Daughter Of The Burning City

It takes me ten minutes to walk to where the Uphill intersects with the Downhill. There’s a fifty-meter gap between those two sections of caravans, and as I trudge across the small, open field, I feel eyes peering at me from ahead. People are watching me, wondering why an Uphill girl would visit them at this hour.

The wood of the caravans here rots from years of rain, with holes along the walls just large enough to toss out the contents of an ashtray or for someone to covertly slip a delivery in the gap beneath a windowsill. The ribs of horses, mules and the occasional more exotic elephants who pull the caravans are more pronounced. Their eyes burn red, and their dirty coats swarm with clouds of fleas. I worry that if I get too close, they might mistake me for the meal their owners forgot to feed them.

Thankfully, Jiafu doesn’t live deep within the Downhill, and I make it there without becoming a horse’s breakfast. The cramped caravan he calls home is striped purple and black, with no sign or indication of what a visitor might find inside. All of his clients already know who he is and where to find him—he doesn’t need advertisements.

I knock on the dull black door and walk to keep up with it. No response. After thirty seconds of more knocking—and a man poking his head out of a nearby caravan, telling me to piss off—Jiafu answers. He grimaces when he sees me and rubs his temples, one of which has a deep scar that snakes down to his chin.

“What do you want?” he asks. His shadow dances on the grass below him, twisting into almost gruesome positions, as if trying to tear itself away from the body casting it.

“You weren’t waiting for me last night,” I say. “After the show.”

“There were officials about. I needed to head back home and protect my merchandise.”

“I want the money now. I want my cut.”

“Too bad. I haven’t sold it yet. I don’t got your cut. Now run away, princess.”

“Sold what yet?” I say, loudly and dramatically. “Oh, you mean the priceless ring of Count...Pomp-di-something from Frice? That’s worth a fortune?”

The man who told me to piss off earlier pokes his head outside again. As do a few others. I have their attention.

Jiafu narrows his eyes and then he yanks me by my tunic and hoists me into his caravan. Inside, there are five times as many crates as in my own, with just enough floor space for a mattress in the corner. Everything reeks of burnt coffee and feet.

“You think I had a chance to sell the ring?” he hisses. “We just left Frice.”

“I didn’t expect Kahina to have to travel again so soon. I want the money to get her medicine as soon as we get to Cartona.” Packing and traveling isn’t easy on her, especially in this part of the Up-Mountains, where the roads are unpaved and hard on her bones. And now that Gill is...now that Gill is gone, ensuring Kahina stays healthy is more important to me than ever. I can’t lose anyone else.

He pauses. “There is another job. One of my men noticed this guy carrying a big purse of change. He’s at a bar now getting piss-drunk. If you could make an illusion, someone to mug him—”

“That’s not how it works,” I say, annoyed. I’ve had this conversation with Jiafu before.

“You said it takes a while to make an illusion, but I’ve been to several of your shows, and your act is different each time. You make it up on the spot.”

I rub my temples. “Yes, that type of illusion is improv. But you’re asking for a person. You’re asking for someone you can touch, hear and smell, someone real like Nicoleta and the others. They take me months.”

“Then get started making one. Big, preferably good with a sword—”

“The answer is no.”

Even though I’ve technically made all of my illusions, I don’t really think of them that way. They’re their own persons. They’re my family. I created them to be the friends I never had.

I’m not exactly the most popular person in the Festival. Who would trust someone who has the power to deceive you in every manner?

He jabs his finger in my face. “Look, freak, that job wasn’t easy last night when you had the Count sitting in the front, and—”

I hold back my wince. “If you call me freak again, you’ll think maggots are eating out your insides.” I take three steps forward. Jiafu is several inches taller than me, but that doesn’t matter. I can make him look like an ant. I can make myself look like a giant.

He leans back. “Hey now, ’Rina, don’t be like that. We’re cousins, eh?”

Jiafu plays this card a lot. He comes from the Eastern Kingdoms of the Down-Mountains, like me, so he thinks we’re family. We’re not even friends.

“Don’t bother. I want my cut. I want my thirty percent. And I want it as soon as possible.”

He collapses onto the floor mattress and kicks his legs up on a crate. “There’s nothing I can tell you. I want to give you the money. Really, I want to. I want to reward all my friends.” I narrow my eyes. We’re. Not. Friends. “But I don’t have anything. I’ll sell it in Cartona. Then you get your cut.”

I sigh. This is about what I expected. Sure, Jiafu probably has some money hidden inside these crates that he could give me, but that would take a bit of coercion on my part. It would take an impressive illusion to make him cooperate. What would scare Jiafu? An enraged ex-mistress? A debt collector? I didn’t get enough sleep for my imagination to be at its best.

“Sorry, cousin,” Jiafu says.

“You’re not my family.”

“Would you prefer princess?” He lifts his left leg and points his calloused toe toward the door. “Come back after we’re settled in Cartona, and I have time for some business.”

“I will.” I try to make my voice sound forceful, intimidating, but I only sound broken. I plaster a smile on my face and push aside the thoughts of Kahina’s snaking sickness and of Gill. Then I mutter a goodbye and jump out of his caravan.

I’m not on my game.

Outside is the sound of millions of caravans moving and horses trotting. I walk past the smell of opium teas and a sign for what I’m sure is questionable goat curry.

Sleep will be impossible, so instead of making my way home, I head toward the center of the Uphill, toward a particular caravan decked out in fuchsia drapes and murals finger-painted by neighboring children. A sign on the door reads Fortune-Worker: Explore the Successes, Loves And Wonders That Await You.

I knock. It’s not as if she’s sleeping. In all the time I’ve known her, Kahina barely sleeps. She stays awake most of the day watering her herb garden and stringing necklaces and belts out of forgotten coins. And worrying about everyone’s futures. She should spend more time concerning herself with her own.

“I’m not done yet,” she calls from inside.

“No, it’s me,” I say.

A pause. There’s a rustle that sounds of coins tinkling together. Then she opens the door, a smile stretching across her face. “Sorina.” She holds out her hand to help me into the caravan.

The first thing I notice is the purple of her veins that spread from her fingertips up her forearm in a winding, swollen web. I freeze.

She laughs and switches hands. Her right one is normal and not yet infected. I grab it and climb into her caravan, eyeing her hesitantly. Other than the dark, snaking veins, she looks healthy. Which almost makes the sickness crueler, convincing you she’s fine until, very suddenly, she won’t be. The sickness will creep through her blood, snaking through her bloodstream into either her heart, lungs or brain—wherever it reaches first. The process can take years. From there, the disease progresses quickly, attacking the organ and deteriorating it cell by cell, until it can no longer function. No one knows how it spreads, but it’s common, both in the Up- and Down-Mountains.

Her long dreadlocks are pulled into a bun, full and beautiful. Her brown skin has its normal glow. Her ankle-length skirt and tunic fit her the same as always. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s dying.

She occupies an entire medium-sized caravan to herself. Usually, that would be quite expensive, but since she has grown ill, a lot of her friends and neighbors have pulled their resources together to make her more comfortable. Kahina chose to use the extra space to add more volume to her herb and vegetable garden, many of which she makes into medicines or herbal teas. Unfortunately, none of them are rare enough to treat her own disease. The potted plants take up the majority of her home, and I brush a palm leaf out of my way as I crawl into her actual living space, which is mainly taken up by her bed, a drawer for fortune-work objects like crystals and cards, and a short table. The pots clack together as the caravan rides across the bumpy road.

Kahina lies back down on her bed and returns to the embroidery she was working on. With its red stitching and plain patchwork, it’s meant for a newborn boy. As the baby ages, the empty patches will be filled with cross-stitching depicting various life moments.

“Tya is going to have a boy in January,” Kahina says. “I figured I might as well start now.”

Kahina’s jynx-work allows her to glimpse into the future of individuals. She’s accurate the majority of the time, but I’ve witnessed a few occasions where she’s gotten a detail wrong. So it seems rash for her to make a blanket for a child that may still be born a girl. Especially because fortunes grow less certain the further into the future Kahina searches.

“You couldn’t wait a few more months to start?” I ask.

“I may not have a few more months.”

I pause before sitting down in the corner of her caravan. “You can’t talk like that,” I plead. “You can’t. I’m getting you medicine. The best quality there is. I’m not going to let anything happen...” My voice cracks. “Nothing is going to happen to you.” My head hurts from the build-up of pressure, and I steady my breathing to avoid crying. Damn it. I thought I could compose myself, but I am one unpleasant thought away from hysterics, no different than a few hours ago. I thought being in the comfort of Kahina’s caravan would help.

“You’re right,” Kahina says quickly. “I shouldn’t say things like that. Are you all right, Sorina?”

“Y-yes,” I say. But talking makes my breathing stagger, and then I can’t hold it back anymore. I cough out a sob, which turns into another and then another. There are no tears, of course, but my face reddens and my nose runs. I feel as though my entire heart has shattered.

“What has made this come on?” she asks, crawling to my side.

I bury my face into her shoulder and mumble something unintelligible.

“You’re really worrying me—”

“Gill’s dead. Someone killed him. Last night.”

I feel her whole body go rigid with shock. “What do you mean, someone killed him?”

I tell her the entire story, just like I told Villiam last night, and it’s no easier to share a second time. As I near the end, Kahina gets up to pour me a stone-cold mug of chamomile tea. “We were arguing when I last talked to him,” I choke. “I... I wasn’t kind.”

“Arguing about what?” Kahina asks.

“Nothing important,” I lie. She wouldn’t like to hear that I’ve been working with a Downhill thief to supply her medicine. I’ve been telling her that the Freak Show has been booming lately. I’m not certain if she buys this, but Kahina always said I don’t have to tell her anything I don’t want to. Before this, I’ve never had anything to conceal from her.

She presses me closer to her and hands me the tea. Then she runs her fingers through my hair, the way she used to when I was a child. “I’m so sorry, sweetbug. I wish I could’ve seen this coming.”

Kahina is unable to see the fortunes of my illusions because they aren’t entirely real.

But apparently they’re real enough to die.

I wish I could tell her about how worried I am about her, too. About how I feel the same anxiety, as if, even though my lungs are expanding, I’m not getting any air. And the feeling won’t go away. But Kahina hates it when I bring up her health. She hates to see how it affects me.

“It’s not fair,” I say. “It’s not fair that the Up-Mountainers get to storm our Festival and then call us the criminals. They get drunk, and they buy drugs, and they pay for all sorts of sins and call us the sinners for giving them the business they want.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“I don’t like to hear you talking like that,” Kahina says gently.

“What do you mean? It’s the truth. What they do isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t right. But that doesn’t mean I like to hear my sweetbug saying ugly, angry things. Not my beautiful sweetbug. You’re allowed to be sad. Of course you can grieve. And anger is a stage of grief. But some never move beyond that, and I worry about you when you say such things.” She tugs at the ribbon of my mask until it slips off. “There. That feel better?”

Kahina always treats me like a child. She treats everyone like children, even people with more wrinkles and body aches than her. Her only child died at only two months old many, many years ago, yet she always said it was her destiny to be a mother, that every fortune-worker in Gomorrah told her that. So Kahina became a sort of mother to everyone in the Festival, quilting blankets, sending baskets of tea and keeping lucky coins for everyone she cares about.

But I’m her sweetbug.

When Villiam first adopted me, I was only three years old. He may have been my father, but, in truth, he was more of a teacher. He needed someone else to look after me while he managed the Festival, but no one was too keen to babysit me, with my freakish face, my unsettling jynx-work and Tree following me wherever I went. Only Kahina volunteered. And though Villiam and Kahina may have different views on parenting, Villiam has always appreciated the maternal role she plays in my life.

“What is Villiam doing to find the perpetrator?” she asks.

“I don’t know yet. He was too overwhelmed with moving the Festival to do anything last night. He sent some guards. But they only asked us a few questions and left.”

“That doesn’t surprise me—last night was chaotic. I hope he doesn’t involve you further in the investigation.”

I pull away. “Why not?”

“Because I know Villiam. I’ve known him since he was a boy. And as much as he loves to involve you in all of his work, he doesn’t know you like I do. He’s clever and calculating—able to detach himself from a situation to view it objectively. You are not like that.”

“I could be. If that’s what it took,” I insist. I’m going to be proprietor one day, so I’ll need to be.

“Now, sweetbug,” she says, continuing to run her fingers through my hair, “no one wants you to go through that. What happened to Gill is a wretched thing. But you need to promise me that you won’t let the anger get to you. You have too beautiful a soul for that. You focus on love, because you still have a whole family who loves you. Don’t you forget that. And drink your tea.”

“A whole family I made up.”

“I was made on a cold January night by a fisherman and a fortune-worker, not by you,” she says wryly.

I snort. A very clogged, snotty snort.

“Yes, Venera and Hawk and all of your family may be illusions, but they still love you. And love is real. Love is a choice.” She squeezes my hand, and I stare at her black veins with a mess of dread pinching at my gut. I don’t know what I’d do without Kahina. “Now, you’re going to take it easy right now. You’re going to sleep and cry and eat or not eat as much as you want until we get to Cartona. And then you’re going to perform your show and see your friends and do things again. And it won’t feel better right away, but it will eventually.”

Would it get better? I don’t have any friends to see—the only people I spend time with are my illusions, Kahina and Villiam. Most people in Gomorrah avoid me because my face makes them uneasy. Even with my mask on, people have complained because they can’t see my expression or tell if I’m looking at them. Around me, they cannot trust their own senses. I make everyone uncomfortable. It’s easier to be among other misfits.

“I promised Villiam I’d go see him tonight,” I say.

She purses her lips, and I prepare myself for another speech about not getting involved in the investigation.

She must know I won’t take her advice. Not on this.

“Then, after tonight,” she says. “You take time to yourself, okay?”

“Okay. But can you do a reading for me before I go?” Kahina often does fortune-work for me. I may have given up on aspirations of beauty, but my fantasies of romance have been kindling since Kahina told me fairy tales as a child. So I usually ask if she sees anything remotely romantic in my future. She never does.

“Of course,” Kahina says. “Maybe there’s a mystery man.”

“Or lady,” I add. When I imagine myself in Kahina’s fairy tales, I tend to prefer princes and princesses equally. “I was hoping you could read for anyone connected to what happened to Gill. Through me.” I sit up, my hair brushing against the leaves of a palm potted behind me.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sorina.” She only uses my name when aggravated.

“I just want to make sure that everyone else is safe,” I say. “Please. It would make me feel better.”

“Fine. But only this once.”

She grabs a black clay jug from her table. Inside are hundreds of coins, each with a different symbol. I take the jug and shake it until one coin falls out from the opening underneath. It’s a gold piece with a menace on it—a type of demon believed to live in the Great Mountains, the region between the two continents. Not a good sign.

She turns it over in her hand. “You are surrounded by confusion,” she says. “It’s strange. Difficult to see through. As if you’re surrounded by the same smoke as Gomorrah.”

I’m not sure what to make of that, but I’ve grown used to Kahina’s vagueness after hundreds of readings.

“You can’t see anything?” I ask.

“There’s only the negative energy in your aura.”

“What about any positive energy with a good jawline and broad shoulders? Or doe eyes and silky hair?” I ask it with a teasing smile, so Kahina doesn’t suspect I’m thinking “ugly thoughts.”

She laughs and then shakes her head. “I don’t see any good jawlines or doe eyes, but, then again, I don’t usually do those sort of readings with the coins. Do you want some tea leaves?”

“That’s okay.” Not like the tea leaves have foretold anything before, and I don’t have much desire to finish my cold mug of chamomile. “I’m going back to sleep until I see Villiam.”

“That’s a good idea, sweetbug.” She squeezes my hand. “Sleep as much as you’d like.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I yank one foot after another out of the mud as I trudge my way to Villiam’s caravan. This Up-Mountain road wasn’t made for heavy travel in the rain. Especially not with hundreds of mules, horses and caravans ahead, tearing the ground apart and leaving a mess in their trail. With each step, I sink into the earth halfway up my shins.

The red tent usually outside Villiam’s caravan is currently packed away, so the whole caravan is visible. It was painted black about thirty years ago, so now it’s merely speckled with the remaining paint, revealing pale wood beneath. Fresher coats of red, pink and purple spell out the swirling letters of The Gomorrah Festival. I knock on the door, walking to keep up with the two enormous stallions that pull it.

Villiam answers. As usual, he wears neatly pressed business clothes, though I doubt he’s seen anyone today, as it’s barely four o’clock in the afternoon. He extends his hand out to help me up and then embraces me once I climb inside. “Dismal outside, isn’t it?” he says.

“It’s appropriate,” I answer.

Agni is in the process of setting out a full four-course meal. In Gomorrah, breakfast is our typical supper, with the heartiest foods eaten before guests arrive. He reaches out every few moments to catch an empty wineglass knocked over by the bumps of the caravan. “Maybe the breakfast wine should be skipped today, sir,” Agni says.

“Nonsense. Wine is an important component of a meal,” Villiam says, ever the gourmet. “And without all the pieces, a whole structure could collapse.”

Agni rolls his eyes and lets the pepper shaker tumble to the floor, spilling out onto the fur carpet.

“I didn’t realize I was coming for breakfast,” I say. “You just said you wanted to speak with me.”

“Why? Have you already eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.” Eating doesn’t have much appeal. The only things that have gotten me out of bed since I spoke to Kahina this morning are Villiam’s mandatory invitation to meet with him and the need to relieve myself.

“I know it’s difficult, but you need to keep your spirits up,” he says. “And take off your mask. Make yourself comfortable.”

Difficult is hardly the word. More like impossible. Even if I wasn’t hating myself for the way I last spoke to Gill, I’m surrounded by seven others who are grieving. The only one attempting to pull us together is Nicoleta, who brought us candied pecans and cashews, but the bag is lying untouched in the corner of our caravan, and I’m sure it was the same in the boys’ cart, especially now that one of their riders is gone.

“I chose some of your favorite dishes,” Villiam says, drawing me out of my morose thoughts.

With my mask off, I sit down at the table and eye the plates. Herbed lamb legs; some kind of mix of butternut squash, peas and beets; a huge dish of steaming yellow rice; and a cream curry sauce with mint. It’s very colorful. And it looks delicious. But the table keeps shaking as the bumps on the road jolt the caravan. Agni runs past me—reeking of smoke, as usual—and stabilizes one of the many bookshelves.

Still, it’s a nice gesture. Condolences and empathy are not my father’s strengths, but he always manages to reach out to me in smaller ways. Particularly ways that involve candies or aged cheese.

Villiam sits opposite me and places his napkin on his lap, ignoring the disorder around him, even when someone knocks on the door. Agni ducks outside to answer it. It’s not like Villiam to set his proprietor duties aside, even for me. He must feel guilty about not being able to help me last night.

“Will the Freak Show be performing while we’re in Cartona?” Villiam asks.

I tilt my head. We aren’t meeting to talk pleasantries. But Villiam adds, “Eat first. You need to eat.”

My stomach clenches as I eye the huge portions on my plate. I can’t possibly eat all of this. I could barely manage a nibble.

“We’re planning on it,” I say in answer to his question. We can’t afford to stop the show for an entire week.

Villiam grabs generous helpings of each dish and adds them to his own plate. “Perhaps I will pay a visit. It’s been too long since I’ve seen one of your shows.” When I was a child, Villiam used to attend our performances at least once a week. He always sat in the front row, clapping the loudest, even if Nicoleta stuttered through her speech or I blanked when creating an illusion.

Before he can grab his fork, Agni pops his head back in. “Sir, half the Downhill is stuck in the mud. They’re almost half a mile behind us.”

He sighs. “Tell Skull Gate to stop moving. We’ll have to wait out the rain.” When Agni leaves, Villiam mumbles, “Half a mile behind. Preposterous. I should’ve known earlier.” Villiam has a habit of talking to himself. He looks up and smiles. “The rain will stop in a few hours.”

“Your fortune-worker is never right about the weather,” I say.

“Timar and I have been working together a long time.”

“But he’s terrible. You should find a new one. There are hundreds—”

“I will do no such thing.” He pops a piece of squash in his mouth. Villiam is loyal to a fault. “And none of this weather would be a problem if Frice had given us more time to leave. We could’ve waited out the storm.”

The caravan stops moving now that Gomorrah has received the order. The sounds of utensils rattling on the table and books falling to the floor stops, and the tension eases from my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how anxious all of that was making me. I decide to ignore my lack of appetite and taste the lamb, which is juicy and hot, thanks to Agni’s fire-work. It’s one thousand times better than Crown’s grub food.