by Amanda Foody
“As if a nod to history, there is a marriage occurring in Sapris when we will be arriving. The princess will be marrying her father’s advisor, an influential duke. We suspect this wedding will draw out a number of people in the Alliance and, in particular, the Alliance’s leader. If all goes according to plan, we could kidnap the leader at or just before this event. His information would be absolutely invaluable. This is what we were discussing today when you weren’t here. Our informants have only just brought us the information we needed.”
“Isn’t that playing rather dirty?” I ask.
“Gomorrah is a Festival of Sin, Sorina,” Agni says. “A city of antiheroes, at best.”
“That is mainly the Downhill.”
“The Downhill is Gomorrah. The Uphill is merely a business front.”
I frown. Maybe my entire impression of my home has been childish. Maybe I know no more about the Festival than the average visitor.
“I realize this is rather new to you,” Villiam says. “I raised you in Gomorrah’s most sheltered neighborhood on purpose, to protect you. I didn’t want to see your childhood end as early as it has. But this is the nature of the world, and we’re going to need your help.”
Now I feel even more like a fool. I didn’t ask to be sheltered.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
“Use your illusion-work. Agni and I are still gathering intelligence on the wedding and finalizing our plans. But, in the meantime, I want to prepare you. I want to introduce you to the arsenal that Gomorrah has to offer us, because your illusion-work is hardly going to be our only weapon.”
“Do you mean the Downhill?”
“Exactly.”
The corner of my mouth curves into a smile. “Will you admit now that there are assassins in Gomorrah?”
Villiam’s eyes glint. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“The Downhill isn’t safe in the daylight,” Villiam says, buttoning his jacket. I don’t understand how he isn’t stifling in the September heat. He eyes a knife sitting on his desk. I never realized previously that my father owned a knife, but there it sits, with a bronze handle, gleaming on a stack of papers as if freshly polished. It’s curved—definitely not meant for opening letters. I wait for him to take the knife, but he merely stares at it and then turns away. “But you and I will have nothing to worry about.”
I’m not sure I believe him. Villiam is sporting his nicest double-breasted coat and fine leather shoes. A masked criminal might take advantage of our vulnerability and Villiam’s overly luxurious fashion sense. Not to mention that I’ll be pushing him in a wheelchair, and I doubt we would be able to outrun an assailant in such a position.
“Where are we going in the Downhill?” I ask.
“To meet with the captain of the guard.”
I’ve seen the captain of the guard from afar and overheard him speaking to Villiam in his office. Unlike the regular guards, he wears a burgundy sash over his uniform, though, in the dim smoke of Gomorrah, the deep red is as equally difficult as black to perceive within darkness. While the Up-Mountain officials like to preen in their flashy medals, Gomorrah guards would prefer to dress as chameleons rather than peacocks.
Hobbling on one leg, Villiam steps down from the caravan and collapses into the wheelchair. “What are the three occupational roles a person can play in Gomorrah?”
“Well, in the Uphill, there are performers and vendors. People who cater to visitors,” I say, turning the wheelchair in the direction of the Downhill. Villiam is heavier than I anticipated. “Then there are the people who oversee the upkeep of the Festival. Teachers, doctors, merchants, gardeners.” I pause, trying to come up with the last profession. “All that’s entering my mind is criminals, but I doubt you mean—”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“So the third: thieves, prettyworkers and assassins.” To my slight thrill, Villiam doesn’t bother to argue that there are no assassins in Gomorrah.
“These criminals, as you call them, are as vital to Gomorrah as any of the others. The nature of the Downhill is our arsenal, Sorina. Sin is our arsenal. It is through the very depravity of Gomorrah that we fight wars of righteousness.” He speaks with a hint of excitement in his voice. I don’t know if it’s over the subject matter or the fact that he’s sharing this information with me at last. “Thieves can be hired to steal documents outside of Gomorrah. Prettyworkers overhear valuable information from clients. Assassins, trained from birth, are always at our disposal. The people of Gomorrah first and foremost work for themselves, but they also work for us.”
The mention of prettyworkers and information sends my mind to Luca. This afternoon, shortly after waking, the guard stationed outside our caravan handed me a note from him. All it said was “Ten o’clock. Wear something festive.” I don’t know what to expect, so I wore all black clothes but brought my most colorful mask, stowed away inside my robes for after I finish with Villiam. We’re supposed to be interviewing another suspect, but I’m no longer certain we’re following the right leads. If the Alliance of Cyrille is responsible for orchestrating the murders, then we should be seeking out a spy within Gomorrah, not established—albeit suspicious—residents. Then again, even if the Alliance is a real threat to my father, there’s no proof they’re the ones responsible for Gill and Blister.
I’m anxious to hear Luca’s thoughts. I think he avoided seeking me out yesterday because he wanted to give me time with my father, but, truly, I wish he’d paid a visit. I like when he thinks out loud, so that I don’t need to. Lately, too much thinking has led my mind into dark corners.
Villiam and I slowly approach the fence of the Downhill. I’ve never crossed this border with my father. He passes it with confidence and ease, as he probably has hundreds of times before.
“I don’t believe you and I have ever discussed the guard,” he says. “The guard has its soldiers, those who protect Gomorrah. Shadow-workers, mainly. But it also recruits a number of thieves and assassins, those who are bred in families who make crime their expertise. It has one rule, and one rule only. Can you guess it?”
“No.”
“All members of the guard have lived their entire lives in Gomorrah. Anyone from outside cannot be trusted.”
I try not to show any outward reaction to his statement. This goes against the Gomorrah philosophy, that any misfit or outcast can find a home within its smoke. It reminds me of what Nicoleta told me a few days ago, that Luca was not to be trusted. I suppose I thought this at first...but not anymore. Gomorrah has found a way of interweaving itself in Luca’s character. He passes no judgment on the prettyworkers he befriends, as many Up-Mountainers have done. He dresses like any performer in the Festival—though with terrible taste.
“Chimal will be excited to meet you,” Villiam says. “He’s been hearing about you for years.”
Villiam’s voice momentarily pulls me out of my reverie, but I realize with mild mortification that no matter how much I try to focus, my mind keeps returning to Luca. I’m growing uncomfortably aware of how much I think about him. Kahina always says that no one can choose whom they fall for, and even though I consider myself a romantic, I don’t want to cause myself unnecessary heartache. I’d rather squash the feelings before they begin—after all, how could Luca possibly be interested in someone like me?
“Chimal began his life as a thief,” Villiam continues. “As he will probably tell you, there are a number of established families in this section of the Festival. Although the Uphill is associated with wealth, the oldest families reside in the Downhill. Families as old as Gomorrah itself.”
To our left, we pass a house of prettywomen. The two-story caravan has its shutters closed so its residents can sleep during the day. A garland of brightly colored glass bottles clunks against the wood as it
moves, a sound like long nails clicking against a hard surface. One woman tends to the elephants by washing them as they walk.
I’m immediately embarrassed to be walking beside a brothel with my father, no matter how common a staple of Gomorrah they might be. Despite everything I know about Villiam, he’s never told me if he’s had a lover. I’ve never seen him with either a woman or a man, but I don’t think it’s because they don’t interest him. Venera once said it was probably because he puts his duties as proprietor far above any bodily needs. It hardly seems fair that his job has stripped him of the opportunity for romance, since proprietors in the past have had spouses and proper families.
I know there are sacrifices I must make when I become proprietor, but I’ve spent years daydreaming of the princes and princesses from Kahina’s fairy tales. I won’t give up on my own romantic happily-ever-after, not even for the Festival.
As we leave the brothel behind, my thoughts drift to Luca’s beautiful prettywoman friend, Yelema. Nicoleta mentioned that Luca was not interested in the services prettyworkers had to offer, but she’s never actually met Luca. Probably never even seen him. He’s handsome, and, regardless of the rumors, I would be surprised if Luca had never pushed his “friendships” with prettyworkers beyond the realm of simply friends.
Luca and I, we are friends.
But lately, I’m finding that I want us to be more.
“You seem rather distant. Is something troubling you?” Villiam asks.
“No,” I say quickly.
“Certainly you’ve been in the Downhill before. I don’t need to know every detail of my daughter’s life, but I imagine—”
“I have. I guess I’m just tired from all the packing earlier. Not so much sleep.”
“Yes, unfortunately, leaving Cartona so early has given us less time to prepare for the wedding in Sapris.”
“Is that what this is about?” I ask. “The wedding?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to discuss it now. Let’s wait until we meet with Chimal.”
Chimal lives at a deep corner of the Downhill, far beyond Luca’s tent, far beyond any place where I have ventured. I had always envisioned that the deeper one travels into the Downhill, the seedier it becomes, but evidently the opposite is true. This neighborhood is wealthy. Caravans freshly painted. Beautiful stallions pulling their carriages. Full gardens on top of their carts. But, still, there is a hint of the Downhill. The smell of incense. The unnerving quiet.
One caravan in particular, painted in deep scarlet, stands out from the others. It’s more of a cart than a caravan, with no wooden walls or ceiling, only black fabric. When we near it, Villiam uses the crutch on his lap to pull himself standing. He cumbersomely climbs inside without bothering to knock or call out Chimal’s name. I fold up his wheelchair and rush to follow him—anyone could be hiding in there, waiting for the proprietor to arrive. In his state, he would be unable to defend himself. He thinks, because he’s the proprietor, that he is untouchable. It’s only taken him a matter of hours to forget the event that resulted in his broken leg.
As I enter the cart, I receive my first glimpse of Chimal. He’s a shockingly tall man while sitting down, but after observing his stumpy legs by the light of his candle, I deduce that he probably doesn’t reach six feet when standing. His features are a mixture of Yucatoan and something else. Perhaps Vurundi. Perhaps Eastern. More than likely, a variety of peoples from the melting pot that is Gomorrah. He wears the face and expression of a man who has seen heartache and has allowed it to harden him on the inside, rather than the outside. A warm face and cold eyes.
“Sorina,” he says. He smiles, showing a gap in his front teeth that makes his otherwise threatening demeanor less intimidating. “How pleasant to meet you at last.”
“A pleasure indeed,” I say. My words strike me as sounding very much like my father, who has always been a master of pleasantries. I wish we could jump immediately into the heart of the important conversation we need to have—my father has been attacked by enemies beyond Skull Gate, enemies who potentially killed Gill and Blister. We must decide how to retaliate.
However, Chimal doesn’t seem eager to rush things. “I am told you can create a man using merely your imagination.”
“That’s right.”
“An act worthy of a god, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t raised with much faith.”
“I thought you followed the stars, Villiam?” Chimal asks.
“My mother did.”
“Well, as it turns out, I’m not a believer myself. The only god I worship is the god of death.”
He smiles, and the gap in his teeth seems more sinister to me than before.
“The man we seek,” he says, “he is not a man easily identified. In the letters we have intercepted from the Alliance, he has written under pseudonyms, and several. Nor are we certain where the letters are originating from.”
He means the leader of the Alliance. The man Villiam intends to kidnap. The man who has orchestrated so much suffering.
“It will be heavily guarded. Even with your illusion-work, Sorina, slipping past the entrance won’t be easy. But I do have ideas regarding my men.” He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his breath. Sweet, like corn. “Your illusions have powers unlike anyone else in Gomorrah. These could prove an asset to us. I’m particularly interested in the girl who can fly.”
“Hawk? She’s only thirteen,” I say with dismay.
“And you’re sixteen. There isn’t much of a difference.”
I watch Villiam, who doesn’t seem perturbed by these comments. Perhaps Chimal has discussed this notion with him before, when I was not included. “I won’t put Hawk in danger,” I say.
“Would she be able to carry both you and a man during flight?”
“I doubt it—”
“It wouldn’t be far—”
“I don’t think—”
“It would be the surest method of slipping you safely inside the wedding. From there, it would be simple to lure the man away using your illusion-work.”
“I’m not comfortable asking her,” I say, with more strength in my voice. “Too many of my family members have already been murdered by the Alliance. I don’t want to risk another.”
“Surely she would be more than willing to help the cause, considering the tragedies that have befallen your...family.”
Of course Hawk wouldn’t object. But that’s what I’m afraid of.
“Her willingness is beside the point. I don’t want her involved,” I say.
Villiam clears his throat. “Chimal, my daughter has all of the weapons of Gomorrah at her disposal. Surely there’s another way of executing this without endangering anyone beyond those in this cart and those who already serve the Festival.”
Only now do Chimal’s words dawn on me. I’d been so concerned with Hawk’s involvement that I hadn’t paid attention to my own. He wants me to be the one to lure the leader away from the wedding? I don’t perform well under pressure. I could be killed and jeopardize all of Gomorrah in the process. Is my father truly at ease with that?
“What are our other options?” I ask, fear obvious in my tone.
“You sneaking into the wedding from ground-level,” Chimal says.
“I hardly look like an Up-Mountainer.” Chimal, with such Yucatoan features, looks more Up-Mountainer than me.
“You would need to disguise yourself the whole time, with illusion-work.”
Chimal has no idea what level of concentration that requires. I can maintain my moth illusion for a few minutes, at best, but something more complex than that? Something to disguise me and then later lure the leader of the Alliance away from his guards? My routine in the Freak Show is ten minutes long, but it requires a different skill set, as the illusion is always moving. Fi
xed illusions are more challenging, like holding a weight with an outstretched arm.
“Are we even certain who the leader is?” I ask.
“We have a few theories,” Villiam says. “We suspect it’s an archduke of Sapris. He has the money, the name and the connections. But it could also be the crown prince of Leonita, the future heir of the city. Or a lesser-born merchant from Frice, who commands an empire of wealth.”
“Do you intend for me to kidnap all of these men?” I ask.
“No. We’re placing our bets on the archduke. His name is Dalimil. He’ll be your target. If he turns out not to be the leader, he will still provide valuable information. There’s no doubt that all of those men are high-ranking members of the Alliance.”
“You’re gambling an awful lot on this theory of yours,” I say.
“Yes,” he says seriously, “we all are.”
“Villiam, would I be able to speak to you alone for a moment?” Chimal asks. The way he looks everywhere but at me, I don’t anticipate he means to compliment me in my absence.
“Of course,” Villiam says. “Sorina can wait outside.”
I climb out of the cart with a swift, indignant leap. I’ve been kicked out of their club. When I lean closer to the fabric of the cart to eavesdrop, I hear nothing. It must be charmed to be soundproof.
Does Chimal think I’m being uncooperative? I’m not thrilled by the idea of kidnapping anyone, regardless of what they may or may not have done. Do I need to make a decision now? Gomorrah is swiftly approaching Gentoa and, after that, Sapris, where the wedding will take place. A quick decision is needed, but I don’t feel ready to decide. I wish I could speak with Luca first. I haven’t told him everything Villiam has shared with me, but I have a feeling he already knows. With all the prettyworkers he’s spoken to, he probably knows more about Gomorrah than I do, even though he’s only lived here for a year.
After a few more minutes of waiting, Villiam steps outside to join me. I help him onto the ground, and he balances himself with his crutch. We remain still as Gomorrah drifts around us.
