Читать книгу Daughter Of The Burning City - Amanda Foody - Страница 14

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.

“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 the assailant only meant to scare him by shattering his tank, but when Gill cried out, he grew scared himself and attacked.” My chest tightens as the scene plays out in my head. The killer kicking away Gill’s ladder. Wheeling him helplessly to the stage. Smashing the tank and letting Gill fall to the floor. “You mentioned the wounds were messy, didn’t you? How many were there?”

“I didn’t... I didn’t count. But, yes, they were messy.” I clutch my stomach. I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all.

He studies my face. “Sorina, we don’t need to talk about this. The last thing I want is to upset you.”

“No.” What did Kahina say? That I couldn’t detach myself. Maybe she’s right. I can’t simply remove myself from my emotions the way Villiam can. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. “I want justice.”

“It was more than likely a religious fanatic from Frice,” Villiam says. “I’m powerless to bring such a person to justice.”

“But I don’t think it was,” I protest. “How would a random visitor know that Gill would be alone in his tent? And how would they know that Gill can’t breathe in air?”

“Perhaps because he sleeps in a vat of seawater?”

“Someone murdered Gill. They killed him, on stage, for me to find. And he’s not even real! I created him! They’re not supposed to be able to get hurt! I didn’t create a family so that they’d die!” I cover my face with my hands as I cry for the fifth time in the last twenty-four hours. It’s difficult to hold back the sobs, and Villiam quiets for a minute until I bring myself back under control.

“I already began an investigation into his death, you know,” Villiam says. “Not so much into the perpetrator but how someone managed to kill him. The guards last night have written me a report on what they found. I promise you I will find the answers.”

I wipe my nose on one of Villiam’s expensive table napkins. “What kind of investigation?”

“I’m not certain I want you involved. You and the others are grieving. It isn’t healthy to be focusing on revenge. Focus on healing, instead. You’re clearly still distraught—”

“I’m not distraught—”

“You aren’t yourself. You’re on edge. You look like you’ve barely slept. And you’re only sixteen years old—”

“But I need to know who did this.”

“And I will try to find you as many answers as I can,” Villiam says, his voice tight. He has obviously already made his decision to leave me out of this. “We’re exploring all possibilities. Questioning people near your tent. Looking into our visitors’ book. Determining—”

“That isn’t going to tell us how Gill was killed,” I say.

“I was getting to that part, if you would only stop interrupting me.” His deep voice booms, and I sink into my seat, holding on to my composure by a thin thread. “I’m also trying to determine if there is some aspect to your jynx-work we don’t know about.”

I frown. “Like what?”

“As you know, illusion-workers aren’t common anymore. I’ve never met one. Perhaps there are aspects to your abilities that have been forgotten over the years.”

I stand and walk toward Villiam’s bookshelves, half to examine his collection and half to hide my face as its redness fades. “You have books all about illusion-work, though. You said you know everything about it.”

“I’m sure I do, but we’re investigating it, just in case,” he says. “I’m not suggesting you do nothing. I’ve known you for thirteen years—you’re hardly the type of girl to sit still. So perform in your show. Go out and meet more people who aren’t illusions. You need to keep yourself busy. But not with this. This won’t help you move on. I’m worried about you.”

I only half listen and browse through his encyclopedias on jynx-work, most of which are on the floor. They’re massive volumes, each bound in quality leather with golden tabs on the side, marking places where Villiam has taken notes. They chronicle the types of jynx-work that have come and gone over the past few centuries. Many abilities cycle. Some die out. Occasionally one never seen before becomes common.

“Could I read through these books, as well?” I ask.

“I assure you that I’ve read them all multiple times. There won’t be any answers for us in there.”

“But still. I’d like to read them. You’re always telling me to read more. This would give me something to do.” I pluck a volume of jynx-work from the Eastern Kingdoms in the last century. On the cover is a sea dragon curled into a spiral, its scales embellished with a glistening glaze. “And if you’re not using books, how are you investigating illusion-work?”

“I keep detailed records on the jynx-work of everyone here, especially you.” Beneath the shelves sits a trunk large enough to fit a person, which contains the records of everyone living in Gomorrah. We are not an easy people to track. Some have lineages that trace back to the earliest days of Gomorrah, but more often, our members are misfits who joined on a whim. We have Down-Mountainers escaping criminal charges. Up-Mountainers persecuted for their jynx-work. People attracted to a nomadic lifestyle, to performance, to the magic of the Festival. Gomorrah is as large as many of the city-states we visit, so the role of the proprietor is no easy task.

“There may be something I’ve forgotten,” Villiam says. “Maybe you should revisit your original sketches for the illusions. Perhaps there was a fault in your blueprints.”

“Gill’s death isn’t my fault,” I snap, loud enough to startle him and also myself. I won’t let myself think like that. The only person to blame is the killer.

“No. Of course not, Sorina. It’s not your fault.” He stands and gives me another hug, and even though I’m upset about not being part of his investigation, I can’t help but give in to the comfort my father offers.

After he kisses my forehead and pulls away, I slide the volume back onto the shelf. There couldn’t possibly be a fault in the blueprints for my illusions. If it was a building that had burned down, the question would not be whether the structural integrity was compromised but rather the identity of the arsonist. Except...these buildings were supposed to be indestructible.

Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with my illusion-work at all. Maybe the killer is the one with unusual powers. That must be how they managed to kill one of my illusions.

This idea sits well with me, easing the guilt and instead channeling it into anger. I trace my fingers along the leather bindings of the volumes, scratching them with my fingernails.

I don’t mention my idea to Villiam. He already berated me about not focusing on revenge. I need to focus on “healing.” But what if revenge is the path to healing? To closure? I’m not just going to sit back and go about life normally when a piece of it was ripped away.

And if Villiam isn’t willing to help me, I’ll just find someone else who is.