Villiam’s assistant, Agni, squeezes past the kind-faced Frician official at the door. Agni is a lanky man in his forties who’s always squinting, even in the nighttime. He squints around the tent for a few moments before realizing I’m there.
“Sorina,” he whispers. In addition to the squinting, Agni always whispers. Someone once told me it’s because he’s such a powerful fireworker—his voice is hoarse from breathing in all that smoke. When Agni isn’t serving as Villiam’s assistant, he works at the Menagerie, training rare animals to jump through flaming hoops, or participates in Gomorrah’s nightly fireworks show. Everyone knows him...and everyone knows his family’s tragic story.
“I need to speak to Villiam,” I tell him. “It’s urgent.”
“He’ll see you—” he raises his voice “—but everyone else should come back in another hour.”
There’s an uproar of protest as I climb the steps out of the tent and into Villiam’s enormous caravan, muttering a quiet goodbye to Luca. Inside, the caravan is set up like a proper parlor, with two men sitting there, Villiam and the Frician captain—or general, or colonel, or whatever his title may be. The walls are layered with cabinets of books collected from all over the world. It’s clear upon first entering the room what interests Villiam—knowledge. A telescope rests on a table by the window, surrounded by papers and trinkets. Villiam even commissioned an artist to paint the ceiling to resemble the night sky on the day he was born, which he claims speaks wonders about his destiny. The carpet is fur, the seats leather and the tablecloth silk.
The Frician captain tenses as I approach. His light eyes scan me, as if trying to determine who exactly I am—a young girl wearing a sparkling, beaded tunic and a sequined party mask—and what I could possibly be doing interrupting their meeting. Even though he’s sitting down, it’s obvious he’s tall, but his height seems to be the only characteristic that gives him any authority. His face is gaunt and unintelligent, and he wheezes as he inhales the soothing incense of Villiam’s office. He does not frighten me.
Villiam smiles at me the way he always does, as if he were expecting me. No matter the situation, he makes a great effort to appear at ease and prepared. Some in Gomorrah believe that Villiam is a fortune-worker with fewer cards and crystal balls, but he isn’t a jynx-worker at all—he only looks like one. The quick shifts in his dark eyes give the impression that he can read all the lies you’ve ever told, as though they’re etched on your forehead. He has a habit of muttering to himself under his breath—usually reminders about paperwork, occasionally a sarcastic comment spoken only, apparently, to amuse himself. Even his manner of speech is unnerving. He has a skill for putting words into your mouth, steering the conversation in any direction he chooses and escorting you out of his office with a smile on your face, yet with more problems than when you arrived.
“Ah, Sorina,” Villiam says. Just the sound of his voice is comforting, and I want to run forward and embrace him, but I hold myself back in the presence of the captain. “I’m just tickled you were able to join us.” He thinks I’m here to help him with proprietor duties. The thought never even crossed my mind until now, with how distraught I’ve been since I found Gill’s body.
I force a smile and inch my way closer to their table. “I was hoping to speak to you in private,” I say.
“Of course,” Villiam says. “The captain was just leaving. But first, Captain Mayhern, I’m pleased to introduce you to my daughter, Sorina. She’s a captivating performer here at Gomorrah.”
“Is that so?” Captain Mayhern asks. He seems unsure that I could be Villiam’s daughter. Villiam has mixed Down-Mountain features from the many generations of Gomorrah proprietors in his blood. He wears his dark, curly hair long, sometimes tied at the nape of his neck, sometimes simply down. His skin is a dusty gold, with freckles along his forearms and nose. By contrast, my looks are definitely Eastern—I’m clearly not his daughter.
I am in no mood to be introduced to an Up-Mountain captain and play the charming young lady, but I try to keep the smile on my face for Villiam’s sake.
“A pleasure,” I say. “What brings a Frician captain to Gomorrah?” I already know the answer. To cause trouble.
“Pleasantries,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Funny.” I don’t take his hand. “On my way here, I witnessed one of your soldiers pleasantly slice my friend’s fingers off.” I didn’t know the man, but he was of Gomorrah. In every aspect that matters, he is a friend.
He reddens, as all Up-Mountainers seem to do whenever they are uncomfortable. I rarely see an Up-Mountainer whose cheeks aren’t wearing some shade of red. “We’re here to keep Lord Ovren’s peace.”
His god has a very different version of peace than mine.
Villiam ushers the captain out. He compliments his conversation, assures the man that Gomorrah will be out of Frice’s borders by morning and other such pleasantries. I bite my tongue until the soft-faced official has led the captain out of the room.
“They’re making us leave Frice by tomorrow morning?” I ask Villiam.
“They aren’t pleased with the conduct of their citizens here. The religious officials had hoped their citizens would behave more...well, behave.” He frowns. “But it is more than that. An extremely influential Frician duke has gone missing. They were here searching for him.”
A thousand insults, a thousand sarcastic comments cross my mind. But I don’t say them in front of Villiam. He can be quick to scold if I say something he deems out of line. Which includes most things I wish to say.
“Are you all right, Sorina? You look troubled,” Villiam says. He always knows when something is bothering me before I say so. “Would you like tea? Some honey biscuits?” Villiam views food as a cure-for-all.
I run to him and press my face into his chest. In practically one, drawn-out breath, I relay him the details of Gill’s murder. I talk quickly because if I slow down, I will start crying again. And I have to be strong. I need to be able to present the facts, so Villiam can work out the answers for me. Villiam always knows how to handle a difficult situation and solve even the trickiest problem.
Throughout the story, Villiam keeps a stoic expression, as if contemplating a puzzle from one of his books. I don’t know how he can keep himself so contained. He knew Gill. He knows all my illusions. He examined my sketches of them before I finished them; he interviewed them soon after their creation to make sure they were suitable for performance. He knows them as people. Even though they are illusions, they are considered to be members of Gomorrah like anyone else.
He must be upset, but I’m grateful that he’s remaining calm for my sake.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You haven’t been hurt? And the others? You didn’t see—”
“I’m fine. The rest of us are all fine.”