Turns out, we are a city of liars. I suppose one could call them the same thing.
“I need your help, Sorina. I wish I could provide you with a simple solution, a single perpetrator for you to bring to justice. But I fear the battle will be not so easily won.”
“I don’t think I can do that. I’m not...” Smart enough. Strong enough. Brave enough.
“When I met you thirteen years ago, I saw the potential in you. Three years old, rebelling against slavers. You rode Tree to battle the way a general rides a stallion. I knew you were a warrior.”
“That was a long time ago.” I don’t remember being that child. Villiam makes the story sound like a fairy tale, when truly it’s a horror story in real people’s lives. And his words make me uncomfortable. I am no warrior.
“I don’t want to pressure you, but this is what I have to offer.”
I lean back and press my shoulder blades into the firm wood of the bench. When Villiam proposed to include me in his investigation, I expected interviews, paperwork. I wasn’t anticipating this sort of responsibility. I was hoping for clearer answers.
But haven’t I always wanted Villiam to take me more seriously as the future proprietor? For thirteen years, all he’s taught me is record-keeping and moving agriculture. Not strategy. Not politics.
If I say no, I can continue my investigation with Luca in Gomorrah. But Villiam doesn’t believe the killer will be found within our walls, and I’m inclined to agree with him. If I want to protect my family, helping Villiam is my only option. Becoming a true proprietor is my only option. Even if it eventually means leaving the Freak Show behind.
“When do we begin?”
Villiam smiles and then wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Immediately.”
On our return trip to his caravan, he details his plans for my upcoming education. Rather than meeting with him twice a week, as I always have, I will meet with him five or six times. There will be reading, and studying, and a number of assignments, already piling up in the back of my mind with a lump of anxiety. I’m not a fantastic student. What if, after all of this, Villiam doesn’t think I’m good enough?
I remind myself I’m doing this for Gill and Blister. And maybe a little for myself.
Back in Villiam’s caravan, Agni remains hunched over the desk. Villiam pulls various volumes off the shelves. “This is a history of all of the proprietors. This is a list of historic places in Gomorrah. This is a history of all eight of the Trade Wars.” He slips them all in a messenger bag and then hands it to me. “Oh, and one last thing.”
He reaches into his cupboard and pulls out a glass box. Inside is a scarlet cricket, as red as Villiam’s brooch. It’s petrified from the use of charm-work, perfectly preserved within the glass. “This is a rare Cartonian Cricket. They’re considered a delicacy here, served with bay leaves and paprika. I thought you might want to add it to your collection. A piece of memorabilia from the city.”
I don’t want anything to remember Cartona by. I’ll already remember it forever as the place where Blister died. Still, I take it, because Villiam means well. He loves spoiling me with gifts. “Thank you,” I say. The cricket has three eyes. Probably a deformity. Rather fitting, for someone like me.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
He beams and slaps my shoulder. “Great. I’ll see you soon, my dear. Take tomorrow to read and spend time with your family, and then come visit me the day after that. That’s when the real fun will begin.”
>
CHAPTER NINE
When Gomorrah is standing still, a three-foot-tall fence separates the Downhill and the Uphill. The stakes are painted black and sharpened into points, and trinkets and trash hang along their entire length, from top to bottom. Empty bottles stuffed with cigarette ash. Animal bones from food picked clean. Broken charms. Flyers advertising attractions and services, such as a short-term moneylender in Skull Market, where you could find anything from stolen jewelry to pickled lizard eyes for charm-work. Occasionally, there is a white ribbon for memorial of someone passed.
I haven’t decided what I’m going to say to Luca. Villiam is convinced the killers are from outside Gomorrah, so convinced he is allowing me to train as proprietor two years early. I am inclined to agree with him. Before meeting with Villiam today, I intended to tell him about Luca’s proposition, but it didn’t seem to matter by the end. I’ll find Luca and tell him thanks, but no thanks. The thought of doing so thrills me a little. He rejected me once; now I can reject him.
To my left, a man missing his left eye sharpens a machete on a stone block. He holds it up to glint in the green torchlight. Behind him, a vendor sells rice and meat that he claims is lamb, but I’m fairly certain it’s either horse or rat, judging from the tough-looking exterior. Farther down, a woman nearly six and a half feet tall sits on top of a group of cages. They’re exotic animals, she says. Some better than hunting dogs, others the warmest of pets. But that dragon snake, with its horns and spiked tail, only looks half dragon snake. Most of the animals are mutts, a little bit what she claims but mostly descended from rodents or pests found wandering the Festival during our travels.
Someone taps my shoulder. Reflexively, I whip around and shriek. It’s an older woman, her skin covered in age spots, and she cringes away in the face of my outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She grumbles something unintelligible and holds up a strand of vials full of a pink liquid. “Someone so jumpy shouldn’t be in the Downhill,” she says. “Maybe you’re looking for something sweet? A little love juice? Just a drop in that special someone’s tea, just a dab behind the ear—”
“No, thank you,” I say. That sounds like the sort of thing Unu and Du might slip into Hawk’s drink to give her hives. Besides, I like to think that when I eventually find love, it won’t be from a charm. That is hardly fit for fairy tales, and I don’t intend to settle for anything less.
“It’s from Madame Lamoratore, an experienced charm-worker—”
“I’m not interested.” I brush past her and hurry down the path, retracing the route to Luca’s tent.
Cheers cry out from my right. I turn and face a crowd gathering around a platform, one I realize I’ve seen before—while it was empty, anyway. An enormous man the size of two or three people is strangling someone beneath him. I can’t make out the other person, except for a hint of blond hair and the fact that the victim is much smaller than the giant attacking him. After another fifteen seconds, his arms go limp, and he slumps against his stool. The larger man turns and throws a fist in the air. The crowd cheers louder.
I didn’t realize killing was now a sport in the Downhill. I’m about to turn away in disgust when the smaller, dead man with blond hair stands up. It’s Luca—almost impossible to recognize out of his usual, obtrusive clothes. He coughs up a bit of blood and spits it onto the stage.
An Up-Mountain woman next to me blesses herself. “That’s devil-work,” she says. “Cursed are the demon-workers, for they will return to the depths.”
The large man swivels around. “What?” he roars. “You were dead. I killed ya.”
“And now I’m back.” Luca smiles his insincere smile. “That was a remarkable attempt, sir, but I think we should let someone else take a turn.”
After some cursing and grumbling, he leaves, and another man climbs onto the stage. He has a wide nose and dark, beady eyes. He reminds me of a cockroach.
“What’s your name, sir?” Luca asks.
“Garrett.”
“I have poisons, knives, rope...you can take your pick—”
“I’ll use my own sword, thanks,” Garrett says. He pulls it out of its sheath. It’s jagged but appears sharp enough. “You don’t mind if I use my own sword, do ya?”
“Not at all.”
Before Luca can ready himself, Garrett swings his sword straight through Luca’s neck. His head thumps to the stage and rolls off and onto the grass at my feet. I cover my mouth with my hands and fight back the urge to vomit. Red blood stains the dirt. Luca’s bedroom brown eyes look very dead.