Chimal lives at a deep corner of the Downhill, far beyond Luca’s tent, far beyond any place where I have ventured. I had always envisioned that the deeper one travels into the Downhill, the seedier it becomes, but evidently the opposite is true. This neighborhood is wealthy. Caravans freshly painted. Beautiful stallions pulling their carriages. Full gardens on top of their carts. But, still, there is a hint of the Downhill. The smell of incense. The unnerving quiet.
One caravan in particular, painted in deep scarlet, stands out from the others. It’s more of a cart than a caravan, with no wooden walls or ceiling, only black fabric. When we near it, Villiam uses the crutch on his lap to pull himself standing. He cumbersomely climbs inside without bothering to knock or call out Chimal’s name. I fold up his wheelchair and rush to follow him—anyone could be hiding in there, waiting for the proprietor to arrive. In his state, he would be unable to defend himself. He thinks, because he’s the proprietor, that he is untouchable. It’s only taken him a matter of hours to forget the event that resulted in his broken leg.
As I enter the cart, I receive my first glimpse of Chimal. He’s a shockingly tall man while sitting down, but after observing his stumpy legs by the light of his candle, I deduce that he probably doesn’t reach six feet when standing. His features are a mixture of Yucatoan and something else. Perhaps Vurundi. Perhaps Eastern. More than likely, a variety of peoples from the melting pot that is Gomorrah. He wears the face and expression of a man who has seen heartache and has allowed it to harden him on the inside, rather than the outside. A warm face and cold eyes.
“Sorina,” he says. He smiles, showing a gap in his front teeth that makes his otherwise threatening demeanor less intimidating. “How pleasant to meet you at last.”
“A pleasure indeed,” I say. My words strike me as sounding very much like my father, who has always been a master of pleasantries. I wish we could jump immediately into the heart of the important conversation we need to have—my father has been attacked by enemies beyond Skull Gate, enemies who potentially killed Gill and Blister. We must decide how to retaliate.
However, Chimal doesn’t seem eager to rush things. “I am told you can create a man using merely your imagination.”
“That’s right.”
“An act worthy of a god, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t raised with much faith.”
“I thought you followed the stars, Villiam?” Chimal asks.
“My mother did.”
“Well, as it turns out, I’m not a believer myself. The only god I worship is the god of death.”
He smiles, and the gap in his teeth seems more sinister to me than before.
“The man we seek,” he says, “he is not a man easily identified. In the letters we have intercepted from the Alliance, he has written under pseudonyms, and several. Nor are we certain where the letters are originating from.”
He means the leader of the Alliance. The man Villiam intends to kidnap. The man who has orchestrated so much suffering.
“It will be heavily guarded. Even with your illusion-work, Sorina, slipping past the entrance won’t be easy. But I do have ideas regarding my men.” He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his breath. Sweet, like corn. “Your illusions have powers unlike anyone else in Gomorrah. These could prove an asset to us. I’m particularly interested in the girl who can fly.”
“Hawk? She’s only thirteen,” I say with dismay.
“And you’re sixteen. There isn’t much of a difference.”
I watch Villiam, who doesn’t seem perturbed by these comments. Perhaps Chimal has discussed this notion with him before, when I was not included. “I won’t put Hawk in danger,” I say.
“Would she be able to carry both you and a man during flight?”
“I doubt it—”
“It wouldn’t be far—”
“I don’t think—”
“It would be the surest method of slipping you safely inside the wedding. From there, it would be simple to lure the man away using your illusion-work.”
“I’m not comfortable asking her,” I say, with more strength in my voice. “Too many of my family members have already been murdered by the Alliance. I don’t want to risk another.”
“Surely she would be more than willing to help the cause, considering the tragedies that have befallen your...family.”
Of course Hawk wouldn’t object. But that’s what I’m afraid of.
“Her willingness is beside the point. I don’t want her involved,” I say.
Villiam clears his throat. “Chimal, my daughter has all of the weapons of Gomorrah at her disposal. Surely there’s another way of executing this without endangering anyone beyond those in this cart and those who already serve the Festival.”
Only now do Chimal’s words dawn on me. I’d been so concerned with Hawk’s involvement that I hadn’t paid attention to my own. He wants me to be the one to lure the leader away from the wedding? I don’t perform well under pressure. I could be killed and jeopardize all of Gomorrah in the process. Is my father truly at ease with that?
“What are our other options?” I ask, fear obvious in my tone.
“You sneaking into the wedding from ground-level,” Chimal says.
“I hardly look like an Up-Mountainer.” Chimal, with such Yucatoan features, looks more Up-Mountainer than me.
“You would need to disguise yourself the whole time, with illusion-work.”
Chimal has no idea what level of concentration that requires. I can maintain my moth illusion for a few minutes, at best, but something more complex than that? Something to disguise me and then later lure the leader of the Alliance away from his guards? My routine in the Freak Show is ten minutes long, but it requires a different skill set, as the illusion is always moving. Fixed illusions are more challenging, like holding a weight with an outstretched arm.
“Are we even certain who the leader is?” I ask.
“We have a few theories,” Villiam says. “We suspect it’s an archduke of Sapris. He has the money, the name and the connections. But it could also be the crown prince of Leonita, the future heir of the city. Or a lesser-born merchant from Frice, who commands an empire of wealth.”
“Do you intend for me to kidnap all of these men?” I ask.
“No. We’re placing our bets on the archduke. His name is Dalimil. He’ll be your target. If he turns out not to be the leader, he will still provide valuable information. There’s no doubt that all of those men are high-ranking members of the Alliance.”
“You’re gambling an awful lot on this theory of yours,” I say.
“Yes,” he says seriously, “we all are.”
“Villiam, would I be able to speak to you alone for a moment?” Chimal asks. The way he looks everywhere but at me, I don’t anticipate he means to compliment me in my absence.
“Of course,” Villiam says. “Sorina can wait outside.”