Daughter of the Burning City

by Amanda Foody

  “Unless someone paid her.”

  “She already made two excellent points about why she is not the woman for such a job.” Luca sighs. “If you’re so certain that woman killed them, then we can come back after we figured out who paid her to do so. But I don’t think you believe she did, anyway. You’re just in a sour mood. What was Tuyet talking about, anyway? What did she mean about a traitor?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it here,” I say. I’m not convinced that we’re out of range of Tuyet’s strange jynx-work yet.

  Luca swivels on his heel and walks down a path to the left. “Then let’s discuss as we walk. We’re on our way to a party. I did say festive.”

  “I am festive.”

  I have to nearly run to keep up with him. I lean in close so that no one can overhear us. “My investigation with Villiam isn’t much like ours,” I start. At first, I hesitate about whether to tell him. Villiam told me not to trust anyone not born in Gomorrah. But Luca has never given me a reason to suspect him, and I desperately want his advice. “Have you heard of the Alliance of Cyrille?”

  “Yes.”

  I should be surprised, but nothing Luca knows surprises me anymore.

  “Before I came to Gomorrah, I knew a man who was involved in it. I’ve also heard people speak of it here,” he says. “Villiam believes they killed your illusions? Why wouldn’t they simply kill you, or his assistant, or people closer to him?”

  “They could simply be trying to shake me. I am Gomorrah’s future proprietor.”

  “And I suppose Villiam has told you what it means to be a proprietor.”

  His words sting. Was everyone aware of this truth except me? If Villiam was purposely trying to keep me sheltered like he said, he really did an extraordinary job.

  “I’m aware of what that means,” I say. “They think the man who attacked Villiam worked for the Alliance.”

  “He probably did. Cartonian. Hiding out in Gomorrah during the day. Carrying a vial of poison to kill himself when necessary. That feels a lot like their style. But the one who killed your family? Who knew exactly how to disable Gill? Who turned no heads when he was with Blister? We’re looking for someone established in Gomorrah for more than a few hours. So it doesn’t make sense for that person to be working for the Alliance. If the Alliance simply wants Villiam dead, they wouldn’t bother with your illusions. They would send a man to spook Villiam’s horses.”

  My head hurts from spinning around so many theories, all of which make sense. If Luca is right, my family is still in danger.

  I fill him in on the details of my conversation with Chimal and Villiam today, particularly the bit that involves Hawk. “They’ve given me a day to speak with her, but I don’t want her involved in this.”

  “Then don’t work with Chimal. You said Chimal gave you an ultimatum.”

  “I... I have to be a part of this. There is still a chance that the Alliance could have killed my family. And Villiam wants me to take on more responsibility as a proprietor.” And I don’t want to let him down.

  “If you have to be a part of it, then you don’t have a choice. You’ll have to speak to Hawk. But Hawk can still decline, can’t she?”

  “She won’t. I know her. She’ll want to help.”

  “If you consider this a family matter, I would discuss it with your whole family. Maybe Hawk will listen if more people than you tell her no.”

  I didn’t think of that. Nicoleta has a talent for persuasion. We could have a family meeting tonight. Villiam and Chimal cannot be disappointed in me if Hawk refuses.

  “What sort of party are we going to?” I ask, my spirits now considerably lighter.

  “The sort with classic Gomorrah debauchery. There’s a tent behind mine that often hosts them.”

  So he means the kind of parties Venera attends wearing her black lipstick and skintight, striped dresses.

  “Why are we going to this party?” I ask.

  “There’s someone I need to speak with there. Another client. You don’t have to come, but I thought you might like to.”

  “I’ve never been to a party.”

  “I don’t know how your father could possibly give you a working knowledge of Gomorrah without sending you to one.”

  He leads me to the tent behind his packed-up caravan, a tent which is a massive expanse of various tarps sewn together, nearly the height of the Menagerie in the Uphill, all rolling on a platform charmed to move on its own. The air smells like a summer night and rum and fever, and just breathing it in makes my steps feel lighter. We each pay two copper pieces to enter.

  Inside are at least one hundred people, maybe two hundred. Wearing the most outrageous clothes I’ve ever seen in one place. Suit jackets made of taffeta. Dresses with more layers than a wedding cake. Hats with brims full of ragweed. Shoes with platforms six inches high.

  A fire-worker stands in the center of the dance floor surrounded by a fence, juggling three balls of flames that burn purple, red and pink. The musicians play a Vurundi dance with a beat that pulses throughout the tent, beckoning dancers closer with its hypnotic rhythm. The bar is opposite the musicians and quite crowded.

  I notice Yelema, the prettywoman who was having tea with Luca when I first found his tent. She’s dancing and is as mesmerizing as always. She waves at me, and I wave back. Then she waves at someone else in the room, and another. As if she knows everyone here. The only two people I know well in the Downhill, which makes up more than half of the city, are Luca and Jiafu. If I’m going to be proprietor, that needs to change.

  Luca sits on a stool and speaks to the bartender, their heads so low it looks like they’re talking into their glasses. I slide in beside him, but they keep their voices almost too low for me to hear.

  “...yesterday morning,” Luca says. “Nearly certain he’s a shadow-worker.”

  “Who is?” I ask.

  The bartender eyes me cautiously. “She’s with you, von Raske?”

  “Do you mean do I care if she overhears, or is she with me?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “I’d rather she not overhear. She’s a client for a different matter,” he says.

  Before I can ask what’s going on, the bartender says, “I thought you weren’t the physical type?”

  It takes me a moment to process what the bartender means—that he thinks I’m here with Luca as a date. As a possible lover. I force myself not to look too pleased, not to hope too much, as I hold my breath, waiting for Luca’s response.

  “Everyone seems to have opinions on my type, don’t they?” Luca rolls his eyes and then turns to me. “Give us a moment.”

  I feel a shrivel of disappointment.

  “Fine,” I say and then creep my way to the other side of the bar, hoping for someone to talk to. I search for Venera in the crowd but don’t find her. Instead, I bump into a woman with a five o’clock shadow and hands twice the size of my face.

  “I like your mask, dear,” she says to me.

  “Thank you. I like your shoes.” She wears glittery purple heels that pair perfectly with the frills of her dress. “Is it always this crowded?” I ask.

  “They’re all celebrating the Up-Mountain war that hasn’t happened yet,” she says. “But everyone thinks there will be one because some fortune-worker said there’d be. The fortune-worker’s name changes with each story. They think a war here will bring the Down-Mountains more freedom.” She raises her eyebrows. “Wishful thinking.”

  “War in the Up-Mountains? Why?”

  “People keep dying, I think. Important Up-Mountain people.”

  I think back to the young prince in Cartona, the one who died of pneumonia, but people really believe he was murdered by Frice. Then there was the Frician duke. Villiam didn’t mention anything to me about a possible war, and I’d believe hi
m over any fortune-worker.

  Luca reappears at my side. “Sorry,” he says. “I only needed to speak to him for a moment.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “A private matter.” His face is serious and cold, and, for a moment, I have the urge to take a step back. He’s definitely hiding something important. This isn’t some meeting with the Leather Viper.

  Or maybe I’m just on edge, with all this talk of war and the Alliance.

  There’s a pause. I can feel the thrum of the music in my fingertips. Luca shifts almost awkwardly next to me.

  “Do you want to dance?” he asks suddenly.

  “With you?”

  “I mean, I invited you here. Unless you have someone else with whom you’d prefer to dance.”

  I look him over and try to keep myself from flushing once more. His dark eyes that deeply contrast with his pale hair and skin. His angular features, his broad shoulders, his slender frame. If Venera was here, she would tell me he’s attractive and that I should definitely dance with him. That I should seize the opportunity, even at the risk of making a fool of myself.

  He’s probably just being nice. We’re friends, after all.

  I take his hand anyway.

  Luca is a marvelous dancer. His feet seem to guide him more than his head, as if his body remembers a song his mind doesn’t. It’s the sort of skill that comes from teaching, and I wonder about his life before Gomorrah, his wealthy family who all passed away. Did one of them teach him to dance?

  He grabs my hands and twirls me around quicker than Blister’s top, and I’m spinning too fast to remember to be sad. At one point, he dips me so low that my hair brushes the floor. He makes quite the show of waltzing me around the dance floor. I should’ve known he had a flair for the dramatic—he’s a performer, after all.

  After several songs we stumble outside, dizzy with exhilaration. The night air feels like a sigh against my skin, though the atmosphere here isn’t peaceful. The Downhill paths are trafficked with wanderers, some drunk, some just looking for trouble.

  We take a few steps behind the tent, halfway to Luca’s caravan. And I think about how close this tent is to where Luca sleeps, which I’m suddenly very aware of. Luca takes a deep breath of the night air and stretches. He laughs, a sound I realize I’ve rarely heard before. “You’re a terrible dancer,” he says.

  “Am not.”

  “Yes,” he says, grinning his dimpled smile, “you are.” He runs his fingers through his hair so it’s pushed out of his face. “That was fun.”

  “More fun than spying and gossiping?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you were talking to that bartender about?”

  “You’re awfully nosy,” he says. He steps closer and lowers his voice, so that no one around can hear us. I instinctively lean into him. “Why are you so curious?”

  “Because I’m curious about what you do when you’re not with me. Because...because I’ve heard rumors about you, and I—”

  “What rumors?” he asks sharply. He searches my face, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. His expression is always unreadable; he may as well also be wearing a mask. What does he think about my appearance? Does it bother him like it does everyone else?

  “Nothing in particular,” I say.

  He takes a step closer, so that we’re nearly chest to chest. There’s a rustle to our left from those passing us, but I’m too distracted to care.

  “I know you’re one of those people who never talks about themselves,” I say. “I can tell. You don’t. But you can tell me. We’re friends, you know.”

  “Friends?”

  “Well, I’m not just your client. We’re clearly friends.” I’ve hoped this is true, but his tone is starting to make me wonder if he feels differently.

  “Because we do friend things, clearly. Like interrogate people and...flee from tumultuous cities.”

  I gesture between us. “But...I listen to you ramble. I tried your gin because you like it—even though it’s disgusting. I even had Nicoleta wash the white shirt you lent me. That’s something a friend would do. I say we’re friends. We’re...we’re at a party together.”

  I don’t know whether it’s because I’m so far from my tent, from the depression that hangs over it, or if it’s because I’m feeling brave or desperate for human connection. But, for whatever reason, I press my lips against his. I didn’t dwell on this decision before I made it. I didn’t think at all.

  His lips are soft and the skin around them is smooth from a recent shave. I inhale the scent of his sandalwood soap while pressing a hand against his vest. Maybe Kahina was wrong about romance in my fortune.

  He stands absolutely still, tense. His eyes are closed, but he’s barely opened his mouth. Even though I’ve never kissed someone before, it doesn’t take an expert to realize when someone isn’t kissing you back. I pull away, mortified.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not sure what I was thinking.” Even though I know exactly what I was thinking. That maybe he saw past my deformity. That our relationship had extended beyond business.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I have the urge to hide my face in my hands and run.

  He studies the silver handle of his cane. “No. Don’t apologize. I’m not usually...put in this position. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I need to think.”

  “You need to think?”

  “Yes. I need to think,” he says, suddenly flustered. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable before. “Because I think about everything, over and over, and I think myself into things, and I think myself out of things. And I need to think. Are you...are you upset?”

  “No.” I cross my arms, forcing my face into neutrality. “I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He pauses once more to examine my face, his eyebrows knit together. Then he turns on his heels, straightens rigidly and disappears out of the green torchlight of the Downhill.

  Someone giggles to my right, and I whip around, my face flushed with embarrassment. Who was watching us? Well, they certainly got quite the show. I cover my face and mask with my hands. The last thing I need is for someone to recognize me and make me the laughingstock of the whole Festival.

  “Don’t be rude,” someone hisses. I realize that it sounds like Hawk.

  “Unu? Du? Hawk?” I say.

  The three of them appear in the torchlight, their eyes wide from being caught.

  “How long have you been there?” I ask.

  “You kissed him,” Du says. He makes kissy noises.

  “You spit in my ear,” Unu mutters. He yanks on a piece of Du’s hair, making him curse.

  “None of you should be in the Downhill,” I say. I grab Unu by his shoulder and Hawk by her wing, and then I drag them down the path with me. “You’ll be grounded if Nicoleta finds out. And since you were so rudely stalking me...I might just tell her.”

  “We wanted to see where you go to every night!” Unu blubbers. Unu hates getting in trouble. “We...we were worried about you.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  I glance between the three faces. I can tell they’re all embarrassed, not so much at being caught, but because I doubt they intended to witness such an awkward scene while spying. That doesn’t make me any less annoyed.

  “You each owe me three bags of licorice cherries,” I tell them. “Unu and Du, you count as two people.”

  They gape at me. That’s a decent amount of money. But if I tell Nicoleta, they won’t be allowed out of the tent for a week. Hawk won’t get to practice her fiddle with those kids in the orphan tents she visits. And Unu and Du won’t be able to gamble away their allowances in the games neighborhood.

  “And say you�
�re sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry,” they chorus.

  I flick their cheeks, now more amused than angry. “Yeah, you are.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next afternoon, Nicoleta is the first to rise, as usual. As per her morning ritual, she throws on clothes, climbs out of the caravan and seeks out a vendor to buy everyone breakfast. Usually, Crown cooks for all of us but not when the Festival is traveling. Instead, we subsist on fruit, sugar-coated nuts and various candies until we reach the next city.

  Once Nicoleta jumps onto the road, I wrap myself in my cloak and follow her. She is already far down the path on her walk, and I run to catch up. I tap her on the shoulder, and she screams.

  “Sorina! I didn’t hear you. It’s so early—what are you doing awake?”

  “I wanted to talk to you. It’s important. I need your help.”

  “Is this about Luca von Raske? You told me you would tell me how the investigations were going, but you haven’t said a word.”

  “It’s not about him. It’s about my investigation with Villiam.” As we walk, I am careful to keep my voice low as I explain what I have learned over the past two weeks to Nicoleta. “Chimal wants Hawk involved in the wedding that is happening in two weeks.”

  “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m shocked that Villiam would stand by Chimal’s suggestion.”

  “He gave me a day to think it over, at least,” I say.

  Nicoleta turns the copper coins over in her hand as she thinks. “They don’t have any evidence to support their claims that this so-called Alliance is responsible. I’m worried that Villiam is simply pulling you into his political affairs.”

  “Whether or not the Alliance is responsible, these affairs will one day become my own. I want to help him. I just don’t want Hawk involved.”

  Nicoleta ponders this. “Why is he so set on Hawk?”

  “He said the Up-Mountainers will be prepared for normal forms of jynx-work. Obviously, Hawk’s abilities are unique.”

  We approach a small vending cart, only now opening its shop. The vendor, a young man with a birthmark on his cheek, smiles as Nicoleta approaches. “I gave you some extra licorice cherries this time. I know how you like them.”