Читать книгу The Lost Puzzler - Eyal Kless - Страница 13
7
ОглавлениеI reached the stairs on my hands and knees, dirty but pretty much intact. Someone kicked me in the ribs and someone else stepped on my leg, but both actions were unintentional and left no permanent damage.
The fight behind me was developing into an all-you-can-hit kind of bar brawl. Two enthusiastic tower-heads, impressed by Galinak’s combat abilities, joined the fray to even the odds and, as etiquette dictates in these circumstances, the violence quickly spilled in all directions. Soon, everyone in my immediate vicinity was swinging fists, weapons, or furniture at one another.
There were stains on the stairs in a colour I was hoping was just blood. I got up and brushed myself off the best I could as people hurried past me towards the centre of the fight. It was time for me to descend.
As the stairs spiralled down I could still hear the sounds of fighting, but the walls were thick and the Den was deep. What were once perhaps burial chambers were now the Pit’s most notorious gambling hall. It was a surprisingly large underground room, divided by low walls and supporting beams into several open spaces, most of it taken up by playing tables featuring cards and dice games. Tapestries depicting beautiful scenes covered the outer walls, and the abundance of fireplaces, large oil lamps, and small fire urns, gave a definite feeling of calmness. The air was musty but breathable, thanks to the still-working Tarakan ventilation system. The guards were perhaps not as big as the Trolls upstairs but no less lethal. They must have realised a fight had erupted upstairs, but none of them moved from their posts. Instead, they eyed me with professional suspicion.
I bought a drink from a passing mug-girl and pretended to sip from it as if I were waiting for an opening at a table. I surveyed the crowd with my low-light vision, trying desperately to calm down.
I was sweaty, dirty, possibly suffering from a cracked rib cage, and carrying much less coin on me than I should have come in with, which was a problem since I had to play until I could spot her. After months of searching, I had a pretty good description of the woman I was looking for, yet as I stood with my back to the wall in the underground room I began doubting myself. While my eyes searched the room, my mind slipped back to the numerous informants and other lowlifes I had the displeasure of questioning. Some I had to bribe, others I had to threaten, and in a few instances, with hired muscle, I also had to hurt. More than half of them lied, and some lied well enough to send me chasing shadows. But she was here now, I was sure of it.
For the third time I moved to another position in the room, but I was already attracting the attention of the guards. No one liked spectators here. Soon I would have to find a place at a table and lose a bit of coin. Two men got up from a table, one swearing loudly. I began moving towards one of the vacant seats when I saw her coming off a table. It was so obviously her I almost laughed out loud.
The last description I had told me she wore her hair long, but now it was cut short, Troll style, and dyed black, hiding her skull tattoos to all but the keenest of eyes, such as myself. All of the other women at the gambling tables dressed in revealing outfits that were designed to take the players’ minds off the cards or dice. She was wearing a long-sleeved grey outfit that covered her body from neck to toe, clearly hiding the scars of attached Tarakan artifacts and battle wounds, while numerous earrings covered the marks a Comm piece would have left on her ear. She used to be a communication Troll, but carried herself like a warrior. I briefly wondered what made her give the artifacts up and go vegan. Most likely it was because of the debts I knew she owed.
I began moving to intercept her, trying not to be noticed until I was within earshot, but her warrior sense kicked in and she turned to me, body tensing, long before I got close. I made eye contact and kept walking forward as she stood her ground.
I’d worked out what I wanted to say long before, playing it endlessly in my mind. Still, my throat felt suddenly dry as I managed a hoarse-sounding “I want to play.” The look she gave me told me that my fake upper-tower accent wasn’t completely convincing.
“The tables are over there, Milord,” she said, indicating her head to the side. “I’m sure you can find some games to your taste and expertise.”
I shook my head. “I want to play the house.”
She eyed me again, openly assessing who was standing before her, a fool or a hustler. I did my best to look like the former who believes he is the latter.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” she remarked, then remembering the Den’s etiquette she added, “Milord,” but with an insolent drawl.
“Not my usual place,” I said as haughtily as I could. “I gamble in the upper middle spires. Played a few tournaments, too. I heard there’s good gaming here.” I made a show of looking around dismissively, “So far, I’m disappointed.”
I guess I wasn’t convincing enough, or perhaps she sensed something was wrong, because she shook her head slightly. “I suggest you start at the far tables, Milord, and work up from there. You might save yourself a fortune.” She turned to leave.
She was older than she looked, I knew that, but I decided against grabbing her arm. She didn’t seem the sort who would react kindly to such a gesture and I didn’t want to find out how finely honed her combat reflexes still were.
Instead, I intercepted her again and flashed her the bags of coin I was carrying, letting their bulk do the persuading. She would be entitled to a small cut of the profit, I knew that for a fact.
“I want to play the house,” I insisted, “one-on-one. Are you in or should I find someone else?”
She hesitated, sensing the trap, but just as I thought she would move away she leaned over and grabbed one of the bags, weighing it in her hand. The clink of the metal coins was audible enough. Satisfied, she straightened her back. “Follow me,” she ordered, then turned and walked away without a glance to check whether I’d complied.
She walked over to the other end of the large room, where a very old tapestry that depicted a battle scene from the Pre-Catastrophe era was hanging. A guard nodded at her as we approached, then he grabbed the tapestry and moved it aside, revealing a short corridor and steps leading further down.
Using a key on a chain around her neck, she opened a wooden door and we stepped into a richly furnished room. Real oak furniture, and oil paintings hung from the walls. This was the private gambling room, and it was furnished to please the upper crust of society who came to lose a huge amount of coin and feel good about it. Looking around me, I immediately felt my anxiety level rise. I was way out of my league. Playing the house meant the odds were against you. I never knew why people chose to do this, but then again, I’d just passed several rich youths who descended to the Pit from the safety of the upper towers for the thrill and pleasure of getting beaten up and robbed.
“Anything to drink?” she asked casually, pointing at a well-stocked drink cabinet as I sat myself down in front of a gaming table. “We have Pre-Catastrophe moonshine.”
At least that was an easy choice: there was no way I was going to accept any liquid on these premises. She was obviously still trying to assess whether I was as foolish as I seemed, or a professional cleverly masking himself as a fool.
I shook my head and sat down at the table. She positioned herself on the other side and produced a set of cards, laying them faceup so I could see it was a full deck. It was a rare set, large cards featuring elaborate illustrations and made with real cardboard rather than the usual wooden slates and crude markings. I estimated the set cost more than what I was about to lose at the table.
“Your game, Milord?” she asked me, this time with a polite tone of professional interest.
“Trolls,” I answered.
That caught her off guard. “What’s your game, Mister?” she asked me pointedly.
“Like I said, it’s Tro—”
She cut me off. “No, what’s your real game? No one plays Trolls here,” she spat.
What could I have told her? That it was the only game I knew how to play? That it was the only game I had scrolls of strategy for?
“That is my game.” I tried to sound as if the fact that no one plays a children’s card game in the Den was the proprietor’s oversight.
She shrugged and shook her head in disbelief. “Odds eight to six.”
They weren’t good odds, but they could have been worse. I threw one bag of coins at her. She spilled the contents of the bag onto the table’s surface, counting the coins quickly with her fingers. She then shuffled the deck, offered me six cards, and drew eight for herself.
Her movements were not as fast or subtle as one would expect from a card dealer working at the Den, but they were precise. Each card flew in the air and landed exactly next to the other, facedown. She probably wasn’t going to try and hustle me; with odds of eight to six she wouldn’t need to.
“One friendly warning, Milord, as one tattooed to another,” she said, locking her gaze with mine. “I see any hint of you using those interesting eye tattoos of yours to peek at the deck or see through my blouse and we are done. The guards usually take your coin on the way out and break a few bones to teach you a lesson, so, be advised …”
I nodded and swallowed hard, fighting hard to suppress a blush of the guilty. We began playing.
The first round was short and painful and cost me a quarter of my coin bag. The second round took longer, but I lost it nonetheless and had to bring out another bag of coin.
The third, fourth, and fifth rounds were inconclusive and the sixth a draw, which meant the seventh would be for a bigger pot. She was starting to relax a bit, I could sense it. I was just another idiot she was trying to part from his hard-earned coin. It was time to up the stakes.
“You’ve been doing this for long?” I asked casually as I looked at my cards.
She nodded and said “Long enough,” almost as if talking to herself.
“But you did something else before,” I said, pushing two cards back.
She didn’t look at my eyes. Instead she changed three of her own cards and raised the pot.
“My older brother taught me this game,” I continued casually. “He was a Salvationist.” I saw her hand rise to touch her earlobe unintentionally, as if looking for the Tarakan earpiece that used to be wired into her brain.
She caught herself, grimaced, and threw two cards at me, which landed perfectly next to the others. I looked down and took a peek; a troll and a skull. The realisation dawned on me that perhaps I could win this hand, but time was running short. I had to leave soon, and I needed to know for sure.
I called for another card, and she threw it. Then I said, “Thank you, Vincha,” and watched her reaction. There was none. She didn’t even blink or look at me. She just raised the stakes with two more stacks of coins and threw one last card at me. The throw was a miss; the card began flying straight but then twisted midair and veered to my left. My eyes followed as it cleared the table, out of arm’s reach, and landed on the thick carpet. It sat faceup, revealing another grinning skull. That card would have won me the hand.
When I looked back it was already too late. She was sliding across the table. Her knees hit me square in the chest. I flew backwards and, for the second time that night, hit my head, this time on the carpeted floor. For a moment I could only see swirling colours in front of my eyes as she pinned me down, her knees digging into my chest. I could feel a blade at my throat, pressed hard, the cold steel biting into my skin.
“Who sent you?” she hissed at me as I tried desperately to blink away tears of pain from my eyes.
“No one,” I managed to croak while trying to breathe. The back of my head was hurting from the fall, and her weight was crushing my chest. Vincha was not a dainty woman, and she was holding a very sharp blade. I could feel blood tickling down the side of my neck and fought the instinct to try and push her away, a move that would have surely been my last.
“Go rust,” she swore. She pressed a hand to my forehead, pinning my head and making it hard for me to blink. Suddenly the blade at my throat vanished but my feeling of relief was replaced with horror as I felt the cold steel again, this time just under my eyeball.
“I can cut your throat,” she said menacingly, “or I can take out an eye. Tell me who sent you and it will be easier. Is it Fuazz?”
I steeled myself and tried to remain calm. One of my arms was expertly pinned down by an outstretched leg and quickly losing sensation. Trying to move my other arm was a mistake. The blade twitched and drew blood. I yelped.
“Talk now or we’re going to start a long process,” she said. Her cold voice was as sobering as the hot trickle of blood running down my cheek.
“Don’t,” I gasped. “I mean you no harm.”
“No kidding,” she chuckled bitterly. “Now who sent you? Was it that rust bucket Fuazz?”
“No.” Though he had pointed me in the right direction.
“The Grapplers?”
“No, please—”
“Ex-guild?”
“No, it’s not really lik—”
“The Omen Society.”
I paused, surprised despite my state of mind at that moment. “Surely you didn’t manage to get on their bad side as well?” I said, and surprisingly enough it made her laugh, though she didn’t ease the pressure under my eye.
“Look,” I tried again, using what I was hoping was a calm and reasonable voice, “when I said I came with no intention to harm you, I meant it. I’m not carrying any weapons.”
Walking into the Den unarmed and staying alive long enough to boast about it was something even Vincha had to check. She began a thorough search, shifting positions expertly, changing her blade-holding hand several times without easing the pressure, leaving me vulnerable and exposed throughout the entire procedure. Under different circumstances it would have been almost enjoyable.
Finally she said, “Your eyes.”
“What of it?” I kept my voice as light as possible. “I can see in the dark, cheat at cards, sometimes see through people or even thin walls, but what’s the worst I could do, squint at you to death?”
She nodded more to herself than for my benefit and the blade eased up a bit.
“Talk,” she commanded.
“I work for a small society of men and women,” I blurted quickly. “We are the Guild of Historians. We explore our past in order to know the present and prepare for the future.” It came out like the superficial mantra it was. The Guild of Historians was as much about selling artifacts for hard coin as it was about helping humanity or finding out about the Catastrophe, but I didn’t care—at least I was talking and Vincha was listening and no part of me was being prodded or cut. “I want to interview you, about what happened when you went into the ruins, with the boy …”
She looked down at me in disbelief. “You tracked me down to the Den for this?”
“Yes.”
“Go rust in a corner.”
“It’s important to us. We need to know what happened.”
“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time,” she said, still hovering above me.
“We have ways to make you remember,” I said, and added hurriedly when I saw her expression harden, “Just mind techniques, nothing intrusive.”
She shook her head. “What’s past is past.” She got up, still holding her blade at the ready. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” she warned. “Now tell me how you know my real name and how you found me.”
“I’ve been trying to track you down for almost two years now,” I said, rubbing my dead arm back to life.
“I’m surprised you found me.”
“There are some things I’m better at than cards,” I said, managing a lighter tone of voice, and sat up as an involuntary groan escaped my lips. “You never stay more than a month in one place, you never go back to the same workplace when you come back to the same town, you never work the same line on a map for more than three spots, and you prefer to work and stay in older establishments, especially ex-Salvationist businesses. You’re good, but there’s a pattern to your movements. Once I figured it out, it was only a matter of trying the odds.”
“And all this for a rusting interview?” she said, perching herself carefully on the side of the playing table, out of arm’s reach but close enough for a kick or a stab.
“Yes. We just want to hear your version of what happened.”
“Well tough luck, Twinkle Eyes. I ain’t talking to you or to your weird rusting guild.”
I got up on my feet, nice and slow, and picked up the overturned chair. “We’re willing to pay,” I said, then added when I saw her expression, “and pay well.”
“I earn nicely, thank you. Now get out.”
This was the moment. There wouldn’t be another one. After tonight she would disappear, because if I could find her, so could others, and there were plenty of nasty individuals who were looking for her. I had to make her talk, I simply had to, so I said the next sentence despite knowing it would probably get me killed.
“I know why you travel in such a pattern.”
I saw her freeze.
“I know why you travel the way you do. I know why you’re still in debt and where the coin you earn goes. I know about your daughter.”
Her expression went blank, which meant she was about to kill me.
“This is not a shakedown,” I said hastily, throwing my hands in the air. “I don’t care about your business, but I’m ready to make life easier for you and for your family. I will pay a lot for your story.”
She paused, the blade dancing in her hand. I held my breath, thinking I might as well hold on to it as long as I still had a choice. I tried to avert my eyes from the dancing blade.
“How much?” she asked
“Enough to clear your debt and make your family easier to conceal.”
“I paid my debts,” she said. “It took me a long time but I paid them.”
That was surprising, and probably untrue. “That’s not what I heard,” I said in a neutral tone, not sure if this turning point in the conversation could be used to my advantage.
“I paid my debt to the last metal coin,” she insisted, as if she thought I cared, “but the bloodsuckers piled up the interest, you can never get away from them, and they just wanted more, kept coming for it, so I stopped paying.”
I nodded. “Still, coin is coin. I’m offering you hard metal for no risk and no sex. How you use it is your business.”
“How much?” she asked again.
I thought of a sum, divided it in my mind, divided it again, and then said it.
“You’re kidding, right? For that sum I wouldn’t even show you my birthmark.”
I smiled. We were negotiating, and that was something I was very good at. I opened my mouth for a clever response, but there was a sudden commotion behind the door. Without realising how it was done, I was on my feet, facing the door, with Vincha’s blade once again pressing against my throat.
There was a loud bang and then the door burst open. The guard who moved the tapestry came sailing through the air and now lay sprawled at our feet. He did not get up. Galinak, covered in perspiration and stained with blood, walked slowly but purposely through the open door. He was smiling peacefully, as if he’d just gone on a leisurely stroll.
He stopped when he saw me. “Well,” he said, “what have we got here?”
“Galinak, you piece of rusting metal,” said Vincha calmly, her face close to my neck. “I thought you’d been banned from here.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Vincha.” Galinak tilted his head. “May I say that you sound better than when you were on Skint, but what the hell happened to your wirings?”
“Been clean and vegan for more than three years now,” said Vincha, “but my reflexes are still good, better than those cat innards you have for wirings.”
“You should release my guy,” mused Galinak, “unless you wish to test those reflexes. And let me warn you, I am not the gentle soul I used to be.”
“Perhaps we could negotiate? I could give him back to you one piece at a time,” Vincha pressed the blade just to make a point. There was something really wrong about this encounter.
“Sooo,” I intoned, trying to sound carefree, “you know each other, what a coincidence, and a pleasant surprise, saves me the introductions, now where were we? I believe we were negotiating.”
Vincha paused, then said a price, which was exactly eight times what I offered her.
“Bukra’s balls! What are you trying to buy, her soul?” asked Galinak. The guard groaned and moved and Galinak kicked him several times until he stopped.
“That’s a lot of hard metal,” I said. We could all hear the commotion coming closer. “It would be bad judgement for me to accept such an offer.”
“You showed plenty lack of judgement in employing an old burned-out Troll like Galinak.” I didn’t see Vincha’s face, but I could feel her smiling, “That’s my offer, take it or go rust in Tarakan Valley.”
“I’ll do whatever she does for half the coin,” suggested Galinak, “and I assume you’re not asking for sex, unless you have a really weird sense of—”
“Vincha,” I intervened, “it’s against my principles to pay that much for anything, even for your story, but I’ll accept it. Now put the damn blade away and let’s go.”
She obliged, releasing the blade from my throat but keeping it in her hand. Both warriors stared each other down, but Galinak was quick to smile and spread his arms wide.
“What? No hug?”
Vincha snorted a laugh, sheathed the blade, and busied herself gathering my lost coins from the table.
“You’re stealing from the Den,” remarked Galinak with the careful tone of voice one keeps for the suicidal.
“Never coming back here again, anyway,” she answered curtly, pocketing my hard-lost fortune.
“How is it going up there?” I asked Galinak.
“Hmmm, let’s see.” Galinak scratched his head with a bloodied hand. “Someone smuggled in a shock grenade and threw it, and when they raided the bar, the guards stationed above started sniping—and let me tell you, these guys never even heard of the stun button, so … it’s pretty bad, but I’ve seen worse.”
Walking through a bar fight involving four hundred participants was not a pleasant notion. “Is there another way out of here?” I asked Vincha.
“Sure, there’s a secret door leading to a safe house just around the corner. We can avoid all the fighting and mayhem,” she said drily, pocketing the last coin.
We looked silently at each other for a few heartbeats. “Are you serious?” I asked hesitantly.
“Of course I ain’t serious,” she shook her head at my gullibility. “One way into the Den and one way out. We’ll have to fight our way through.”
Galinak puffed a theatrical sigh of relief. “I thought for a moment you were serious about the secret door,” he admitted, and then we ran for it.
The gambling hall was now empty of patrons, but halfway across it we encountered a group of men disposing of the last standing guard. They homed in on us with greed and a lust for violence plain on their faces. Without saying a word, Galinak advanced casually to my left as Vincha took my right and the fight errupted. I paced cautiously between them, completely untouched, as if walking inside the eye of a storm, occasionally side stepping or ducking as people were flung, flailing and screaming, from one side of the room to the other. I couldn’t help but notice the different fighting styles of the two veterans. For Vincha fighting was purely business; short, economical gestures, arms close to the body, hitting vulnerable points for maximum damage. She cut through them like a hot blade through butter, breaking, twisting, gouging, and kicking without hesitation. Galinak, on the other hand, fought like it was an art form. He danced around, making broad gestures and finishing moves that occasionally used the Den’s few intact pieces of furniture and architecture as props. Very soon there was no one left standing but us. I suppressed the urge to clap my hands in appreciation as the pair brushed off dust and wiped off other people’s blood. Galinak was grinning broadly again.
We climbed the stairs and entered the main hall, which was now completely wrecked and with far fewer people in it. I could see at least three places, including the central bar and the wooden cage of the arena, where fire had broken out, probably ignited by a missed sniper shot. A few enthusiastic patrons managed to climb up to the elevated guard posts and were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the snipers. On ground level the guards were earning their pay, taking control of the area bit by bit, pounding every standing person they saw into a state of bloody unconsciousness. We avoided them by staying low and moving in the shadows as we headed for the door, thankfully without incident.
Outside the Den things were not much better. Many of the guards were lying among the wounded and dead.
The goggled Troll was standing alone, looking around nervously. For all his enhanced vision, he didn’t notice Galinak until he was tapped from behind on the shoulder, which caused him to spin around in fright, brandishing a blaster.
“I’ll have my weapons now,” said Galinak, surprisingly polite and calm.
“You can’t,” spluttered the Troll, “there’s a clampdown until the fight is done. You’ll get them back when it’s over.”
“I need them now,” insisted Galinak.
The Troll eyed Galinak with a sneer of contempt and steadied his blaster, pointing it at Galinak’s chest. “Rough rust, old snot. You’ll just have to cross your wires and wait.”
It was probably the wrong thing to say.