Читать книгу The Lost Puzzler - Eyal Kless - Страница 12

I’d never visited the Den before, but I’d made sure I had all the information I could gather about the place. I knew what to expect, had a good knowledge of the layout. I even knew the colours of the tapestries, but I was still awestruck when we walked past the second set of metal doors and into a green haze. My first instinct was to gag at the mix of body odour, Skint smoke, and deep-fried food, but I managed to suppress it. Even with my enhanced sight I could not see the back wall, which I knew for a fact was exactly seventy-five steps away. My mentor was right: no matter how many scrolls I’d read or stories I’d heard about this place, seeing the broken Tarakan artifacts hanging from the ceiling, some still attached to a skeleton arm, leg, or torso, was a different experience altogether.

Keg drums played a heart-racing beat, increasing the general noise level to the point you had to shout to be heard. The place could hold a few hundred people, and I estimated that it was close to full. Galinak guided me away from the doors, and as we carefully shoved our way through the crowd, a few patrons were openly sussing us out with challenging stares. Several armed Company escorts nodded their acknowledgment to Galinak before turning their attention back to their tasks. Looking up I spotted makeshift guard towers with guards standing watch. It was easy to recognise the long nozzles of their sniper blasters. They were surveying the crowd expertly, and from what I had heard, they needed little motivation to act.

Galinak whispered something in my ear just as a large gong announced a challenge in the Arena.

“What?” I shouted back as the crowd surged to my right to participate in the action.

“Do you know where you want to go?” he yelled again.

I nodded and pointed to the far left. Gambling den, I mouthed. He nodded, relief plain in his face, and pushed me in the direction of the stairs.

We avoided getting too close to the centre bar, where an unfortunate was being kicked in the face by three men as his escort tried to pull him away. Several mug-girls passed us carrying trays of drinks. They were wearing metal armour studded with spikes and blades. If you wanted to grab one of them, you risked a deep cut or worse. The mug-girl who passed closest to me had two bleeding digits stuck on her torso and bosom. I gave her a wide berth.

We passed the steps leading down to the pleasure den. Several scantily clad women and a few men were hanging around there. These women’s augmented hands brushed against me as I walked by, sending waves of pleasure through my body and making me momentarily forget the purpose of my visit. It was Galinak who propelled me forward. The prostitutes didn’t bother to touch an escort with their vibrating hands.

Thanks, I mouthed.

He shrugged, then froze in place and looked past me, grimacing. I turned, followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a large Troll advancing toward us. He had four or five other men with him.

“Rust,” I heard Galinak swear as he shoved me aside. “I really don’t need this now.” For once, I wholeheartedly agreed with him.

The Troll planted himself in front of us with such obvious aplomb that people must have immediately realised a confrontation was coming. We soon gathered a crowd. He was a brawler, a big one, built for close combat, and he looked much younger than Galinak. Several blunt instruments were hanging on the belt of his dent-free, dark steel power armour. It was a beautiful and obviously expensive piece of metal art, even the wires were protected by thin rubber tubes and attached to the armour in a way so it would not interfere during a fight. The spiked arm bracers looked razor sharp, and the metal gloves could most likely punch through walls.

“Galinak, you rust bucket,” he said and clenched his steel hands into steel fists, “this must be my lucky day.”

“Hello, fuse-brain,” Galinak answered calmly, “did you lose your escort again, or did the Company finally realise you couldn’t keep a disease on a whore, you incompetent lump of rust?”

Nasty laughter rippled all around us. Even the Troll’s entourage sniggered at the insult.

“It’s my day off, tower-head,” the Troll barked, his face turning red, “so I’m free to wipe your metal all around the floor.”

I eased sideways, but the people around us formed a tight circle and wouldn’t let me through.

“How’s your brother, by the way?” asked Galinak, though I could see his hands twitching, painfully aware of his lack of weaponry. “Is he seeing anyone?”

Someone at the back of the crowd burst out laughing, but only when the angry Troll answered did I understand why.

“You took his eye out, you piece of rotting flesh,” the Troll roared, his eyes glancing briefly over Galinak’s shoulder, a sure sign we were being outflanked.

“He was looking at my cards,” Galinak explained patiently.

A mug-girl walked into the circle. Perhaps she was new or too preoccupied trying to avoid the drunk and the stupid to notice the confrontation. Galinak grabbed a mug from her and took a long sip from it. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but then her survival instinct kicked in and she hurried away without a word.

“Enjoy your last drink, Galinak,” the Troll said.

Galinak shrugged and sipped again.

The Troll flexed his shoulders. “Where do you want it? Arena? Outside?”

Galinak shook his head. “I’m on an escort job. After I finish here, we can dance a bit, but I’ll only stop if you ask nicely.”

The Troll shook his metal-plated head and powered his gauntlets by banging his fists together; bright sparks erupted from both metal hands. “You’re not an escort here, you’re visiting, that’s all. They even took your puny dart shooter at the door,” he chuckled, brandishing his fists. “We can do it in the Arena, or I can tear you apart right here, or …” He turned his head towards me, obviously thinking of a better idea. “I can start with this fleshling here so you won’t have to worry about your precious escort.”

My mouth dried up. Losing an escort was bad for anyone’s reputation, and the Troll had just decided this was the humiliation Galinak needed. I sensed a shift in the mood around me. People were jostling to get a better view. This was not an Arena challenge or a brawl staged for the benefit of the tower-heads. This was the real thing, and all around us people began betting real coin. The guards above also took notice, but were letting it play out, most likely assuming the fight would be finished quickly. I knew there was no talking my way out of this one. Galinak, old and empty-handed, was about to fight a fully armed, angry brawler Troll and his buddies. And then it would be my turn.

“So, is this a power chest piece?” asked Galinak casually, sipping his drink.

The question caught everyone off guard, including the Troll.

“Not that it’s anything to you, flesh,” he snarled, “but it is a triple-powered chest piece, with side protection, not that I’m going to waste power on the likes of you.”

“Looks like a scrap job to me. I think someone sold you lead pipes and toughened clay.”

The Troll stood taller with indignation.

“This is a genuine Tarakan item, rust-brain, bought it at the auction. I even have the certification from the guild of Gadgetiers. Your old hands will shatter on it, not that you’re going to have the chance to throw a punch.”

Galinak didn’t look impressed. He swallowed and tilted his head as if to reexamine the armour.

“I think,” he gestured with the mug, “that you bought yourself some scrap metal held together with lead strings, and the only thing funnier than knocking you out will be seeing your ugly face as I shove your worthless armour up your arse.”

“We’ll see about that,” roared the Troll, his hand punching the button on his belt, which was exactly the time Galinak flung the contents of his mug into the Troll’s unprotected face. The Troll staggered back, momentarily blind, his armour powering up but leaving a heartbeat of a gap. Galinak used that time to deliver a spectacular one-two to the Troll’s exposed chin. The Troll stumbled backwards, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. A tooth actually flew out from his broken jaw in an arc of spittle and blood as he hit the ground. Galinak swooped forward, then abruptly reversed direction, bringing his elbow into the abdomen of a hammer-swinging, eye-patch-wearing Troll, who burst through the crowd behind us. The Troll staggered but remained standing, his armour taking the brunt of the blow. He swung his hammer again, knocking out an unsuspecting patron behind him, but Galinak was too close to him for the weapon to gain momentum. As the hammer brushed his shoulder, Galinak punched the Troll’s healthy eye. He screamed and collapsed onto the floor, where he received a boot to the head.

It should have been over right then. But it was just the beginning. Galinak picked up the hammer and turned quickly, surveying the people around us. The Troll’s entourage, either out of duty or outrage, pushed their way forward.

Galinak stepped between them and me. “You’d better go now,” he said. “This isn’t your fight and I can’t protect you.”

“You should have told me people didn’t like you down here.” I tried to spot a safe place to hide but saw only a wall of flesh and metal.

“No one likes me anywhere,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Three men were closing in on us as I said, “What if you don’t?”

Galinak shoved me forcefully sideways into the mass of people. “Then I’ll give you a discount,” he said, before turning and charging the advancing Trolls with a bloodcurdling roar.