

  “You’re wrong,” I say.

  He furrows his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand my words. “What?”

  “I am important. I’m the proprietor’s daughter, destined to be the next proprietor.”

  “Is that what Villiam thinks the killer’s motive might be?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  I hesitate. Like Luca said, no, my illusions aren’t particularly close to Villiam. He grieves for them more because he grieves for my own pain. Plus, Luca repeated my thoughts earlier about the killer having an unusual form of jynx-work. Maybe the answer is not in my blueprints but in the killer’s abilities. At least someone is validating my opinions, even if he has less tact than a swarm of desert hornets.

  “We can work together,” he says. “I’ll start profiling the type of jynx-work that might be able to kill an illusion. We could find them together in Gomorrah.”

  “I’m already working on an investigation with my father.”

  “Do you or do you not believe the killer is targeting Villiam through your illusions?” He digs his walking stick into the dirt.

  “I... I suppose I can’t be certain,” I admit.

  “Good. We’ll meet tomorrow night. At ten.”

  “To what?”

  “To begin,” he says. “You can continue your investigation with Villiam—” his tone seems to indicate that his own is more important “—but we can investigate everything you and Villiam aren’t. It will cover every aspect of what happened to Gill and Blister. Between all of us, we’ll find who did this to your family.”

  “And you’re doing this why? Out of the kindness of your heart?” I don’t trust that he’d just show up here and change his mind. He’s an Up-Mountainer, not Gomorrah-born. He probably wants something. A favor from the proprietor’s daughter, perhaps.

  “I was rude to you yesterday. I feel like I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “All right, then, yes, out of the kindness of my heart.” He watches me seriously with his brown eyes, and for a moment, he reminds me of Villiam. Like he can see right through me. He knows I’m going to say yes. If it’s an opportunity to protect my family, I’m going to take it. Even if it means swallowing my pride.

  “Fine. Tomorrow. At ten.” I turn around and head back to my tent.

  Neither of us bothers to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nicoleta doesn’t look up from her washboard as I approach. She dunks one of Hawk’s shirts into the suds and scrubs the dirt out of it so hard the material tears. She hardly seems to notice the damage as she wrings the water out onto the muddy grass at her feet.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t be working with Jiafu. I think so. Gill thought so. Crown thinks so.”

  The fortune-worker across the path looks up from her knitting to eavesdrop. I am tired of her nosiness. But she did bring us a box of roasted goat legs, for our loss. I think Unu and Du already managed to eat them all.

  “I don’t want to talk about Jiafu,” I say.

  “All right, then who was the boy who visited you last night?”

  “Could you lower your voice?” I ask. Even though it’s late and most of Gomorrah’s visitors are leaving, there are still people wandering. The fortune-worker may be harmless, but I don’t want word to break out that we’re concerned a killer is after us. There would be panic in all the tents in this neighborhood.

  She raises her eyebrows and then reaches for one of Unu and Du’s shirts—with t
wo holes for their heads—soaking in the bucket. “What were you talking about?”

  I step closer to avoid being overheard. “We were talking about Gill’s and Blister’s deaths. He thinks that someone is targeting us.”

  “Sorina, do you hear yourself? Why would anyone target us?” She tucks an oily strand of brown hair back inside her favorite hairpin and crosses her arms. Despite being only twenty-two, her face appears older. She looks old and frazzled and tired.

  “I’m not sure yet—”

  “Blister’s death was an accident. And there’s nothing we could do about Gill’s.”

  I almost don’t know what to say. Is she willfully trying to remain ignorant? That’s dangerous for everyone involved.

  “You know as well as I do that Blister would never go near the dunk tank,” I say. “Someone took him.”

  Her face reddens. “No one was here. I would’ve seen. Because...because I was the person watching him when he wandered off. I would’ve seen or heard if someone came near.”

  I wince. I didn’t know that. No one had told me Nicoleta was responsible for him when he disappeared.

  “Maybe he wandered off and they took him—”

  “Why are you saying these things? Sometimes bad things happen. And there’s nothing we can do about them, and no one we can blame.”

  “But what if this is someone targeting us?” I grab her shoulders. “How would you feel if we’re burying someone else in the next city? Or if we’re burying you? Or if someone else gets into an accident on your watch?” Her eyes widen, and I know I shouldn’t have said that. But a small part of me feels better blaming someone else for Blister’s death, since it’s so easy for me to blame myself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. All I’m saying is that we need to be careful. I want us to start sleeping in the same tent and not to go out alone.”

  “Who is this person who said these things to you?”

  “His name is Luca. He’s smart. And he knows—”

  “Luca von Raske? You shouldn’t be talking to him.”

  I fume. I am not a child or someone she can just order around. “Why not?”

  “He’s dangerous. He’s friends with a lot of seedy people in the Downhill. And he’s an Up-Mountainer.”

  My mind jumps to Luca’s unnerving, insincere smile, but he doesn’t seem dangerous. He just seems like an asshole.

  “Well, how do you know him, then?” I ask.

  “Adenneya knows of him,” she says. Adenneya is a prettywoman who works in the Downhill. She and Nicoleta broke up about a year ago, back when Nicoleta still knew the meaning of the words fun and relaxation. Mentioning her name around Nicoleta has become taboo. “He hires prettywomen and prettymen, but he never touches them. They say he’s...strange. That he isn’t interested in that.”

  For a moment, I don’t understand what she means. Then her words sink in, and I blush.

  “I couldn’t care less about Luca’s personal life,” I say, a little defensively. Sure, he might be nice to look at but only until he opens his mouth. “All I care about is that he’s interested in helping me look into Gill’s and Blister’s deaths.”

  “I thought Villiam was investigating.”

  “Villiam and I are investigating. I’m about to go meet with him tonight.” I try to keep the pride out of my voice. My family knows how long I’ve wanted Villiam to take me more seriously. “Anyway, I’d like to have the family sleeping in the same tent from now on. As a precaution.”

  “And you want me to tell everyone so you don’t have to,” she says bitterly.

  I swallow down my annoyance. She doesn’t have to act like such a martyr. “If it’s such an inconvenience, I’m happy to—”

  “You want to tell Hawk and Unu and Du that you think someone is out to kill them? Because, yeah, I think that might be a problem.” She grabs another shirt—one of mine—from the pile and throws it into the soapy water.

  “I thought you could think of something. You have a way with words.” I smile my best performance smile, which doesn’t amuse her. “The worst that could happen from all this is we all have to smell Crown’s feet.”

  “Fine. But I think you’re making a mistake with Luca. Does Villiam know you’re looking into this behind his back?”

  “No, but only because I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” I glance toward the sunset. “Which I am leaving to do now. Goodbye, Nicoleta.”

  * * *

  That evening, Villiam wears a ruby brooch on his waist jacket. An heirloom from his mother, a poor woman from the Land of the Forty Deserts with half-Up-Mountain and half-Down-Mountain blood who ran away to Gomorrah. She died in childbirth with Villiam’s brother, whom he hasn’t seen in years. His father was the brother of Gomorrah’s proprietor, from the ancient Gomorrah family rumored to have been the rulers of the Festival when it originally caught on fire two thousand years ago. His father gave her the brooch when he learned she was pregnant. She gave birth to Villiam in the third month under the warrior constellations, the ones painted on the ceiling of his caravan.

  “You don’t wear that very often,” I say.

  “Today was my mother’s birthday. I’ve been feeling sentimental.”

  Of course. I hadn’t remembered, though that’s hardly surprising, considering everything that’s happened this week.

  “We’re going for a walk today,” he says. “You and me.”

  “Do we really want to be discussing the investigation in public?” I ask.

  “We’ll remain discreet.” He turns to Agni, who is stamping Villiam’s wax seal on letters on his desk. “Stay here and take care of anyone who knocks. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Of course.”

  While Villiam searches for his jacket, I stare at the world map above his desk. The Up-Mountain continent reminds me of a hand with an incredibly large thumb to its west. The most dominant city-states in the Up-Mountains line the coast of the thumb, made powerful by their impressive navies that allow them to terrorize the rest of the world, even from their rather remote locations. Much farther east, along the peninsulas that make up the fingers, are the Yucatoa lands, which, though different in culture and climate from the rest of the Up-Mountains, also share the Up-Mountain belief in Ovren and penchant for greed.

  The region of the Great Mountains, located immediately below the thumb, connects the Up- and Down-Mountain continents. The Down-Mountain continent is six times larger than its northern counterpart, and it is made of many different nations: the Forty Deserts, the Vurundi Lands, the Eastern Kingdoms, and the Southern Islands, each with their unique cultures, religions and histories. The Up-Mountains invaded in the name of religion but in search of wealth. With prayers on their lips but greed in their hearts, they stripped the Down-Mountain leaders of their power and installed their own merchant governors. The Up-Mountains believe their rule a divine right, an absolute bestowed upon them by their god, but they know nothing of the strength of our peoples.

  This is common knowledge, but I wish I knew more specifics, particularly about what Gomorrah’s role has been all this time. For every major war, every conflict, it seems like Gomorrah was at the center.

  “Are you coming, Sorina?” Villiam asks, tearing my concentration away from the map.

  “Yes.” I wave goodbye to Agni and follow him outside.

  Villiam leads me to the left, toward the direction of Skull Gate. Because Gomorrah hasn’t opened yet, the only others on the roads are merchants setting up their displays. The air is rich with the smells of food being prepared—cotton candy, kettle corn, roast lamb, licorice cherries. Villiam pauses at a nearby food cart and purchases an extra-large bag of candied pecans and then pays the vendor double his selling price.

  As we eat, he surprises me when he fishes in his pocket and pulls out—of all things—a lucky coin. It’s t
he Harbinger, a rather common coin with low defensive stats, but fairly decent for the offensive-focused player. The depiction on the coin is a man wearing a long cloak with his arms extended, as if casting a terrible charm on someone beneath him.

  “Do you know who the characters on lucky coins represent?” Villiam asks. When I don’t answer, he continues, “They are the proprietors of Gomorrah.”

  “Really? Who was the Harbinger?”

  “My uncle. Rather pitiful stats, aren’t they?”

  Villiam’s uncle was the proprietor before him, and though I’ve never met him, I know he and Villiam were very close. When Gomorrah was traveling in the Forty Deserts, the Festival found itself caught in the Eighth Trade War, a series of disputes when the Down-Mountains rebelled against the cruel Up-Mountain slavers and governors. Villiam’s uncle was killed by a crossbowman on a visit to a desert caliph.

  “Was he a charm-worker?” I ask.

  “Yes. He unleashed a terrible curse on the local Up-Mountain

  governor by attaching it to his crown—can’t imagine how he managed to get his hands on it in the first place.” Charm-workers

  can cast enchantments through objects, particularly ones that hold value to an individual. “All of the governor’s children died when he touched them.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say.

  “It only activated after the governor had my uncle killed for his alliance with the caliphate. They killed my father, as well.” Villiam wasn’t particularly close with his father, who preferred improving the strength of one’s body over improving the strength of one’s mind. “That’s why the minters depicted him like this.”

  “That’s why they called him the Harbinger?”

  “Yes, because his death brought the Eighth Trade War.”

  We approach Skull Gate, its great mouth gaping open as an archway. The views from the entrance and the exit are identical, so even on the Gomorrah side, we still get a view of its eyes, covered in black shards of glass that glitter and reflect the images of anyone below it a thousand times, like in the eyes of a fly. The rest of it is painted white, stained gray by the smoke around Gomorrah and peeling from its constant exposure to the elements.