“I’d rather not discuss it here,” I say. I’m not convinced that we’re out of range of Tuyet’s strange jynx-work yet.
Luca swivels on his heel and walks down a path to the left. “Then let’s discuss as we walk. We’re on our way to a party. I did sayfestive.”
“Iamfestive.”
I have to nearly run to keep up with him. I lean in close so that no one can overhear us. “My investigation with Villiam isn’t much like ours,” I start. At first, I hesitate about whether to tell him. Villiam told me not to trust anyone not born in Gomorrah. But Luca has never given me a reason to suspect him, and I desperately want his advice. “Have you heard of the Alliance of Cyrille?”
“Yes.”
I should be surprised, but nothing Luca knows surprises me anymore.
“Before I came to Gomorrah, I knew a man who was involved in it. I’ve also heard people speak of it here,” he says. “Villiam believes they killed your illusions? Why wouldn’t they simply kill you, or his assistant, or people closer to him?”
“They could simply be trying to shake me. I am Gomorrah’s future proprietor.”
“And I suppose Villiam has told you what it means to be a proprietor.”
His words sting. Was everyone aware of this truth except me? If Villiam was purposely trying to keep me sheltered like he said, he really did an extraordinary job.
“I’m aware of what that means,” I say. “They think the man who attacked Villiam worked for the Alliance.”
“He probably did. Cartonian. Hiding out in Gomorrah during the day. Carrying a vial of poison to kill himself when necessary. That feels a lot like their style. But the one who killed your family? Who knew exactly how to disable Gill? Who turned no heads when he was with Blister? We’re looking for someone established in Gomorrah for more than a few hours. So it doesn’t make sense for that person to be working for the Alliance. If the Alliance simply wants Villiam dead, they wouldn’t bother with your illusions. They would send a man to spook Villiam’s horses.”
My head hurts from spinning around so many theories, all of which make sense. If Luca is right, my family is still in danger.
I fill him in on the details of my conversation with Chimal and Villiam today, particularly the bit that involves Hawk. “They’ve given me a day to speak with her, but I don’t want her involved in this.”
“Then don’t work with Chimal. You said Chimal gave you an ultimatum.”
“I... I have to be a part of this. There is still a chance that the Alliance could have killed my family. And Villiam wants me to take on more responsibility as a proprietor.”And I don’t want to let him down.
“If you have to be a part of it, then you don’t have a choice. You’ll have to speak to Hawk. But Hawk can still decline, can’t she?”
“She won’t. I know her. She’ll want to help.”
“If you consider this a family matter, I would discuss it with your whole family. Maybe Hawk will listen if more people than you tell her no.”
I didn’t think of that. Nicoleta has a talent for persuasion. We could have a family meeting tonight. Villiam and Chimal cannot be disappointed in me if Hawk refuses.
“What sort of party are we going to?” I ask, my spirits now considerably lighter.
“The sort with classic Gomorrah debauchery. There’s a tent behind mine that often hosts them.”
So he means the kind of parties Venera attends wearing her black lipstick and skintight, striped dresses.
“Why are we going to this party?” I ask.
“There’s someone I need to speak with there. Another client. You don’t have to come, but I thought you might like to.”
“I’ve never been to a party.”
“I don’t know how your father could possibly give you a working knowledge of Gomorrah without sending you to one.”
He leads me to the tent behind his packed-up caravan, a tent which is a massive expanse of various tarps sewn together, nearly the height of the Menagerie in the Uphill, all rolling on a platform charmed to move on its own. The air smells like a summer night and rum and fever, and just breathing it in makes my steps feel lighter. We each pay two copper pieces to enter.
Inside are at least one hundred people, maybe two hundred. Wearing the most outrageous clothes I’ve ever seen in one place. Suit jackets made of taffeta. Dresses with more layers than a wedding cake. Hats with brims full of ragweed. Shoes with platforms six inches high.
A fire-worker stands in the center of the dance floor surrounded by a fence, juggling three balls of flames that burn purple, red and pink. The musicians play a Vurundi dance with a beat that pulses throughout the tent, beckoning dancers closer with its hypnotic rhythm. The bar is opposite the musicians and quite crowded.
