The Gender Game Page 15

  With Viggo's popularity in fights at night, and his constant appearance around the city during the day, I imagined he was kind of a celebrity here in Patrus. As childish as it was, it made me feel kind of special to be walking with him.

  "What made you want to be a warden?" I asked.

  "It matched my skillset," he replied shortly.

  He was probably wishing I didn't talk this much.

  "Like I told you, I fancied myself as a warden back in Matrus," I went on regardless. "Even sneaked to a few defense lessons when I was younger, and when I had the time. Just never got the opportunity to follow through on the dream."

  "I've never set foot in Matrus," he replied, "but in Patrus, the novelty soon wears off."

  "Why's that?" I asked, recalling Lee's story that Viggo had retired from the force even before his wife had been sentenced.

  "It's called life," he replied dryly. "Things lose their shine when you get too close to them."

  I sensed there was a deeper resentment over his work as a warden than he was letting on. But I let it go.

  "So… you've never visited Matrus, not even once?" I asked.

  "The furthest I've ever gotten is its dock."

  "And you've never been curious to visit?"

  "No."

  I blew out. "So… you're working a job you don't like. You apparently live by yourself in the mountains… What's your game plan?" I asked.

  "Game plan?"

  "What are you working for? What gets you out of bed in the morning?"

  "I have obligations," he replied curtly.

  "Do you have any family?"

  He shook his head. "None to speak of."

  "I guess I wonder what motivates you to take on extra work," I dared say. "My husband told me you're also a fighter."

  He grimaced. "If you must know, I'm not getting paid for my time as a warden, nor will I for the next two and a half years. I earn my money through fights. As for my 'game plan', once the years are up I plan to buy a larger patch of land, further away from the city."

  He was obviously expecting me to ask next why he was acting as a warden without pay. I avoided the subject, since that was too close to his wife for comfort, and I already knew the answer.

  "Why do you want to live so far away from everyone?" I asked.

  "I just do."

  His answers were becoming increasingly short, so I figured I'd give him a break from questions. I didn't want to annoy him too much.

  I realized we were nearing the street where I had come to get my hair and nails done, and gone shopping with Lee—the street consisting entirely of women's shops.

  As we passed the hairdresser, Viggo asked me a question of his own. "Do you regret coming to Patrus?"

  I was surprised not only that he'd asked a question, but also by the directness of it.

  "No," I lied. "I mean, it's been difficult leaving behind my old life and entering one so very new, but I don't regret it. It was the only way I could be with Lee."

  He went quiet for a few moments before remarking, "You don't strike me as a girl who'd be happy here long-term. It's pretty easy to spot the ones who'll last and those who won't… For women, curiosity isn't a quality that's rewarded here."

  "Yes, I know…"

  "Hey, Viggo!" a voice chimed from across the road.

  Two men were standing there, wardens in long coats and heavy boots. I found it interesting that, although all wardens in Patrus wore a similar style of clothing, there appeared to be no official uniform. Perhaps they used that to their advantage; they could sneak up on unsuspecting suspects more easily.

  The men crossed the street and approached us, their eyes glued to me.

  "Who's this?" the blond man asked.

  "Mr. Bertrand's new wife," Viggo replied. "I've been appointed as her temporary guardian."

  They looked rather confused as to how that could have come about, but they didn't ask further questions. One of them retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Viggo.

  "Back gate of the lab's code has changed again. Here it is."

  Viggo nodded in appreciation.

  Then the men parted ways with us, continuing down the road in the opposite direction.

  "So do you roam the streets all day?" I asked. "Don't you get tired?"

  "No to both questions," he muttered.

  "Then?" I cocked my head to one side.

  "In about ten minutes, I have an appointment with the owner of an arms store, one of the largest in the city. There was an attempted break-in yesterday—while the store was closed. Nothing was stolen, but I need to examine the site, as well as discuss precautionary methods to put in place to keep it from happening again."

  Attempted break-in at an arms store, earlier yesterday.

  I wondered, could that have been Lee? The reason for his delay in picking me up from the gym? He'd seemed pretty tense.

  "Is there a lot of theft around here?" I asked.

  "No," Viggo replied. "The state's punishments are severe. We're talking about dismembered limbs, or in some cases, hanging."

  In Matrus, criminals were treated differently—at least, the women were. If a female committed a serious crime, even so far as murdering someone, she was given a second chance. A thorough period in detention facilities, to see if she was capable of and willing to redeem herself. Matrus' men, on the other hand, were not treated with such leniency. If they murdered or plundered, it was immediate euthanasia. Indeed, from a male's very birth they were subject to close scrutiny. They were regularly monitored in their early years for traits that went against Matrus' culture—a domineering temperament, with a strong inclination toward violence and aggression—and between the ages of eight and ten, they were put through the ultimate test to decide whether they were fit to reside in Matrus. The screening employed a combination of genetics and psychology to determine which boys would be forced to leave Matrus and flown off to the mines in the north.

  I didn't know what went on during the tests or how exactly they worked. They were usually conducted in the lab near the queen's palace and the details weren't public knowledge.

  All I knew was that my brother had come out shaking, and bearing the mark of a black crescent on his right hand. His virtues had been deemed too close to those of Patrus. And of course, the queen and her council didn't want boys like him piling into Patrus. It wasn't in Matrus' interest to help increase their neighbor's population of strong-willed men.

  "There isn't much theft in Matrus, either," I told Viggo. "More serious crimes are also rare… Do you know about its justice system?"

  Viggo scowled. "'Justice' hardly seems the right word."

  I bit my lip. I couldn't exactly argue with that.

  "But yes, I'm aware of the ins and outs," he added. "Euthanasia versus hanging, corrective detention for females, jail for males, pseudoscientific screenings, murdering pre-pubescent boys, etcetera, etcetera."

  I stalled, my hand shooting to Viggo's arm. "Murdering?" I breathed, gripping him hard. "Where did you hear that?"

  Viggo rolled his eyes. "Come on, what do you think they do with all those boys? You really believe they're carted off to mines? Do you have any idea how large and organized they'd have to be to contain the increasing number of males, year after year?"

  He shrugged me off and continued walking. It felt like a steel ball had materialized in the pit of my stomach.

  I dragged my feet forward to keep up with him.

  "Do you have any evidence?" I choked. "Any evidence at all? Or is it only a suspicion?"

  Viggo was eyeing me curiously now, apparently not prepared for or expecting such a strong reaction from me. "It's a suspicion," he admitted. "Of course, I have never traveled to the Deep North to verify whether the boys are actually there. I don't have access to an illegal aircraft, nor would I have reason or permission to fly there in a legal one."

  I let out a breath. I'd truly feared for a moment that Viggo might have evidence. But that would make no sense. Qu
een Rina had promised me a reunion with my brother. Would she really have lied about that? I didn't want to consider that question. I couldn't start thinking that my brother might be dead. Not after my hopes had been raised sky-high about seeing him again in a matter of weeks. He was alive, in the mines in the North. Just as the queen and the Court said he was.

  And yet a niggling doubt still managed to worm its way into my brain. Viggo's words had struck too close to home. On more than one occasion in the past, I, too, had wondered if Matrus could be lying about the boys' destination. The fear had plagued me on and off over the years, but I'd always tried to bury it. After all, how would any of us verify it? All we had to go on was the word of the Court because the only safe way to travel the depths of The Green in order to even have a hope of reaching the elusive North was by aircraft, and flying was illegal for all except the Court.

  "What do you think Patrus would do if they had evidence of what you suspect is happening to some of Matrus' boys?" I managed.

  Viggo shrugged, his eyes forward again as we turned down another road. "I don't know," he muttered. "Everyone is still trying to understand the mind of our new king… But if his father were still reigning, he probably wouldn't care—unless there was a particular political advantage to be gained by caring, if you understand what I'm saying."

  "Not exactly."

  "Then never mind," Viggo replied briskly, before pursing his lips.

  Would Matrus really have attempted such a mass-scale lie, so confident that nobody would ever find out or let the truth slip? Because if the bubble ever burst, the queen and her courtiers would be decried as hypocrites of the worst kind. What difference would there be between our country and Patrus? We would be considered no better than them, just as prone to corruption, lies and bloody-minded leadership. What role would Matrus' national motto, "Freedom in Peace", play in all this?

  Stop thinking.

  Matrus wouldn't murder those boys. It's Viggo's biased speculation.

  My brother is ALIVE. And I'm going to see him again, if I can just keep my act together.

  Being so consumed by our conversation, I had lost track of our surroundings, and noticed we were heading to a large store at the end of the road. Dashner's Arms. The parking lot in front of it was empty. Arriving outside its reinforced entrance, Viggo knocked.

  A short, balding man wearing a smart tweed suit opened after a minute and, eyeing me in confusion, he beckoned us inside.

  Viggo didn't bother to explain my presence. He simply moved forward with me, following the bald man through a giant warehouse stacked with guns and ammunition, toward a pair of double doors. He opened them up and pointed out a dent against the metal, near the locking mechanism.

  Viggo stepped outside into a messy backyard, piled with empty crates and boxes. He inspected the area, walking around the circumference of the yard, looking for what exactly, I wasn't sure. Then he returned to us, his arms crossed over his chest while gazing up the high back wall of the building. "The culprit has left no obvious tracks, but I'll send some colleagues round with dogs later today… I take it you don't have any canines guarding this place, Mr. Crighton?" Viggo asked the bald man.

  "No," he replied.

  "Then I suggest you get some."

  Mr. Crighton nodded.

  "I'm also surprised," Viggo went on, "that you don't have a better surveillance system in place. You need more cameras out here." He ran a hand over the dented doors. "And these doors are outdated. You're asking for a burglary without the latest technology."

  "Okay, sir," Mr. Crighton replied. He pulled out a pad of paper and began jotting down notes.

  Once Viggo finished giving him his analysis on the doors and the yard, we headed back into the building. We ended up spending a while in here—Viggo examined every other exterior door and window. Before we left he also had to commission some new weapons for his division. By the time Viggo was done, it was well into lunchtime.

  He returned to where I'd been waiting—in a chair outside Mr. Crighton's office—and reached down a hand for me to take. I couldn’t help but notice an odd tingle running down my arm as we touched. It remained for several seconds after he’d pulled me to my feet and let go of me.

  Mr. Crighton thanked us and then we left the building, crossed the parking lot, and returned to the road.

  "Let's get some lunch," Viggo said.

  He stopped with me at the first eatery we passed, a small bakery. When we moved inside, it was empty except for two couples sitting together around a table by the window.

  The man behind the glass counter grinned as he looked from me to Viggo.

  "Good to see you again, Viggo. It's been a while!" he said. "And who's this? New girl?"

  "Mrs. Bertrand," Viggo said tersely, before ordering two large sandwiches. "What do you want?" he asked me beneath his breath.

  I opted for a slice of savory pie.

  After paying, Viggo carried the tray to a table for two at the back of the bakery. We sat opposite each other—him with his back to the room—and dug into our food.

  About halfway through Viggo's sandwiches, the couples by the window rose from their table and made their way over to us.

  "Looks like we've got visitors," I whispered as they approached.

  Viggo turned.

  "Hey, Mr. Croft. I'm sorry to disturb you," one of the men said, eyeing the two of us tentatively, "but I wondered if we could have your autograph?" He held out two white napkins. "We were there at your fight two nights ago. Spectacular performance."

  Viggo looked like the last thing he wanted to do was entertain the request, but he acquiesced, if only just to get rid of them quickly. Taking a pen and the tissues from the man, he scribbled his initials on each of the tissues and handed them back.

  The men stowed them away appreciatively and Viggo returned to his food. I guessed they were going to leave us alone now, but then the second man said, "I wanted to ask one thing…"

  Viggo was once again pulled from his meal.

  "Do you ever plan to fight in the big league? You'd smash your way to the top!”

  It would probably be physically impossible for Viggo to pull a more unenthusiastic expression. He merely shook his head.

  At this, the man backed away, and the group took the cue to leave.

  Viggo and I continued eating. Though I couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

  Viggo groaned. "Why what?" he snapped.

  "Why do you keep yourself at a level you're clearly above?"

  He stopped chewing, eyeing me. "What makes you think I'm 'a level above'?"

  "Well, it's the way people talk about you. These strangers who just came up to you, and Lee has also mentioned your abilities."

  Viggo continued chewing. He waited until he had swallowed a mouthful before answering, "My current level serves its purpose. It pays me the money I need without the lack of privacy… Believe it or not," he added, "there are some things in life that aren't worth giving up for money."

  "People already seem to know your name though," I said.

  "Exactly," he countered. "And it would be ten times worse if I rose up in the game."

  I paused, dragging my knife across the plate, before daring to go on. "I guess to me… it seems a waste. If I had the opportunity, I would go all the way."

  His gaze leveled with mine briefly before averting to the table surface. Since he offered no leeway to continue the conversation, I dropped the subject. But I didn’t drop thinking about it—my lack of opportunity versus Viggo’s lack of desire. I wished in some fantastical twist of events, Patrus would establish a league for female fighters. That would probably be enough to tempt me to stay here permanently or at least try to visit frequently if I could be involved. But Patrus allowing female fighters seemed about as likely as Matrus suddenly halting their weeding out of "high risk" boys.

  After Viggo finished his sandwiches, we left the bakery.

  * * *

  In the hours that followed, we didn't talk as much. We pa
ssed several other wardens as Viggo roamed the inner city, "making his presence felt," before he began leading me back to his office. He said he had some paperwork to attend to, but we never made it that far.

  A sudden buzzing emanated from Viggo's right coat pocket, where he retrieved a phone.

  "Okay," he said, his eyes glued to the device. "There's been an incident. An unusual one for this time of day."

  Without further explanation, he grabbed my arm and began racing with me toward where he'd left his motorbike. He seated me first before leaping on himself and kicking off down the road.

  "What happened?" I gasped as the lurch knocked the breath out of me.

  "A kidnapping," Viggo replied.

  "Who got kidnapped? By whom?"

  "You'll see."

  As we careered through the city, a blaring noise erupted from the back of Viggo's motorcycle—a siren. It caused all large obstructing vehicles to quickly clear the roads and let us pass.

  As we arrived at the outskirts of the city, I caught sight of six wardens standing around in a huddle on the edge of the road. Viggo stopped next to them and leapt off the bike.

  "We recovered her," one of them informed Viggo.

  I slid off the bike and followed Viggo, trying to make out exactly what they were all huddled around. Then I heard a low groaning, and a whimpering. It sounded like someone was curled up on the ground. Viggo, who'd pushed his way to the front of the group, was staring downward. I reached for his arm and pulled myself to him, gaining as good a view as him.

  Lying on the street was a thin woman wrapped in a lambswool shawl. Her right eye was swollen and bruised, her upper lip cut. The sight made me wince.

  "Did you detain him already?" Viggo demanded.

  "No," one of the men replied. "He's being pursued as we speak."

  "Where?" Viggo pressed, his tone bordering on aggressive.

  "Southwark Street, moving toward Lumber Avenue. A red car. Keep your phone on loudspeaker."

  Viggo stepped away, pulling me back to his motorbike. He touched the screen of his phone before stowing it into his pocket. We both leapt on the motorbike. He pushed away so quickly this time that I didn't have time to find the handles beneath my seat; both nervousness and excitement filled me as I grabbed hold of his firm shoulders and we whizzed off.