Daughter of the Burning City

by Amanda Foody

“Hold it.”

  I do.

  “Now picture someone annoying in their underwear.”

  My mind naturally goes to an image of him. I’m so startled by this command and mortified at my own thoughts that I let out of bark of nervous laughter.

  “Feel better?” he asks. “It’s what I do before my shows.”

  “Um, yes,” I say, my cheeks growing warm. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  We step inside the tent to the Show of Mysteries. It’s overly decorated, in my opinion. Chairs painted with purple glitter. The stage torches each burn a different color—the result of the same fire-work that keeps the Downhill’s torches green and the Uphill’s white. Black-and-red-striped tape lines the stage.

  Narayan sits on the stage, his skinny legs dangling off it. He has deep brown skin and wears his hair in one long braid that reaches his tailbone, and his pointed eyebrows are dyed silver. He looks to be in his midtwenties, maybe older. The intensity of his eyebrows overshadows any further impression of his other facial features.

  “Hello,” Luca says cheerfully, as if we’ve come around for tea. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you by meeting so soon.”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I needed a break, you know? My girl back home is ready to pop—” he makes an exaggerated circular motion over his stomach “—and you know how they get. Driving me mad. All she does is order me around while she sits back, complaining about her mother or her sister. I need a breather.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a beer bottle.

  “Well, he’s a talker,” Luca mutters beside me.

  As we walk closer, Narayan gets a clearer view of us. He studies Luca’s expensive clothes and walking stick briefly, but his eyes rest on me. “How do you see out of that thing on your face?” he asks. I’m surprised he doesn’t immediately know who I am, and Luca’s words from a few nights ago enter my mind: You’re not that important.

  “I manage,” I say coolly.

  “That’s a woman for you. Eyes on the back of their heads.”

  “You remember why we’re here, don’t you?” Luca asks.

  “You’re going to ask me questions.” He sets his beer bottle down, leaps off the stage and staggers for a moment before collapsing in an audience seat. “Ask away.”

  Luca doesn’t make eye contact while asking his questions. He examines the bottom of his walking stick and then taps it against the toe of his shoe. “We were curious about your ghost-work. It’s not very common, is it?”

  He jabs his thumb at his chest. “You’re looking at the only one.”

  “I’ve seen your act before,” Luca says. “I imagine you simply use your ghost-work to fall right from the coffin through the floor, right?”

  “Yep. There’s space under the stage. I keep snacks down there.”

  Luca smirks. “What kind of snacks?”

  “Beer.”

  This man doesn’t seem like he could have killed Gill and Blister. Not only does he lack a motive, I doubt he’s smart enough to have committed two murders and thrown suspicion off himself each time. And his ghost-work doesn’t seem to be the kind that would make illusions killable. Not that I know what that jynx-work might be, but this one doesn’t feel right.

  “Have you been busy lately?” Luca asks. “The show performs every night, does it not?”

  “Every night. I usually get one night off a week, but lately I’ve been staying on. Babies are expensive. So my girl keeps telling me.”

  “So were you working two nights ago?”

  “Yep. Working every night except when we were traveling.” He finishes off his beer. “Gets me away from my woman.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say with disgust, thinking of Venera’s troubles. People like him are the reason I have trust issues. “So do we get to see your ghost-work?”

  “Sure, if you want.” He holds out his hand. “Shake it.”

  I reach for it but swipe only at air. I wiggle my fingers in the empty space that appears to be Narayan’s wrist.

  “Almost like an illusion,” Luca says. He grabs my arm and pulls me back toward him, and then he leans down to my ear. “What do you think of his jynx-work?”

  “He’s not smart enough,” I whisper back.

  “That’s not his jynx-work.”

  “And he has an alibi that we can verify with the manager of the Show of Mysteries.”

  Luca sighs. “You’re not much of an outside-the-box thinker, are you? He could be lying. There could be something to his jynx-work we don’t know about.”

  “He’s a drunk, Luca.”

  “I’m certainly not disagreeing with you about that.”

  Narayan points between us. “You’re both jynx-workers?” We nod. “What kind?”

  “Poison-worker,” Luca says.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t die, even if you kill me.”

  “No shit? Can I try to kill you? Uh, if you don’t mind—”

  “I have a show in the Downhill. Pay up and you can.”

  Narayan nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I think I will. Sounds fun. No offense, but you look like you’d be fun to kill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Narayan makes motions over the top of his head. “Your hair. It’s too everywhere. It annoys me.”

  “Well, that’s rather harsh.” Luca turns around, twisting a blond strand around his finger. “Does my hair annoy you, Sorina?”

  My face warms. Why is he asking me? As if I cared about his hair. “Your hair is fine.”

  “I think that’s all of our questions,” Luca says. “Thanks, Narayan. I know you’re a busy man. I’ll send your wife a gift for the baby.”

  His face softens with a loopy grin. “Our fortune-worker said it’s a girl. She’ll be a pretty one, like her momma.”

  When we leave the tent, I say to Luca, “You’re awfully formal to a drunk.”

  Luca shrugs. “So what are you going to get his daughter?”

  “Me? I didn’t agree to that.”

  “It’s polite,” he says.

  I mutter a curse under my breath. I suppose I could ask Kahina to make the baby a life quilt. She loves making those.

  “We’ll go see the next person tomorrow,” Luca says. I almost demand to know why we’re not seeking out anyone else tonight but catch myself, remembering that Luca has a whole life of his own outside this investigation. He probably has a prettyman to share crumpets with or something equally as absurd to do later. And I can’t expect progress to be made overnight.

  “Same time?” he asks.

  “That’s fine. But I’m not leaving yet. I’m following you to the Downhill. I need to talk to Jiafu.”

  We pass through the food market at the back corner of the Uphill that caters to Gomorrah residents, not to visitors. It’s been months since we’ve been in the Down-Mountains, so most of the food is local. Fresh apples and pears. Beef, poultry and deer meat hang from wooden stakes, rubbed with salt for preservation.

  Luca waves to a few of the vendors and calls them by name. I grimace. I’ve come here my entire life to shop for food, and I don’t know any of their names. Luca’s lived in Gomorrah for less than a year, and he’s managed to make friends with half the Festival. How am I supposed to be proprietor if I don’t know anyone?

  “What do you do for Jiafu?” Luca asks.

  “Don’t you already know?”

  “Yes. I do. I’m just making conversation. Does Villiam know that you help Jiafu steal from patrons during your shows?” His voice lacks the judgmental bite I’m used to from Nicoleta and Gill about my side work.

  “Villiam doesn’t know,” I say.

  “Ah, Gomorrah’s princess doesn’t have as clean a nose as Villiam believes.” Luca smiles the way our fortu
ne-worker neighbor smiles when hearing a fresh piece of gossip. It occurs to me that Luca is simply a paler, younger, male version of her—the local gossip, only with more entitlement. “Why do you need to meet with Jiafu?”

  “He still owes me my cut from the last job. It’s time for me to collect.”

  “That sounds quite amusing. Would you object to me spectating?”

  “Go ahead.” Usually Jiafu isn’t difficult about paying me, but I’ve never had to ask for it so long after the job. An audience could be advantageous. Jiafu is uncomfortable being the center of attention.

  We pass the fence between the Uphill and the Downhill. Above us, the crescent moon glows dimly over the mountains. In a little over an hour, the birds will start chirping, and the sun will rise, and drunks will skulk outside in the Downhill.

  I lead Luca in the direction opposite the path to his tent, where Jiafu’s caravan is parked in between a brothel and a tavern. Black paint covers every inch of it, so it practically blends into the darkness. Appropriate for a shadow-worker. Having a flashy caravan would be bad for business, when business hinges on not being noticed.

  I knock on his door. “It’s me,” I say. It’s early enough that Jiafu will be awake but not out and about.

  “’Rina?” he says from inside. “What’d I do to have to see your ugly face again?”

  I wince. Maybe having Luca as an audience wasn’t the best idea. “You didn’t pay me.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Don’t shit with me.” I knock harder on the door. “Open up.”

  He swings open the door. On the ground below him, his shadow twists and curls in the torchlight, marking him as a shadow-worker. His left eye is sporting an impressive shiner.

  I smirk as I climb inside, Luca behind me. “Who gave you that?”

  “I gave you your money two days ago. I handed it right to you.” He flicks my forehead. “Don’t tell me you lost it, cousin.”

  “Lost it? You never gave it to me!”

  He grabs fistfuls of hair in each hand and yanks his head back. For a shadow-worker, he has quite the dramatic flair. “It was two days ago. In the late afternoon. You were coming back with your whole lot of illusions from the baby’s funeral. I put it in your hand. I offered my condolences, and I left. Are you mental now or something?” He glances at Luca. “And who’s this Up-Mountainer? Your boyfriend? Come to convince me to pay you twice? He’s not much of a muscle, ’Rina—”

  “You’re lying,” I say. “You’re never awake that early.”

  “How would I even know about the funeral thing if I wasn’t there?” He points at the door. “Get out. You’re a lunatic.”

  I flinch at the insult, my hands shaking. I would remember it if Jiafu paid me after the funeral. It’s not as if I would’ve forgotten. Which means he’s lying and trying to make me second-guess myself. It’s a pretty poor attempt. And it’s embarrassing in front of Luca, who might be starting to think that I really am crazy.

  I rack my brain for an illusion terrorizing enough to make Jiafu piss himself. Venomous moths come to mind, the golden ones from the rainforests in the Vurundi Lands.

  They appear one at a time, buzzing inside the cart.

  “Don’t you pull this shit,” Jiafu says.

  More moths appear, their eyes black, their stingers sharp and as long as my thumb. My Strings vaguely appear around my feet from using so much illusion-work, and I step aside so as not to get tangled up in them.

  “I’m not kidding. Stop this.” He backs away from the moths toward the opposite wall of his cart. “You don’t want to fuck with me, ’Rina.”

  The moths attack him, swarming as he swats at them and screams. While Jiafu falls to the floor in a fit, I reach into his pocket and pull out his coin purse. Then I jump out of the caravan. I’ll make the moths go away in a few minutes, once we’re far gone.

  “Was that wise?” Luca asks. “He’s a criminal, who is acquainted with other, scarier criminals.”

  “I’m pretty scary, too.”

  In the caravan opposite us, an old man peeks his head outside to figure out where the screaming is coming from.

  “What if he sends one of these criminals to your place tomorrow morning to threaten you or the others?” Luca asks.

  I swallow. Maybe it was a reckless move. But I need the money for Kahina. He should’ve paid me what he owed me. “I have this friend who is half tree. He’s seven feet tall. He’s made of bark, the sharp kind—”

  Luca rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you thought that through one bit.”

  Where does he get off thinking he can act like my father? He’s not exactly responsible, allowing people to kill him all the time. What if something happens, and his head rolls off the stage, but he never wakes up? Does he even know what kind of fire he’s playing with?

  But his company is growing on me, and he is helping me, so I’m not going to yell at him. Not over this. Instead, I change the subject.

  “Do you want to go into Cartona with me tomorrow afternoon? I know that’s rather early...” I say, holding up the coin purse. “But I have some shopping to do.”

  His face darkens. “Is it wise to go into Cartona?”

  “Of course it is. I’ve been in plenty of cities before.”

  “This far north in the Up-Mountains? They won’t take kindly to someone like you.”

  I straighten my mask. Someone like me. Someone deformed. “I’ve dealt with unpleasant people before. I can handle myself.” I shake my head. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly shuts it. “Then...enjoy your trip.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There is a palpable sense of grief throughout the golden city of Cartona. The pedestrians walk as if wandering aimlessly, rather than traveling to a destination. The vendors don’t bother to greet any passersby. Even the apricot in my hand tastes unripe and sour.

  The most unsettling sight in Cartona is the colors. Black shrouds cover every door, every window, blocking the sunlight from each home, church and shop. The Cartonians wear all white, which reminds me too much of Blister’s funeral. Strange how Ovren’s disciples associate white with purity and we associate it with death.

  Naturally, I am wearing dark clothes and black-and-pink-striped tights, so I stick out like a raven among a flock of doves.

  I hurry through the streets, searching for a bazaar where I can find an apothecary. Cartona is a city of gothic architecture and merchants. In what’s considered to be Ovren’s holy city, churches with flying buttresses tower over the skyline. The air smells of humidity, the spices they obtain from Down-Mountain traders and the reek of city dwellers. Everyone here has an exotic item from somewhere far away; everyone has something to sell.

  As I pass a vendor showing off mosaic pottery and jewelry, each shard stained a different color and glimmering, the vendor shouts at me, “A necklace for your girl?” It startles me, as everyone else is so quiet. He holds up a massive strand of iridescent glass beads. At first I’m confused, since I’m alone, and I glance over my shoulder to find Luca standing behind me, dressed all in white and carrying a separate white tunic, which he throws at me.

  I’m so shocked by the sudden projectile, Luca’s appearance and the vendor calling me Luca’s “girl” that I shriek and fail to catch the tunic. It falls onto the dirty, golden street.

  “The idea is to blend in,” Luca says.

  With his fair features and white clothing, Luca fits in with the Up-Mountainers in Cartona, but not as much as I would have expected. His hair is much too long. His nose piercing glints in the sunlight. And the smirk on his face hardly matches the somber expressions of those around me. Despite his past and his looks, there’s definitely more Gomorrah in him than I’d noticed before.

  The vendor contin
ues to berate us and show off the necklace. I redden and wonder if Luca will say something, but he just ignores him. Did he not hear him? Or is he avoiding giving a reaction to my being “his girl”? It’s useless to overthink something like this, but I like the idea of being somebody’s girl. It makes me sound desirable. Not like a freak with no eyes. And Luca, though irritating, is hardly terrible to look at.

  “You’ve been following me,” I say.

  “Are you angry?”

  “Yes.” I hold up the white tunic. It should cover most of my clothes, judging by its length. It looks to be one of Luca’s shirts. “And also no. Thank you for this.”

  “I’m glad I came. Cartona’s archbishops have a reputation for cleansing mania. The white clothes are meant to refer to a person’s purity.” He nods his head to the right, where black smoke billows into the sky. “Vanity burning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means the city is doing one of its cleanses, burning everything from secular books to makeup.” I glance at the women around me and notice for the first time that none of them wear rouge, lipstick or even a hint of glitter. How dull. “I’ve never seen so many in white, though, as if it’s a law now. Something must’ve happened here.”

  “I don’t intend to stay long.”

  “Good.”

  Jiafu’s coin purse jingles in the breast pocket of my cloak. I cross my arms as I walk, in case of pickpockets. I’ve been in enough Up-Mountain cities to know the poor and the homeless perch on every corner, waiting to seize an opportunity in the form of an unwary shopper. Though Gomorrah has its share of petty crime, our thieves are less desperate, and no one would risk mugging and injuring a patron.

  “There’s an apothecary symbol on that building over there,” Luca says, pointing to our left. A green cross hangs over the door.

  The shutters on the top two floors are bolted closed, but the door is ajar, and an Open sign dangles from a rusted nail on the pane. The vendors outside the building sell produce and seeds, normal-looking stands run by normal-looking people. But the apothecary shop looms and casts a shadow onto the street, jagged like teeth from the broken thatches on its roof. Like a monster waiting to snatch you from behind.