Daughter Of The Burning City. Amanda Foody
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just as much about the other people of Gomorrah. If he’s as good at his so-called gossip-work as he says he is, then he might not only be my sole option but a good one.
And it’s not as if I have anything to lose.
So I tell him every detail, starting from the show the other night, though I leave out the bit about working with Jiafu. Luca listens without interrupting. It feels different telling this story to a stranger than it did to Villiam or Kahina. I need to explain everything—what the illusions are, that Gill always sleeps in his separate tent, the layout of the stage. It’s exhausting.
“I just don’t think it makes sense that it was an Ovren fanatic,” I finish. It occurs to me that Luca, being from the Up-Mountains, might also follow their religion. But I doubt it. He’s a jynx-worker who ran away to Gomorrah. It doesn’t matter where he’s from—they would scorn him as much as me.
After a few moments of silence, Luca only says, “No.”
“No, what?” I ask.
“I’m not interested.”
It takes me a moment to process that he means he’s not interested in helping me.
“What? Why not? I can pay you. It may take time to gather up some money, but—”
“I don’t take payment. I only work if the story interests me, and, to be honest, this does sound like the work of a purity-crazed Ovren disciple. You haven’t provided reasonable doubt, so that’s my answer for you. Sorry, princess.” He pulls out a golden pocket watch to check the time, as if he has better places to be.
“But I have no idea how Gill was killed at all. He’s an illusion.”
“Was. He was an illusion,” Luca corrects. I lean over the table to slap him across the face, but he catches my hand and holds it there. “And I know all about your illusions. Nicoleta, for instance, had a drawn-out, tumultuous affair with a prettywoman I happen to be acquainted with. So if your illusions can be touched, smelled, heard, and they can act on their own, what exactly is your definition of not real? What makes you so certain they can’t be killed?”
“By definition, an illusion isn’t real,” I snap.
“Illusion-worker is just a title. Like gossip-worker. Like poison-worker.”
I stand up. “Thanks for nothing,” I snap and storm out. Who exactly does he think he is? Giving himself a fake title. Acting smarter than everyone else. He’s so...so...infuriating. I kick down the wooden sign outside his tent. Then I kick it again after it’s fallen.
My walk home from the Downhill passes in a blur. I’m so focused on my thoughts and figuring out who else would want to help me that I pay no attention to where I’m going. One moment, I’m at Luca’s, and the next, I realize I’m already back at my own tent.
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