Читать книгу The Lost Puzzler - Eyal Kless - Страница 11

For many years, Margat’s Den was nothing more than a locale for the toughest inhabitants of the Pit, who only wanted a quiet, nonwatered drink after a long hard day. It was one of those places where you were polite to the people around you and avoided eye contact. You drank inside and brawled outside, like civilised men.

It all changed a decade ago, when a tower-head walked in on a dare and started a fight. Miraculously, the boy lived to tell the tale, with only a few broken bones and several missing teeth. This minor incident inspired other brash youth living in the upper regions, and very soon it became a rite of passage for the privileged and foolhardy. They descended on the establishment in droves, looking for fights. The owner of the Den, in a moment of epiphany, saw the potential for profit; the tower-heads brought plenty of the Council’s steel coin with them and spent to impress. The Den was now the largest, most profitable legal establishment in the Pit. There were fighting tournaments and duels, along with good, old-fashioned bar brawls, some planned, some authentically spontaneous. Margat’s Den was not the sort of place you went into for a quiet drink anymore, although if you kept to yourself and had good protection, you could probably get in and out without a major confrontation. Basically, you had to pay your coin and take your chances, which was what I was going to do.

The clearing in front of the Den was lit by more than a dozen sources of flame, and there were people lying about, most of them nursing wounds. A few bodies I was only guessing were unconscious were sprawled on the ground, prize possessions taken either by the victors of whatever confrontations they’d had or by one of the many local opportunists prowling the area.

Four guards stood at the main entrance to the place, armed to the hilt with every weapon known to Trolls and looking alert and ready. I made a point of not looking around with too much interest, but sensed a few more guards lurking in the shadows.

Considering its reputation, it was surprisingly calm outside; the Den’s proprietor wanted to keep any fighting inside his establishment. Still, I felt my stomach clench with fear as we approached.

A young man, who looked no more than sixteen years of age, was being searched as his escorts stood waiting. The kid had two fighters, a massive Troll and a street rat, a sure sign that looking for trouble in the Den with minimal protection was still a trend. He was clad in full body armour, which was inscribed with Salvationist crew symbols. I recognised the markings of at least four rival crews on his back alone. Heaven knew where he got it from, but when he closed his visor he looked like a colourful drawing of a medieval knight. As we waited our turn, three concealed weapons were confiscated from him. Blasters and guns of any kind were forbidden, along with all Tarakan weapons. Official escorts were exempt, as a sign of respect, but even they were warned not to use a forbidden arsenal on pain of … well … severe pain.

When it was my turn I stepped in front of the goggle-eyed Troll guard, who stared for a moment at my tattoos, then nodded in camaraderie. Nevertheless, he took his sweet time searching me thoroughly with his enhanced vision. Watching him work, I admit I felt a hint of envy. The goggles were ugly, and whoever stitched them on was no artist, but the device enhanced the gift we both shared tenfold. I could see in the dark and, when pressed or panicked, through thin materials such as skin or cloth; but he could know what I ate for dinner from three streets away.

As I was searched, a second guard asked whether I was aware of the rules of the place and made sure I knew the penalty for killing someone the wrong way inside the Den. The goggled guard didn’t find any weapons on me, which was so unusual, it made everyone a bit tense, but after a few more questions I was let through. When it was Galinak’s turn to be inspected, we ran into a problem that I hadn’t anticipated.

The Troll took one goggled look at my escort, nodded slightly, and extended an open cloth bag.

“Your blaster and throwing knives,” he commanded drily, “and I’ll need the power tubes for the gloves as well.”

Galinak stood very still. “I’m an escort,” he said and pointed at me.

“Not officially you’re not,” answered the Troll. “You’re not affiliated with the syndicate anymore, and I know none of the other escort Companies will work with you after what happened the last time.” The Troll pointed at Galinak’s weapons and to the bag in his other hand. “You’re a visitor here. Visitor rules and visitor prices.” He sounded like he was enjoying himself. “That will be ten coins for entry, normal price at the bar.”

Galinak didn’t move. He blinked slowly, twice, then raised his right hand to his left gauntlet, a gesture which created a flurry of movement all around us. People dove for cover and guards raised their weapons. The clicks and whines of power-ups and the swooshing of weapons being unsheathed in haste created an odd cacophony of sound.

Galinak’s hand twisted, and a glowing power tube slid out of a hidden socket into the palm of his hand. He did the same with the second gauntlet, and then took his time producing his personal weapons, which I noticed were small compared to the general style around us. The second Troll, who’d jumped back rather unprofessionally when Galinak raised his gauntlet, smiled in triumph as I paid the extra levy for my escort.

“My stuff better be here when I get back,” Galinak said, and walked away.

“Enjoy your stay in the Den, old flesh!” the Troll spat at our backs as the double doors opened and we walked into the chaos.

“Rust,” I swore quietly as the double doors closed behind us. If Vincha was really at the Den she most likely wouldn’t be cooperative. And my only protection was a retired Salvationist with no weapons and, apparently, plenty of enemies. This was gearing up to be an interesting night, and not in a good way.