Daughter of the Burning City

by Amanda Foody

  “I’m a trusting person, I guess,” I say.

  “A dangerous thing. Is that why you’re here? To entrust me with something? It’s unusual, as I don’t get many clients from the Uphill.”

  “How can you tell I’m from the Uphill?” My clothes don’t look any different than the ones people here are wearing. Other than my mask, of course.

  “As if Villiam would allow his adopted daughter to live in the Downhill,” he says.

  I sigh inwardly. I’m not convinced he’s going to be of any help. He seems like an ass. He’s clearly an Up-Mountainer. And my gut—plus that smile of his that doesn’t look like a smile at all—tells me he’s hiding something.

  “You’re still contemplating whether or not to trust me,” he says.

  “You know too much about me. You sound like a creep.”

  “I told you—knowing about the people here is my business, the one I call gossip-work. It’s a hobby of mine when I’m not being stabbed to death for sport. A hobby I’m quite skilled at.” He smiles genuinely now, with the dimples, a lighthearted look in his eyes. “So, tell me, what’s troubling you?”

  I don’t know of anywhere else I could find help, and despite Luca’s strange demeanor and his Up-Mountain background, he does seem to know a lot about me. Maybe he knows just as much about the other people of Gomorrah. If he’s as good at his so-called gossip-work as he says he is, then he might not only be my sole option but a good one.

  And it’s not as if I have anything to lose.

  So I tell him every detail, starting from the show the other night, though I leave out the bit about working with Jiafu. Luca listens without interrupting. It feels different telling this story to a stranger than it did to Villiam or Kahina. I need to explain everything—what the illusions are, that Gill always sleeps in his separate tent, the layout of the stage. It’s exhausting.

  “I just don’t think it makes sense that it was an Ovren fanatic,” I finish. It occurs to me that Luca, being from the Up-Mountains, might also follow their religion. But I doubt it. He’s a jynx-worker who ran away to Gomorrah. It doesn’t matter where he’s from—they would scorn him as much as me.

  After a few moments of silence, Luca only says, “No.”

  “No, what?” I ask.

  “I’m not interested.”

  It takes me a moment to process that he means he’s not interested in helping me.

  “What? Why not? I can pay you. It may take time to gather up some money, but—”

  “I don’t take payment. I only work if the story interests me, and, to be honest, this does sound like the work of a purity-crazed Ovren disciple. You haven’t provided reasonable doubt, so that’s my answer for you. Sorry, princess.” He pulls out a golden pocket watch to check the time, as if he has better places to be.

  “But I have no idea how Gill was killed at all. He’s an illusion.”

  “Was. He was an illusion,” Luca corrects. I lean over the table to slap him across the face, but he catches my hand and holds it there. “And I know all about your illusions. Nicoleta, for instance, had a drawn-out, tumultuous affair with a prettywoman I happen to be acquainted with. So if your illusions can be touched, smelled, heard, and they can act on their own, what exactly is your definition of not real? What makes you so certain they can’t be killed?”

  “By definition, an illusion isn’t real,” I snap.

  “Illusion-worker is just a title. Like gossip-worker. Like poison-worker.”

  I stand up. “Thanks for nothing,” I snap and storm out. Who exactly does he think he is? Giving himself a fake title. Acting smarter than everyone else. He’s so...so...infuriating. I kick down the wooden sign outside his tent. Then I kick it again after it’s fallen.

  My walk home from the Downhill passes in a blur. I’m so focused on my thoughts and figuring out who else would want to help me that I pay no attention to where I’m going. One moment, I’m at Luca’s, and the next, I realize I’m already back at my own tent.

  What makes you so certain they can’t be killed?

  Is there more to my illusion-work, like Villiam thought? But I create illusions. There’s no debate about that. So what more could it be?

  As I approach our tents, a figure runs toward me. Nicoleta. Her face is pink and puffy—our signature look, lately. But not usually for her. She’s managed to stay collected while everyone else has fallen apart, at least while we’ve been looking. Has something happened? Or did she not mean for me to see her cry?

  “Sorina!” she calls.

  Nicoleta crying. Nicoleta running. Something is wrong. Something is even more wrong than before. I run toward her, my heart pounding. I push more than one Cartonian patron out of the way to reach her.

  “What is it?” I ask. She nearly collides with me, and I wrap my arms around her, stiff while she’s shaking.

  “It’s Blister. Crown found him in the dunk tank near the games area. He drowned.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Down-Mountainers wear white to funerals. I borrowed a dress from Kahina, which hangs down to my skinny ankles and is already staining with mud along the hem. Villiam stands on my left in elegant, almost priestly robes, with a starched collar and bare feet. On my right, Venera wears a simple white tunic, no makeup, no strands of beads, no flowers in her hair. She is almost unrecognizable.

  All of us—my family, Villiam and Kahina—gather around the small hole that Tree dug this morning. Blister’s casket, not even three feet long, lies at the bottom, wrapped in the red quilt Kahina made him a year and a half ago. There are no patches on it for significant life moments. It’s blank.

  I imagine the patches full. I imagine his first day of school. I imagine how dazzling his unique fire abilities could have been once he grew older. I imagine him lighting the fireworks of the show he loves so much.

  Hawk sings a mourning song. Her voice sounds distinctly inhuman, more like a bird’s, shrill but beautiful. It’s strange to hear her sing without her fiddle’s accompaniment, or to sing something so slow and deep and sad.

  I look everywhere but at the casket. At the overcast sky. At the anthill a few feet in front of me. At Crown, who cries the hardest but the most quietly. Everyone loved Blister, but Crown was the one who read Blister the same stories every night, who convinced Blister to take a bath by bribing him with treats, who rocked him to sleep when he cried.

  My chest tightens, and it feels as if I’m not getting enough air. I’m standing still, but my heart is pounding. I glance over my shoulder around the field, half expecting someone else to be here with us, examining the results of their handiwork. Selecting another victim.

  Crown digs his cane into the dirt; his dark knuckles whiten from squeezing so hard. Circles hang beneath his puffy, bloodshot eyes. He looks broken.

  I never worried about Crown’s age before, but now that I know that my illusions can die, all I thought about last night was whether Crown would make it. Blister was Crown’s entire world.

  I can’t lose another member of my family.

  And I won’t. My hands curl into fists and I take a long, deep inhale. Because now we know that Gill’s death wasn’t just a random, crazed disciple of Ovren. Not when Gill and Blister were killed so close together, both never before believed real enough to kill.

  Someone is targeting my family, and I’m going to find out who, how and why.

  Kahina casts me a warning glance, as if she can tell what I’m thinking. I haven’t spoken to her alone since just after Gill died, but there’s no way she can tell me to focus on healing now. I’ll heal after we find justice.

  At first, Nicoleta assumed Blister’s death must’ve been an accident. Blister was almost two—he naturally got himself into trouble when no one was watching. But Blister hated water. He hated baths. He hated rain. He wouldn’t go near the dunk tank, whi
ch is glass and obviously full of water. Not to mention tall and difficult for a small child to climb.

  Someone drowned him on purpose.

  He was only a baby. Our baby. I choke back a sob and wipe my face on my sleeve.

  Hawk finishes her song, and Crown inches closer to the grave. He stares down at the hole blankly, as if it goes on for miles and miles. He says nothing for a few moments. The only sound is Gomorrah preparing to open for the evening a hundred meters behind us. This field outside of the Festival’s fence has soft earth and wildflowers. It seemed a good, quiet place for Blister to rest.

  “Blister was a happy one,” Crown says, “and a star performer. He loved the attention of being on stage, especially with all of us. He clapped for all of us backstage, even when we told him to be quiet. I think we’re all going to miss his high fives after the shows are over.”

  His voice catches, and he covers his mouth with his hand. Everyone gives him time to compose himself, and when he continues, his words quiver.

  “Blister liked fireworks more than anything, so I brought one to light when this is over.” Crown pulls a small red flare out of his jacket pocket. “We watched the fireworks at Skull Gate every night, just me and him.”

  Venera cries beside me quietly. She reaches out and intertwines her fingers with mine, and I know we’re picturing the same things. Blister returning every night in Crown’s arms, saying he saw the “booms.” The way he said our names: “Ree-ah” and “Vu-rah.” The hugs and kisses good-night.

  “My sweet baby boy, you were too young,” Crown chokes out. “I wish more than anything that you were here with us right now. So I’ll tuck you in one last time, and maybe one morning, we’ll see each other again.”

  Nicoleta passes me a shovel. Then all of us, except for Kahina and Crown, lay Blister to rest.

  When we finish, my hands and shoulders ache, and my nose won’t stop running. All I want is to sleep undisturbed, where I don’t need to look at the grief on anyone else’s face and I can cry in private. But my heart races, and I look over my shoulder every few moments in case someone is watching. The someone who killed Blister. Who killed Gill.

  None of us are safe.

  Why? Why would someone want to kill any of us, especially a baby?

  I’d give anything to turn back time. To have waited one more day to talk to Luca. To have stayed home and watched Blister so he couldn’t disappear. To notice the person lurking by our tent, waiting for someone to turn their back for a moment while Blister wandered outside.

  “Does anyone have a match?” Crown asks. “I...forgot to bring some.”

  We rarely needed matches. Blister lit our candles and charcoals for us.

  “Here.” Villiam pulls a brass matchbox out of his pocket and hands it to Crown, who thanks him quietly and bends down to position the firework in the dirt.

  It shoots off in a streak of gold. I wince at the sound of the explosion.

  Boom, I hear the echo of Blister’s voice.

  Tree gathers up the shovels and thuds back toward the Festival. Hawk spreads her wings and flies into the distance to be alone. The rest of us linger. And when we do begin to tread back to our tent, Crown lingers still.

  I walk beside Villiam, the hot summer wind whipping my hair across my face and the grass against my ankles. “Why would anyone do this?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Nicoleta told me that Blister’s death was an accident.”

  “She’s in denial. First Gill and now Blister, barely a week apart? That’s too much of a coincidence. And Blister never would’ve gone near a dunk tank on his—”

  “It’s not proper to speak of such things at funerals,” he says. “Let’s go—”

  “Then when do you want to talk about it?” I snap. “Because all I could think about the whole time is that we’re out in the open, that the killer could be here watching us and we’d never notice. Who has to die next before you realize that these aren’t random—”

  “Sorina.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I’m so rigid and anxious that I have to hold back the urge to shrug him off. I want space and air and for my heart to stop pounding.

  “I... You’re right. Of course you’re right,” Villiam says. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I pull away. I don’t want him or anyone else to touch me. “The timing of these two tragedies is unusual and terrible. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I am looking into Blister’s death, as well. I’m doing...” His voice cracks. “I’m doing everything I can.”

  “Are you? I don’t want you to just look into it. I want a full-scale investigation, and I want to help. I want to make sure my family is safe.”

  “Sorina... I really don’t think this is a good time for you. You know that I like to involve you with my work, but this is a decision I’ve made as your father, not the proprietor. Trust me to do my job. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “How can I trust you with this when you think Blister’s death was an accident?”

  His expression looks wounded, as if I’ve insulted him. Maybe I have. Of course Villiam is doing everything he can. He has a hundred things on his plate at the moment, all dire. “I will begin the ‘full-scale investigation’ you want. I will question everyone in Gomorrah if that protects our family. Of course I will. I’d do anything for you. But you need to promise me something.”

  Why is it that every time I ask someone to do something reasonable and necessary, they always ask for something in return? At what point do my requests stop being opportunities to teach me some kind of lesson? I’m not acting like a child. Whether or not I’m an adult, I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be worried. It isn’t some fault in my character that I demand the right to ensure my family’s safety. The childish thing to do would be to dismiss the facts in order to avoid a truth you don’t want to face. I’m facing the truth head-on. Even if it hurts.

  “Promise you what?” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so harsh, but it does.

  Villiam winces and then hesitates before he answers. I swallow my guilt in a dry lump.

  “All right. If you want to be part of my investigation, you can.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise. Villiam never changes his mind.

  “But,” he says, “the investigation methods will not be as you think. Based on a few interviews with your neighbors and a lack of evidence to the contrary, I’m starting to suspect the perpetrators are trying to get to me through you.”

  “Perpetrators? You think there’s more than one person behind this?”

  Villiam glances at the others walking ahead of us with sad eyes. He lowers his voice. “Tomorrow evening. Come to my caravan like you normally would for your lessons. There is much to talk to you about.”

  “Like what?”

  He embraces me, and I am overcome by his familiar scent of cologne and white tea. With his breath close to my ear, he says, “I wanted to wait until you were older, eighteen, before formally beginning your training as proprietor. But the burden of our legacy has reached you earlier than I ever wanted.” When he pulls away, his eyes glisten. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen Villiam shed a tear.

  “I’ll meet you tomorrow night,” I say, though I’m still not entirely certain what he means. Why would someone attack my illusions to get to Villiam? Who are his enemies? What legacy? But I’m too taken aback by his emotion to ask any more questions, especially out here in the open. “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  The rest of us silently return to our tent. There won’t be a show tonight.

  Kahina cooks us couscous and lamb, and though she’s outside at the fire pit, we can all hear her hacking coughs, a symptom of her snaking sickness, from inside.

  She could die next. Or Hawk. Or Unu and Du. Or Nicoleta. Any of
us.

  I lean my head on Venera’s shoulder and stare at one of Blister’s toy tops lying on the table. Each time I finished making one of my illusions, Villiam gave me a gift for them from him. A birthday gift, of sorts. This is what he gave to Blister, and it always was Blister’s favorite toy. I grab it and spin it. The purple-and-pink-painted swirl spins in a never-ending spiral. Until it stops.

  Venera strokes my black hair and twists it around her finger. “Do you think Kahina will mind if I don’t eat anything? I’m not very hungry,” she says.

  “She won’t care.” I spin the top again. “Are you going out tonight?”

  “I think so. I need to escape for a bit.”

  I press my finger on the top’s handle until it slows to a stop. “Be careful.”

  “Always am.”

  After Venera leaves, Unu and Du gather everyone around for a game of lucky coins to keep us distracted. We clear off the table to make room for our play. The game is mostly luck with a hint of strategy, but, by far, the surest means of victory is a hefty wallet to purchase the best coins. Unu and Du, who save their allowances specifically for this, own the strongest collections. The Beheaded Dame has a nearly indestructible defensive bonus. And the Iron Warrior has no attack penalties. The only one with a collection formidable enough to defeat either of them was Gill.

  Halfway through our third game, only my weakest coins still defend my playing field, leaving me wide open to attack. Someone clears their throat outside.

  We all pause. “Who is it?” Nicoleta calls.

  A man’s silhouette appears by the entrance of our tent. He is a member of Gomorrah’s guard, wearing all black. Villiam must have assigned him to watch over us tonight.

  “There’s a boy out here who wants to speak with Sorina,” the guard says. “He calls himself a poison-worker.”

  Luca? What would he be doing here? I’m not sure if I am more confused or annoyed that he’d have the gall to pay me a visit.