The first patrons enter. A family: husband, wife and child. Wearing sage, apricot and raspberry, each like their own kind of candy. I watch as they pass us to admire the map of Gomorrah and all the attractions we have to offer. Sometimes, when I observe the patrons, I admittedly think of them less like people and more like potential sales, money to be made. How does Villiam see them? The political playing field?
He hands me the bag of candied pecans. “Here. I’ve had too many. Agni’s wife keeps telling me I should watch my waistline.”
I smile slightly, despite the seriousness of our discussion. Agni’s wife isn’t wrong.
Villiam watches the family in their candy clothes pass. “It’s hard to feel at ease in these cities, where, apart from clothes or accents, I can never tell if I’m looking at the face of a friend or one of Ovren’s disciples.” He studies the family as they point at the Festival map, as if trying to pick out the details that mark them as being from the Up-Mountains rather than Gomorrah. To an untrained eye, it’s difficult to tell.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I pull the drawstring to seal the bag. I’ll share them with the others when I return to our tent later.
“Because this is your legacy. If you want it to be. I can teach you everything you need to know. The history of each lucky coin and the illustrious people who came before you. The art of writing letters to foreign dignitaries. The parts of Gomorrah you have never seen. If you want this, that is.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I say, purposefully avoiding his unstated question. I don’t know if I want this. I’ve always been satisfied being a performer, my aspirations involving love and family more than power and leadership. Nor do I think I’m capable enough to handle such a position. “I thought we were going to discuss the investigation.”
“Thisisthe investigation, Sorina. I have enemies right now just beyond Skull Gate, maybe even within it.” We both reproachfully watch the patrons as they pass through the entrance. “I am almost certain that the perpetrators are after me. After both of us. We’ve interviewed people in your neighborhood, in the games neighborhood, anyone who we imagine could be responsible. But we should be looking outside Gomorrah, not within.”
“But there have been murders in two different cities now. Unless you think the killer is following us?”
“No, I don’t think it’s one killer. I believe it to be organized beyond Frice, beyond Cartona, throughout the Up-Mountains. My most powerful enemies live in these cities. I brought Gomorrah here searching for ways of destroying them, and, instead, they were the ones to make the first moves.”
To our left, a woman begins to perform on a harp. Its box lies open before her with a few coppers inside to invite donations. The song sounds jovial, meant to welcome patrons into our gates, with a fast rhythm to quicken everyone’s steps and lighten their hearts. It occurs to me that this is a terrible choice of place for my father to share this information with me. Now I cannot help but see the Festival as a farce. We are putting on a show, but I had always believed that was because Gomorrah is a city of performers.
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.”
