Guardians (15 page)

As he followed her through the strange and shabby-looking little house, he wondered what her secret could be. She led him to a glass door on the top floor and pushed it open as if some rare treasure lay on the other side.

But there was nothing. Instead, Gideon found himself stepping onto a bare roof, one that was hot and dusty. Confused and irritated, he turned to her. But she had already wandered off, gesturing as she spoke.

“Don't you see?” Esther turned around, her eyes sparkling. “We're running out of food. There isn't enough to feed everyone. But what if we built a greenhouse here? We could set up a water purification system, too. Joseph knows how to do it . . . I know he does.”

Gideon blinked as he absorbed her words. Then he let out a short bark of laughter. “That impossible. And even if you do it, this place too small.”

Esther was already shaking her head. “This would only be a test . . . to see if it works. If it does, we can build more. There are places like this all over Mundreel—hundreds of them. We can teach people how to work the garden, how to fertilize the crops and purify the rain. That way, they can support themselves and not have to depend on us.”

Gideon smiled; he felt as if he were tolerating the foolish chatter of a child. “It crazy. You can't teach Outsiders to farm. They animals . . . they can't think. How they gonna run a garden?”

Esther turned to him, her expression serious. “I think they can,” she said. “But that's not what I'm asking you. I was hoping maybe a crew could work here with me.” She paused.

“So?”

“I think they should be paid for their effort. You're in charge of that.”

“If this such a great plan, why they need pay?”

“Because it's fair. Remember we talked about that when we made our deal?” She said this pointedly and Gideon glanced up at her. “I've lived up to my half of the bargain. I don't question
what you've been doing. And I don't ask for anything.” Esther let out a deep breath. “But I'm asking now. Will you help us?”

Gideon paused.

With sudden clarity, he understood what Esther was proposing and realized that it wasn't stupid at all. In fact, it was revolutionary—in the most dangerous sense of the word. She was suggesting that they take the means of procuring food and drinkable water, something that he currently controlled, and put it in the hands of the mob: the ignorant, undisciplined, and foolish hordes who roamed not only the District, but the streets beyond.

If he allowed it to happen, there would be no more need to work for glass; people would be able to support themselves instead. Business would no longer be conducted on the main floor of the District, but on every rooftop where anyone could grow enough plants to survive. And Gideon's system, the one he had spent so much time perfecting, would eventually become outmoded and then disappear altogether. Leaving Esther the undisputed leader of the entire city.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

“Don't need to waste my glass on your foolishness.” Gideon spat on the tar paper between them. “I already know it ain't gonna work.”

Esther started to say something, but he had turned and headed back to the door. He didn't give her enough time to catch up; he fled down the stairs as if being pursued. Only when he was back on the street did Gideon manage to resume his air of studied indifference, putting on his sunglasses before
remounting his bicycle. He could sense her watching him, a pale face at the narrow window beside the door.

He ignored it.

As he took off, Gideon was aware that his heart was pounding. Once again, he found himself confounded by Esther. Was she acting naïve on purpose in order to trick him? Or was she really as simple as she seemed?

He shook off his uncertainty. After all, his little trip had made one thing clear: Esther knew nothing about what he had been up to. And that was the most important thing of all.

For now, the secret of the basement was still safe.

S
KAR HAD BEGUN TO SUSPECT THAT SOMETHING STRANGE WAS GOING ON
in the District.

She had taken to standing at the hallway windows, the interior panes that faced inward onto the complex. Pressed against the cool surface, she gazed down as best she could, past the immense objects made of glittering glass that dangled from the ceiling. It seemed to her that there were more disruptions than she had ever recalled, especially in the late afternoon and early evening. Occasionally, she could hear loud voices, raucous laughter, and the unmistakable sound of fighting that carried faintly through the open air.

Several times, Skar tried to share her concerns with Esther. But her friend was always too busy to pay much attention.

“That's Gideon's concern,” she said once. “I have too much to do.”

There was no one else with whom Skar felt comfortable sharing her doubts. As her partner and confidante, Michal was the obvious choice. Yet despite—or perhaps because of—the hardships she had suffered in her short life, Michal hated serious discussions and remained lighthearted and carefree. Skar usually loved Michal's sunny spirit, which contrasted with her own tendency to brood and worry. But at times like these, she found herself frustrated by her partner's frivolity.

“Why do you want to stir up trouble?” It was late at night, and Michal was standing in front of their mirror, trying on the elegant veil that Esther had worn during her partnering ceremony. The girl tied it around her golden hair, binding it back; then, frowning, she draped it across her mutilated features. Satisfied with the results, she gathered the ends around her throat and secured them in a bow. “People like all the pretty stuff there is to buy. So do I. . . . I wish we got to go down there.”

“True,” Skar replied. She had always enjoyed watching her partner try on ornaments and show them off, but tonight, she was in no mood. “Esther gave Gideon the freedom to do what he wanted. She is only interested in her own plans. But I'm worried that something bad is happening.”

“So stop worrying. Do something.”

Skar realized that her partner was right. It was no good
brooding and keeping her suspicions to herself; she had to find out for certain whether or not she was right. Yet that was not so easily done. Skar herself could not go down and find out what was going on; as the only variant in the District, she was far too noticeable.

Spying had been a common practice among her people, an effective way to see what rivals were planning and to prevent attacks. As leader, her brother, Slayd, had orchestrated many such missions and kept their people safe as a result. When she was little, Skar had watched him countless times and learned. Now it was her turn to put into practice what she had picked up.

Hours later, after Michal had fallen asleep, Skar slipped down the hallway, the carpeting cool and soft under her bare feet. Although it was pitch-black, she knew the layout well, and moved silently three doors down. She gave a soft tap on the door, then turned the cool metal knob.

Moonlight poured through the curtainless window. Silas was already sitting up, squinting at having been awoken so abruptly, his hair standing on end. Although he looked surprised to find Skar standing in front of him, he knew better than to say anything.

“You are a good stealer,” Skar said, without wasting any words. It was true: The boy had broken into many buildings, plundered corpses, and been adept in a world that sometimes required nefarious action.

Silas blushed and began to protest. “I ain't stolen nothing! Not from here, anyway. So if anybody says, they're lying. I—”

Skar put up a hand. “I am not here to punish you.”

Silas stopped. His eyes, wide and unblinking in his thin nine-year-old face, watched her carefully.

“I want you to steal something for me.”

The boy relaxed; he even chuckled. “Why didn't you say? That's easy. What do you want?”

Skar's voice was serious. “Information.”

It wasn't hard for Silas to blend in on the main floor of the District.

By midmorning, the mall was packed with eager customers. From above, it looked like a sea of dirty, billowing robes that were belted at the waist and draped around heads. Similarly attired and wearing mirrored sunglasses, Silas squeezed his way unnoticed through the crowd as people crushed against booths, examined merchandise, then stood in line to haggle and buy things with their pieces of glass. He skirted past other Outsiders who were working: sweeping the floor, replacing windowpanes, or lugging cans of gas to the generator.

It was so easy to get around,
Silas marveled;
maybe too easy
. Because as Skar had suspected, he was beginning to think that the real problem, if there was one, wasn't to be found on the ground level.

Silas found himself gravitating toward the twin metal staircases that led to the lower level. That was where he had once followed Joseph's cat and found a room full of garbage and a human skull, where he had learned what the adults had eaten in order to survive.

Still, Silas liked challenges.
And this one,
he thought,
seemed like it would be a lot more fun
.

Yet making it downstairs proved to be much more difficult than he had assumed. Standing at either side of the glass-encased stairs were four Insurgents. Two openly held clubs, and Silas was certain that the others had weapons hidden in their pockets and beneath their robes. Pretending to examine merchandise, he watched as a boy approached them. One of the guards patted his robes and spoke a few words to him. The boy took out a knife and handed it over. Only then was he allowed past.

As one of Esther's friends, there would be no way for Silas to simply barrel past. He would have to be more clever than that.

His unique talents were about to come in handy.

Silas swiveled around as if making up his mind what to buy and saw he was facing a particularly busy stand. People crowded around a table that was heaped with the usual welter of goods: shoes, packets of food, bottles of water, furnishings, clothes. Taking advantage of his small size, Silas managed to snake his way through to the front. There, he saw a tangled pile of the small objects that strapped to the arm: “wristwatches,” he had heard them called. Joseph owned several that he wore every day, Silas knew, and was forever fussing over them.

A girl of about twelve was laboriously counting out what seemed like an endless amount of glass. Her new purchase, a watch made of gold and silver metal, was already fastened to her wrist with a pink band.

To anyone who was watching, the little boy who stood beside the girl was gravely examining the selection of shoes for sale. In reality, Silas was reaching up one thin hand. With fingers as light as silk, he tugged at the end of the leather strap until it pulled free of the tiny loop that secured it. Then he bumped into the girl.

“Hey!” Silas whirled on the surprised person behind him. “Stop pushing!” He then turned back to the girl, who was now glaring at him. “Sorry,” he said. But in that one moment, Silas had managed to pull at the strap on her wrist and release it from the metal pin that held it in place.

The wristwatch dropped into his palm.

Without drawing attention to himself, Silas moved away as swiftly as he could. Moments later, he heard exactly what he wanted.

“Hey! My watch! Stop him!”

As the girl's screams echoed through the giant marble atrium, all of Gideon's guards sprang into action. From every corner of the mall, they ran forward, shoving people aside and drawing out their weapons. But Silas had already slipped the watch into the hands of an unsuspecting boy, younger than he. Perplexed, the boy was now holding it up in the air . . . but before he could stammer out an explanation of what had just happened, the mob descended.

Silas ran past the crowds who were racing the other way. He felt a brief flicker of guilt for the innocent boy, whose screams were even now being drowned out by the sounds of his beating. Then he shook it off. The twin staircase in front of him was
momentarily unguarded. Silas flew down the steep, grooved metal steps, taking two at a time, his hands skimming the hard rubber banisters.

When he reached the basement, Silas ground to a halt. Then he slipped around a corner.

Across the food court, he saw a crowd of people gathered together outside a closed door. It was mostly older males, standing in a restless line. The door was cracked half-open. Flickering light and thumping, rhythmic music wafted out from within. The sounds were completely unlike the gentle tones he had remembered the adults dancing to when he and the others first came to the District.

Whenever anyone exited the room, a new one was allowed in. Those who emerged acted strangely: red faced and glassy eyed, they stumbled and clung to the wall. A few of them laughed for no reason at all and more than one had been sick, the fronts of their robes stained with vomit. As they passed the corner where Silas hid, he could smell the overpowering liquid that the adults used to drink on occasion. The one time Silas had tasted it, he'd found it so unpleasant he had spat it out onto the floor, to the laughter of the leader Inna and the others.
Still,
he thought,
those stumbling by seemed to enjoy it well enough
.

“Next! Keep moving!”

A boy supervised the goings-on; he stood on the threshold releasing old customers and bringing in new. To his shock, Silas saw that it was Eli. He had not seen the older boy in many weeks, not since the District had been divided. His friend seemed transformed, and not for the better: He was pasty
faced and sickly and had dark circles under his eyes.

At that moment, Eli propped the door open to talk to someone and noise, light, and smoke, the pungent kind Aras once used, poured out. Silas ducked back, to avoid being seen. But for that instant, he had been able to catch a glimpse of the murky room, lit by flickering torches. He noticed that tables were crowded together, and people sat around them, drinking from glasses. Heavy and insistent music throbbed, competing with a clatter of voices that were talking, laughing, shouting. Then Eli escorted in another boy and the door closed behind them.

Although more boys and a few girls were heading toward the guarded room, Silas noticed others walking in another direction, continuing farther down the hall. He slipped in after two of them, boys who butted each other with their shoulders, as if sharing a private joke.

“I heard a lot about this place,” Silas heard one murmur. “It just open up.”

“Me, too. Can't wait. Just hope I got enough.” Silas could hear him jangle a few pieces of glass around in his pocket.

“How do I look?” The first attempted to comb his tangled hair with dirty fingers, then turned to the other for an appraisal.

“It don't matter,” the other one said, and laughed. “She got to like you, right?”

Silas caught up to them as they came to the end of the next corridor. Ahead were two narrow doors, outside of which a smaller group of boys congregated.

Silas hid behind a pillar he suspected was too close for
comfort. He feared he wouldn't have any time to see what was going on before being discovered. Still, he had no choice.

After several minutes, one of the doors opened and a boy emerged. He did not seem affected by drink as Eli and the others had, although he was grinning. Silas peeked inside the room, which was narrow and dark, perhaps a former closet. In it he glimpsed what looked like bedding heaped on the floor. Standing above it, a girl in a white T-shirt and tousled hair was pulling her shorts back up. She had an absent expression and her face was pale.

Standing outside, as if supervising, was the Insurgent girl called Nur.

“Next,” she said.

As another boy paid her with glass, went in, and shut the door, Silas drew back behind the column. Although he didn't know what he had just seen, he had a tight feeling in his stomach. He hoped Skar would be able to explain when he described it. Then he glanced up.

Someone was approaching.

A teenage boy was coming down the hall. He wasn't headed to the room in question; Silas could tell by the way he walked. There was nothing either eager or aimless about his gait: Cutting his way through the crowd, he seemed intent on reaching Silas, upon whom he had locked his gaze. He was dressed in white and, as he came closer, Silas could see a streak of white in his hair, too.

He could also see a gun.

Without missing a step, the older male had leaned down and
in one fluid motion pulled a weapon from near his ankle. Now only feet away, he lifted it, taking aim at Silas's chest. Those on line outside the rooms hadn't noticed and continued to talk and laugh.

Silas shrank back and, by instinct, threw an arm in front of his face, knocking his hood back as he froze in fear. He locked eyes with the older boy, who stopped and, all at once, seemed unnerved. His expression, which had been stony, softened; Silas could swear he almost smiled. Still, he kept the gun raised.

And fired.

The explosion echoed in the hallway, causing a commotion from those standing around. Silas, who had squeezed his eyes shut in terror, heard the zing of the bullet as it whizzed past his ear; he opened them only when he realized he hadn't been hit. As he looked around, stunned and confused, he saw that several feet behind him, bright red bloomed against the wall, dripping down in rivulets.

A moment ago, it had been a rat.

Silas stared up at the gunman, still petrified. The boy in white met his eyes and gave a single impatient nod that clearly meant
go
. Silas forced himself to move, turning away and fleeing back the way he had come, toward the double stairs.

He didn't dare look behind him.

Trey tossed what remained of the dead animal on the tiled floor.

Gideon recoiled. “What that?”

Trey shrugged. “You got pests.”

Gideon pursed his lips. “You come here for a rat?”