Ice Country(28)

The lawkeeper stopped the search weeks ago, chalking it up to a mysterious disappearance, despite the fact that Clint, Looza and I all saw someone take her. But I won’t stop searching, not now, not ever.

Now with winter waning and the throes of a frosty spring upon us, I know that if I don’t figure out what happened to Jolie soon, it might be too late. It might already be too late. Shut up! I tell myself. If I think like that, I might as well curl up in a thick patch of snow and let the Cold take me.

Speaking of the Cold, incidents of the disease have been on the rise as of late. Some say it’s because the winter was one of the coldest yet, and others believe the Heart of the Mountain is angry with us for all of the evils that take place in the Red District. Me, I don’t care either way. If the Cold will come, it’ll come. Who am I to question the why or the how?

I pause in front of an arched doorway. The Blue District isn’t nearly as well off as the White District, but it beats the chill out of the Brown. The streets are clean and free of beggars, the houses are solid and well-maintained, and the people are smart enough to slam their doors in our faces as soon as they realize we’re not from around these parts. I’m not saying I like it, but there are plenny of bad folk who might try to take advantage of them, so they’re right to be cautious.

Another door to knock, this one painted bright green under its white archway. Recently touched up by the look of it. Smooth and bright. I rap on the door with my knuckles as Buff rubs his gloved hands together beside me, trying to generate some heat.

Someone hollers from behind the door, but I can’t make it out. Unusual for this District. Usually the people are quiet and timid. The boisterousness of the cry reminds me of a good old Brown District welcome.

The door opens.

Nebo stands before us, bald and short and altogether the most unintimidating person you could ever meet. His mouth forms an O and he sucks in a gasping “Uhhh!” and then tries to slam the door.

I swing my foot out and wedge it between the door and the jamb. The heavy wood crunches my toes, but I’m already moving forward, lowering my shoulder, barging my way inside. Nebo’s thrown backwards and into the house as the door rebounds off the wall with a solid thud.

He tries to scramble away from us on his arse, but runs right into a table leg, his eyes full of terror.

“Whoa there, Neebs. We’re not going to hurt you,” I say, feeling somewhat bad about the jittery man’s response to our forced arrival.

“Like—like—chill you’re not,” he says. What is this man so afraid of?

“Nay, really, Neebs. We didn’t even know you lived here. We were knocking on every door on this street,” Buff says.

Neebs is shaking his head, his eyes closed. “Go—go away.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” I say. Although I’m pretty sure the nervous little man can’t help us with Jolie, clearly he’s scared of something and I want to know what. Plus, he’s been working for Abe/King Goff much longer than us, so he might know more about the mystery herb.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebs drones on.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Buff adds.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay.”

Ten “nays” and we haven’t even asked a question yet. Nebo’s as still as a statue, still on the floor, back against the table leg. He looks sort of like a child throwing a tantrum, his eyes all squinted shut, his mouth crunched in an overdone scowl.

I kneel in front of him and he twitches, like he can sense how close I am. “First question,” I say, as soothingly as I can. To my ears my voice sounds like grated rocks.

“No questions,” Neebs says.

I ignore him, say, “Why don’t you want to work for the king anymore?”

“Rule one: no questions,” Neebs says.

“We’re not on the job,” I say, “and you’re not Abe, so I’ll ask you any freezin’ thing I want to.” It comes out a little harsher than I’d planned, but I’m getting frustrated. I repeat the question.

“Bad man,” Neebs says.

“Abe’s a bad man?” Buff asks, sliding in beside me.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebo hisses. His eyes are still closed and his mannerisms are so jerky I wonder if he’s got more wrong with him than just silver problems. “The king.” He clamps a hand over his mouth as if he just swore at his mother.

“The king is bad?”

“Not saying any more,” he says, pouting out a lip like a child.

“What are those herbs?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Drugs?”

He shakes his head but I don’t think it’s an answer.