The Lost Puzzler Page 9

  “You’ll get us all killed, boy. In the name of the Prophet Reborn, try to calm yourself.”

  “These infidels have no honour. We must be ready,” argued his older brother, but he eventually relented and hid the pistol under his garments.

  It was midday, and Rafik wanted to pray before they left the Round Wheel, but Simon said there was no time for that, they needed to be back in the tavern before dark.

  “This place is not like your village or mine, Rafik,” he explained. “The guild’s men are concerned with taxing you but not protecting the peace unless it is in their interest. We must not be caught out during darkness, or we might attract all manner of trouble.”

  It sounded reasonable, but still, there had been a lot of missed prayers, and Rafik was beginning to suspect his uncle was perhaps not as devoted to the Prophet Reborn as he should be. It was more than a bit unfair, since Rafik was the one who was cursed, and he needed prayer now more than ever.

  When they were done with cleaning and feeding the pony, Rafik tried to argue again about the prayer, but Fahid snapped at him to shut up.

  Rafik was positioned yet again between the two grown-ups and was ordered to walk between them, and keep his mouth shut and his bandaged hand in his pocket.

  Soon all thoughts of prayer were gone from his mind as they made their way through the biggest crowd Rafik had ever seen. Everyone was armed, even the women. The second thing that struck Rafik regarding the people of Newport was their hair. Some men had hair as long as a woman’s, and many of the women had hair as short as a man’s. To Rafik, this fact alone was astonishing, and he caught his brother staring as well.

  The streets were wide but covered with potholes full of dark, foul-smelling water. Most people walked, but every once in a while, a truck would drive through the crowd, which parted expertly, as people stepped to the side so as not to get run over or sprayed with muck.

  “Just stay calm, both of you,” Simon said quietly. “If I’m right, the place shouldn’t be far from here.”

  The Prophet Reborn must have been angry at his uncle, because they had to ask people for directions and backtrack several times, but eventually they reached a door with a sign above it saying “Dominique’s Bar.” The name “Dominique” flashed red every so often but her last name stayed dark all the time.

  “Follow me and . . . well . . . just keep close,” Simon ordered and pushed open the door. They stepped into a kind of shop. As they walked in a group of men were laughing loudly, and one of them got up and immediately fell over for no apparent reason, which made everyone else laugh even harder. More than a few of the men turned and glared at them menacingly.

  “Stay close and don’t drink anything,” warned Simon. “And in the name of God and the Prophet Reborn, put away that gun, Fahid. You are making people nervous.”

  Simon led them slowly through the room. People were standing or sitting, but every single one of them was drinking from a cup or a mug, which struck Rafik as odd. There was also a strange, rhythmic music emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, but Rafik could not see any bards or musical instruments, so he assumed the musicians were upstairs or in the basement, which seemed a very strange place to put them. Rafik’s village tolerated travelling bards, and they were allowed to sing and play to the men of the village and entertain them with news and stories from the world. Rafik and Eithan were fascinated by them and never failed to secure a secret vantage point from where they could enjoy the show. The biggest troupe that visited in Rafik’s lifetime consisted of four musicians, and they came only once and had to leave in a hurry after one of them was caught talking to a woman. There must have been at least six or seven of them here, concluded Rafik, yet his brother and uncle didn’t seem to pay any attention.

  They walked farther inside. Rafik wondered if this was a den for Tarakan sinners, like the ones mentioned in the holy scripts sixteen times, a place that sold poisoned water, and all who drank from it would burn in hell for all eternity.

  “I am looking for Khan Carr,” Simon said to a burly man. The man turned and pointed sluggishly towards a table at the back corner, where a large group of men sat, surrounded by smoke and plenty of upturned jugs. When they approached the table, two of the men got up and moved towards them. Words were exchanged, bodies were patted, and weapons put aside for safekeeping, but the situation was not tense, since a shaggy-looking man at the table recognised Simon.

  “Banishla,” he bellowed and moved away from the table to hug Rafik’s uncle. The man was thin, almost gaunt, with short-cropped grey hair and black eyes that missed nothing. He wore a black tunic stained with grease and a pair of trousers like most truckers wore, made of a rough-looking blue material. His boots were the shiniest Rafik had ever seen.

  “Banishra,” Rafik heard Simon mumble under his breath.

  The man waved dismissively, “How are you, old dog? How’s your dear brother, eh? We have to drink to his life and health.”

  “These are my nephews, Fahid and Rafik, sons of Sadre Banishra. Boys, this is Khan Carr, a dear friend of your father.”

  Khan Carr shook hands with Fahid and added a pat to Rafik’s head. He stank of smoke and other less recognisable but equally repulsive odours.

  “Fine boys, from a fine man,” he declared with what Rafik thought was not a sincere voice, yet Fahid stuck out his chest with pride and stood a little taller.

  “Master Carr,” Simon began, looking nervously at the guards surrounding them.

  “Call me Khan, my friend,” Khan slapped Simon on his shoulder.

  “As you wish . . .” Simon’s unease was apparent.

  “Sit down, have a drink with me, we’ll get something for the boys to eat? They look hungry.”

  “Khan, I need to talk to you, privately,” Simon said firmly, and stood his ground.

  The small man paused for a few heartbeats, then his manner changed and he said quietly, “I see that you did not come here to sample my fine brews and reminisce. This is business, yes?” He glanced at the two brothers. “Or perhaps it is about something else altogether? Fine, follow me, then.”

  He led the three of them to a small room, which was less noisy and, just briefly, less smoky. Only one other man came into the room with them. Tall and lean, he had a short greying beard, which did not cover the ugly scar on his left cheek, and he carried a large handgun at his belt. He took his place by the door and focused his stare at a point on the far wall.

  Khan produced a black pipe from his pocket, lit it with a silver fire maker, and blew stinking smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Several chairs and tables of various sizes were placed in the room without any logical design and after being prompted by Khan everyone sat down. Rafik sat on one of the smaller stools.

  “I need your help, Khan,” Simon said as soon as the door was closed. “Sadre needs your help.”

  Khan blew more smoke from his mouth and said, “What is it?” in a dry, calculating voice.

  Simon turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand.”

  Hesitantly, Rafik took the bandage off.

  Khan blew another puff of smoke, thankfully to the side this time, before placing the still-smoking pipe gently on a side table.

  “Come closer, son,” he ordered, but not unkindly. “Do not be afraid. I owe your father and uncle much and will not harm you.”

  Rafik walked cautiously closer, without raising his eyes from the floor, and thrust his hand forward. Only then did he dare look at the man’s face.

  Khan’s eyes went wide. He swore under his breath and grasped Rafik’s hand, spreading Rafik’s fingers wide and staring at the markings for a long time. He kept breathing in and out and mumbling to himself so softly that even Rafik could not understand what he was saying.

  Eventually Khan let go of his hand, and Rafik snatched it back and hid it in his tunic pocket.

  “You understand our problem, yes?” Simon asked gently.

  “Perhaps,” Khan answered carefully, “you should spell it out for me, s
o we can avoid . . . any misunderstandings.”

  Rafik found his voice. “My father said that you could help me—that you could cure me.” He slipped his hand from his pocket again and waved it in the air.

  “Is that what you were told?” Khan asked, glancing sideways at Simon and Fahid. “That I could cure you?”

  “Well? Can you, or can’t you?” Rafik asked boldly but added in a softer tone, “I really want to go home. Please . . .”

  Khan shook his head, a thin, sad smile touching his lips. He took his time fetching and relighting the pipe and placing it in his mouth again. The room remained quiet. After several puffs of smoke he said, “I can help you, Rafik, son of Sadre, and I know a few people who could help you even more. But I cannot cure you from this . . . condition of yours. No one can.”

  “We just want him to be safe,” Fahid said, “to be—” he hesitated, glancing at his younger brother “—with his own kind.”

  “Is that what you want?” Khan got up and paced the room slowly.

  The man near the door kept looking at Khan, as if waiting for some kind of a signal.

  “How much, then?” asked Khan.

  “How much what?” asked Simon.

  Fahid jumped to his feet. “My father told me what he did for you,” he said angrily, “and you yourself admitted that you owe a blood debt to my family. Yet you ask us to pay you for doing a decent thing. You are no friend of ours!”

  “Fahid,” Simon cautioned, as the man at the door began moving forward with obvious intent and was stopped only by a small hand gesture from Khan.

  Khan turned his back to Fahid and walked to a cabinet. He opened the glass doors and came back to the table holding a bottle in one hand and three beautifully crafted small glass cups in the other. Khan carefully poured dark liquid from the bottle into the small cups and brought them to Simon and Fahid.

  Fahid refused his glass, shaking his head, but their uncle accepted it, holding it tentatively in his hand. Khan bent down and picked up his own glass.

  “You misunderstood me, Fahid,” Khan said. “When I asked ‘how much,’ I meant it as ‘How much do you want for the boy?’”

  There was a stunned silence in the room.

  Simon broke it with an almost inaudible “What do you mean?”

  “I am no expert, but the markings on the boy’s hand indicate that he is a—” he paused, then he shrugged and continued “—rare breed . . . and a very coveted one. All of the tattooed have powers. Some are stronger, some are quicker, but, if I am right, none of them can do what this boy could.”

  He turned to Rafik. “Do you have any other tattoos on your body?”

  Rafik shook his head.

  “Are you sure? I’ll check later, you know.”

  “No, only on my fingers. My father chopped them off with an ax but they grew back and—”

  “Shut up, Rafik,” Fahid snapped.

  Khan scratched his chin. “Interesting.” He turned back to Fahid, measuring every word. “If what your brother says is true, he is worth hard coin. If it was not for my debt to your family, I would have let you walk out of here empty-handed and drink many toasts to your stupidity.”

  “We just want to get him to somewhere safe,” Fahid said again, fidgeting nervously.

  “Oh, he will be very safe, your little brother, I can vouch for that, and well provided for, and educated as well, in all manners of fields. Now about his price . . .”

  “We do not want your coin, only your word of promise,” Fahid hissed before Simon could say anything else.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Khan picked up a glass cup again and presented it to Fahid. “I will give you my solemn oath that I’ll take care of your brother if you drink with me.”

  Fahid looked at the small glass for what seemed to be an eternity. Rafik was sure his devout brother would refuse to sin, but eventually Fahid reached out and accepted the glass.

  “In one go,” said Khan, smiling.

  “May God and the Prophet Reborn forgive me,” Fahid murmured, and all three drank at once.

  Rafik guessed his brother was too nervous and drank the water the wrong way because he became very red and began coughing and wheezing. Simon seemed to be fine, though. Khan and the other man laughed unpleasantly and suddenly there was a pistol in Khan’s hand. Rafik saw his uncle’s face turn white. Fahid tried to react but could only cough and wheeze. Rafik wanted to move, shout something, distract Khan, kick his legs from under him, or beg for mercy, but it was as if his legs were made of stone.

  He could only gape in horror as Khan grasped his brother with one hand and pushed the gun to Fahid’s forehead with the other.

  “I am not normally accused of such things as honesty,” he said calmly. “One does not stay in business with such a reputation. You, on the other hand, are a fool. A brave fool, perhaps, but a fool nonetheless, and in this town, you’d be a dead fool before the night is out. I should just kill you here and now and save you the trouble of growing up just to be killed by people who outsmart you.” Khan waved the pistol in front of Fahid’s bulging eyes. “But . . . I owe your father my life, and so instead I’ll give you this.” He lowered the weapon, turned it expertly in his hand and shoved it, butt first, into Fahid’s trembling hands.

  “Standard ammo, seven in a clip,” he said as he released the young man and patted his shoulder paternally. “I’ll give you some extra ammunition before you go, say a hundred bullets? Do we have a deal?”

  Fahid gulped, and Khan clapped his hands. “What shall I do with you, boy? Driving such a hard bargain, I tell you what, I’ll throw in a bag of black linen, and a barrel of my best mead! Yes, I know you are not allowed to drink, but you could trade it with someone who does. Once someone drinks my mead he never wants to drink anything else, so make sure you mention where it came from. What say you? Do we have a deal?”

  Fahid looked at the gun in his hand, still red in the face, and nodded without a word.

  “Good.” Khan landed a heavy slap on Fahid’s shoulder and turned to Simon. “We are done here. Tell your brother I honoured my debt, but don’t spread any tales. If people knew I gave you an honest trade my reputation in this town would be ruined.” He laughed again and did not wait for Simon to answer. “Have you met Dominique yet? She’ll take care of you lads. Go downstairs and get some food. The kitchen is still open.” He clapped his hands again and smiled to himself. “It’s always open here.”

  They shuffled out of the room and went downstairs, where they ate the greasiest meal Rafik had ever tasted. It was glorious and disgusting at the same time, but he couldn’t eat much because he was fighting waves of rising panic. Again and again he heard Khan’s words in his mind: “I cannot cure you. No one can.”

  He was not going home.

  17

  Rafik watched as the symbols on his fingers stretched and grew in front of his eyes, until he fell into them, enveloped by darkness. For a brief moment, he lay suspended in warm nothingness, but soon he heard soft, distant voices whispering. He could not make out what they were saying, but it didn’t bother him. He was comfortable, warm, and safe. The dots of light, which appeared before him in the darkness, drew his attention.

  They grew into symbols, eventually becoming large enough for him to see their shapes clearly. Many reminded Rafik of his own tattoos, featuring crescent moons and dots, while others were completely different. He recognised numbers on a few symbols while others were completely alien. Once the wall of symbols eclipsed his horizon Rafik stopped falling and lay suspended, watching, mesmerized. It reminded him of an army of ants he and Eithan once discovered when digging in the garden of his home. The symbols kept moving next to and over each other, shuffling positions, rising and falling, disappearing as other symbols moved to the fore and reappeared elsewhere.

  Rafik couldn’t take his eyes off the symbols. He felt a strong desire to touch them, to move them around, and a growing, inexplicable urge to organize them into a pattern. He somehow knew that this sym
bol should stand next to that one and the next one should go there.

  He heard voices again, up above him, from far away.

  “Don’t wake him up.”

  “We can’t just leave him here like this.”

  “It won’t make it any easier. Look at him, he is now at peace.”

  A deeper voice said, “You shouldn’t have given him the spiked goat milk. We should have had the chance to say good-bye.”

  “It is for the best—”

  A more familiar voice interjected angrily, “If you ever hurt him, I hope I never find out about it, because I will kill you.”

  “There aren’t many who have threatened me and are still breathing, but I assure you I have no intentions of hur—”

  Rafik drew away from the voices; they were spoken from such a distance they could have been from a different world. Perhaps the voices were a dream, and the symbols before him were the only reality. Besides, he’d just realised something very exciting: there was a pattern hidden among the symbols. You only had to stop that one and move this one and cancel this line here. Rafik watched his hand stretch and extend to an impossible length, towards the wall of moving symbols. He couldn’t see his own fingers, but he was not afraid.

  This is what is supposed to happen, this is how it should feel.

  His hand plunged into the symbols, and Rafik discovered he could now stop some of them in their tracks. He exposed part of the pattern by holding down specific symbols with his fingers, but whenever he would take hold of one symbol the others began moving again, and since the symbols all had different patterns of movement he kept losing the pattern. Only after what seemed to be an eternity, Rafik discovered the symbols would stay in their places if he concentrated just enough on keeping them where he wanted them. It took him a while longer to figure out how to maintain control over several symbols at once. The more he concentrated, the better his control over a growing number of symbols became. He managed two symbols with relative ease, then three, then five, but soon after he realised it was fruitless. There were thousands of moving symbols in front of him, and he could stop only several at once. Rafik withdrew his hand, feeling disappointed. He could sense the pattern, but he could not control a large enough amount of symbols to reveal it. Feeling suddenly very tired, Rafik floated slowly upwards, away from the wall of symbols and towards the light above him.