“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 becommander.”
That unsettles me even more than the idea of the Gomorrah family as monarchs. The wordcommanderelicits 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. “ThatGomorrahwould 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.”
