Daughter Of The Burning City. Amanda Foody
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group. She was smart. The Menagerie, being Gomorrah’s most profitable attraction, receives Villiam’s special attention. Right now, I should care more about their needs than those of a few residents. That is what a proprietor would do. A proprietor would have their priorities straight.
The group watches me expectantly. A proprietor would also know at least a few of their names, and I can barely remember the names and faces of the neighbors I’ve had for eight or more years. But they all know mine. My face is the most recognizable in the Festival. I do not search for anonymity, but I hate to glimpse the repulsion or pity in their eyes.
“It’s for your safety,” I stammer. “The swan dragon—”
“—is older than shit,” one woman says. “Lot of harm she’ll do.”
“Let me take your names. I’ll make right sure the Menagerie returns your money tomorrow—”
“With all the officials here, wreaking havoc? You’ll be too busy cleaning up their mess, and you won’t bother with this.” The man spits at my feet. I grimace. He would hardly do that to Villiam, or even Villiam’s assistant, Agni. It’s easier to dismiss a freak. And truth be told, Villiam rarely assigns me any real work. My proprietorship lessons are lectures of micro-agriculture and craftsmanship; about the external structure of Gomorrah, a vast, traveling city. Never about what truly makes it tick.
“To hell with this.” The man storms off.
Fine, let him leave. He’ll probably rant about how lousy I am to his friends, which will return to me in whispers and stares—never anything outright rude, nothing that might risk inciting Villiam’s wrath, but the kind that makes me feel like a freak show even outside the performance tent.
I stare at the small, copper coins in the tin box inside the booth—dull and tarnished but still more beckoning than starlight. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know these people’s names. I know why they’re here, same as me. For their month’s earnings. For the money to make sure no one in their families has to do work on the side, like petty thievery. To ensure their loved ones have whatever they need, like medicine.
“Just need some paper,” I mutter and then slip inside the ticket booth. I grab a sheet and a pencil. “I’ll take your names—”
“But how will we—”
“I want my money back as much as you do. Now give me your damned names so that we can all get the hell out of here.”
The woman in front huffs. “You’re crass for a princess.”
I hate that nickname. Real princesses are no more than pretty bargaining chips. I’m no pawn, and I gave up on pretty a long time ago.
“Not for Gomorrah’s princess,” I say.
They stop bickering, give me their names and shuffle away. Once I’m alone, I reach beneath the counter and grab my family’s forty-five copper coins. Then I slap the list of names on the table—no longer my problem—and leave.
Frice has stormed the Festival. Gomorrah has bigger things to worry about than ticket refunds.
My trusty moth illusion gets me safely from the Menagerie to our neighborhood, though I pass several officials along the path and cringe away each time. But they cannot see me, and if I concentrate hard enough, they could touch me and not know it. I stumble toward our tent, sweaty and out of breath but victorious.
Gill waits outside, and I brace myself for the scolding that I probably deserve. He swats at my moth until I drop the illusion. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“That was rash,” he says. “You could’ve been hurt.”
I jingle my pocket. “Got the money.”
“No one cares about the money. We were all worried sick.”
I know it wasn’t the smartest plan. But tomorrow night, when the officials leave and Gomorrah has cleaned itself up, everyone will be thankful for the extra change.
“Well, I’m fine.” I push past him to go inside, but he grabs my arm.
“And why was Jiafu here tonight?” he asks, for the second time.
“How should I know? Maybe he wanted to watch our show,” I say, careful not to let the others overhear inside. Crown and Nicoleta also don’t approve of my thieving with Jiafu, and some of them—like Hawk and Unu and Du—don’t even know about it.
“Jiafu is trouble, Sorina.”
“It was nothing. All’s dandy.” Jiafu and I have swindled enough jobs at the show to know it never affects our ticket sales.
“I don’t know what you two did,” he says, “but Gomorrah’s in enough trouble here as it is. If rumors spread beyond Frice that we’ve been stealing from patrons, then the other Up-Mountain cities will revoke their invitations to come. Not to mention all this chaos.”
He acts as if Jiafu and I are the only thieves in this whole festival of debauchery. To the visitors, the chance of pickpockets or magical mischief accounts for half the thrill of Gomorrah.
“It was a small job. Count Pomp-di-pomp is supposed to be a bit dim, anyway. He’ll probably think he lost his ring himself.”
Gill rolls his eyes. “It’s Count Pompdidorra. He’s a very influential man.”
“Whatever.”
“Sorina,” he says, sighing. Most of Gill’s sentences are followed by a sigh. At least half of those are aimed at me. When I created Gill, I had “loving uncle” in mind, but, instead, he’s more of a nuisance. Though maybe that’s a bit harsh. It’s not that I don’t love Gill. Not that he doesn’t love me and all of us. But he’s certainly grumpier than in my original blueprints. If we wanted to live by all his rules, we’d go live in a religion-crazed Up-Mountain city. The only person who listens to Gill is
Nicoleta, who is essentially his henchman, repeating his advice or scolding someone whenever Gill isn’t present to do so himself.
“To be frank—” Gill is always frank “—you’re jeopardizing the already grim reputation of the entire Festival. And if people keep losing valuable possessions during our show, no one’s going to buy tickets.”
I’m done with this conversation. Unless Gill can concoct a new idea for me to earn some coin for Kahina, then I’ll stick with Jiafu. I’m not really hurting anyone. The patrons we select are too rich to notice a missing necklace here, a missing watch there.
“It’s my show,” I say.
“If it’s all your show, you can do tricks in this tank next time. Or fit into Venera’s two-by-two-foot box,” he snaps. “Don’t be a child.”
“Technically, I’m older than you,” I say. I created Gill when I was nine, which only makes him seven years old.
He sighs. “Of course, Sorina, you always have the last word.”
This particular statement infuriates me more than anything else. I’m sorry I worried him, but Kahina is more important than the slim risk involved. And I don’t understand how I could possibly be damaging the Festival’s reputation when people are always whispering about assassins and drug dealers in the Downhill. Petty theft is nothing compared to that.
I turn, my cloak swishing behind me, and stomp inside.
The others sit around our foldout table, huddled together on floor cushions. By the untouched game of lucky coins and the way they fidget, I can tell they’ve been worried.
I toss the forty-five coins on the table, which spill out of their pouch with clatters and clangs. Venera grimly gathers them up to add to our family-stash jar. “Got them no problem,” I say, knowing that I sound like an ass.
“It’s almost midnight,” Nicoleta says. “You took a