Daughter Of The Burning City - Amanda Foody

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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.

      “Did they ever find that duke who went missing? The one they kicked us out over?” I ask.

      “Yes. They found him dead in his parlor,” Villiam says. I choke a bit on the lamb. “It appears a political rival had him killed. It had nothing to do with Gomorrah.”

      “Unless they think one of our assassins did it.”

      “Assassins? In Gomorrah? Whatever would give you that idea?”

      He likes to play this game, pretending Gomorrah is the safe circus I believed it to be as a child. One day, he’ll admit to the assassins. One day, he’ll teach me more about Gomorrah than merely its mechanics. One day, he’ll stop treating me like a child. I’m sixteen and his only heir. When will he truly train me to be a proprietor?

      “We’re passing several cities now,” Villiam continues. “Ukarce, Meera, Thire. All denying us refuge. What if the rain worsens and it floods? What if some of our people die? Compassionate Ovren doesn’t have much compassion for those on the other side of His mountains.”

      “I thought Timar said the rains would stop.”

      “That is not the point.” He stabs his knife into the leg of lamb. I only meant the comment as a joke. The events of last night must have caused him more stress than I thought. “The point is that the Up-Mountainers get away with whatever they want.” His words echo my own to Kahina earlier. “If we weren’t forced to tour here, I’d move us down the mountains to more civilized provinces.”

      The problem with touring Gomorrah in the Down-Mountains is that they’re not nearly as interested in us as the people are here. Fortune-workers, charm-workers, they have all those. Nearly everyone in Gomorrah comes from the Down-Mountains. We’re simply the most dangerous—and oldest—festival around, one hundred times larger and grander than any other roaming carnival. The Up-Mountains—or, at least, the cities that don’t shut us out—find us “exotic.” They buy mundane trinkets and call them treasures. They marvel at the simplest of jynx-work, when they’re not cursing it. And they keep us in business.

      “If you don’t mind—I do appreciate all the food—but I would rather go straight to talking about Gill,” I say. I didn’t come here to listen to Villiam rant about politics.

      His face softens. “Of course.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “As I recall, you said it was the stab wounds that killed him...not the suffocation?”

      I stiffen as I picture the blood seeping through the back of Gill’s shirt. “Yes.”

      “Perhaps

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