by Amanda Foody
Villiam and I sit on a bench beside the Festival of Burning Desires sign.
“Until now, I have been teaching you only the mechanics of the Festival, without revealing to you the true nature of the role of Gomorrah’s proprietor,” Villiam says. He sits up straighter and admires the Festival around him with regality. “Two thousand years ago, Gomorrah once stood in the Great Mountains, and, for most of history, it sought to maintain peace between and within the two continents.”
“Then where did it pick up a reputation for depravity?” I ask.
“Well, that reputation came later, when Gomorrah became more festival than city.” He grabs a fistful of pecans. “But it has always been our responsibility, as the people and city who are from nowhere, who are from everywhere, to fight for a peace that was lost to Ovren’s conquests.”
I turn the Harbinger coin over in my hand, studying the proprietor’s might. It’s hard to dissociate the historical figure from the character in the game. It’s hard to fathom Gomorrah as more than simply a grand carnival.
“How do you ‘fight for peace’?” I ask.
“We secure alliances between distant kingdoms by becoming their mutual friend. We travel to the doorsteps of wherever we must be. We supply information, refuge and—sometimes—manpower.” He pops several pecans in his mouth. “In short, there is a lot a city can see, hear and experience by traveling the world. Thus, we manage to mingle in the affairs of virtually everyone, and we gain enough intelligence from each destination to pull some powerful political strings.”
He shoves another handful of nuts in his mouth, and I turn over his words in my mind. He speaks of intrigue and politics and history, but that would make him a king. My father, though intelligent and hardly a man to underestimate, has never struck me as more than a teacher, a lover of simple luxuries and one with deep-rooted opinions.
“The Beheaded Dame,” he says. “That’s Unu’s favorite coin, isn’t it? She was a proprietor in the eighth century. Beheaded right here in Cartona, in their public square.”
We both look up over Skull Gate at the golden wall of Cartona in the distance, which feels more ominous now that I know its role in our family’s history.
“The proprietors sound more like martyrs than leaders,” I say. “Is that how you’re planning to die? Killed by some Up-Mountain executioner?”
“No. I like to think I’ll live to be an old man, so I can spoil my grandchildren.” He throws a sly grin at me, and I snort at the idea of my having children someday. I can’t imagine myself as a mother.
“But then what about me? Is that how I’m going to die?”
“You don’t have to become proprietor, Sorina.”
“But I’m your daughter.”
“It’s not a monarchy.”
“But you are a king.”
The last glimpse of the sunset disappears in the west, and the white torchlights ignite around us. The voices of visitors murmur from behind Skull Gate, eager to enter and explore.
“I am no regent. We do not live lavishly like Up-Mountain lords,” Villiam says. “A better term would be commander.”
That unsettles me even more than the idea of the Gomorrah family as monarchs. The word commander elicits thoughts of battle, of violence. I am not fit for such a role, and I never imagined my father would consider himself comfortable with that position.
“Who decided that the proprietors would be what they are?” I ask. “That Gomorrah would be what it is? Why can’t you simply be a proprietor, and Gomorrah simply be a festival?”
“These things were decided before either of us were born. Before anyone alive today. Gomorrah was a city before it was a festival. Two thousand years ago, there was no Freak Show. No House of Delights and Horrors. No Menagerie. There were only people who had seen the world and sought to change it.”
The first patrons enter. A family: husband, wife and child. Wearing sage, apricot and raspberry, each like their own kind of candy. I watch as they pass us to admire the map of Gomorrah and all the attractions we have to offer. Sometimes, when I observe the patrons, I admittedly think of them less like people and more like potential sales, money to be made. How does Villiam see them? The political playing field?
He hands me the bag of candied pecans. “Here. I’ve had too many. Agni’s wife keeps telling me I should watch my waistline.”
I smile slightly, despite the seriousness of our discussion. Agni’s wife isn’t wrong.
Villiam watches the family in their candy clothes pass. “It’s hard to feel at ease in these cities, where, apart from clothes or accents, I can never tell if I’m looking at the face of a friend or one of Ovren’s disciples.” He studies the family as they point at the Festival map, as if trying to pick out the details that mark them as being from the Up-Mountains rather than Gomorrah. To an untrained eye, it’s difficult to tell.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I pull the drawstring to seal the bag. I’ll share them with the others when I return to our tent later.
“Because this is your legacy. If you want it to be. I can teach you everything you need to know. The history of each lucky coin and the illustrious people who came before you. The art of writing letters to foreign dignitaries. The parts of Gomorrah you have never seen. If you want this, that is.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I say, purposefully avoiding his unstated question. I don’t know if I want this. I’ve always been satisfied being a performer, my aspirations involving love and family more than power and leadership. Nor do I think I’m capable enough to handle such a position. “I thought we were going to discuss the investigation.”
“This is the investigation, Sorina. I have enemies right now just beyond Skull Gate, maybe even within it.” We both reproachfully watch the patrons as they pass through the entrance. “I am almost certain that the perpetrators are after me. After both of us. We’ve interviewed people in your neighborhood, in the games neighborhood, anyone who we imagine could be responsible. But we should be looking outside Gomorrah, not within.”
“But there have been murders in two different cities now. Unless you think the killer is following us?”
“No, I don’t think it’s one killer. I believe it to be organized beyond Frice, beyond Cartona, throughout the Up-Mountains. My most powerful enemies live in these cities. I brought Gomorrah here searching for ways of destroying them, and, instead, they were the ones to make the first moves.”
To our left, a woman begins to perform on a harp. Its box lies open before her with a few coppers inside to invite donations. The song sounds jovial, meant to welcome patrons into our gates, with a fast rhythm to quicken everyone’s steps and lighten their hearts. It occurs to me that this is a terrible choice of place for my father to share this information with me. Now I cannot help but see the Festival as a farce. We are putting on a show, but I had always believed that was because Gomorrah is a city of performers.
Turns out, we are a city of liars. I suppose one could call them the same thing.
“I need your help, Sorina. I wish I could provide you with a simple solution, a single perpetrator for you to bring to justice. But I fear the battle will be not so easily won.”
“I don’t think I can do that. I’m not...” Smart enough. Strong enough. Brave enough.
“When I met you thirteen years ago, I saw the potential in you. Three years old, rebelling against slavers. You rode Tree to battle the way a general rides a stallion. I knew you were a warrior.”
“That was a long time ago.” I don’t remember being that child. Villiam makes the story sound like a fairy tale, when truly it’s a horror story in real people’s lives. And his words make me uncomfortable. I am no warrior.
“I don’t want to pressure you, but this is what I have to offer.”
I lean back and press my shoulder blades into the firm wood of
the bench. When Villiam proposed to include me in his investigation, I expected interviews, paperwork. I wasn’t anticipating this sort of responsibility. I was hoping for clearer answers.
But haven’t I always wanted Villiam to take me more seriously as the future proprietor? For thirteen years, all he’s taught me is record-keeping and moving agriculture. Not strategy. Not politics.
If I say no, I can continue my investigation with Luca in Gomorrah. But Villiam doesn’t believe the killer will be found within our walls, and I’m inclined to agree with him. If I want to protect my family, helping Villiam is my only option. Becoming a true proprietor is my only option. Even if it eventually means leaving the Freak Show behind.
“When do we begin?”
Villiam smiles and then wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Immediately.”
On our return trip to his caravan, he details his plans for my upcoming education. Rather than meeting with him twice a week, as I always have, I will meet with him five or six times. There will be reading, and studying, and a number of assignments, already piling up in the back of my mind with a lump of anxiety. I’m not a fantastic student. What if, after all of this, Villiam doesn’t think I’m good enough?
I remind myself I’m doing this for Gill and Blister. And maybe a little for myself.
Back in Villiam’s caravan, Agni remains hunched over the desk. Villiam pulls various volumes off the shelves. “This is a history of all of the proprietors. This is a list of historic places in Gomorrah. This is a history of all eight of the Trade Wars.” He slips them all in a messenger bag and then hands it to me. “Oh, and one last thing.”
He reaches into his cupboard and pulls out a glass box. Inside is a scarlet cricket, as red as Villiam’s brooch. It’s petrified from the use of charm-work, perfectly preserved within the glass. “This is a rare Cartonian Cricket. They’re considered a delicacy here, served with bay leaves and paprika. I thought you might want to add it to your collection. A piece of memorabilia from the city.”
I don’t want anything to remember Cartona by. I’ll already remember it forever as the place where Blister died. Still, I take it, because Villiam means well. He loves spoiling me with gifts. “Thank you,” I say. The cricket has three eyes. Probably a deformity. Rather fitting, for someone like me.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
He beams and slaps my shoulder. “Great. I’ll see you soon, my dear. Take tomorrow to read and spend time with your family, and then come visit me the day after that. That’s when the real fun will begin.”
>
CHAPTER NINE
When Gomorrah is standing still, a three-foot-tall fence separates the Downhill and the Uphill. The stakes are painted black and sharpened into points, and trinkets and trash hang along their entire length, from top to bottom. Empty bottles stuffed with cigarette ash. Animal bones from food picked clean. Broken charms. Flyers advertising attractions and services, such as a short-term moneylender in Skull Market, where you could find anything from stolen jewelry to pickled lizard eyes for charm-work. Occasionally, there is a white ribbon for memorial of someone passed.
I haven’t decided what I’m going to say to Luca. Villiam is convinced the killers are from outside Gomorrah, so convinced he is allowing me to train as proprietor two years early. I am inclined to agree with him. Before meeting with Villiam today, I intended to tell him about Luca’s proposition, but it didn’t seem to matter by the end. I’ll find Luca and tell him thanks, but no thanks. The thought of doing so thrills me a little. He rejected me once; now I can reject him.
To my left, a man missing his left eye sharpens a machete on a stone block. He holds it up to glint in the green torchlight. Behind him, a vendor sells rice and meat that he claims is lamb, but I’m fairly certain it’s either horse or rat, judging from the tough-looking exterior. Farther down, a woman nearly six and a half feet tall sits on top of a group of cages. They’re exotic animals, she says. Some better than hunting dogs, others the warmest of pets. But that dragon snake, with its horns and spiked tail, only looks half dragon snake. Most of the animals are mutts, a little bit what she claims but mostly descended from rodents or pests found wandering the Festival during our travels.
Someone taps my shoulder. Reflexively, I whip around and shriek. It’s an older woman, her skin covered in age spots, and she cringes away in the face of my outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She grumbles something unintelligible and holds up a strand of vials full of a pink liquid. “Someone so jumpy shouldn’t be in the Downhill,” she says. “Maybe you’re looking for something sweet? A little love juice? Just a drop in that special someone’s tea, just a dab behind the ear—”
“No, thank you,” I say. That sounds like the sort of thing Unu and Du might slip into Hawk’s drink to give her hives. Besides, I like to think that when I eventually find love, it won’t be from a charm. That is hardly fit for fairy tales, and I don’t intend to settle for anything less.
“It’s from Madame Lamoratore, an experienced charm-worker—”
“I’m not interested.” I brush past her and hurry down the path, retracing the route to Luca’s tent.
Cheers cry out from my right. I turn and face a crowd gathering around a platform, one I realize I’ve seen before—while it was empty, anyway. An enormous man the size of two or three people is strangling someone beneath him. I can’t make out the other person, except for a hint of blond hair and the fact that the victim is much smaller than the giant attacking him. After another fifteen seconds, his arms go limp, and he slumps against his stool. The larger man turns and throws a fist in the air. The crowd cheers louder.
I didn’t realize killing was now a sport in the Downhill. I’m about to turn away in disgust when the smaller, dead man with blond hair stands up. It’s Luca—almost impossible to recognize out of his usual, obtrusive clothes. He coughs up a bit of blood and spits it onto the stage.
An Up-Mountain woman next to me blesses herself. “That’s devil-work,” she says. “Cursed are the demon-workers, for they will return to the depths.”
The large man swivels around. “What?” he roars. “You were dead. I killed ya.”
“And now I’m back.” Luca smiles his insincere smile. “That was a remarkable attempt, sir, but I think we should let someone else take a turn.”
After some cursing and grumbling, he leaves, and another man climbs onto the stage. He has a wide nose and dark, beady eyes. He reminds me of a cockroach.
“What’s your name, sir?” Luca asks.
“Garrett.”
“I have poisons, knives, rope...you can take your pick—”
“I’ll use my own sword, thanks,” Garrett says. He pulls it out of its sheath. It’s jagged but appears sharp enough. “You don’t mind if I use my own sword, do ya?”
“Not at all.”
Before Luca can ready himself, Garrett swings his sword straight through Luca’s neck. His head thumps to the stage and rolls off and onto the grass at my feet. I cover my mouth with my hands and fight back the urge to vomit. Red blood stains the dirt. Luca’s bedroom brown eyes look very dead.
I sway and put my hands on my knees to regain my composure. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t like him. Too much blood. Too much death. My chest tightens, and the anxiety from earlier returns in full force, as if it had never left at all. I back away so the blood doesn’t touch me.
“I killed him,” Garrett shouts. “I killed him. So I get the four hundred gold ones.”
A middle-aged Southern Islander woman looks hesitantly from the bag of winnings to Luca’s limp, bloody body on the stage. “I’m not sure—”
“He’s dead, bitch,” Garrett says. He rips the bag out of the woman’s hand.
Below me, Luca blinks his eyes and stares up at me.
I scream. He mouths something, but no sound comes out. I suppose, without lungs, he wouldn’t be able to speak.
Revolted, I gently pick up his head and lift it to my level. A bit of blood dribbles onto my tunic.
Luca’s eyes dart around until he notices his body. One by one, his limbs move on their own. He stands up, headless. Garrett turns around and shrieks as Luca’s body tackles him at the feet of the Islander woman. Garrett doesn’t put up much of a fight, and Luca stands, the bag of winnings clutched in his hand, blood spilled all the way down his clothes. He walks to the opposite side of the stage, toward me, and reaches down. I hand him his head, my stomach performing somersaults.
He screws it back on as if he’s a doll, flesh reattaching to flesh.
“That ain’t right,” Garrett yells. He clutches his religious necklace. “You’re some kind of demon.”
Luca grins and stuffs the heavy bag of winnings in his vest. “I think that’s it for the night.” He hops off the stage and lands at my side. “Thanks, princess,” he says. I’m too stricken to bother correcting him for using that nickname. “I usually have a block ready in case someone beheads me. I don’t like to get myself dirty.” He licks his hand and rubs some dirt off his chin. Around us, the crowd dissipates and moves on to a new attraction.
“That was repugnant,” I say.
“I usually do better the bloodier it is,” he says. “Some people put money in without even trying to kill me. They just get a kick out of watching me die.”
Maybe that’s because you’re an ass, I want to say, but then feel ashamed of the thought. These people don’t know him. They’re merely cruel.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” I ask.
“Only for a moment.” He taps my mask. “I like your mask today. Very sparkly.”
“Thanks.” My mask is silver and covered in glass fragments, smoothed by a translucent coating. Its reflections shimmer green from the Downhill’s torches. “Why do you let them do that?”
