The Dark Water (8 page)

“I don't think the map says that stuff,” I say, dubious. The words just come out. The Keepers who made the map had drunk the source, and left here eons ago. Did they make it for us, then? Or for Randt and his people?

Randt snorts. “How can you expect to know and understand anything of this place, little one?”

“Why don't you just go Topside and see?” Jo asks.

“Yes, we should,” Straoc says, earning swift look from Randt. Straoc seems to love the idea of the Topside, like a kid dreaming of Hollywood.

“We cannot just leave the source. If I leave, then Arcos alone keeps the city.” He stares hard at Straoc. “We must get the other Topsider. We must know what the map says before Arcos does.”

“And if he doesn't tell you what's on the map?” Rob asks.

Randt shakes his head, as if that could never even be a possibility. When he does speak, it's with the sigh of a busy man at the end of his day. “That is why you will be my guests, to ensure he does.”

“Sounds like a threat,” Jo says.

“He will speak or he will not.” He looks at me now, smiling kindly. “But if not . . . well, we will just illustrate on young Mia, here, show him just how many times we can break her arms and legs and heal her with the water while keeping her conscious.” He studies me, like he's looking for an answer. “Quite a few times, I'm sure.”

He pauses. “Welcome to my home.” And then he's gone, the door swinging shut and leaving us with the dark city pressing in.

STRAOC HOLDS THE DOOR FOR US LIKE A GENTLEMAN
, letting us inside as if nothing's happened, as if we weren't just blatantly threatened. The Keepers standing guard in the hall don't look our way, which is similarly unnerving.

“Randt and Sutton should become best friends,” Rob says.

“Not the time, Rob,” Jo replies.

“When, then? It's not like we're going anywhere. We thought we were getting help but instead we're held for potential torture.”

“Friend Rob,” Straoc says, somehow looking hurt. “That will most probably not happen. I certainly would not want that. You have to show me the Topside.”

“Oh fun. I'll take you to Baskin-Robbins.”

“Good, I would like that.” Straoc replies, oblivious. He rolls his massive shoulders. “Now I must hurry to find your father. We shall speak of your home again soon.”

Straoc says something in their foreign language to the Keepers guarding the nearest door. The words are guttural, more like Hebrew than, say, Italian, but pleasant to the ear. Afterward, he doesn't even look our way, he just hurries to the foyer and disappears.

The Keepers both have long hair tied up in buns, both wearing deep blue tights and blue and yellow striped sleeveless shirts. As soon as Straoc leaves they order us down the hallway. The woman leads, the man follows us. They hold thin, short swords, unsheathed, and walk with practiced ease, swinging the bright blades close to their bodies.

“Do you have any guns?” Rob asks, as we walk through a narrow passageway.

“It is forbidden,” the woman says, her voice deep and scratchy, like a lifelong smoker.

“Sounds like lots of stuff's forbidden,” Rob says, half to her, half to us. “Electricity, guns. What else?”

“Please stop your talking,” the woman says.

“What's your name?” Jo asks, ignoring her order. Her face shows a mixture of genuine curiosity and intentional disobedience.

The guard doesn't answer. And we walk in silence for another hundred yards, down two flights of stairs, and finally to a set of double doors painted white. The man, the first Keeper I've seen with facial hair—a tuft below his chin—opens the door and ushers us in. But it's the woman who speaks. “This is your room. You are not to leave. We will be here if you need anything, and will bring you food presently. There is a font, of course.”

“Right,” I reply, not sure what she means.

“My name is Jo,” Jo says, reaching out a hand. The Keepers stare at it.

“I am called Sratha,” the woman finally says; you can feel the reluctance in her voice.

The man juts his chin out, refusing to speak, maybe under orders, or maybe he's angry like the ones in the Exchange. With the flat of his sword he taps Jo on the back, pushing her inside. The doors close behind us.

• • •

The room's simple but elegant. The kind of thing you'd expect to see in a schmancy modern apartment in New York City. There are three beds, each level with the floor, set into the ground. Pillows and crisp white sheets. A thin gray stone table and wooden chairs. A leather-lined bench. It's like a minimalist paradise.

The ‘font,' I suppose, is the little water fountain that's near the door. Like a birdbath. I dip my finger in and take a taste. My mouth goes warm. I'm growing too pleased with that feeling.

Rob's like a kid exploring a hotel. He goes behind an opaque piece of glass in the corner of the room and shouts, “They only have a hole in the ground.”

“At least they have something,” Jo replies.

The noticeable thing missing is a TV. No guns, no TV. I wonder what other technologies they haven't developed, and whether it's by choice. They've clearly surpassed us on a few things as well, considering that smooth elevator ride, the buildings, the gigantic gates. Divergent civilizations, different growth.

Jo plops into a chair. She looks ridiculous in her blue scrubs and red winter coat. I glance around and see that on the beds there are three changes of clothes, white cloth, folded neatly into little perfect squares. I think of Dad, and how he's in the Lock, and I wonder whether he has his own inset bed. If all jails here are this comfortable. I wonder if Arcos's men told him that we were here. I'd rather they didn't, if only so Dad won't worry.

“I could use a shower,” Jo says, pulling an elastic out of her blond hair. She holds it up and examines it critically, as if it were the problem instead of her unkempt and sweaty hair. “Though it seems like such a waste of the water.”

“Here, maybe this will make you feel better,” I say, and throw a square of cloth at her. She unfolds it, looks at the shirt with amusement, then shrugs. I'm reminded of Saturday nights before she went out, her standing in front of the full-length mirror, trying on dress after dress. Sometimes I wondered whether she took so long only to have more time to convince me to go out with her.

“Fine,” she says, and begins to take off her jacket. “Rob, stay over there, I'm changing.”

“Oh, I want to change too!”

I toss him a set over the glass screen of the bathroom. I can see the vague shape of him ripping off his clothes.

“You realize it's your birthday, right?” Jo says suddenly, a guilty look flashing across her face.

“Kinda hard to keep track of the time down here,” I say, turning away from her. I don't really want to talk about it. There's nothing to celebrate. My birthday is just a reminder of the way things will never be again. No birthday cupcake in our dorm room, no cheesy photoshopped picture of me on Lionel Messi's body that Rob taped to the door. No time before a virus. They must have heard the disinterest in my voice, because no one says anything more on the subject, and I'm happier that way.

I do a pocket check of my coat and find two things I've already forgotten, both which I stuffed into my jacket before we left. One, a small paring knife I took from Furbish Manor, the last holding cell we were stuck in. And the other, some berries Odessa told me not to eat. Blue ones, from the exotic greenhouses back at the Cave, where Dad and his scientist buddies were using the water to experiment on crops. Most are crushed but there are a few survivors. Strong breeding, I guess. I can't believe I forgot these things, and even more so, I can't believe they didn't check me for them. I suppose they aren't used to stop-and-frisk down here. I slip on the new clothing, breathing a sigh of relief as the soft material shifts over my body, surprisingly warm. Suddenly the bed looks inviting.

I give myself an internal shake of the head.
No, not now. What if Dad gets here?
I take another handful of water and let the tingling sensation push away my exhaustion.

Ever since we arrived here, we've been forced to follow someone else's lead. Judging from Straoc's reaction, I'd imagine that the arrival of a Topsider might normally have provoked a positive reception, but with the assassination of that Keeper they spoke of, one of the so-called Three, it's like we're terrorists.

“We have to get out of here,” I say, mustering my energy.

“How, Mia?” Jo replies. “This isn't like the backwoods of Westbrook, where we at least know where to go. How are we supposed to get out of this tower?”

“Um,” Rob says, peeking from the bathroom. “You do realize that Randt said he'd torture us if Mr. Kish doesn't talk.”

“Rob's right,” Jo says. “But he'll definitely torture your dad if we leave. We don't know anything about this place, and if Straoc's going to break your dad out of prison and bring him here, I say we wait until we're all together.”

“But how do we know that as soon as they get what they want from him, we're not all tossed out that window?” I say.

Rob comes back into the room and throws his old scrubs on the floor. The white suit fits snugly, as if tailored for him. He looks remarkably cool—like a ninja speed skater. “Mr. Kish
will
talk. Why wouldn't he? He came here for a reason and it seems more and more likely that he wants the source and all of its powers and maybe the map is helping him get there, but you don't really think he'll stand up to them threatening you?”

“Right,” Jo says. “We're safer here.”

I shake my head. “We aren't safe anywhere that we can't leave on our own.”

Rob waves his phone and then tosses it to me. “Why don't you see what the map tells us to do?”

“Does it work that way?” Jo asks, crossing her arms on her chest.

“It has so far, right?” he replies.

I scroll through the images, and immediately get why Dad's been obsessed all these years. Each one could have so many meanings. After the city, where I assume we are now, there's still another dozen or so paintings. In the first image there are three blue circles in a tight clump. And a red stripe—not even a real shape to it. Then a Keeper with a spear in his eye and a waterfall and a cup with a shining rim.

“Well?” Jo asks. I glance up, dazed. How long have I been staring at the phone? I shrug and give it to her. “It's not exactly easy,” I say.

She looks at it, biting her lip, her brow furrowed intensely. I realize I've been at odds with her on most things since we've gotten here. But I can't just decide to stay here, trapped in this room, to make her feel better.

I put my hand on the glass wall, looking for the door to the balcony, when outside on the railing, I see a hand.

“Oh, my God,” I shout, and almost fall over.

“Damn it, Mia!” Jo says, dropping the phone and clutching her chest. “Don't do that.”

“But look!” I shout again, pointing.

There's another hand now. Pale. Fingernails painted red. Someone's dangling off the ledge of our balcony. Then a head pops up, the head of a young Keeper, her eyes smaller than any Keeper's I've seen so far, only plum-size, like those of a perpetually surprised Topsider. Her hair's short and spiked and blue as can be and she sees us and smiles. I've seen that hair before: it's the girl who was forced to look away from us down in the gardens. For some reason, hers is the first smile I've trusted so far.

“What the hell's this?” Jo asks.

“Who is she?” from Rob.

The head disappears, but not the hands, and then suddenly a whole body jumps over the railing and onto the balcony. She straightens, a lithe grace to her movements, something I recognize from years of watching divers like Jo. She's wearing similar clothes to ours, only hers are the same colors and design as Randt's: chain-mail silver and deep blue with gold thread. She motions for us to come outside, but after I make a few tries at pushing on the glass, she rolls her big eyes and opens the door for us.

“You are the Topsiders?” she asks needlessly. She's breathing fast and speaking low, like she's ready for trouble.

“I guess we are,” I say.

“You're Randt's daughter, aren't you?” Rob asks. He's gotta be on the mark, because she stiffens in surprise. Her skin is so milky white I can see some veins underneath. Her eyelashes are long. Her eyes are a gorgeous green, the irises thin discs around her pupils. And her lips are full and curved, thick and red. She's taller than me. But my swimmer shoulders are broader than hers, a fact that makes me oddly proud.

“How did you know?” she asks.

Rob shrugs. “Your clothing is as nice.”

She laughs, a hearty sound, and somehow more genuine than Straoc's. “Normally that would not be the case,” she says, fingering her glittering top. “But my mother has passed not a cycle and so I wear her clothing. I am the clan heir. It is tradition.”

“So the guards outside, you're their princess?” Jo asks.

“Every clan owes allegiance to one of the Three, and must wear their colors when on duty. Our blood has mixed with these Keepers for generations. When not on duty, they wear more colors, but even then there must be blue and yellow.” She smiles and points at her head. “My favorite are the cousins who dye their hair.”

I wonder how many clans there are. “Do you want to come in? What're you doing here? Why'd you . . .
how'd
you come up this way?”

“No, we should stay out here, so your guards do not hear us,” she replies. “And how can I not be here? You are Topsiders. The whole city is speaking of you. And I get you all to myself under my roof. You have no idea how much I want to go Topside. And now here you are coming to me. I could not resist. My own rooms are two floors below, and my father does not want me out, especially now, so I jumped up.”

I run to the edge and look down, instantly vertigoed. “Are you crazy?” I say to her.

“No,” she responds gravely, and I wonder if she's missed something in translation.

“What's your name?” asks Rob. A much smarter question.

She looks at Rob. “I am Lisenthe.”

“Lisenthe,” I try, butchering the pronunciation.

“Kind of like our ‘Lisa,' ” Rob says, a shy smile on his face, which she returns.

“Please, to you, call me Lisa.”

“I'm Rob, that's Mia, and the blonde's Jo.”

“Lisa,” I say, ready to get on track. “What's going on down here? Why does everyone think we killed Feileen? How'd she die anyways?”

“Those are many questions, Mia,” she replies, sounding out my name slowly, making sure she gets it right. “I do not know why Feileen is attached to you. I know only that she was found with no life, and no injury. It is a mystery, and so are you. So you are the same, in that way. But I do not know much else. I am not allowed to leave this tower.”

“You're a prisoner too?” I ask.

“No, no,” she says, some skepticism in her voice. “It is dangerous in Capian. Feileen has long been my father's opposite on the Three, with Arcos choosing at whim who to support. Now that Feileen is gone, I am a target.” She pauses. “We do not die often. It is a sad thing. I always liked Feileen when she visited our tower.”