There were other banners, too, of course: a yellow sword, a black scorpion, a white Celtic cross, and others, twelve in all. Most were filled with a dozen or more people, watching the action unfold on the Scorewall. Dedicated runners for the factions dashed back and forth between the platform and the Scorekeepers, exchanging and bartering information, watching the Point totals rise and fall.
Holt studied each banner until he found the one Mira had described. Orange with a red shield sewn brilliantly into it. He saw people there, each wearing some piece of clothing that was orange, watching the action in the room below them.
It took a few more minutes to push through and reach the platform, and when he did, two large orange-clad youths moved to block him.
“Your business?” one of them asked coldly.
Holt reminded himself what Mira had told him about the Lost Knights. It was a faction without an official leader. No one had any doubt there actually was a leader, but whoever it was didn’t make his or her identity known. On the Scorewall, the leader’s Points were listed under the name Rebus, and that was all anyone knew. Direct audiences with Rebus were generally refused, so as to preserve the figure’s anonymity. But that didn’t mean there weren’t ways to communicate with him or her.
“I’m here to speak with the platform’s emissary,” Holt said, exactly as Mira had told him. The response he got was the expected one.
“The emissary’s too busy to waste time speaking with an Outsider who has no Points,” the other guard said with contempt. “Turn around and start walking.”
“I have information the emissary will want to hear.”
One of the guards raised an eyebrow. “And what information is that?”
“The location of Mira Toombs,” Holt said, holding the boy’s gaze.
The two guards looked at each other, then turned back to Holt. “Wait here a second.” One of them moved to the platform, where a small wooden tray hung from a rope tied to the very top. Next to it was a notepad and a pencil. He wrote something, tore a page loose, set it in the tray, and then nodded to a girl at the very top. She reeled it up and disappeared out of sight on the platform above.
The response took a few minutes to come, but when it did, it wasn’t verbal. A large drawbridge-like ramp that was stained in various shades of orange began to lower from the top of the platform. When it did, the guards motioned Holt past, and he climbed the ramp. As he did, he noticed the factions up and down the platform all watching him with curious looks, trying to determine who he was and how he might be valuable.
Holt crested the ramp and stepped onto the Lost Knights’ platform. It was more extravagantly appointed than it looked from the floor. Telescopes of different types were installed along the railing, probably for examining specific parts of the Scorewall, which loomed above them. An orange rug filled the space, and the platform contained two sitting areas, a work area, and a large, cushioned, elevated chair that looked almost like a throne. Behind it all was an orange curtain, covering something he couldn’t see.
Holt counted nine kids, all younger than him, watching him suspiciously as he stepped onto the platform.
A boy, older than the rest, maybe sixteen, sat in the large chair in the center of the platform, the Tone beginning its slow creep through his brown eyes. The kid watched in a bored fashion as Holt approached and stopped in front of him, but he said nothing. Holt studied the boy impatiently, waiting for some sign of communication.
“Are you the emissary? I’m here to—”
The emissary, if that’s what he was, raised a disinterested hand and shook his head.
From the curtain emerged a little girl, no bigger or older than Zoey, adorned in orange. She kept her eyes low as she moved quickly to sit next to the boy in the chair.
She carried a small black velvet bag in one hand, and when she opened it, an array of brightly colored crystal stones fell onto a small table next to the boy’s chair. Holt watched the girl swirl the crystals around on the table.
“My name is Digby, an emissary of Rebus,” the boy said. “And I’m a superstitious sort of person.”
Holt looked at Digby and the crystals. “What are they? Strange Lands pieces?”
“Not in the slightest,” Digby replied. “What are you here for?”
Holt considered the boy. He was nondescript, didn’t look particularly shrewd or capable. In fact, there was little, if anything, to distinguish him from the other kids dotted around the platform. But if there was one thing Holt had learned, it was that first impressions could be misleading. “I’m here to barter,” Holt said.
“Yes, I figured that,” the boy said, agitated. “You’re offering the location of Mira Toombs, which isn’t a small thing these days. But what are you looking to trade it
for
?”
Holt exhaled, remembering what Mira had told him. “The Lost Knights have something I need, and you’re mistaken. I don’t want to trade Mira for it.”
The boy’s look turned dangerous … and then the small girl next to him shuffled the crystals, pulled one from the bunch, and set it on the table. It was a red stone. At the sight of it, the boy’s annoyance turned to genuine anger. He looked back up at Holt. “The stones don’t favor you, Outsider.” Digby nodded to two of the guards nearby, and they moved for Holt, ready to toss him off the platform. “I don’t like having my time wasted.”
“I have something more valuable than Mira Toombs,” Holt said quickly, while he still had the chance. The guards didn’t stop moving for him, however, and Digby said nothing.
But the girl next to him swirled the stones around again, pulled another loose, set it on the table. A green stone.
At the sight of it, Digby’s anger softened, and he motioned the guards to stop. They hovered a few feet away from Holt. “The stones encourage patience,” Digby said. “But I’ve got only so much. You lied to get yourself up here, why should I bother listening to anything you have to say?”
Holt removed his pack and pulled free the glass cylinder of plutonium. When he did, the disinterested looks from the Lost Knights around him vanished, and their eyebrows all rose as they stared at the brownish-tinged sliver inside the casing.
Even Digby’s eyes widened, and when he looked back up at Holt, it was in a new way. The little girl whirled the crystals on the table once more and pushed an orange one toward Digby.
“Plutonium’s as rare a commodity as they come, and very valuable,” the boy said, looking up from the crystal to stare at Holt. “What do you want to trade it for?”
Holt didn’t immediately answer. Things were wrong here, somehow. Something had been bugging him about the colored crystals ever since the little girl brought them out. The way Digby consulted them, the way he waited to begin their discussion until they appeared. Something occurred to Holt.
“We want safe passage out of the city,” Holt said. “Today.”
The tiny girl swirled the crystals again, and as she did, Holt watched the boy gaze down at them expectantly.
“Why don’t we quit this little puppet show?” Holt said sternly, looking not at Digby, but at the small, unassuming girl next to him. “So you and I can talk directly.”
“I don’t know what you think you—,” Digby began.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Holt cut him off without looking up. “I’m talking to her. The one pulling your strings.”
Digby stared down at the little girl in alarm. She stopped swirling the stones, and for the first time, looked up at Holt. The unassuming, innocent gleam in her eyes vanished, suddenly replaced with a shrewdness and self-awareness far beyond her age. She hid them very well, Holt thought: he’d almost overlooked her completely. She examined him with a mix of annoyance and respect.
“Who do you think you—?” Digby started hotly, but was cut off again.
“Be quiet,” the little girl said. Her voice was soft and low, but it contained a notable measure of harshness as well. The boy silenced immediately. “The dance is over.” The girl stood, scooped the stones into the black bag, and moved for the orange curtain at the back of the platform. “Follow me,” she said without looking back.
Holt sighed. Why wasn’t anything in this place ever straightforward?
He followed the girl through the curtain. Inside was a bizarrely appointed room. Mismatched pieces of furniture, a Crystal Castles arcade machine, shelves full of vinyl record sleeves, and the walls were covered with what looked like large, framed crayon drawings, in all kinds of colors and shapes. Each bore the same signature, but Holt couldn’t make it out.
The little girl sauntered to a black sofa and sat down, slowly raising her eyes up to Holt.
“You’re not what I expected,” Holt said.
“Expected of what?” she asked.
“Of Rebus,” he said with a smile. “You’re a little shorter than I pictured.”
The little girl didn’t return the smile. “Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? And call me Amelia—it’s my name, after all. You’re the Outsider working with Mira Toombs. I hope she’s … healthy.”
It was strange, listening to her. It didn’t fit, the maturity and the confidence, the subtle hints of maliciousness, all exuding from the tiny person on the couch. But while it was certainly unsettling, it wasn’t surprising. In a world where the Tone made every second count, people grew up incredibly quick.
“Mira’s fine,” Holt responded. “She can take care of herself.”
“Yes, I know. She had a lot of Points once. No one believes the charges against her, but Lenore is meticulous. Her false evidence was very convincing.”
“If no one believes the charges, then why is everyone so willing to kill her for them?”
“Because in Midnight City, the truth always takes a backseat to principle. Point Fabrication is our most serious crime, and if someone is found guilty of it, innocent or not … examples must be made.”
“Well, I don’t think a whole lot of your city,” Holt said. “It’s a self-absorbed, dangerous melting pot of craziness, focused on a meaningless game I don’t have any interest in playing.”
“Really?” For the first time, Amelia smiled. “That’s interesting. Given how many Points you’ve managed to collect. Did you even know you were on the Wall?”
The words jarred Holt. Being on the Scorewall was a concept he’d never considered, and he stared at Amelia hesitantly.
She kept smiling, stood up, and walked to a separate curtain at the other end of the room. Opening it revealed a private view of the Scorewall, with a conveniently placed brass telescope on the floor. Amelia sighted through the scope, adjusted it until she found what she was looking for. Then she stepped back and motioned Holt over. “See for yourself,” she said.
Holt stepped to the telescope and peered through. It was pointed at a specific block on the Scorewall’s left side, which was full of titles, most beginning with
OS
. The one dead center in view was
OS107
and there was a number written next to it.
872.
“OS one-oh-seven?” Holt asked skeptically.
“
OS
stands for ‘Outsider,’” Amelia replied evenly as she reached up for a thin red rope hanging from the ceiling. When she pulled it, a small bell rang loudly on the platform outside the curtain. “And one-oh-seven is the number of the Outsider helping Mira Toombs.”
A boy, clad in orange, entered through the curtain and nodded to Amelia expectantly, but the little girl’s eyes remained on Holt.
“There’s a rumor that my faction has, in its compound, a secret exit out of Midnight City.” Amelia picked up a small notepad and pencil next to the telescope and began writing on it. “You want to trade the plutonium to use that exit.”
“Yes,” Holt said.
“The good news is the exit’s real. The bad is that it’s going to cost you three things. The first of which is your full name.”
Holt studied her uneasily, saying nothing.
Amelia smiled again. “It’s a small price to pay. Tiny, really. Especially for someone who isn’t at all interested in our games.”
Holt frowned. He didn’t see that he had much choice, but he wasn’t sure he was going to like where this went. “Holt Hawkins,” he said.
Amelia wrote something else on the notepad, then ripped a sheet loose, handed it to the boy waiting by the curtain. He analyzed it quietly, then disappeared back through the orange fabric. Holt didn’t know what to make of it, but Amelia’s next words quickly made him forget.
“There are two more prices for the use of our exit, and neither of them is your plutonium,” she said, and Holt’s eyes widened in surprise. “It is valuable, but only if you have the drive to use it, and I’m afraid I don’t. Entering the Severed Tower isn’t something that interests me. Points, however, do.”
Holt tried to contain his shock. Mira had never even mentioned the possibility of the Lost Knights not wanting the plutonium. To her, it was the most priceless substance on the planet, and the reaction of every person he had ever seen had been nothing less than lustful.
“You … don’t want the plutonium?” Holt asked.
“No,” she said. “I first want the sum total of all Points you earn here, an amount I have a feeling will be very large. In one day, you’ve acquired almost a thousand. It’s impressive.”
“Fine,” Holt said with distaste. “You’re welcome to them. What else?”
“It’s called the Chance Generator,” she said, and her voice was wistful as she said the words. “A major artifact from the Strange Lands that belongs to the Crossmen. They keep it in the Artifact Vault.”
“Which is what?”
“You really are an Outsider, aren’t you? The Artifact Vault is a storage cavern for powerful artifacts that their owners want to keep secure, or which are too dangerous to remain in the city. Only Freebooters can get past its main gate, and once inside, the Librarian protects everything else.”
“And the Librarian would be who?” Holt asked with thinly veiled annoyance. He was starting to lose his patience with this whole thing.
“The fool keeper of the Vault,” Amelia replied. “A moron who took it upon himself to stand watch over all that power below the city. He rarely ventures outside of his lab and his school, but don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s cunning … and dangerous. Even the faction leaders won’t cross him willingly.”