possibly eat all of this. I could barely manage a nibble.
“We’re planning on it,” I say in answer to his question. We can’t afford to stop the show for an entire week.
Villiam grabs generous helpings of each dish and adds them to his own plate. “Perhaps I will pay a visit. It’s been too long since I’ve seen one of your shows.” When I was a child, Villiam used to attend our performances at least once a week. He always sat in the front row, clapping the loudest, even if Nicoleta stuttered through her speech or I blanked when creating an illusion.
Before he can grab his fork, Agni pops his head back in. “Sir, half the Downhill is stuck in the mud. They’re almost half a mile behind us.”
He sighs. “Tell Skull Gate to stop moving. We’ll have to wait out the rain.” When Agni leaves, Villiam mumbles, “Half a mile behind. Preposterous. I should’ve known earlier.” Villiam has a habit of talking to himself. He looks up and smiles. “The rain will stop in a few hours.”
“Your fortune-worker is never right about the weather,” I say.
“Timar and I have been working together a long time.”
“But he’s terrible. You should find a new one. There are hundreds—”
“I will do no such thing.” He pops a piece of squash in his mouth. Villiam is loyal to a fault. “And none of this weather would be a problem if Frice had given us more time to leave. We could’ve waited out the storm.”
The caravan stops moving now that Gomorrah has received the order. The sounds of utensils rattling on the table and books falling to the floor stops, and the tension eases from my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how anxious all of that was making me. I decide to ignore my lack of appetite and taste the lamb, which is juicy and hot, thanks to Agni’s fire-work. It’s one thousand times better than Crown’s grub food.
“Did they ever find that duke who went missing? The one they kicked us out over?” I ask.
“Yes. They found him dead in his parlor,” Villiam says. I choke a bit on the lamb. “It appears a political rival had him killed. It had nothing to do with Gomorrah.”
“Unless they think one of our assassins did it.”
“Assassins? In Gomorrah? Whatever would give you that idea?”
He likes to play this game, pretending Gomorrah is the safe circus I believed it to be as a child. One day, he’ll admit to the assassins. One day, he’ll teach me more about Gomorrah than merely its mechanics. One day, he’ll stop treating me like a child. I’m sixteen and his only heir. When will he truly train me to be a proprietor?
“We’re passing several cities now,” Villiam continues. “Ukarce, Meera, Thire. All denying us refuge. What if the rain worsens and it floods? What if some of our people die? Compassionate Ovren doesn’t have much compassion for those on the other side of His mountains.”
“I thought Timar said the rains would stop.”
“That is not the point.” He stabs his knife into the leg of lamb. I only meant the comment as a joke. The events of last night must have caused him more stress than I thought. “The point is that the Up-Mountainers get away with whatever they want.” His words echo my own to Kahina earlier. “If we weren’t forced to tour here, I’d move us down the mountains to more civilized provinces.”
The problem with touring Gomorrah in the Down-Mountains is that they’re not nearly as interested in us as the people are here. Fortune-workers, charm-workers, they have all those. Nearly everyone in Gomorrah comes from the Down-Mountains. We’re simply the most dangerous—and oldest—festival around, one hundred times larger and grander than any other roaming carnival. The Up-Mountains—or, at least, the cities that don’t shut us out—find us “exotic.” They buy mundane trinkets and call them treasures. They marvel at the simplest of jynx-work, when they’re not cursing it. And they keep us in business.
“If you don’t mind—I do appreciate all the food—but I would rather go straight to talking about Gill,” I say. I didn’t come here to listen to Villiam rant about politics.
His face softens. “Of course.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “As I recall, you said it was the stab wounds that killed him...not the suffocation?”
I stiffen as I picture the blood seeping through the back of Gill’s shirt. “Yes.”
“Perhaps the assailant only meant to scare him by shattering his tank, but when Gill cried out, he grew scared himself and attacked.” My chest tightens as the scene plays out in my head. The killer kicking away Gill’s ladder. Wheeling him helplessly to the stage. Smashing the tank and letting Gill fall to the floor. “You mentioned the wounds were messy, didn’t you? How many were there?”
“I didn’t... I didn’t count. But, yes, they were messy.” I clutch my stomach. I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all.
He studies my face. “Sorina, we don’t need to talk about this. The last thing I want is to upset you.”
“No.” What did Kahina say? That I couldn’t detach myself. Maybe she’s right. I can’t simply remove myself from my emotions the way Villiam can. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. “I want justice.”
“It was more than likely a religious fanatic from Frice,” Villiam says. “I’m powerless to bring such a person to justice.”
“But I don’t think it was,” I protest. “How would a random visitor know that Gill would be alone in his tent? And how would they know that Gill can’t breathe in air?”
“Perhaps because he sleeps in a vat of seawater?”
“Someone murdered Gill. They killed him, on stage, for me to find. And he’s not even real! I created him! They’re not supposed to be able to get hurt! I didn’t create a family so that they’d die!” I cover my face with my hands as I cry for the fifth time in the last twenty-four hours. It’s difficult to hold back the sobs, and Villiam quiets for a minute until I bring myself back under control.
“I already began an investigation into his death, you know,” Villiam says. “Not so much into the perpetrator but how someone managed to kill him. The guards last night have written me a report on what they found. I promise you I will find the answers.”
I wipe my nose on one of Villiam’s expensive table napkins. “What kind of investigation?”
“I’m not certain I want you involved. You and the others are grieving. It isn’t healthy to be focusing on revenge. Focus on healing, instead. You’re clearly still distraught—”
“I’m not distraught—”
“You aren’t yourself. You’re on edge. You look like you’ve barely slept. And you’re only sixteen years old—”
“But I need to know who did this.”
“And I will try to find you as many answers as I can,” Villiam says, his voice tight. He has obviously already made his decision to leave me out of this. “We’re exploring all possibilities. Questioning people near your tent. Looking into our visitors’ book. Determining—”
“That
