“You know as well as I do that Blister would never go near the dunk tank,” I say. “Someone took him.”
Her face reddens. “No one was here. I would’ve seen. Because...because I was the person watching him when he wandered off. I would’ve seen or heard if someone came near.”
I wince. I didn’t know that. No one had told me Nicoleta was responsible for him when he disappeared.
“Maybe he wandered off and they took him—”
“Why are you saying these things? Sometimes bad things happen. And there’s nothing we can do about them, and no one we can blame.”
“But what if this is someone targeting us?” I grab her shoulders. “How would you feel if we’re burying someone else in the next city? Or if we’re burying you? Or if someone else gets into an accident on your watch?” Her eyes widen, and I know I shouldn’t have said that. But a small part of me feels better blaming someone else for Blister’s death, since it’s so easy for me to blame myself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. All I’m saying is that we need to be careful. I want us to start sleeping in the same tent and not to go out alone.”
“Who is this person who said these things to you?”
“His name is Luca. He’s smart. And he knows—”
“Luca von Raske? You shouldn’t be talking to him.”
I fume. I am not a child or someone she can just order around. “Why not?”
“He’s dangerous. He’s friends with a lot of seedy people in the Downhill. And he’s an Up-Mountainer.”
My mind jumps to Luca’s unnerving, insincere smile, but he doesn’t seem dangerous. He just seems like an asshole.
“Well, how do you know him, then?” I ask.
“Adenneya knows of him,” she says. Adenneya is a prettywoman who works in the Downhill. She and Nicoleta broke up about a year ago, back when Nicoleta still knew the meaning of the words fun and relaxation. Mentioning her name around Nicoleta has become taboo. “He hires prettywomen and prettymen, but he never touches them. They say he’s...strange. That he isn’t interested in that.”
For a moment, I don’t understand what she means. Then her words sink in, and I blush.
“I couldn’t care less about Luca’s personal life,” I say, a little defensively. Sure, he might be nice to look at but only until he opens his mouth. “All I care about is that he’s interested in helping me look into Gill’s and Blister’s deaths.”
“I thought Villiam was investigating.”
“Villiam and I are investigating. I’m about to go meet with him tonight.” I try to keep the pride out of my voice. My family knows how long I’ve wanted Villiam to take me more seriously. “Anyway, I’d like to have the family sleeping in the same tent from now on. As a precaution.”
“And you want me to tell everyone so you don’t have to,” she says bitterly.
I swallow down my annoyance. She doesn’t have to act like such a martyr. “If it’s such an inconvenience, I’m happy to—”
“You want to tell Hawk and Unu and Du that you think someone is out to kill them? Because, yeah, I think that might be a problem.” She grabs another shirt—one of mine—from the pile and throws it into the soapy water.
“I thought you could think of something. You have a way with words.” I smile my best performance smile, which doesn’t amuse her. “The worst that could happen from all this is we all have to smell Crown’s feet.”
“Fine. But I think you’re making a mistake with Luca. Does Villiam know you’re looking into this behind his back?”
“No, but only because I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” I glance toward the sunset. “Which I am leaving to do now. Goodbye, Nicoleta.”
* * *
That evening, Villiam wears a ruby brooch on his waist jacket. An heirloom from his mother, a poor woman from the Land of the Forty Deserts with half-Up-Mountain and half-Down-Mountain blood who ran away to Gomorrah. She died in childbirth with Villiam’s brother, whom he hasn’t seen in years. His father was the brother of Gomorrah’s proprietor, from the ancient Gomorrah family rumored to have been the rulers of the Festival when it originally caught on fire two thousand years ago. His father gave her the brooch when he learned she was pregnant. She gave birth to Villiam in the third month under the warrior constellations, the ones painted on the ceiling of his caravan.
“You don’t wear that very often,” I say.
“Today was my mother’s birthday. I’ve been feeling sentimental.”
Of course. I hadn’t remembered, though that’s hardly surprising, considering everything that’s happened this week.
“We’re going for a walk today,” he says. “You and me.”
“Do we really want to be discussing the investigation in public?” I ask.
“We’ll remain discreet.” He turns to Agni, who is stamping Villiam’s wax seal on letters on his desk. “Stay here and take care of anyone who knocks. We’ll be back in an hour.”
“Of course.”
While Villiam searches for his jacket, I stare at the world map above his desk. The Up-Mountain continent reminds me of a hand with an incredibly large thumb to its west. The most dominant city-states in the Up-Mountains line the coast of the thumb, made powerful by their impressive navies that allow them to terrorize the rest of the world, even from their rather remote locations. Much farther east, along the peninsulas that make up the fingers, are the Yucatoa lands, which, though different in culture and climate from the rest of the Up-Mountains, also share the Up-Mountain belief in Ovren and penchant for greed.
The region of the Great Mountains, located immediately below the thumb, connects the Up- and Down-Mountain continents. The Down-Mountain continent is six times larger than its northern counterpart, and it is made of many different nations: the Forty Deserts, the Vurundi Lands, the Eastern Kingdoms, and the Southern Islands, each with their unique cultures, religions and histories. The Up-Mountains invaded in the name of religion but in search of wealth. With prayers on their lips but greed in their hearts, they stripped the Down-Mountain leaders of their power and installed their own merchant governors. The Up-Mountains believe their rule a divine right, an absolute bestowed upon them by their god, but they know nothing of the strength of our peoples.
This is common knowledge, but I wish I knew more specifics, particularly about what Gomorrah’s role has been all this time. For every major war, every conflict, it seems like Gomorrah was at the center.
“Are you coming, Sorina?” Villiam asks, tearing my concentration away from the map.
“Yes.” I wave goodbye to Agni and follow him outside.
Villiam leads me to the left, toward the direction of Skull Gate. Because Gomorrah hasn’t opened yet, the only others on the roads are merchants setting up their displays. The air is rich with the smells of food being prepared—cotton candy, kettle corn, roast lamb, licorice cherries. Villiam pauses at a nearby food cart and purchases an extra-large bag of candied pecans and then pays the vendor double his selling price.
As we eat, he surprises me when he fishes in his pocket and pulls out—of all things—a lucky coin. It’s the Harbinger, a rather common coin with low defensive stats, but fairly decent for the offensive-focused player. The depiction on the coin is a man wearing a long cloak with his arms extended, as if casting a terrible charm on someone beneath him.
“Do you know who the characters on lucky coins represent?” Villiam asks. When I don’t answer, he continues, “They are the proprietors of Gomorrah.”
“Really? Who was the Harbinger?”
“My uncle. Rather pitiful stats, aren’t they?”
Villiam’s uncle was the proprietor before him, and though I’ve never met him, I know he and Villiam were very close. When Gomorrah was traveling in the Forty Deserts, the Festival found itself caught in the Eighth Trade War, a series of disputes when the Down-Mountains rebelled against the cruel Up-Mountain slavers and governors. Villiam’s uncle was killed by a crossbowman on a visit to a desert caliph.