“So, even if they don’t call themselves Kamar, how is going to them not betraying the City?”
“Because . . .” Howl can’t seem to let go of the word, drawing it out long as if while he’s still saying it, he won’t have to actually explain anything. “You haven’t been out here long enough to understand yet. Come on, we need to get moving. Less than a week to the Mountain, and I don’t want to run into trouble.”
“Could these Mountain people—the ones who killed these Seconds—be close?” I want to probe more, but dwelling on the dead men replants the Watchmen’s black, empty eyes and severed trigger fingers back into my thoughts.
“I don’t think so. These bodies have been here for at least a week. . . .” Howl freezes midstep, his head cocked to the side as if he’s listening. Each of the tendons in his neck stands out underneath his skin like a starving set of ribs, his jaw set so hard I can almost feel his teeth cracking under the pressure.
It looks almost like . . . fear.
“Howl, what . . .”
He puts his finger to his lips, listening.
Dread oozes through my chest and paralyzes me, the quiet noises of the forest suddenly sinister and dangerous. I can’t see anything that should be frightening on the ground or off in the trees. “What is it?” I whisper.
Instead of answering, Howl stalks off into the trees, feet silent on the uneven ground. When he comes back, the tense look isn’t quite gone, though it’s masked now by a smile. “Come on, we need to check something out.”
“What? You look like you’re about to dig yourself a cave to hide in.”
He squats down, fingers pressing at the exposed dirt, digging around a clump of pink flowers just brave enough to push through into the cold air. Squishing the dirt against his palm into a ball, he then tosses it up into the air and catches it again with the other hand. “Sounds messy.”
The knot of fear in my chest is slowly loosening, and pride takes over. I try to sound nonchalant. “What, then?”
Howl points to the ground, which seems unremarkable in any way. “People have been through here. More recently than the group that killed the soldiers. It took me a minute to figure out whether or not they could be within earshot.”
“So, not our mysterious and complicated mountain people you won’t tell me about?”
His mouth twitches as if he wants to laugh but is too polite to do so. “I don’t know if I’d call them ‘ours.’ Right now I think we have more in common with that detatchment of Reds we found than anyone else out here. Twice as dirty and just about as frozen. I’m not sure anyone else will take us in.”
Bending down, Howl wraps his fingers around one of the flowers and pulls, handing the bloom to me.
“At least with the dead guys, I’d know who I was dealing with,” I say, raising an eyebrow. But I take the flower, twirling the stem between my fingers.
Howl grins, but his eyes are strained. Worried about whoever is out here and trying to hide it. “Now I can’t tell you, because this is more fun. Maybe if I keep my mouth completely shut, you’ll explode or something.” And he starts to walk.
“Howl!” I call after him. “Aren’t Firsts supposed to tell the truth? It’s part of your science-Mantis-finding oath thing.”
His pack stares back at me, shifting on his back he disappears into the trees.
Running to catch up, I take my place a few feet behind him, though his pace is much slower than usual. “What if you die? I’ll be stuck out here with . . .” Myself. The pocket that holds my new bottle of Mantis feels extra light.
The frustration rock solid in my stomach starts to grow until my whole midsection might as well be granite and dragging along behind me. What is it that made him run away? And why doesn’t he believe I’ll be able to understand it? Even worse than that, if he can’t tell me, does that mean he doesn’t trust me? That we aren’t friends?
I skip a few steps to catch up with Howl. “I heard a story once that the Chairman only employs mutes because he can’t stand the chatter from Thirds who can talk. Does that apply to sons as well?”
Howl grunts, fringes of hair bobbing up and down, just visible over his pack from behind him. He doesn’t react to the mention of his father.
“My roommate, Peishan, said it wasn’t all the Thirds serving up in your house. Just the Chairman’s hairdresser. She knows all the City secrets, all the Chairman’s stupid jokes, and how often he brushes his teeth. He trusts her because she can’t tell anyone else, not even her own family.”
Silence.
I pull my long braid over my shoulder, more snarl than actual braid at this point. “You already know all of my secrets. And you seem to have the no-talking thing down. So if you were planning to start a new career as a hairdresser, I’d be willing to let you try mine.”
“I think the only way to fix that braid involves a knife.” Howl pauses to brush his fingers across a tree trunk where a few strips of bark have been rubbed away. “Now, how do I turn you off again? Mute would be good right now.”
The curt reply stings a little, but I don’t let it stop me. “You have to know the magic word. It isn’t the name of my firstborn child, or ‘open sesame,’ or anything about my hair, so don’t bother.”
Howl doesn’t look back this time. “What about ‘please’?”
The cold sinks in deep this morning and my healing ribs ache from shivering. Howl stops every ten feet to look at each displaced pebble in our path, making me think of a child wearing his dad’s uniform hat and coat, striding around and issuing orders as he plays at being much bigger than he actually is.
“You seem kind of anxious, Howl. Would it cheer you up if I ate an apple this morning?”
He finally looks at me, half a smile pulling at his mouth. “I didn’t pick any for you today, so you’d have to fight me for it.”
“I’d win, too.”
I skip a step back when Howl unbuckles his pack and drops it to the ground, wondering if he means to take me up on that challenge, but he just answers in a conspiratorial whisper, “I fight dirty when I’m protecting my food. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to spot the people who passed through here before they hear your voice and die from an overdose of secondhand perkiness. Like I said, I don’t think they are soldiers, but I don’t think they are . . . our people either. And I don’t want to stumble across a nest of Wood Rats by accident. Especially not in the land between the City and . . .” He purses his lips, then amends, “Anyone living this close to the City.”
Dropping his pack behind a rock, Howl gestures for me to set my pack down as well. By the time my things are hidden, he’s already ten yards away, dark hair barely visible through the underbrush.
We dodge through the woods until I feel ridiculous trying to follow his lead. Elbowing my way through frozen dirt on my stomach and ducking behind bushes seems more conspicuous than walking like a normal person. I’m about to suggest this when he puts one finger to his lips.
Howl huddles under the bare ribs of a bush, the branches sticking weakly out from a dusting of dead leaves. Through the bush, I can see a scrap of mud-green canvas.
The sight of something man-made has me on the ground with my heart pounding, mind full of all the stories they tell about the people who live Outside. After all these days of wandering alone, the idea of other people seemed vague. Unreal. But ahead of us is a very real tent, and real live Wood Rats live in it. The scavengers that survive Outside are definitely something to fear.
Howl gestures for silence again, pointing to his mouth and breathing deeply, a sharp contrast to the short, scared bursts coming from me.