“Was he a charm-worker?” I ask.
“Yes. He unleashed a terrible curse on the local Up-Mountain
governor by attaching it to his crown—can’t imagine how he managed to get his hands on it in the first place.” Charm-workers
can cast enchantments through objects, particularly ones that hold value to an individual. “All of the governor’s children died when he touched them.”
“That’s horrible,” I say.
“It only activated after the governor had my uncle killed for his alliance with the caliphate. They killed my father, as well.” Villiam wasn’t particularly close with his father, who preferred improving the strength of one’s body over improving the strength of one’s mind. “That’s why the minters depicted him like this.”
“That’s why they called him the Harbinger?”
“Yes, because his death brought the Eighth Trade War.”
We approach Skull Gate, its great mouth gaping open as an archway. The views from the entrance and the exit are identical, so even on the Gomorrah side, we still get a view of its eyes, covered in black shards of glass that glitter and reflect the images of anyone below it a thousand times, like in the eyes of a fly. The rest of it is painted white, stained gray by the smoke around Gomorrah and peeling from its constant exposure to the elements.
Villiam and I sit on a bench beside the Festival of Burning Desires sign.
“Until now, I have been teaching you only the mechanics of the Festival, without revealing to you the true nature of the role of Gomorrah’s proprietor,” Villiam says. He sits up straighter and admires the Festival around him with regality. “Two thousand years ago, Gomorrah once stood in the Great Mountains, and, for most of history, it sought to maintain peace between and within the two continents.”
“Then where did it pick up a reputation for depravity?” I ask.
“Well, that reputation came later, when Gomorrah became more festival than city.” He grabs a fistful of pecans. “But it has always been our responsibility, as the people and city who are from nowhere, who are from everywhere, to fight for a peace that was lost to Ovren’s conquests.”
I turn the Harbinger coin over in my hand, studying the proprietor’s might. It’s hard to dissociate the historical figure from the character in the game. It’s hard to fathom Gomorrah as more than simply a grand carnival.
“How do you ‘fight for peace’?” I ask.
“We secure alliances between distant kingdoms by becoming their mutual friend. We travel to the doorsteps of wherever we must be. We supply information, refuge and—sometimes—manpower.” He pops several pecans in his mouth. “In short, there is a lot a city can see, hear and experience by traveling the world. Thus, we manage to mingle in the affairs of virtually everyone, and we gain enough intelligence from each destination to pull some powerful political strings.”
He shoves another handful of nuts in his mouth, and I turn over his words in my mind. He speaks of intrigue and politics and history, but that would make him a king. My father, though intelligent and hardly a man to underestimate, has never struck me as more than a teacher, a lover of simple luxuries and one with deep-rooted opinions.
“The Beheaded Dame,” he says. “That’s Unu’s favorite coin, isn’t it? She was a proprietor in the eighth century. Beheaded right here in Cartona, in their public square.”
We both look up over Skull Gate at the golden wall of Cartona in the distance, which feels more ominous now that I know its role in our family’s history.
“The proprietors sound more like martyrs than leaders,” I say. “Is that how you’re planning to die? Killed by some Up-Mountain executioner?”
“No. I like to think I’ll live to be an old man, so I can spoil my grandchildren.” He throws a sly grin at me, and I snort at the idea of my having children someday. I can’t imagine myself as a mother.
“But then what about me? Is that how I’m going to die?”
“You don’t have to become proprietor, Sorina.”
“But I’m your daughter.”
“It’s not a monarchy.”
“But you are a king.”
The last glimpse of the sunset disappears in the west, and the white torchlights ignite around us. The voices of visitors murmur from behind Skull Gate, eager to enter and explore.
“I am no regent. We do not live lavishly like Up-Mountain lords,” Villiam says. “A better term would be commander.”
That unsettles me even more than the idea of the Gomorrah family as monarchs. The word commander elicits thoughts of battle, of violence. I am not fit for such a role, and I never imagined my father would consider himself comfortable with that position.
“Who decided that the proprietors would be what they are?” I ask. “That Gomorrah would be what it is? Why can’t you simply be a proprietor, and Gomorrah simply be a festival?”
“These things were decided before either of us were born. Before anyone alive today. Gomorrah was a city before it was a festival. Two thousand years ago, there was no Freak Show. No House of Delights and Horrors. No Menagerie. There were only people who had seen the world and sought to change it.”
The first patrons enter. A family: husband, wife and child. Wearing sage, apricot and raspberry, each like their own kind of candy. I watch as they pass us to admire the map of Gomorrah and all the attractions we have to offer. Sometimes, when I observe the patrons, I admittedly think of them less like people and more like potential sales, money to be made. How does Villiam see them? The political playing field?
He hands me the bag of candied pecans. “Here. I’ve had too many. Agni’s wife keeps telling me I should watch my waistline.”
I smile slightly, despite the seriousness of our discussion. Agni’s wife isn’t wrong.
Villiam watches the family in their candy clothes pass. “It’s hard to feel at ease in these cities, where, apart from clothes or accents, I can never tell if I’m looking at the face of a friend or one of Ovren’s disciples.” He studies the family as they point at the Festival map, as if trying to pick out the details that mark them as being from the Up-Mountains rather than Gomorrah. To an untrained eye, it’s difficult to tell.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I pull the drawstring to seal the bag. I’ll share them with the others when I return to our tent later.
“Because this is your legacy. If you want it to be. I can teach you everything you need to know. The history of each lucky coin and the illustrious people who came before you. The art of writing letters to foreign dignitaries. The parts of Gomorrah you have never seen. If you want this, that is.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I say, purposefully avoiding his unstated question. I don’t know if I want this. I’ve always been satisfied being a performer, my aspirations involving love and family more than power and leadership. Nor do I think I’m capable enough to handle such a position. “I thought we were going to discuss the investigation.”
“This is the investigation, Sorina. I have enemies right now just beyond Skull Gate, maybe even within it.” We both reproachfully watch the patrons as they pass through the entrance. “I am almost certain that the perpetrators are after me. After both of us. We’ve interviewed people in your neighborhood, in the games neighborhood, anyone who we imagine could be responsible. But we should be looking outside Gomorrah, not within.”
“But there have been murders in two different cities now. Unless you think the killer is following us?”
“No, I don’t think it’s one killer. I believe it to be organized beyond Frice, beyond Cartona, throughout the Up-Mountains. My most powerful enemies live in these cities. I brought Gomorrah here searching for ways of destroying them, and, instead, they were the ones to make the first moves.”
To our left, a woman begins to perform on a harp. Its box lies open before her with a few coppers inside to invite donations. The song sounds jovial, meant to welcome patrons into our gates, with a fast rhythm to quicken everyone’s steps and lighten their hearts. It occurs to me that this is a terrible choice of place for my father to share this information with me. Now I cannot help but see the Festival as a farce. We are putting on a show, but I had always believed that was because Gomorrah is a city of performers.