The Lost Puzzler Read online

  There was a murmur of excitement from the crowd, yet the auctioneer’s voice rose above it to declare, “This is a private, four-year contract with the boy’s custodian, with an option for extension into a permanent contract with no percentage of the haul. Housing and training and other expenses are required. We start at twelve hundred in coin, no kind.”

  It was only then that Rafik truly realised what was happening. He turned his head and saw Jakov standing a few paces away, watching the crowd with a gleam in his eye. When Rafik turned his head back to the crowd his price was already at seventeen hundred. A few heartbeats later it crossed the two thousand mark and did not slow down. Rafik was still holding his hand up, frozen in air. He let it drop slowly to his side and glanced around, looking for an escape route, but knowing in his heart that he would never make it to the door. Everywhere he looked he saw ShieldGuards and Trolls. Even if he could somehow make it out, how far could a boy worth above three thousand in hard coin manage to go before someone snatched him again?

  The chancers and private entrepreneurs were soon out of the bidding race, as well as two smaller mercenary firms that probably had been hoping to pool resources and share Rafik between them. This was now strictly a competition between the more powerful guilds. All those who’d quit the auction moved away from the main floor, and when Rafik’s price reached five thousand there were only two people standing in front of the dais: the bald man standing for the Sabarra guild; and the Keenan guild, represented by the stern-looking woman who had asked Rafik personal questions back in the tent.

  The bidding did not slow down before the price crossed the seven-thousand mark, and by now the crowd was completely silent. Before accepting every raised bid, the man representing Sabarra glanced back to Mauricious Altenna, who nodded his approval with the tiniest of gestures. It was a testimony to the man’s power that the auctioneer gave time to the Sabarra, and even paused his constant urging for a higher bid in order for the exchange to take place. He did not grant the woman representing the Keenan guild the same courtesy.

  As the crowd withdrew from around her, she never let her eyes wander from Rafik as she raised her hand again and again without hesitation, accepting every bid. Yet even her resolve was wavering when the price rose above eight thousand, and several times she waited until the final warning to raise her price again. The dynamics were such that Rafik, the auctioneer, and the entire audience turned their heads in unison between the woman, the bald man, and Mauricious Altenna every time it was their turn to bid. As his price rose even higher, Rafik could feel the growing tension in the crowd. People whispered to one another, moved to get a better view, even cheered or clapped whenever a sum was raised and accepted.

  “Nine thousand coins for the honourable representative of the Sabarra guild.” Rafik heard the auctioneer’s voice behind him. “Do I hear nine thousand, two hundred and fifty from the Keenan guild?”

  As excited chatter flowed around the corners of the hall, the woman stood stone rigid, and this time even the auctioneer took a bit longer before giving first warning. She waited till the last moment, when the auctioneer drew a breath to announce a Sabarra win, before raising her hand again. The crowd sighed in unison and turned their heads to the Sabarra guild’s leader, but as soon as her bid was accepted Mauricious Altenna suddenly turned and walked out of the hall, his entourage rushing behind him, causing a small commotion. The Sabarra representative immediately bowed to the dais and then to the woman beside him before withdrawing without saying a word.

  “This auction is sold to Mistress Furukawa of the Keenan guild, for . . .”

  The crowd erupted in cheers as the hammer fell and the sum and winner were announced by the jubilant auctioneer. People surged forward to congratulate the woman. She ignored them and walked over to Jakov, who, despite his metal mask, was looking visibly stunned.

  Rafik was immediately surrounded by armed Trolls and escorted off the dais, where a young man and a woman, dressed in the purple cloaks of the Guild of Merchants, led the way through several long corridors and a flight of stairs to a spacious and richly furnished hall, which even had a burning fireplace in the far wall. The armed Trolls stayed by the door while Rafik followed the man and woman. At least a dozen men and women dressed in white and purple were busy transferring books and scrolls to different tables. Rafik and his escorts approached one of the tables, which was piled with bound books, rolled-up scrolls, parchments, scroll cases, several ink tubes, and three enormous wax seals. An elderly woman, whose purple dress was marked by silver adornments, was sitting by the table. As soon as they approached, she immediately began asking questions regarding Rafik’s auction and diligently inscribed it on a scroll and in two other books. Rafik’s final sum of purchase caused a stir in the room and even made the scribe lift her head up to check she’d heard right.

  When the sum was confirmed she looked at Rafik. “Congratulations, son,” she said with a nod of respect, “you just broke the yearly record for a single transaction. For that, your name will be written in gold.”

  Rafik did not know how to react, nor did he understand what was being said to him, so he respectfully nodded back.

  The young man who escorted Rafik from the dais could not contain his excitement. “With all that coin, that metal-armed merchant is going to need extra protection,” he commented. “He is going to be marked by every gang in this city, but if you ask me, the real story of the day is how the Sabarra baited the Keenans to financial ruin.”

  “I did not see anyone asking you for anything, Fendar,” the older scribe said drily as she scratched words and numbers onto the scroll.

  But the young man did not get the hint. He turned to the woman standing on the other side of Rafik, puffing his chest out in self-importance.

  “The Sabarra is rumored to have enough Puzzlers for their Salvationist crews,” he lectured in a tone that reminded Rafik of Master Issak. “But for the third season now, the Keenans hauled in the second-largest amount of loot after the Sabarra. So it is only logical that Mauricious Altenna would find a way to weaken the competition without an open conflict.”

  “That’s enough, Fendar, and it’s Councilman Altenna to you, young man. He has eyes and ears everywhere”—the scribe made a show of looking around—“and he is very concerned about how people address him, even behind his back.”

  Fendar paled and pursed his lips.

  “Good.” The scribe turned to Rafik and softened her tone. “I bet this was quite an ordeal for you, young Master, and a scroll of purchase takes time to prepare. Why don’t you sit over there until we all go upstairs to sign the contract?” She indicated a soft-looking chair. “And help yourself to some refreshments. I’m sure Fendar here will see to all your needs.”

  The scribe was right about the tediousness of the process. Rafik ate fruit and drank fresh water and entertained himself by finding patterns in the bindings on the rows of shelved books on the walls. Soon the bindings changed shape and he found himself by the wall of symbols in his dreams, where he felt at peace.

  Rafik did not remember until much later that night that today was also his birthday. He was now thirteen.

  30

  “Nine thousand?” Galinak shook his head incredulously. “I know times were crazy but . . . they paid nine thousand in coin for the little mutt?”

  “Nine thousand, two hundred and fifty hard C.o.T. coins,” Vincha said.

  “Bukra’s balls . . .”

  “Well.” I waved my hand in emphasis. “You have to remember it was the height of what my LoreMaster calls the Tarakan Rush. The new outpost in Tarakan Valley was filled with crews such as yours, Galinak, and literally tons of artifacts were being sent back via the Northern Long Tube. Everyone wanted a piece of the take. Private mercenary companies were all the rage, and the guilds were raking it in. Combat Trolls’ contracts doubled in value with each passing season. Mechanics, Gadgetiers, and Menders were tripling their prices, and a Puzzler—”

  “Yep, they were
rare all right,” admitted Galinak, “and mad as they come.” After reflection he added, “That scribe boy was right. I wouldn’t want to be this Jakov guy—he might as well have tattooed a huge target on his back.”

  “Well.” Vincha began packing her few belongings, retrieving the hunting knife from the wall. “When I first came back to the city, I went looking for him—” she paused “—to have words about the way he treated the boy.” Galinak chuckled, no doubt imagining how that conversation would have gone. “But I couldn’t find the rustfucker, no matter where I looked, and believe me, I tried. That half man disappeared. My guess, he split to the East Coast.”

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, so I pretended to cough so I could cover it with my hands. Throughout the night, I was looking for a way to get Vincha to stay in the city. My coin bag was almost empty, and I knew she wouldn’t accept my promises as currency. And suddenly, just as I was losing hope, here it was, the hook I needed. Vincha’s mention of Jakov proved to me that she was telling the truth, for many segments of her tale tailored together snippets of information I already gathered in my years of investigations. But the most important element of her story revealed that she cared enough to risk her life looking for the boy’s family after she came back from Tarakan Valley, and to try and find an obviously dangerous man such as Jakov and exact revenge. That was leverage I could perhaps use, with delicate manipulation, to keep her talking. It would be better than using the other tools in my possession.

  When I felt I’d regained my composure, I got up and stretched. The hut’s wooden shutters were closed, but I could sense it was already midmorning. From the way Vincha was packing I guessed she thought she’d fulfilled her side of the bargain and was now ready to leave. I had to think fast. How could I get Vincha to keep talking? Between what I’d already paid her and what she stole from the Den, she had enough coin to keep her going for a long while.

  As it turned out, someone else managed to stop Vincha from leaving. Unfortunately, it was at my expense. Vincha had been metal clean for years now, but some things stay with you even when there are no more wires coming out of your skull. She snapped her head up suddenly and whispered, “Something’s wrong,” and before I had time to react she added, “Rust, we’re being scanned.”

  We all turned to the only wall connecting us to a walkway. I concentrated and part of the wall became transparent to me.

  “Five men,” I said, my voice only slightly trembling, “two already at the door and three crossing the rope bridge.” They had their weapons drawn, and it seemed clear they weren’t looking for a friendly chat.

  Vincha kicked her bedding aside and removed two loose planks from the floor, exposing a hole big enough to squeeze through. It looked to me like a long drop, but Vincha had planned ahead, and there was a rope tucked underneath the beddings as well. Galinak, on the other hand, powered his gauntlets and moved straight to the door—the odds didn’t seem to bother him much. I was beginning to appreciate the aging Troll, but at that moment I was desperately trying to say or do something that would stop Vincha from using that rope. I didn’t have the faintest clue how, but I was not going to let her escape without me. So instead of taking cover I began moving towards her, which was, in hindsight, yet another mistake on the list of errors I’d made that day.

  The door burst open and a large Troll holding a hand gun filled the door frame. Galinak was only two steps away from him and immediately rolled forward, trying to duck under a possible shot, but the Troll at the door knew who he was looking for. His gun was immediately trained on me, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  Had I possessed honed combat reflexes I could have dived for cover, or shot him before he managed to shoot me, but I’m not a man of action. Instead, I froze in panic and felt a flash of hot pain in my middle. The world turned upside down as I collapsed to the wooden floor.

  31

  Had it been a live round, there would have been a hole the size of one of Galinak’s fists in my rib cage. Were it a blaster I would have died screaming in agony as my inner organs sizzled and burned. Instead, a stun ray made my body seize up, and, since it caught me as I was moving toward Vincha, the momentum caused me to crash headfirst to the floor. On the bright side, I didn’t feel the pain of impact beyond a dull thud, which would eventually become yet another painful bump on my poor skull. I could see Vincha’s head disappearing as she descended, and I heard the first sounds of hand-to-hand combat behind me. Lying there, helpless, I was experiencing a curious cocktail of euphoria mixed with panic. The mere fact I was still alive mixed with a rising sense of fear as I realised I was unable to breathe.

  A Gadgetier once explained to me that a stun ray somehow stopped all the muscles of your body for a short time, enough to make you experience near death before your survival reflexes overcame whatever the ray was doing to you. It was obviously unpleasant but usually didn’t harm the target beyond temporary incapacitation. It was by far the most humane of the Tarakan weapons, though that was not much of a consolation at the moment. My sight was getting blurry, and the light dimmed as the air refused to fill my lungs. The sounds of fighting were eventually drowned out by the singular crescendo of my slowing heart.

  I don’t know exactly what happened next or how long it took, but suddenly I felt my body heave and tremble and I was breathing again. I was still unable to move, but it was surprising how momentarily blissful swallowing and blinking became.

  From the noise around me I gathered that the fighting had moved outside the hut, but there was nothing I could do to help, and I was not able to run. The only thing I could do was think. Whoever sent these men wanted me alive, which was good, but I concluded it would not be a polite conversation. Galinak was an impressive warrior, but there were five trained men, at least one of them a Troll, and it was to his credit that the fight was even taking this long. Soon they would come into the hut, injured and pissed off, but victorious nonetheless. They would tie me up or simply hold me down, and then they would ask me questions. Regardless of my answers, I knew I was about to experience a lot of pain.

  I had to get out of this hut, but there was only one way out: down, through the hole Vincha had created. Some degree of feeling came back to my body, and I found I was able to crawl. It was pathetically slow, but I nevertheless inched my way to the gaping hole with absolutely no idea what I was going to do once I reached it. By the time I managed to get to the hole, my eyesight returned to normal and I saw the rope dangling down from a supporting beam below me, ending at a precarious height above another hut. Even if I managed to squeeze through the hole, balance my weight on the supporting beam, grab the rope and support my own weight on the way down, I would have to let go when I reached the end of the rope and hope that the makeshift roof would take my weight—or that I would not miss the roof altogether and plummet to my death. If I was lucky, maybe I would survive the fall with nothing more than a broken leg or broken ribs. If I wasn’t lucky . . .

  I decided to try and reach the swaying rope from where I was, but that proved to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. I kept inching forward above the gaping hole, fully aware that the noise of the battle had now subsided. When I heard heavy footsteps behind me I knew there was no time to finesse my exit. I stopped trying to grasp the rope, leaned forward, and felt my body slide out to what would have most likely been my death had two pairs of hands not grasped my legs, pulled me back onto the hut’s floor, and roughly flipped me over.

  “You all right, fella?” Galinak had a long red gash on his forehead, but he didn’t seem to mind that blood was streaming down his face.

  “Still unable to speak, eh? I think I like you this way.” Vincha, who was sporting a bruise of her own on her right cheek, was otherwise unharmed. “Nice going, by the way,” she said nonchalantly to Galinak. “I haven’t seen that over-the-side hip throw used in a very long time.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you,” he answered politely, but he was clearly smug.
“The way you swung from that rope and landed on top of those two, Bukra’s balls, it was like a show from that famous wandering circus troupe. And don’t get me wrong, but I would never want you to wrap your legs around me like that.”

  “It was inspiring, wasn’t it?” Vincha’s smile was almost sweet as she looked back down at me, “Oh, he’s moving. Can you talk, Twinkle Eyes?”

  I managed a moan.

  “That’s good, little fella, you took one right in your—”

  “Gg . . . ee . . .” I gasped.

  “Take it easy, fella, no need to run. Those boys are all down for the count.”

  “Ggg . . . get back, Galinak,” I finally got out. “You’re bleeding all over me.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He disappeared from my line of vision.

  Vincha helped me up. By the time I had full control of my body, Galinak had brought in the last of our assailants and dumped them unceremoniously on the hut’s floor.

  “That’s the last one.” He began collecting his darts and rummaging through their pockets.

  “That’s only four, I saw five,” I said, rubbing my head with both hands, trying to ignore the painful throb.

  “That’s right. But unless the fifth one was wearing a grav suit,” said Vincha, “he’s at the bottom of the pit, compliments of Galinak’s signature hip throw.”

  Galinak bowed and touched an invisible cap.

  I swore, trying to calculate the possible trajectory of such a fall. There was a good chance the man landed on a stall below or even on an innocent passerby. If so, there was also a good chance those below could calculate or guess where he’d fallen from, which meant we had to leave now. But first we had to find out who these men were and, more important, who sent them.