The Lost Puzzler Page 19

  Jakov leaned towards Rafik, who withdrew back into his chair, but the merchant only waved a metallic finger at the boy, “But there is one thing that everyone needs, one thing they all want. Without it the wonders of Tarakan Valley are beyond their grasp. Do you know what it is?”

  Rafik shook his head, mesmerized.

  Jakov was about to tell him when a chime sounded and the Long Tube began to descend. “Ah, well, we are approaching. You’d better take a look through the window—it’s a magnificent view. Here, take my seat.”

  As the Long Tube entered the City of Towers, Rafik felt as if he had just discovered the centre of the universe. All his questions regarding Jakov’s story forgotten, Rafik pressed his face against the cool, invisible surface, trying to see everything at once. The towers penetrated the clouds above them, their silhouettes marked by a row of blinking lights that looked to Rafik like little stars on a clear night. Jakov pointed out the Eastern and Guilds Plateaus as they passed them, and Rafik could clearly see great buildings, paved streets, even large clusters of trees Jakov called parks, all on a plateau suspended high above the ground. The fantastic sight soon disappeared as they descended down the middle spires and to the Central Plateau. The Long Tube cruised slowly above the lower levels of the city, which Jakov called the Pit and was filled with humanity, machines, and livestock. The Tube turned around two more towers whose bases were each far bigger than Rafik’s whole village before climbing back to the Middle Plateau.

  The platform was bustling with activity as people shouldered past each other in a hurry. Everywhere Rafik looked, he saw menacing-looking ShieldGuards and Trolls carrying metal devices, weapons, and augmentations without fear or shame. People like Jakov’s guards, clean of marks and without Tarakan hardware, were the minority. But Jakov seemed to relax, as if he were arriving at a safe haven instead of coming to a city that had more killings in a fortnight than the estimated annual birth rate—a fact he mentioned in passing to Rafik as they walked towards the row of cart drivers.

  Even with the Council’s firm control over the Tube platform, the place seemed to be in complete chaos. Thousands of people moved in different directions all at once. The sheer size of it all made Rafik lose his bearings, and Jakov’s metal hand propelled the boy in the right direction.

  “Watch yourself here,” he warned sternly after the third time he stopped the boy from walking the wrong way. “You’ll get lost, and this is not a forgiving city.”

  As soon as they cleared the platform, Jakov waved to one of the numerous cart drivers, who took them to the gates of the upper towers, where they climbed on a Tarakan lift to the top plateau. It was there, on a metal disc that was ascending so high the people below seemed like ants, that Rafik felt a strange combination of awe and familiarity, as if he had come to a place where he truly belonged. Everywhere he looked he recognised symbols and markings, either embedded into the walls or on marked weapons and artifacts. What all this meant, he didn’t know, but he was eager to find out.

  Jakov secured two large rooms in a guest house inside one of the top towers of the Upper Middle Plateau, overlooking the most beautiful garden Rafik had ever seen. The rooms were large and furnished with odd but high-quality furniture, and the beds were soft and clean. The meals served were something Rafik had never tasted the likes of in his entire life. The table was loaded with hot, sweet buns, different types of meat in rich gravy, fruits Rafik had never heard of, and six different kinds of cheese. Jakov drank wine, but Rafik could not have imagined a better beverage than the clean, fresh water that was brought to the table. When he went to wash, Rafik found out that instead of a water well, clean water magically came out of pipes, one hot and one cold. Jakov paid a man to help Rafik wash properly, cut his mangled hair short, and even bring him fresh clothes in bright green and red colours and soft boots made of leather. It must have cost him a fortune, but Jakov mentioned that he was interested in the two other main amenities of the place: unparalleled security and a reliable messaging service.

  The rooms Jakov rented took up the entire floor. He placed one of his own guards at the top of the stairs, and Rafik was allowed to wander within those parameters. After an initial exploration of the facilities, Rafik resigned himself to his own room, where he spent most of his time dreaming of the wall of symbols.

  The following day, most of Jakov’s guards were dispatched with a long list of errands. Rafik had to stay in Jakov’s room. He watched with fascination as the merchant removed and maintained his metal arm, cleaning and oiling the joints with a clean leather cloth. Seeing the boy’s open curiosity, Jakov began telling the story of how he was injured in a weapons deal gone bad and was left for dead.

  “I’m not like you.” He nodded toward Rafik’s hand as his own free arm circled slowly across joints and metal. “I don’t have the mark, but I was brought to a Mender who was just beginning to experiment with Tarakan augmentations, and the bastard was a genius, an artist, even.” He cocked his head to its metal side. “Too bad he’s dead now, but he saved my life, reconstructed my face, and made me this arm.”

  “I thought only people with marks could attach devices,” Rafik said, remembering something Khan had told him a few days before.

  “No.” Jakov reattached his arm by pushing it hard into his empty shoulder socket, then he flexed the metal hand several times. “In principle, almost anyone can use Tarakan attachments, but those with the mark have better uses for them. Don’t know why, but the tattooed can attach Tarakan devices more easily, and they might be stronger, or faster, than the unmarked using the same attachment. There is also significantly less pain, or so I’m told.” He smiled thinly.

  “It hurts?”

  “Don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t—it hurts a lot.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  Jakov looked straight at Rafik, then picked up a fruit from a bowl with his metal hand and held it up to the boy’s face. Then he picked up a glass bowl with his other hand. With one snap of his metal fingers Jakov sliced the fruit neatly into several smaller pieces, and they fell into the bowl.

  “You have two choices.” He put the bowl down, picked up one of the slices of fruit, and brought it to his mouth. “You can either take Skint to dull the pain, and eventually your brain leaks out of your ears, or—” He paused, put the slice of fruit into his mouth, chewed slowly and swallowed, then wiped his chin with his healthy hand. “Or you can just suffer, my young friend. Conquer pain with the force of your will, and you shall triumph.”

  Rafik thought about it for a while, then, judging the timing right, he asked, “Why am I so important? What is a Puzzler?”

  Jakov began shaking his head but stopped. He was in a rare mood, having won the day and walked away with his prize. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, boy. What I do know, without a doubt, is that you are worth a small fortune. It has something to do with codes and puzzles, and something to do with the Tarakan cities, even the City of Towers, and the secrets they hold. My guess is that you will find out the answer to your question soon enough.”

  Rafik wanted to ask more, but one of Jakov’s bodyguards returned and the men got busy talking to each other. The bodyguard had brought a black box, not unlike the one Jakov had tested Rafik with in Newport, but it was slightly bigger and with more buttons on the front. “He was not happy parting with it,” remarked the man who brought the box. “I had to use . . . tough diplomacy.”

  That brought a soft chuckle from Jakov, who replied, “Why, my friend, you are a natural ambassador!” He then called Rafik over and made him try the box in the same way he’d tried the first one, by putting his fingers in the allotted slots.

  The first few puzzles were too simple, with very few rows of symbols and a laughably apparent pattern. For Rafik, who could now manipulate and control almost fifty symbols when dreaming, it was as easy as breathing. But the box had other puzzles that were more of a challenge, and the box counted the time it took him to solve each one. When Rafik completed
the last puzzle, sweat was pouring down his face, his head hurt, and he felt very tired.

  Jakov looked at the digits displayed on the box and said, “Too slow. You need to do it in less time, at least a third less.”

  “But I solved the puzzles,” Rafik said defensively, hurt by Jakov’s comment.

  The merchant only shook his head. “They will test you at the auction house, and the faster you are, the more you’ll be worth.”

  Earlier, Jakov was having a pleasant conversation with the boy, and now he was treating Rafik like a piece of merchandise. Rafik withdrew his hand in sudden anger. “So this is why you do this, to get a better price for me?”

  “Remember your promise to me, Rafik.” There was no more warmth in Jakov’s voice, and although he was still reclining on the soft leather chair his body seemed to tense.

  Rafik got up on his feet, grabbed the puzzle box, and was about to throw it at the wall when a strong grip blocked his arm. Jakov’s metal fingers closed over his throat, squeezing hard and lifting him up until he was standing on the tips of his toes. The image of the sliced fruit swam in front of his eyes in a haze of pain.

  “Remember your promise, Rafik,” Jakov hissed. The metal side of his face was so close to Rafik’s cheeks, he could not even see the merchant’s healthy eye. “Consider this: the more you’re worth, the better you’re going to be treated by whoever buys you.”

  Rafik was dumped on the floor, where he stayed, wheezing and gasping for air.

  “Now get up and try a few more times,” Jakov walked back to the table and picked up another fruit as Rafik slowly got up from the floor. “This machine has twenty levels,” the merchant sat back down on the comfortable reclining chair, “and I want you to master them all by the time we go to auction. You have five days. Get to work.”

  29

  The auction house was the third-biggest building in the city. There was enough evidence to support the historians who claimed the building used to be a hub of financial activity before the Catastrophe. Among the clues were the steel vaults filled with gold bars, suggesting the great importance of such useless metal in the past. The great building was now used both as an auction house and as the centre for the Guild of Merchants. The bidding began every Saturday exactly at noon, marked by the huge clock embedded in the wall, but commerce was already in full swing at sunrise. Much like market day in Rafik’s village, stalls were erected outside the auction house and the merchandise about to be auctioned was presented for prospective buyers. Trolls and other fortune-seeking mercenaries stood in designated areas, hoping to obtain a contract from one of the guilds. They were constantly showing off their Tarakan attachments, brandishing weapons and trophies, and performing physical feats such as lifting or crushing heavy stones with their augmented hands. There were also several mechanics for hire, and a heavily tattooed Gadgetier who claimed he could fix, attach, or enhance any Tarakan device.

  Rafik sat on a stool near the entrance of their lavish tent and kept peering out with curiosity. He saw Jakov paying a hefty sum to the tent owner. As if reading Rafik’s mind, he remarked, “Do you think I will just present you out in the open like a street vendor? No, business such as this should be done in private, away from the gawkers and the riffraff.”

  Throughout the morning, Jakov admitted the prospective merchants and guild representatives who showed up one by one and only by presenting Jakov’s own written invitations. The curious and the few who thought their reputation placed them above such formalities were left outside, expressing their indignation with words that could have made Dominique smile. Each delegation brought its own puzzle box and Rafik was thoroughly tested, solving puzzle after puzzle as men and women watched him intently.

  Jakov claimed to be Rafik’s custodian, and no one seemed to question that; certainly no one asked Rafik any personal questions or for proof that the boy was in Jakov’s legal custody. With one exception, the only thing that interested the merchants and guild representatives was his puzzle-solving ability. They kept examining his hand and making him solve increasingly difficult puzzles.

  There was one woman, though, Mistress Furukawa of the Keenan guild, who examined him differently. She was stern looking, with short, cropped black hair who, despite looking very different, reminded Rafik of his mother. She let two members of her delegation examine Rafik’s hand, and watched him solve the puzzle box from a short distance. Her comments about Rafik being too young and inexperienced were said in a tone of voice suggesting final judgement. She certainly did not let Jakov sweet-talk her, and she completely ignored his clumsy attempts at flattery. After her delegation was done she began asking Jakov questions about his health, then turned and directed her questions at Rafik, to the merchant’s annoyance. The woman asked him where he came from, his age, and whether he was happy. The last question puzzled the boy and he merely shrugged. After listening to Jakov’s final pitch, the woman simply turned and left the tent, nodding politely to the representatives of the rival guilds who were waiting for their turn to see the boy. Jakov cursed softly after she left, and he shared a few sly comments regarding the woman’s lack of femininity with his guards, who chuckled obediently.

  By the time the bells rang, marking the beginning of the auction, Rafik was completely exhausted, and Jakov was smiling as broadly as his mask allowed.

  “That Furukawa hag said you were too young just to scare off the competition and lower your price,” he told Rafik, patting his shoulder paternally. “Well, that little trick didn’t work for her. They are all interested, all of them, I saw it in their eyes.”

  A while later, as Rafik lay on a bear fur in the tent, with a wet cloth on his forehead to sooth his headache, an auction house steward, dressed in a black-and-bloodred uniform, entered and announced that it was Rafik’s turn. He led the boy and Jakov past other tents and through a great oak door, which swung open all by itself. The darkness inside the labyrinth of corridors they walked through was lit by small oil lamps. They walked past many heads made of stone and countless drawings hanging from the walls, moving too fast for Rafik to understand what they depicted. Eventually they emerged in the main hall. There were more than a hundred people standing around the central podium. The auctioneer, a tall, gaunt man with an incredibly strong voice, was introducing a Troll standing next to him, flexing his huge shoulders, and striking a pose with a large blaster rifle.

  “The next contract is for Barim Karssel of the lower spires and is for one year, starting today, with the option to extend the contract by mutual decision.” The auctioneer, dressed in silver and wearing a heavy-looking metal chain of office, turned and pointed at the Troll while still maintaining eye contact with the surrounding audience.

  “Now, I want you to look carefully at this perfect combination of man and machine. Featuring three genuine Tarakan devices and seven more battle-proven augmentations, this experienced warrior will bring you loot. He is a veteran of eight shallow and two deep salvation expeditions in the City within the Mountain, Master Karssel’s total haul last year was more than forty thousand in coin and kind.”

  Jakov snorted in disbelief and shook his head slightly. “Yeah, right,” he whispered to no one but himself, “he no doubt attached a few augmentations to his imagination.”

  “Master Barim Karssel’s starting price is three hundred in hard coin paid in advance plus five percent of the future haul. Do I get three hundred and five? Right there, thank you, do I get three hundred plus six percent? Yes, Madam, a fine choice. Look at that body armour, ladies and gentlemen. Genuine Tarakan artifacts, do I hear three fifty plus seven percent?”

  The auction continued for a while and eventually was stopped at a cut of ten percent, and 650 coins. Jakov remarked to no one in particular that the Troll’s contract was grossly overpriced. By now the merchant was fretting nervously, and when his name was called to the platform, he pushed Rafik so roughly that the boy stumbled forward.

  The auctioneer waited as Rafik climbed the stairs and stood in the m
iddle of the platform. There was a ripple of excited chatter in the crowd. Like any auction house, it was filled with both professionals and chancers who came only to see a good show and perhaps get lucky and pick up a dropped deal. A lone boy without any visible augmentations meant something exciting was about to happen, and the rumors had been spreading all day.

  “Lords and ladies, gentlemen and fine folk,” bellowed the auctioneer in a slow, rich voice, “we have someone very special here with us today.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion from the main doors and the auctioneer stopped. Several armed Trolls marched in, followed by a figure whose presence caused everyone to turn and gasp. Many bowed their heads in respect, and more than a few merchants shuffled backwards and away from the centre of the hall, creating a sort of a corridor to the platform. From his high vantage point Rafik could see the man clearly, and it was obvious why he struck such an imposing figure; he was as tall as the biggest Troll Rafik had ever seen, and almost as wide. He was dressed in full black battle armour with a heavy fur cloak draped around his shoulders. His face was long and thin, and his dark eyes looked like they were set deep in their sockets. The man surveyed the crowd briefly, but his gaze quickly centred on Rafik. This caused a shiver to run up the boy’s spine.

  The auctioneer was the first to regain his composure, “Lords and Ladies, Gentlemen, the auction house, and the Guild of Merchants welcome the Honourable Council Voice and head of the Sabarra merchant guild and salvage company, Mauricious Altenna.” Everyone bowed their heads. There was a weak ripple of applause, which died quickly as the man waved for silence with his right hand.

  Mauricious Altenna nodded to a bald man who stood to his left, leaving him in the centre of the crowd before moving with his entourage to a far corner.

  The auctioneer continued: “Lords and Ladies, Gentlemen, Honourable Council, this young man here, Rafik, was tested by the Guild of Merchants and several respected representatives of other guilds, and his gift has proven to be genuine. This is, Lords and Ladies, a genuine Puzzler of the highest talent and ability.” As instructed to by Jakov, Rafik raised his right hand, palm out and fingers spread, and waved his hand slowly in all directions.