Daughter Of The Burning City. Amanda Foody
carries Blister—to avoid losing each other. Once we approach the exit, the commotion grows louder.
Screams.
“What’s going on?” Hawk asks. “Tree, can you see anything?”
Tree doesn’t answer. He swats at a fly buzzing around his leaves.
“It’s officials,” the man in front of us says.
“Officials? Like Frician city officials?” I ask, confused. “What are they doing at the Festival?” They allowed us to come to Frice. Have they changed their minds? Will they force us to leave? It wouldn’t be the first time a city-state has rescinded an invitation after gazing at Gomorrah’s intimidating burning skyline up close. It looks like Hell itself has shown up on their doorsteps.
“Causing trouble,” Gill says, always stating the obvious. Anything involving Up-Mountain officials means trouble.
We’ll have to cut our plans short—the Menagerie, the fireworks show, all of it. Officials love to target jynx-workers, and even if I’m the only true one among us, our appearances will make us stand out. I could joke about how it has something to do with us being abominations to their god. But the joke is less funny here, considering all the blood that has been spilled for thousands of years in the name of that same god in this city alone, not to mention in the rest of the world.
No, it isn’t much of a joke at all.
“Straight home,” Nicoleta says. “Does everyone hear?”
“Yes,” we chorus. No one argues with Nicoleta when there’s a crisis.
We step into the smoky night air, right in the middle of the clearing that was once filled with vendors, fortune-workers and laughing guests. Now, everyone is running. White-coated Frician officials on horseback charge dangerously close to the Gomorrah merchants packing up their stands. The officials brandish clubs and holler at passersby. Several brandish swords and crossbows.
Gomorrah is chaos.
The coin merchant’s table crashes to the ground, and lucky coins cascade onto the grass in a rushing clatter. The official whose horse overturned the stand stops and dismounts. I hold my breath and squirm closer to Gill as the merchant drops to his knees and collects his fallen merchandise.
“We need to hurry,” Nicoleta says. She points in the direction of a nearby path for us to flee.
The official picks up a coin and examines it. “The Harbinger? He looks like a demon.” He throws the coin into the merchant’s lap. “Are you a jynx-worker?”
“No,” the merchant says, his voice strong. He stands to meet the official’s eyes.
“Then what are these for, if not divining?”
“It’s a game. Collector’s items.”
“A game,” he mocks. “A festival. Pretty words for a city of rot and smoke. Nothing about this place is play.”
Gill tugs on my arm. The others have broken apart and are running for Nicoleta’s path. “It’s time to go,” he says.
I eye the ticket booth behind us, loath to lose all the money we spent. We saved for this night. I won’t let a few Up-Mountain officials force us to throw our money away and terrorize us in our own home.
I disentangle myself from Gill’s grip. “I’m getting our money back.”
Gill’s eyes widen in alarm. “There are more important things.”
“No. Family night is a whole month of saving, and we didn’t get to have it. I’m getting. Our money. Back.” I say this sternly enough so that Gill won’t argue with me. And he doesn’t.
“Be careful,” he says.
“Always am.”
I whip around toward the ticket booth. A crowd surrounds it, shouting at the girl inside, who’s shouting right back. There are twenty yards between them and me, plus a few officials in their white coats on whiter stallions beneath the Menagerie’s banners, admiring the chaos around them and tormenting those in costume, searching for jynx-workers.
Villiam always told me the Up-Mountains hate us because they are afraid. He’s told me stories that date back two thousand years, when Gomorrah was once a true city in the Great Mountains—a narrow strip of land dividing the two continents. When its skyline was blue instead of burning. When jynx-workers wielding fire and shadow could dominate regions at any end of the world. Even though anyone can be born with jynx-work in their blood, it was the Up-Mountainers who turned away from it, and the Down-Mountainers who came to celebrate it. The Up-Mountains—from the wintry tundras in the north, to the humid bayous in the south, across cultures, across peoples—united under their common-held fear and warrior god. Now they are powerful, and even the most capable jynx-worker is no match for the massive Up-Mountain armies.
It will only take a few minutes to retrieve the money, I tell myself. Screams ring out behind me. Figures appear and disappear in the constant Gomorrah smoke. Hooves thunder past.
I’ll be home in a few minutes. Like hell I’m leaving without our money. I am the proprietor’s daughter, and I will never be afraid while within Gomorrah.
My illusion-work is not entirely for entertainment. A useful trick I’ve learned while living in the Festival is to convince someone they are looking at one thing, when really they are looking at something else. A sleight of hand, of sorts. It’s significantly easier than persuading someone there’s nothing to see at all.
I cast my usual trick: a moth.
To those around me, there is no girl passing them in a long cloak. There is no person. No shadow, even. There’s a moth, fluttering from torch to torch in lazy curls, oblivious to the hysteria around it. A torn scrap of paper drifting in Gomorrah’s smoke. If they concentrated or stood at a distance, they would glimpse the outline of my body, blurry like a reflection in a pond. But no one is going to stare that closely at a moth.
With my illusion protecting me, I pass the officials without notice and head to the booth. I shelter behind a tentpole, blocking myself from the view of those in the clearing. Once the illusion fades, I don’t want an official to harass me because of my eyeless mask. Or worse, for someone from Gomorrah to recognize me as the proprietor’s daughter and demand I stop the officials. As if they’d listen to a sixteen-year-old, small Down-Mountain girl. A jynx-worker. A freak.
I let go of my illusion and push my way to the front of the those crowded around the ticket booth. Inside, the frazzled girl shrieks, “You all live here! Just come back tomorrow!” Somewhere to our right, another vendor stand is knocked to the ground with a crash, followed by the thudding of wooden jugs of spiced wine.
She’s right. Everyone in the group has mixed features and wears Gomorrah trousers and tunics. Those in Gomorrah are known for their stinginess, and waiting a whole day for our money back isn’t going to cut it—not for me, not for anyone here. Those tickets cost a fortune.
A child screeches. I briefly look away from the booth, but it is an Up-Mountain child. He has nothing to fear. His father shushes him and pulls him away from the frenzied horses.
Be careful, Gill told me.
I’m definitely not being careful.
“Today you say money back, tomorrow you’ll change your minds,” one man says. He holds out his grubby hand beneath the glass opening of the booth.
“Where’s the manager?” another asks.
“He’s calming the swan dragon,” the girl snaps. Her eyes fall on me, in the fringe of the crowd, and they widen. “You’re Villiam’s daughter.” The others turn to me, and I curse under my breath. They all recognize me, but I know none of them. I shouldn’t