Copyright

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Eyal Kless 2019

Cover illustrations by Tithi Luadthong © Shutterstock.com

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Map by Eric Gunther / Springer Cartographic LLC

Eyal Kless asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008272302

Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008272319

Version: 2018-11-28

Dedication

To my loving parents,

Anat and Yair

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Map

1

Officially, the City of Towers was not divided. Modernity and progress, law and order reigned supreme. That is, if you believed the Council’s manifesto. Yet my cart driver didn’t seem to believe the official line and stopped his horses at the gate leading to the lower spires that most of the city dwellers called the Pit.

The cart’s driver bent down until his face was showing at the door’s open window.

“That’s as far as I go,” he grumbled.

“But this is not—” I began to protest.

“It’s as far as I go,” he repeated, as if this was the only explanation needed before his face disappeared. He did not even bother to jump down and open the cart’s door. That’s city cart drivers for you …

I should have argued with him—I’d paid hard metal in advance for the ride down all the way to the Pit—but I decided not to bother. I told myself that I was too tired to waste time and energy on a few coins, but in my heart, I knew that after months of traveling, it was a blessed change to have found anyone willing to take me, even for the shortest of distances. Only a few days’ travel from the city, most cart drivers took one look at my face and sped away. Some spat on the ground as they passed, while others, more often than I care to recall, aimed their spittle at me.

I climbed out of the filthy cart, holding the hem of my black coat in my free hand. The driver drove off without uttering a word, rightly assuming that no tip would be coming his way.

I carefully adjusted my cowl as I surveyed the enormous square of the city’s Central Plateau, happy to be breathing fresh air. Almost everywhere else in the world, the darkness of night meant the halt of all outdoor activities. If you were a villager, you barricaded yourself and your family inside your walls, made sure your weapon of choice was within reach, and prayed to whatever god you believed in for the safety of daylight. Not in the City of Towers. Even at this late hour it was bustling with activity, from the shouts of sellers in food stalls to the miserable lowing and stench of livestock.

The Plateau was lit from above by several dozen, evenly spaced, gigantic Tarakan lamps, their collective effect closely matching daylight. Like all of the city’s artifacts, the Tarakan lamps were secured by the ever-vigilant ShieldGuards. Though their faces were hidden behind black helmets, the movements of their heads indicated that they were scrutinizing the crowd. One of them spotted me, and I could almost feel his stare as he turned in my direction.

The area was too well lit, there were no shadowy corners to retreat to, so I chose a direction at random and began moving with the crowd. When I risked a glance back, the ShieldGuard was looking elsewhere. I eased my steps and circled around the area.

The cowl hid my tattoos from passersby, but it would not conceal my face completely. Eventually I would have to make eye contact, which would mean I might be remembered. I couldn’t take that chance. Not tonight.

I considered my options: my original plan was to descend to the Pit via Cart’s Way, but the road, albeit scenic, was too long to travel on foot, and I was pressed for time.

My next option, perhaps the most obvious one, was to ‘take the disc,’ meaning to board one of the Tarakan lifts from the centre of the square. Despite the fact that no one knew exactly how they worked—and several unexplained, deadly accidents—the huge oblong discs remained a popular way of connecting the Central Plateau to the rest of the city. I guess they appealed to humans’ unhealthy attraction towards danger, novelty, technology, and death. This kind of illogical behavior led me long ago to the conclusion that we are, essentially, a stupid race. Perhaps the Catastrophe was meant to clean the slate and start humanity over, but we managed to screw up even our own destruction.

One thing was sure; I possessed more than enough hard coin to pay for the lift. My LoreMaster was uncharacteristically generous with his purse when he sent me out on this venture—so generous, in fact, that I would be surprised if the Guild of Historians would be able to fund any other expedition in the foreseeable future. But I knew I should avoid taking the Tarakan lifts if I wanted to stay anonymous. Instinct told me there were too many eyes looking at me ever since I had come back to the city—and not without good reason. The woman I was looking for had amassed an impressive group of powerful enemies, but she still had a few friends in this city who could warn her. My lead was too solid to waste on amateurish behavior.

Look on the bright side, I told myself. After almost two years of travelling, chasing shadows, and following leads, you ended up back home, in the City of Towers, exactly where you started.

Sighing, I turned around and moved cautiously back through the mass of sweating humanity, away from the Plateau’s central square and into the side streets of the middle spires. It was not long before I was enveloped by the night, which for some irrational reason made me feel momentarily safer.

2

I still remember when the streets of the entire Central Plateau were lit by Tarakan lamps. Now, only a few blocks away from the ever-lit square, the back streets were almost pitch-black, and the inhabitants were of a more sinister type. I passed several groups of people huddling on street corners, standing around heating stones and open bonfires. The people were idle, drinking and talking among themselves, but I knew they were just waiting, like beasts of prey, for someone like me to come along and be dinner.

Quite early in my mission, I reached the conclusion that weapons were of no use to me. I owe many of my victories, as well as several near-death experiences, to my quick thinking and fast talking. Yet for all my self-reliance, I became painfully aware that I was walking in a dangerous part of the city with a heavy purse that jingled with every step I took. Heads turned and calculating stares followed my pace. A few of the more enterprising young men began following me, jostling for position and waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

There are not many times when my glowing red eyes are a blessing, but this was one of those occasions. I turned my head so my followers could see the fiery pupils from the depths of my cowl. Had I possessed a scythe, I could have achieved a better effect, but my glare was enough, and the shadowy entourage dispersed quickly.

I was born after the horrors of the Purges, when tattooed people like me were hunted and killed. The markings appeared on my face shortly after my thirteenth birthday. Although I was devastated, I was spared the suffering that most of my kind endured thanks to parents who were kind, loving, and—more important—wealthy. My father knew the man who is now my LoreMaster. Master Harim saw my potential, took me as an underling, and made a fine profit from my father’s coin. Notwithstanding the morning I discovered the tattoos that had appeared on my eyelids, my life until this assignment had actually been quite secure and relatively trouble free. I can honestly say I was content with my post as a secondary scribe at the Guild of Historians and looking forward to copying data and deciphering old books and salvaged Tarakan pads for the rest of my days.

Then one day, my LoreMaster sent me on this little errand. I remembered the moment I stepped out of the tower and into the real world, still believing in humanity. Well, that feeling’s definitely out of my system now. “Reading scripture can be satisfying,” my LoreMaster would tell me often, “but there is no greater adventure than going out there and finding knowledge by yourself.”

“Sounds dangerously close to Salvo-speak, LoreMaster,” I half-teased him.

There was not much about the Salvationist’s era, despite being recent, post-Catastrophe history, that my LoreMaster had not mentioned to me countless times. I could almost silently mouth the words of his next sentence.

“Very colourful cussing, I have to admit,” he chuckled. “It’s been a while since I rubbed shoulders with a Salvationist crew, but I suspect their speech is still as imaginative today. The Salvationists were right at least about one thing: there is no greater thrill, I tell you, than to salvage technology and dig information out from the ruins with your own hands.”

“Or pry it from a dead man’s hand,” I added without thinking.

LoreMaster Harim frowned, took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “You, my dear boy, have been reading far too many Salvo-novels, and don’t even try to deny it. I know where you stash them.”

I blushed. “Purely for research,” I mumbled, “about social cohesion in times of struggle.”

The old man muttered something almost inaudible, which nevertheless sounded like Salvo-speak to me, before declaring, “Well, son, you can pack your saucy novels away. I am sending you on a research mission. Something terribly important may have just happened, and I need you to investigate it. Fully. There is a woman, an ex-Salvationist. Her name is Vincha.”

I felt my heartbeat accelerate as my LoreMaster mentioned the Salvationists.

“I need you to find this woman and find out what this Vincha knows. She is an elusive one, but I already have a few leads regarding her possible whereabouts.” Master Harim leaned over and handed me a sealed scroll. His stare was nothing short of intense. “Spare no costs. Nothing we have ever done is more important than finding out what she knows.”

The odd way he phrased it should have alerted me, but I was too surprised to be chosen for a mission by my LoreMaster to dwell on his carefully chosen words. Instead, I tried to persuade him that I was the wrong guy for the job.

“I just copy books, LoreMaster, I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for this Vincha, or how to persuade an ex-salvationist to talk to me even if I found her.”

“Nonsense.” He shoved two fat leather coin bags towards me. “You are perfect for the job. I’m sure of it.”

The first thing I did when I left the towers was to rent a room in the Green Meadow, a fancy tavern in the Central Plateau. The second thing I spent my coin on were two redheaded prostitutes. One fucked me senseless and the other stole all my coin, stabbed her coworker to death, and ran for it. It took me two weeks to track her down and three more days to get most of the coin back, but at least my LoreMaster was right about one thing: I never went back to reading those Salvo-novels again.

Many times during my search for Vincha, I had wondered about my LoreMaster’s reasons for choosing me, of all people. One would logically want to send a military expert, perhaps a Salvationist veteran or at least someone with expertise in combat, someone who, unlike myself, did not instinctively recoil from violence. Was my nomination an act of desperation? Lack of another suitable candidate? A punishment for my idling ways? Or did he already see something I never knew I had in me—a lust for adventure and a knack for quick, creative thinking when my life was in danger? At the time, I did not know the answer, but I certainly learned much in the course of my two-year-long wanderings, most of which I would pay hard metal to be able to forget.

I found myself standing suspiciously still in a dark alley of the Middle Spires. Sighing softly, I forced the memories away and concentrated on my immediate problem: finding a way down to the Pit.

And then, if I managed to stay alive, locating Vincha.

3

Even with my special sight, it was easy enough to get lost in the twisting streets of the Middle Spires. I kept walking, navigating on a hunch, looking for the signs described by a contact so inebriated she could barely stand up. Just when I was about to give up, I spotted the first of the local gang graffiti I was told to look for. I followed the graffiti signs through a series of short, narrowing lanes that were half blocked by piles of human rubbish the Council had stopped bothering to collect. I walked under two archways, one so low I had to crawl underneath it to pass. Shortly after passing through the second archway, I found myself in a cul-de-sac with a closed courtyard.

There, a group of five men clustered around a crackling bonfire, next to a poorly built wooden cabin. Behind them stood a high wall built to block people from accidentally falling down the vast drop into the lower levels of the city. The wall had a human-sized hole in it. These were the smugglers I was looking for. Now I only had to find out how fast they would drop me.

Four of the men were large; two were visibly enhanced by Tarakan augmentations on their arms, torsos, and shoulders. People called them Trolls. When augmented with the right Tarakan gear and by a skilled Gadgetier, a Troll was a formidable creature, a deadly warrior capable of inhuman feats. But by the look of their deformed bodies, these guys attached the cheap stuff, overused, unmaintained, or pieced together by an amateur Tinker.

The group turned to watch me approach, standing loose-limbed and relaxed since, after all, they outnumbered me five to one. Even so, given I had flaming red dots for eyes, their expressions naturally demonstrated caution. I pulled back my cowl.

“I’m looking for a way down,” I said.

“No problem.” The shortest guy thrust his thumb at the hole behind him. “And since you probably have wings to go with those eyes, it’ll only cost you a fiver.”

His companions chuckled and exchanged a glance.

“Assuming I don’t want to spread my wings tonight,” I asked, “how much?”

He surveyed me again, taking his time, perhaps to see how I handled the pressure. “You carrying anything?”

“Just me,” I replied, opening my cloak to show I was unarmed—which was a mistake, of course. The man—whom I judged to be the group’s leader—smiled to himself.

“Eighty in coin or kind,” he said.

It was absolute robbery and I knew it.

“Thirty,” I countered without thinking, which was my second and nearly fatal mistake. My offer was too low. I was behaving like an amateur, and they sensed it.

One of the other men took a few casual steps to the side, preparing to flank me. “I wonder if you actually could fly,” their leader said, flapping his arms for emphasis. “Perhaps the wings materialize when you’re already in the air? Maybe we should test the theory. What do you think?”

I let my eyes see through them. Their skin faded to transparency, revealing bones and muscle and, more important, knives, knuckle-dusters, power daggers, and stun grenades.

They were already closing in on me, about to pounce, when I opened my own fist to let the one closest to me see the ShieldGuard-issue marked power clip nestled there. The man actually recoiled, and before the others could react further I fished the second one from my pocket and held it between thumb and forefinger, for all to see. The power clips were obviously Tarakan original, two perfect round balls emanating a blue hue that indicated they were fully charged. The clips were the sort that powered many of the artifacts in the city and beyond, even the SuperTrucks traveling on the Tarakan highways, and could only be found deep within the mysterious nodes of the City of Towers. Long ago, when Salvationist crews roamed Tarakan Valley, power clips like these were in abundance, but nowadays things are different.

The easy brutality faded from the leader’s face, replaced by something between calculation and anxiety.

“All I want is to get down to the Pit quickly and quietly,” I said, tossing the clips over to him. He grimaced even as he plucked them from the air. As valuable as they were, being in possession of such items these days was a capital offence.

He eyed me with considerably more respect than before, then nodded and pocketed the items. The clips marked me either as a dangerous and resourceful man or the lackey of such an individual—but either way, a worthy client.

The man nearest the cabin door opened it, darted inside, and returned holding a large, alarmingly rusty metal cage, a mansized version of a singing bird’s cage I once saw in a village’s market fair. He held it with both hands, his face already red with exertion, and handed it to one of the wannabe Trolls, who picked it up with only one hand. As his shoulder brace whined in protest, the Troll tilted the cage sideways, grinning proudly at the show of strength, while his equally large colleague attached a rusty hook to the top and a very long, much-too-thin metal cable. The cage was then slammed down in front of me with a loud bang and more than a few dust clouds.

“Ever done this before?” the leader asked, and chuckled nastily when I shook my head. “Just crawl in—the hatch is quite small, but without your wings you’ll fit in nicely, and hold tight.” He indicated the wooden handlebars inside. “It’s not a long ride, but it’s bumpy.”

“Who’s waiting at the bottom?” I asked as I entered the cage.

“Three to six guys, tops.” He hesitated only briefly before deciding to share a tip. “I’d go with the bearded one. He’s an old-timer, a little wired but a tough Troll, and his metal’s still sharp.”

I nodded and grasped the unpleasantly slimy handlebars, but any thought of letting them go vanished as the cage was picked up and I was shoved unceremoniously through the hole in the wall, feet first.

“Nice doing business with ya,” I heard the leader call as I plunged into darkness.

4

It was a short but nasty free fall before the cage suddenly stopped, probably just a practical joke, but enough to make me heave the contents of my stomach. On the bright side, throwing up stopped me from crying out loud at the agonising pain the abrupt stop caused my shoulders. After what must have been a short pause—swinging in a cage high above ground tends to distort any sense of time—descent resumed at a fast but bearable pace. I still held the handles tight, as if this could somehow save me if I was suddenly dropped to my death. I decided it was better to look around instead of down. It was easy to spot two of the Tarakan lifts to my far left. They were floating majestically in full artificial light, each carrying dozens of people, propelled by mysterious Tarakan technology. I, on the other hand, was swinging in the darkness inside a rusty cage, my life hanging, literally, in the hands of an oversized and most likely overdosed Troll.

Another notable difference was that the people on the discs were sheltered by an invisible barrier from the smoke and the heat that rose from below, while I was coughing up what was left of my guts and feeling as if I were being lowered into an oven. I turned my head away from the ascending smoke and looked up. From where I was looking, the tops of the towers above me seemed as unreachable as the stars.

The low, rumbling noise, a constant feature of the Pit, signalled my descent was coming to an end.

The cage landed on the ground with a bone-crushing thud. I still managed to retain my grip on the handlebars despite my body’s painful protests. Thankfully, the cage remained upright. Fearing that the cage would ascend before I managed to clear it, I forwent dignity and let my backside lead my body out of the cage.

Even with my back to the yard I could sense there were people watching me with professional interest. From the edge of my vision I saw a slender figure, perhaps a woman, stepping to a large bonfire, the only source of light in the area. As soon as I was out of the cage she picked up a burning log and waved it several times in the air. The cage jolted and disappeared into the darkness above.

I took a step and barely managed to stay upright. It was not just the rocking motion of the cage that had made me unstable; the ground was shaking. This was yet another phenomenon peculiar to the Pit. It was called the Downtown Swing or the Newcomers Half-Step—a slight rattle that was enough to make some visitors walk unsteadily or even seasick, and mark them as easy prey for the locals. It was just one of the many reasons why visitor protection was such a big business in the Pit. Walking without it meant you were either competent or a fool, and locals knew exactly how to differentiate.

The Pit was always a wild place. Years ago the ShieldGuards had full control of most of it, but things have changed. Nowadays it was the part of the city where you had to fend for yourself, or pay for someone to protect your back. Whether coming through Cart’s Way or dismounting from one of the discs, buying visitor’s protection was as close to an orderly affair as you could get in the Pit. Mixed groups of men and women were spread around the perimeter like a welcoming committee. Officially they called themselves Guides, but everyone referred to them as the Companies. All were armed to the teeth, of course, and consisted of ex-Salvationists, now unemployed augmented Trolls who needed to pay for their Skint addiction, a drug that was becoming dangerously sparse in the city. The different company groups had names such as Metal Fists or the Bloody Blades, wore colourful matching uniforms, and stood next to signs indicating prices, which were, unsurprisingly, pretty much the same. You could, of course, walk away without hiring anyone, but your chances of keeping your belongings, or your life, were nothing one would wager on.

I, however, was not walking off a disc or climbing out of a cart, I had just climbed, arse first, out of a rusty metal cage. If the Companies were generally made up of thugs who would rob you if they weren’t paid to protect you, the people who surrounded me were the kind Companies thought of as too unstable to employ. There was no etiquette here, so when I heard heavy footsteps behind me, accompanied by the unmistakable metallic whine of unoiled hinges, I had a pretty good idea what I was about to face. Still, the mountain of flesh and rust I confronted when I turned around left me speechless and gaping.

When Tarakan artifacts were found and reintroduced to society, there were plenty of men and more than a few women who were tempted by the idea of inhuman strength, stamina, and speed, and thus Trolls came to be. It was only natural that some people would take their lust for physical superiority to an obscene level, collecting and attaching augmentations to their bodies with no sense of what they were doing to their appearance or their mental stability.

The Troll facing me had only one healthy eye; the other was a messy, stitched-up job, most likely the remains of a botched attempt at attaching an aiming mechanism. His right arm and shoulder were completely covered in metal, as well as both legs from the knees up. Where the right arm should have been was an enormous power cannon, braced to his rib cage with metal rods and poorly attached wires that ran up the right side of his head. That was the prettiest part, the rest was too much to take in.

I didn’t need my enhanced sight to notice the distinct green markings around his nose, a clear sign that the monster was a hard Skint user. Skint considerably dulled the pain when the body tried to repel the attached augs, but too much of it made Trolls even more unstable and susceptible to violent episodes.

This Troll—I couldn’t decide whether to call it a “him” or an “it”—prodded me with his free left hand and said, “You need protection.” There was no question in his tone whatsoever. He had a squeaky, unnaturally high voice, which would have been absolutely hilarious if I were telling this story over scented wine to a bunch of drunken friends in a tavern up in the Upper Spires, but it was just scary and odd from where I was standing.

I glanced nervously to my right; the slender figure kept her distance.

“Hey, don’t be looking over there,” barked the mountain of metal. He prodded me again. “I’m your Troll. Look at this cannon, eh?” He waved the massive cannon in front of my face as if it were a children’s toy instead of a weapon that normally needed the strength of three men just to be picked up. “This baby can blast through stone walls, eh? Clean a whole street in two shots. Mister, you want me”—he pointed the cannon at himself—“protecting you”—and aimed it at my face. There was a very distinct suggestion of threat in the Troll’s voice, but the high pitch made it dangerously unconvincing.

I peeked to my left and spotted a man who was watching us from a short distance with what I instinctively felt was quiet disdain. He had a white beard, cropped short in a fashion long out of style. It was probably the individual whom the gang leader so helpfully recommended just before throwing me off the ledge. I caught his eye. He nodded once and began walking slowly towards us. This time the prodding from the huge Troll was strong enough to make me take a step back.

“Hey, don’t be looking over there. I’m the escort you want, man, twenty in coin or kind. We have a deal?”

The man approaching us was a Troll as well, but the old-fashioned kind, not an oversized, crazed junkyard who pumped himself up with Tarakan toys. He looked like the Trolls who used to do Salvation runs, back when that wasn’t just a suicide mission. He certainly showed more flesh than his bigger version, and there was no trace of Skint on his face. Metal gauntlets covered his arms from the elbows down, the back of each hand marked by three dart ducts. Short tubes were protruding from the side of his neck, in the classic fashion of a Salvationist crew tactical Lieutenant, but no wirings were attached to them. The rest of his body was covered in flex armour so worn that it was grey rather than black. From the way he walked I guessed he was also wearing a torso brace and a spine protector.

“Hey, look at me, fleshy. Twenty, yes?” insisted the giant, but the man was now close enough to intervene. He eyed my face just for a heartbeat, taking in my facial tattoos, and nodded at me.

“I believe I can counteroffer this … man.” His tone of voice was mild, but the word man was overpronounced and probably meant as an insult.

The metal monster sure seemed to take it that way. “Lift up, sucker,” he warned, but the man ignored him and fixed me with a calm stare.

“Where are you heading?” he asked.

“Atrass District, but perhaps other places as well,” I answered, trying to ignore the cannon swinging angrily above my head.

“I said take a lift, Galinak,” the large Troll squeaked again.

“Twenty-five in coin, no kind,” the man said, not taking his eyes off me.

The bigger Troll grinned in triumph. “Don’t listen to the old man—his metal is rusty. I tell you what.” He leaned close enough for me to smell the stench emanating from his metal-tipped teeth. “I’ll sweeten the deal. Fifteen in coin or kind, special price for you, deal?”

I looked back at Galinak, who shrugged and said, “Thirty in coin, no kind.”

That didn’t make sense. He was supposed to be haggling the price down, not up. Even the big Troll managed to work out the rudimentary economics and laughed out loud.

“See? The flesh brain is at the top tower. What you want? Flesh hookers? Dope? I know everyone here. I’ll take you around the block for some good time, no problems. Now give me fifteen.” The last phrase was said with desperate urgency.

Galinak raised an eyebrow and said, “I am about to raise the price to thirty-five.”

“Thirty,” I said quickly, knowing I was paying Company price for an old, burned-out Salvationist with no visible weaponry while making a very unstable giant of a Troll who was holding—I read the letters as he repeatedly swung the cannon by my face—a “GY blaster 2015-d special edition” extremely angry.

“Agreed,” Galinak said, and we shook hands.

It took the giant a few heartbeats to realise what had happened, and when he finally did I was sure he was going to shoot us both. The colourful obscenities that came out of his mouth were impressive, but he turned out to be all bluster and no blaster. Galinak shot the Troll a threatening glare, and we walked away without incident.

A few streets away Galinak stopped me with a touch to my shoulder. “Where exactly you need to go to in Atrass?” he asked.

“Margat’s Den,” I said.

He grimaced. “Look, if you want hookers, I know some real nice, clean ladies with interesting augmentations that could touch you in places you never thought …”

“I don’t want hookers,” I said hastily. For some reason I was anxious to convince the old Troll I was not another sleazy merchant looking for a cheap lay.

He nodded and tried a different tack.

“If you need suppliers, or have anything to sell, I know one guy with even scales. He’ll give you a fair trade, and yes, before you ask, I get a cut.”

I shook my head again. “I need to meet someone.”

“At Margat’s?”

“Is there a problem? Because I just hired you for Company price.”

“Not for Margat’s Den you didn’t,” he answered drily. “You’re looking at fifty starting price and two escorts plus extra if something exciting happens. And something exciting always happens.”

I swallowed. “So, you’re out?” I asked. “Should I have hired the big boy with the big gun?”

“No, I’m in,” he responded a bit too quickly. Clearly, he needed the coin. “But on two conditions.” He waited for my full attention before continuing. “I get fully paid two streets before the Den—” he saw my expression and raised a metal-wrapped, claw-shaped hand to stop any protest “—no negotiations. That place is dangerous and I’m only going in there with hard coin in my pocket.”

I had no choice.

“Fine,” I capitulated. “And what’s your second condition?”

“I’m hired to protect you. I watch your back and peel off trouble, but I am not finishing off a fight you start.” His tone suggested previous experience. “If you’re one of those mad tower-heads, wanting to bleed your knuckles in the Den just so you can boast about it to your friends, you’d better learn to fight for yourself.”

“I assure you I have no intention of initiating a fight,” I promised. “Just take me to the place as quickly as possible.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and we resumed walking, me at the front, him at my side but slightly behind me, covering my back while ordering me to turn left or right. Before I knew it, I was completely lost. I could hear the noise of the ever busy main street ahead of us, but Galinak directed me to walk down small, half-deserted streets, where there were no shops or taverns, just a never-ending series of hovels containing the poorest and weakest. The only source of light was the occasional reflection of the lamps high above us in the Central Plateau as the Tarakan lifts crisscrossed the skyline, creating a disorienting display of light and darkness. The stench was close to unbearable. I began to suspect he was leading me somewhere quiet to rob me, but just as I was about to get really nervous we emerged into Downtown Alley, the Pit’s most notorious street.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were walking up and down the narrow street, moving between street vendors and food stalls, passing scantily clad prostitutes, drinking houses, and gambling dens. “Walk casually and avoid eye contact,” instructed Galinak from behind me, “especially the women.”

I nodded, feeling Galinak tense and move closer to me. With every step we took, all around us, a dozen things were happening at once. Throwing my instinctive caution to the wind I enhanced my vision, and every movement, every gesture, became achingly sharp. A nude hooker haggled over a price with two customers. Three heavy Trolls accepted a sweet-smelling pipe from a young boy, their own hands too clumsy and weapon-loaded to fill the pipe themselves. A robed soothsayer argued over turf with a mental-witch. A smiling, half-naked fat man gestured for visitors to enter his gambling den. A juggler threw apples in the air, cutting them with a machete and catching them as they fell. There was a part of me that wanted to stop and take it all in. Bukra’s balls, when was the last time I touched a woman? I was a newcomer, a first-timer, and what was wrong with slowing down and sampling a little of Downtown’s famous pleasures?

Whether he was aware of my inner turmoil or just wanted to get on with the job, Galinak pushed me forward relentlessly, and soon we turned away to a side street and were enveloped again in relative darkness. I used my sight without fear of reprisal. In Downtown Alley you were a freak if you didn’t have tattoos or augs. If Galinak had or was using enhancements I couldn’t tell, but he kept pace even in near darkness.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked, suddenly curious and trying not to think of the red-haired hookers that we passed.

“Ask, but I might not answer.”

“How old are you?” I felt foolish the moment I said the words.

“Old,” he chuckled.

“So were you—” I hesitated, but decided to complete the question “—a Salvationist?”

“What are you, one of those religious quacks?” His voice rose in annoyance. “Going to lecture me how I brought this on us, eh?”

“No, not at all, I’m just curious.” I turned my head but could only see his shoulder.

“Well, you’re not paying me to satisfy your curiosity, so keep walking.”

“It just seems to me that you are a bit—” I hesitated again, feeling I might be pushing my luck too far, but to my surprise he laughed again, softly, as if to himself.

“—too old for this rust?”

“I was going to say ‘too professional for an escort job,’ but ‘old’ will do.”

He was still behind me, but I had a feeling he shrugged to himself.

“I am old,” he admitted, “too old, but with all my age and wisdom, I never learned to play my cards right and when to call it quits. So I need to pay my debts.”

“But you were a Salvationist,” I said. “Those must have been glorious days—”

“Pha,” he cut me off dismissively, and stopped. “If any Salvationist tells you the old days were one long, glorious adventure, know that he’s on a Skint trip or serving you liquid metal for a drink.”

I turned back to face him, “But the stories? The books—”

“Guild-dictated crap. They were running out of troops so fast they were shipping fresh recruits every day in crews of five to eight, sometimes thirty crews a week. We used to call them ‘spare parts,’ if you know what I mean.”

He looked straight at me, but his eyes were seeing something else entirely. “Most of them survived till the fifth or sixth outing, then they would get cocky. ‘This isn’t too hard,’ they would say to each other at the bar, ‘ just popping lizards and collecting heads for rewards.’ With the metal they earned from Lizard popping they would upgrade their weapons and Tarakan augs or use the coin on purer Skint and other drugs, which would make them even more arrogant. Then they would chase a Lizard down the wrong rusting shaft or get too close to the City within the Mountain, and suddenly they would be surrounded by a hundred of those fucking buggers. A solid crew can probably walk away from that with only two or three casualties. But a new crew that barely knows each other and carries weapons and augs they haven’t learned to use properly? One would bolt and try to run away, he’s a goner; one or two would try to save the runner, they’re goners, too. The rest would be overwhelmed so fast you wouldn’t have time to pinpoint their screams.”

I felt an involuntary shudder running up my spine as the veteran Salvationist added, “And that was just Lizard popping, easy clean-up stuff to make way for the experienced crews who went into the actual City within the Mountain. When you entered that place, there was no telling how you might die. Those traps reset themselves or somehow appeared in places where they previously weren’t, and if you stumbled upon a nest, well, even if you survived the encounter you never wanted to go back there again. Oh, and I must apologize.” There was the sudden sound of a power buildup.

“For wha—” I began to say, but then he hit me hard in the chest with open palms. It felt as if I’d been slammed by a power hammer. As I flew backwards I was blinded by a flash of searing light that passed through the space I’d occupied only a heartbeat beforehand, followed by a deafening explosion to my right. I was grasping at empty air in panic, knowing I was about to hit the ground and hurt myself. Galinak somehow managed to jump back while pushing me out of the way of the energy blast. His right hand was raised, already aiming at whoever shot at us from the dark street on our left. Something thin and silvery shot from his gauntlet.

I hit the ground hard as pieces of stone, burning wood, and hot, bent, metal debris rained down on me. My only piece of luck, under these circumstances, was the fact that most of the ground in the Pit was soft muck, so I wasn’t knocked out. For a while all I could do was shield my head and roll from side to side, praying I wouldn’t get squashed by a large slab of stone. I was already on my knees when a strong arm gripped me, and I was hauled to my feet. When I could take in my surroundings I saw a gaping hole to my right where a makeshift house used to be. The edges of the hole were still smoking, and a small fire burned in the exposed room. I could hear shouts but couldn’t discern which direction they were coming from.

Galinak looked at me calmly and simply said, “You are unharmed.”

I could only nod as I checked my head with my hands, they came back filled with muck but no blood.

“Can I let go of you?” he asked.

I nodded again, though it took a lot of willpower and pride not to collapse once Galinak released his grip.

“I’m fine,” I brushed away the dirt from my shoulders and lower back, thankfully I was wearing black, “but what in Bukra’s balls was that?”

Galinak strolled to the left. I followed him and saw the large and still-twitching body of the huge Troll who had aggressively invited me to employ him.

“I heard him a while ago,” he said, kneeling down to check the Troll’s pupils. “He was making so much noise trying to shadow us, I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. I used a shock dart, and an expensive one at that.” He plucked the dart from the Troll’s shoulder and looked at me as if this was entirely my fault.

“Now what? Are you going to kill him?”

Galinak shook his head. “You’re quite bloodthirsty, even for a newcomer.”

“Well … he did try to kill us.”

“No. He tried to kill me. You he just wanted to rob and maybe throw around a bit for good sport. But his brain is so full of rusting metal he used his cannon, which would have fried us both with nothing for him to pick up afterwards, unless he was planning some odd kind of a barbecue.”

“And you saw him coming?” I was hoping Galinak didn’t spot the shudder which coursed through my body, but I suspected he did.

“Of course I saw him coming,” he said calmly.

“And you let him pull the trigger?” I was suddenly very angry. “Is this a kind of a game for you?”

“No,” he said patiently. “I simply knew exactly when to move. Once he powers up the cannon there’s a brief delay during which the weapon locks up and is immovable. If you know what you’re doing, you just need to move away when you hear the sound. It’s very distinct.”

He gestured toward the cannon. “I remember finding a stack of these little honeys on our fourth deep run into the City within the Mountain. We were a happy bunch coming back. Originally, I think they were meant to be some kind of mining equipment, self-mounting and probably automated, without the need to use a Gnome or a cheap body-fixer like this.” He gestured at the bracers holding the GY blaster 2015-d special edition. “But some Trolls fell in love with the idea of having one of these babies as a personal weapon, and who wouldn’t, I ask you? We sold them like fresh bread and made a fortune, then we celebrated in style.”

He shook his head. “If there was a time I could have walked away from it all and lived a quiet life, that was the time. I had the coin to do it, but those were good times. We had a strong crew, good people, we were even hoping to get enough between us to buy a Puzzler, you know, go solo—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head slowly, as if pulling himself away from the memories. “No need to stay here,” he said, and even I spotted the approaching silhouettes.

“What about him?” I pointed down.

“He’ll come around soon enough, and anyone trying to detach his augs will find that the knockout effect wears off really fast, so let’s move.”

He began walking away and I trailed after him, still shaking. “Won’t he come after us when he wakes up?”

“I doubt he’ll remember a thing. Anyway, he’s tried to kill me before.”

“Really? How many times?”

Galinak’s expression indicated mental calculation. “I think six, perhaps seven if you count trying to kill me during a Skint rage, although it wasn’t personal that time.”

“And you don’t mind?”

He shrugged and tweaked his short white beard. “Not really. Every man needs a hobby.”

5

For many years, Margat’s Den was nothing more than a locale for the toughest inhabitants of the Pit, who only wanted a quiet, nonwatered drink after a long hard day. It was one of those places where you were polite to the people around you and avoided eye contact. You drank inside and brawled outside, like civilised men.

It all changed a decade ago, when a tower-head walked in on a dare and started a fight. Miraculously, the boy lived to tell the tale, with only a few broken bones and several missing teeth. This minor incident inspired other brash youth living in the upper regions, and very soon it became a rite of passage for the privileged and foolhardy. They descended on the establishment in droves, looking for fights. The owner of the Den, in a moment of epiphany, saw the potential for profit; the tower-heads brought plenty of the Council’s steel coin with them and spent to impress. The Den was now the largest, most profitable legal establishment in the Pit. There were fighting tournaments and duels, along with good, old-fashioned bar brawls, some planned, some authentically spontaneous. Margat’s Den was not the sort of place you went into for a quiet drink anymore, although if you kept to yourself and had good protection, you could probably get in and out without a major confrontation. Basically, you had to pay your coin and take your chances, which was what I was going to do.

The clearing in front of the Den was lit by more than a dozen sources of flame, and there were people lying about, most of them nursing wounds. A few bodies I was only guessing were unconscious were sprawled on the ground, prize possessions taken either by the victors of whatever confrontations they’d had or by one of the many local opportunists prowling the area.

Four guards stood at the main entrance to the place, armed to the hilt with every weapon known to Trolls and looking alert and ready. I made a point of not looking around with too much interest, but sensed a few more guards lurking in the shadows.

Considering its reputation, it was surprisingly calm outside; the Den’s proprietor wanted to keep any fighting inside his establishment. Still, I felt my stomach clench with fear as we approached.

A young man, who looked no more than sixteen years of age, was being searched as his escorts stood waiting. The kid had two fighters, a massive Troll and a street rat, a sure sign that looking for trouble in the Den with minimal protection was still a trend. He was clad in full body armour, which was inscribed with Salvationist crew symbols. I recognised the markings of at least four rival crews on his back alone. Heaven knew where he got it from, but when he closed his visor he looked like a colourful drawing of a medieval knight. As we waited our turn, three concealed weapons were confiscated from him. Blasters and guns of any kind were forbidden, along with all Tarakan weapons. Official escorts were exempt, as a sign of respect, but even they were warned not to use a forbidden arsenal on pain of … well … severe pain.

When it was my turn I stepped in front of the goggle-eyed Troll guard, who stared for a moment at my tattoos, then nodded in camaraderie. Nevertheless, he took his sweet time searching me thoroughly with his enhanced vision. Watching him work, I admit I felt a hint of envy. The goggles were ugly, and whoever stitched them on was no artist, but the device enhanced the gift we both shared tenfold. I could see in the dark and, when pressed or panicked, through thin materials such as skin or cloth; but he could know what I ate for dinner from three streets away.

As I was searched, a second guard asked whether I was aware of the rules of the place and made sure I knew the penalty for killing someone the wrong way inside the Den. The goggled guard didn’t find any weapons on me, which was so unusual, it made everyone a bit tense, but after a few more questions I was let through. When it was Galinak’s turn to be inspected, we ran into a problem that I hadn’t anticipated.

The Troll took one goggled look at my escort, nodded slightly, and extended an open cloth bag.

“Your blaster and throwing knives,” he commanded drily, “and I’ll need the power tubes for the gloves as well.”

Galinak stood very still. “I’m an escort,” he said and pointed at me.

“Not officially you’re not,” answered the Troll. “You’re not affiliated with the syndicate anymore, and I know none of the other escort Companies will work with you after what happened the last time.” The Troll pointed at Galinak’s weapons and to the bag in his other hand. “You’re a visitor here. Visitor rules and visitor prices.” He sounded like he was enjoying himself. “That will be ten coins for entry, normal price at the bar.”

Galinak didn’t move. He blinked slowly, twice, then raised his right hand to his left gauntlet, a gesture which created a flurry of movement all around us. People dove for cover and guards raised their weapons. The clicks and whines of power-ups and the swooshing of weapons being unsheathed in haste created an odd cacophony of sound.

Galinak’s hand twisted, and a glowing power tube slid out of a hidden socket into the palm of his hand. He did the same with the second gauntlet, and then took his time producing his personal weapons, which I noticed were small compared to the general style around us. The second Troll, who’d jumped back rather unprofessionally when Galinak raised his gauntlet, smiled in triumph as I paid the extra levy for my escort.

“My stuff better be here when I get back,” Galinak said, and walked away.

“Enjoy your stay in the Den, old flesh!” the Troll spat at our backs as the double doors opened and we walked into the chaos.

“Rust,” I swore quietly as the double doors closed behind us. If Vincha was really at the Den she most likely wouldn’t be cooperative. And my only protection was a retired Salvationist with no weapons and, apparently, plenty of enemies. This was gearing up to be an interesting night, and not in a good way.

6

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.

7

I 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.

8

Sunlight rarely touches the Pit, so I lost track of time and it seemed like it took forever to get from the Den to Vincha’s home. We had to climb several ladders and cross a rope bridge to reach her wooden shack. It was indistinguishable from the hundreds of such structures, a neighbourhood built up against the base of the Tarakan towers in rows that rose above the lower market halfway to the Central Plateau and was adequately called Shackville. The word shack was perhaps an overstatement. It was a small, windowless hut made of rotten wood. Between the gaps in the warped floorboards, you could see the drop below. Even with the protection from the elements that the City of Towers provided them with, shacks would occasionally collapse, and the Pit’s residents would jump to help casualties—relieving them of the burden of their belongings at the same time, then using the leftover debris to build more shacks.

I sat down heavily on one of the only two stools available and massaged my temples. The air was hot, and there was a constant humming noise. Galinak wasted no time. He sat on the floor and began to dress a blaster burn with salve he bought from a Mender’s stall at the market, while Vincha poured us a drink from a flask she fished out from under her makeshift bed. To be precise, she poured two drinks, one for herself and one for Galinak, but did not offer me any, which, oddly, made me feel a little hurt. She downed the drink and busied herself chopping the eel we also bought on our way back. If the butcher in the ever-open food market thought there was anything odd about bloodied and bruised customers, she was wise enough not to show it.

There wasn’t much to look at, so I end up eyeing Vincha’s travelling bag while considering our current position. Vincha travelled light; her bag confirmed this. My guess was she planned to split town, but first she wanted to eat, gather her strength, and figure out the best way to hustle more coin out of me.

The cooker was powered by a cable she’d clearly attached without permission to a local power generator. Still, it was a blessing. Many residents of Shackville had no choice but to cook over open fires. Vincha brought two cracked ceramic plates to the small table. There were no forks or other forms of cutlery, only Vincha’s blade, which carved the cooked eel with alarming ease. She served herself a hefty portion, then sat down in front of me and folded her arms across her chest.

“No instruments” was the first thing she said.

I nodded my compliance.

“No prodding of any kind, and if I see your eyes glow, or if they even so much as look funny, I’ll carve them out.” She made a show of looking meaningfully at her knife before carving a piece of eel for herself.

“Done.” I tried not to stare at the blade as she cut through steaming flesh or dwell on how it had felt pressed up against my skin back in the Den.

“So where’s my payment?” Vincha shoved the piece of eel into her mouth.

“First I need to know you were in the Valley when it all happened.”

She snorted, swallowing. “Rust, yeah, I was there. Not many of us came out alive on that day, but I made it.”

“And you remember what happened?”

“I remember.” Her voice got uncharacteristically quiet. “I’ve been trying to forget ever since.”

“You were close to him.” It wasn’t a question. I’d spoken to dozens of ex-Salvationists about that period. Actually, I’d coerced, drilled, begged, seduced, bribed, threatened, and occasionally beaten the stories out of them. They had all talked, eventually. Each had a personalized version of the same story, placing themselves at its epicentre, yet they all had one thing in common: Vincha, and how close she was to the boy.

“Yes, we were close,” she admitted. “He was just a kid, small and skinny, frightened, surrounded by the worst Salvationist scumbags, a broken soul, like the rest of us. Somehow, we connected. I don’t know why. We just did.”

Galinak chuckled and said, “Woman’s intuit—” then ducked the knife that flew past my face and embedded itself in the rotted wall behind him.

“Go rust, cheap wires,” she spat at him, but without much zeal in her voice. Even the throw was halfhearted, although I was just guessing that, really.

Galinak and Vincha traded colourful insults for a while, but I didn’t pay much attention to the poetry. I was too excited. My long search was over and the key to solving the mystery was sitting in front of me. This woman knew what had happened, she knew, and for all her bravado and greed, I sensed that like the rest of them, she wanted to tell me her version of the story; all I needed to do was ask the right questions.

I knew what I was going to ask first, but I just had to wait until Galinak fell silent.

“What was his name?” I asked.

Vincha smiled coyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

I already knew, but that wasn’t the point. “I’ve heard many names.”

“Yes, they called him the Kid, or the Key, but mostly just the Puzzler. They never called him by his name, maybe because it would have reminded them that he was human. But I knew his name, he told me …”

“What was it?”

She knew …

“Where’s my coin?”

I took out two diamonds from my pocket and put them on the table.

She looked at them, then at me. “What are those?” she demanded.

“These will fetch you a quarter of what you asked for.”

She looked back at the diamonds with open suspicion on her face “Where?”

“Upper Towers will give you a fair price, or the East Coast traders if you want to make the trip. Most craftsmen would buy them as well, but for a reduced price.”

Anticipating her protest, I added, “No one could carry that much coin around. The diamonds are sound, and worth a quarter of what we agreed upon.”

She scooped up the diamonds into her hand in a fluid motion and inspected them before saying, “I’ll tell you a quarter of the story, then.”

“It’s a start,” I said, my heart pounding.

“His name was Rafik, but his friends called him Raff, a boy from one of the Wildener villages, you know, those who followed that weird Prophet who rejected technology. Of all the places he could have been born, fate chose for him the worst rusting place.”

9

Rafik lay on the ground, trying to stay still and control his breathing. If his pursuers would hear him it would be his end. He heard shouts and the thumping of feet hitting the ground a few yards to his left, and he fought the urge to bolt. There were two of them. A third one moved farther away, searching, but Rafik guessed he was still within earshot.

“Did you see him? Are you sure?” It was one of the infidels.

“Yes, I’m sure,” came the answer from such a close distance it made Rafik’s heart jerk with fear. “We take him out and we’ll have them all.”

Rafik closed his eyes and dug his chin down in the dirt, willing himself to be grass, praying to the Prophet Reborn for help, berating himself for any blasphemous thoughts or deeds in his past, for surely his sinful ways had brought him to this predicament. If what the infidel said was true, all his friends were either captured or taken out. He could not make up his mind which fate was better; the infidels had their nasty ways with captives, and he knew that for a fact. Poor Eithan—Rafik had made efforts to protect his friend, but they’d split up in the woods and Eithan was among the first to fall.

One of the infidels took another step towards the shallow ditch, and Rafik shivered involuntarily as he heard the enemy’s feet crushing the grass.

They were almost above him, standing on top of the mound. It was a sheer miracle neither of them looked down and spotted him practically lying under their feet.

After an eternity, he heard one of them say “Let’s go. He probably kept running east. We’ll find him soon enough—he can’t be too far away.”

The other infidel mumbled a defeated reply, and they began to move away. He was saved; thank the God and the Prophet Reborn. Rafik’s body, suddenly realising he’d been holding his breath for far too long, exhaled quickly. The gesture was followed, naturally, by a large intake of breath, which carried dust from the plants or the earth. Before Rafik could control himself, he sneezed loudly.

The rest happened in kind of a blur. He heard shouts of discovery and running steps getting closer. Rafik’s fist clenched over dirt and dead leaves as he uttered one last prayer to the Prophet Reborn. When they were on top of him, he jumped up and flung the handful of dirt into the face of the incoming infidel—who, bless the Prophet Reborn, was just opening his mouth in a shout of triumph. The result was pretty spectacular, but Rafik did not linger to watch. He was running again, this time faster than ever before, faster than he’d ever run in his life. He heard his pursuers behind him and bolted through the undergrowth, trying to lose them. There was no point in turning and fighting; he would be overwhelmed for sure. There was only one thing to do now: complete his mission or die trying.

Rafik altered his course midstride and burst through the undergrowth again. As luck would have it, he actually ran right between two surprised infidel guards, and before they managed to react he was already back in the foliage. Now there were four of them running after him. Four, two, it doesn’t matter, the exhilarating thought flashed in his mind, as long as they cannot catch me.

The infidels probably realised what he was trying to do, as several cries rose from the areas he passed, and they began converging on him from all directions. In his peripheral vision, Rafik saw dark silhouettes rushing almost alongside him. Soon they would pounce. Instinctively, he abruptly altered his course again, which took him in a direction away from his goal but also traced an arc that would confuse his pursuers just a little while longer—at least that was what he hoped to accomplish.

Suddenly he was confronted by an infidel who stepped from behind a tree and tried to grab him. But he misjudged the power Rafik had accumulated in his mad dash. They collided, and the infidel fell back on the ground with a thump and a cry of surprise and pain. Rafik barely lost speed, but the little he lost was significant. They were almost upon him, and he was getting too tired to keep this pace much longer. It was now or never.

Rafik roughly calculated his position and changed his direction once more, ducking under the arm of a pursuing infidel, his bare feet feeling as if they were hardly touching the ground. He could see his mark now, getting closer, but also the infidels who were running towards him from all directions. He passed the bodies of his friends lying on the ground in neat rows, Eithan among them. It was over, he knew it. One infidel was in a better position and would intercept Rafik before he could reach his target. The others were only an arm’s reach behind him; he heard the sound of their steps hitting the dirt and could almost feel their breath on his back.

There was no power in him anymore; his lungs were on fire, his feet were bleeding, and his body was in agony. In a few heartbeats, Rafik knew, it would be over. The unbelievers would triumph, yet it was something he was still unable to come to terms with. God was with the believers, and the infidels always lost. Always. It was something Rafik had known as a fact from the moment he could comprehend words from sound. Just as he felt himself slow into despair and defeat, his body already accepting the fate his heart was yet rejecting, the infidel who was about to intercept him stumbled on an invisible twig on the ground. An accident? Surely not! It was a miracle.

Rafik’s spirit soared as he skipped over the body of the fallen infidel guard, galloped the last few yards, and wrapped his hands around the tree that was his target, shouting, “Boom!” again and again in ecstatic joy. He heard the infidels curse in defeat and his teammates, the holy warriors, shout in joyful triumph as he raised his hands and proclaimed victory.

When Rafik turned around he saw his teammates jumping up and down, roaring their excitement. Eithan ran forward and hugged his friend, picked him up from the ground, and spun him around in a circle. The infidel team looked disappointed, but many among them held Rafik’s view on God’s attitude towards the believers and were almost visibly relieved to lose.

The boys changed the name of the game often, sometimes to “Pure Blood and Tattooed” or “Guards and Bandits.” The rules were pretty much the same, but when they called the game “Holy Warriors and Infidels” there was always an extra excitement in the game, much more at stake than a simple afternoon’s honour. No matter what the odds, the holy warriors were the blessed sons of the Prophet Reborn. The Infidels had to lose, they had to, even if this time was too close for comfort.

Rafik squirmed and kicked a bit until Eithan finally lowered him down, though he was still full of excitement, and he kept hugging and thumping Rafik’s chest with open palms even as the rest of the boys were calming down. That was typical Eithan; he always became completely engrossed in everything they did but remained a little too enthusiastic for too long. It annoyed Rafik, who found Eithan’s company embarrassing at times, especially around girls. But when one chooses his best friend at the age of three and they swear to each other in blood at the age of seven, one does not break the friendship just because pretty Elriya keeps laughing whenever Eithan behaves like a fool. Nor do you walk away from a friendship because your sworn brother happens to be absolutely awful in any kind of physical game and sport, and you have to coerce your teammates with promises and threats so they pick Eithan for their team.

Rafik pushed his friend gently away before the others began taunting them. With his attention focused on Eithan, Rafik did not notice the two boys who emerged from the bush. One of them was Cnaan, the boy who had swallowed the dirt flung by Rafik. Strictly speaking, when the only rule of taking a combatant out of play was that his back had to touch the ground, Rafik’s move was perfectly legal. Yet Cnaan was not trying to dispute the victory or debate the rules; he just wanted to get even. In his clenched fist, he held a massive ball of leaves and dirt, and he charged Rafik with the zeal of hurt pride and the confidence of someone who outweighs his opponent by a full stone.

Eithan called a warning, but Rafik only managed to turn before he was lifted off the ground for the second time. A heartbeat later the ground claimed him back with a cloud of dust and a blow that took the air out of his lungs. His right hand partially blocked the fall, and he felt the skin scratch and split open on the gravel.

Momentarily dazed, Rafik could only shield his face from the barrage of vicious blows Cnaan was landing on him. He twisted and managed to half-turn on the ground, but Cnaan turned him back with a vicious shove and sat firmly on Rafik’s chest, pinning him down. As his eyes cleared, Rafik’s vision was filled with Cnaan’s heavyset frame. One chubby hand grabbed Rafik’s jaw while another was poised, ready to shove a fistful of revenge into his mouth.

Suddenly Cnaan’s overbearing weight was lifted off Rafik’s chest. Rafik rolled to the left and rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping dirt off his face with his bloodied arm. Cnaan and Eithan were rolling on the ground, kicking, punching and, in Eithan’s case, occasionally biting. That was another trait of the little guy; fearlessness and a blind loyalty to his blood friend. Rafik did not mind that side of Eithan’s personality. The problem was that Cnaan had friends as well—perhaps more followers than friends, but boys ready to join in the fight, especially if Cnaan was winning. They set upon Eithan, and it was Rafik’s turn to come to the rescue. Rafik had friends, too, boys who suffered from Cnaan’s attention from time to time and were waiting for an opportunity for payback. In a few heartbeats, the entire group was brawling.

As the battle commenced, time slowed and the outside world vanished from existence. Rafik flung his limbs in all directions, hitting anyone he did not recognise as a friendly face. As in any battle of grand proportions, alliances were formed and promptly broken as one side lost heart. A few of Cnaan’s entourage fled the fight, bleeding and crying. When Rafik saw the glint of fear in Cnaan’s eyes, he knew he was going to win the day yet again, but victory was snatched away with cruel suddenness as a heavy set of hands clamped around his collar and he was hauled to his feet. Angry words were hurled at him from several grown-ups. He was slapped across his brow, and that was stronger and more humiliating than anything he’d suffered during the fight. The rest of the boys were held by other angry adults.

Rafik held his breath and tried as hard as he could not to cry. At the corner of his eye he caught Cnaan’s frightened stare; like Rafik, he was trapped between two pairs of heavyset arms. A temporary alliance silently formed with that very glance, as a new common enemy was recognised: the grown-ups.

“Why were you fighting? Who started this?”

Rafik did not answer, nor did Cnaan, or Eithan.

“We thought it was a bandit attack; the entire village is up in arms,” said another angry voice to his left. “The signals were fired, men are coming back from the fields, women and children are hiding, what were you thinking? I will tell your father, Rafik, and I hope he’ll put his belt on you.”

Many more grown-ups were now arriving, all of them carrying weapons. Rafik’s heart sunk. It was true; now that the ringing noise in his ears had subsided, the ringing of the alarm bells was clearly audible. They were in trouble—worse, he was in trouble.

“Tell me who started this or …” The hand rose up again and Rafik flinched, knowing the slap was going to hurt and this time he would cry.

“That’s enough, Rachmann.”

The commanding voice of Fahid, Rafik’s older brother, froze the threatening hand as it was poised to strike. Instead, Rafik was released.

The man called Rachmann turned to face Rafik’s brother. “The boy’s mischief frightened the entire village.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rafik. “Is there no discipline in your household?”

“I do not see Rafik standing alone here, do you?” was the calm reply. “And he was not fighting with himself, yet I see your hand raised against only one boy.”

“Well, we all know he is the one full of mischief,” grunted Rachmann, who was many years older than Fahid and disliked being told off by someone who had just come of age.

“Even if what you claim is true, it is not your duty to discipline my brother. Only our father has this right. I assure you he will admonish Rafik for his misdeeds.”

Perhaps it was the assured voice which calmed Rachmann down, or the rifle that was casually slung over Fahid’s shoulder—the same rifle with which Fahid had single-handedly fought off the bandits only two months before and brought honour to the Banishra house. Rachmann grunted something mildly offensive under his breath and stepped aside.

At a gesture from his older sibling, Rafik began walking away from the group, but not before glancing meaningfully at Eithan and Cnaan. If their condition reflected his own, Rafik was a sight to behold. He felt the tickle of blood streaming gently from his hand, and his left cheekbone was already swollen and tender.

The siblings walked in silence for a while until they cleared the trees. Fahid stopped, put a hand on Rafik’s shoulder, and said, “Now, let’s take a look at you, little brother.”

He turned Rafik this way and that, and after a brief inspection he proclaimed, “Goodness, your shirt is torn and you’ve got a nice black eye here. And look at your hand, it’s bleeding all over the place. Mother will kill us both.”

There was definite concern in Fahid’s tone of voice. Rafik shuddered. Their father was a quiet and resolute man who rarely shouted and never hit his children. Their mother, on the other hand, was his fiery opposite, with a mighty forearm and a heavy-duty ladle, which she used to dish out her own painful version of the holy scripts.

Fahid smiled as they continued walking. “So who threw the first punch?”

When he grows up, Rafik wants to be just like his older brother: tall and strong and loyal, known to be a source of quiet strength and courage among the villagers even though he would only reach sixteen springs this year. Yet Fahid was a grown-up now, and one did not snitch to grown-ups, no matter who they were. Rafik shrugged and did not answer, not wishing to lie to his own brother nor betray his friends.

But although Fahid was about to be married soon, he had not forgotten the code of his own youth, and he laughed as he ruffled his younger brother’s short hair. “At least tell me you gave as much as you got.”

Rafik tried to smile but found the cut in his lower lip hurt too much.

“Eithan and I, we were winning.”

Fahid let out a short chuckle. “You are a brave pair, the both of you, fighting those odds.”

And that was the best compliment Rafik had ever gotten.

Pain all but forgotten, he walked on air after his older brother all the way home to be berated by their angry mother.

10

Rafik, would you please repeat what I just said?”

Rafik blinked and his eyes focused on the familiar classroom. Heads were already turned, and Rafik saw malicious smiles spreading across a few faces.

“What …?” was all he managed to utter, and a few boys giggled. From his place on the mat he could see the teacher’s feet, wrapped in cloth sandals. Rafik shook his head slowly; it felt almost too heavy to lift.

“Rafik Banishra,” Master Issak said, slowly punctuating every syllable, as if explaining the obvious, “Son of Sadre, could you please repeat the words of the Prophet Reborn, regarding the infidels?”

Rafik beamed, relieved. That was easy.

“They all burn in Hell, Master Issak,” he answered confidently.

There was a wave of laughter in the room and the teacher had to raise his voice to be heard.

“The exact words of the Prophet Reborn, Rafik, regarding the specific creatures of Satan, if you please?”

On any other day Rafik would have remembered the words of the new holy book, which the Prophet Reborn received from God before the Catastrophe and was filled with prophecies about the demise of the Tarakan infidels. Rafik knew many of the verses by heart—the ones about the unholy and the terrible justice that awaited them were his favourite by far—but not today. His head felt as heavy as stone and his thoughts were lost in a fog.

“Uh …” Rafik tried to buy time. “He … who … falls … into … temptation … will … go to Hell?”

Laughter swept the entire class again and fuelled Master Issak’s indignation.

“Rafik Banishra, on your feet and over here!” he shouted. Rafik rose unsteadily as the class shuffled to clear a path to the front of the room. Seeing another boy punished was much more interesting than reciting verse after holy verse.

Master Issak was dressed in white clothes of purity, but the look in his eyes was as dark as night. Even sitting down, he was taller than Rafik, and three times his width. The teacher shook his head as Rafik approached. When the boy stood two paces away the teacher brandished a short, flexible stick and watched with satisfaction as Rafik shuddered.

“Give me your hand,” he demanded.

Rafik was still for a moment, then he slowly raised his right hand towards the teacher.

Master Issak looked at the hand with disdain; it was full of scabs, red scratches, and bruises.

“What happened to your hand?”

“I fell, Master Issak,” Rafik said, unwilling to snitch about the boys’ argument over the Warrior and Infidels game, which had quickly turned into a scrap. Blushing did not help his lie, and the teacher let out a mirthless laugh before frowning again.

Master Isaak was quite fond of Rafik, who had a superb memory for the verses and was an enthusiastic student of the holy scripts. Perhaps under different circumstances Master Issak would have let the boy off with a stern warning, as he’d done before, when Rafik’s mischievousness had gotten him in trouble. But Rafik’s hopes were dashed when Master Issak took a deep breath filled with righteous rage. He grabbed the boy’s wounded hand and raised his stick. He began reciting the verses, delivering snapping blows with the stick every few words, Rafik wailed in pain with each accented word.

“Hear O the devout sons and daughters of Abraham. The Prophet Reborn, who rose from the days of fire, said; if you let temptation hold, you will fail your God. If you allow vanity and covet what humans must never have, you will fall the long way to all hells, where the impure are punished for their wish to be as powerful as the one God. You … shall … not … attach.”

Master Issak let go of Rafik’s bleeding hand and watched the boy walk unsteadily back to his mat and collapse. Eithan was already there, and the two boys huddled together.

After Rafik’s discipline, it was almost time for midday prayer, and the class needed to walk to the temple in the centre of the village. Master Isaak adjourned the class and stood by the door. As the boys walked up to him one by one, each kissed the book of the Prophet Reborn and bowed his head as the teacher inspected him for signs of the curse. Eithan fixed Master Issak with a defiant stare before bowing his head. Master Issak inspected him, then gave him a slap on the back of his head for good measure. Eithan suffered in silence, then stood by the open door and waited for Rafik, who was shuffling slowly and still holding his wounded hand.

Master Issak gently patted Rafik’s head. “Let it be a lesson to you, boy. You’re a good student, but forgetting the holy words of the Blessed Reborn demands retribution.”

Rafik nodded and pursed his lips. Master Issak noticed that blood still dripped to the floor from his wounded hand. A look of concern passed his eyes.

“You’re excused from prayer today, Rafik,” Master Issak said. “Go straight home. Let Eithan walk you there.”

He turned to Eithan. “You must swear by the Prophet to take him straight home and return immediately to prayer, understood?”

Eithan nodded. “Yes, Master Isaak. I swear by the Prophet Reborn.”

Satisfied, Master Issak turned and walked after the rest of the class without a glance back.

As soon as he was sure Master Isaak was out of earshot Eithan said, “Master Isaak was an ass to hit you like that.”

Rafik leaned heavily on the wooden wall of the class hut, feeling shaky and tired. “All the grown-ups are still angry at us for causing the alarm.”

“Yeah, I heard Cnaan got a good beating from his da. He said he didn’t but did you see the way he was sitti—” Eithan stopped midsentence and caught Rafik before he fell to the ground.

“Prophet. You look bad, blood brother,” Eithan put Rafik’s arm around his shoulder and an arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s go to your ma.”

11

Rafik didn’t remember the next four days of his life. He was feverish or asleep most of the time, and was moved to the barn to reduce the risk of infecting the rest of the household. He did remember being attended to by his mother and his older sister, Nisha, who tried to feed him hot lamb soup, washed him with hard soap, and constantly uttered prayers for his recovery.

A travelling healer came and went, looking like a ghost with his white mask and gloves as he poked and prodded the hallucinating boy. The healer talked to Rafik’s worried parents as Rafik drifted in and out of consciousness. The word infection was repeated several times. His wounded left hand was smeared with foul-smelling salve, which stung and hurt, before being bandaged in cloth. The only other thing Rafik remembered was hearing his mother say, “No, you cannot see him, Eithan, not yet. But he is getting better and soon you can play together again.”

On the fifth day he woke up feeling better. In fact, he sprang out of bed with a strength and vigour that surprised and delighted his mother. He ate all the food she served him—even the boiled cabbage, which he normally hated. Soon he was proclaimed healthy, and he was let out of the barn and promptly directed to a wooden keg filled with scalding hot water, in which he scrubbed off the residue of sickness that clung to his skin, being careful not to wet his still-bandaged hand.

Eithan was already waiting for him outside, and in no time at all Rafik was briefed about the gossip of the last four days. Three travelling merchants had arrived two days before. Eithan had caught and cooked a giant toad the size of a grown-up’s fist. Cnaan was seen talking to Elriya again, and her parents complained to his parents. The village guards investigated some smoke coming from the edge of a field and frightened two vagabonds, who begged for their lives before being released with a warning. Eithan was a very good storyteller who could turn even the most mundane activity into an exciting tale.

Finally, Eithan pointed at the bandaged hand. “When are you taking it off?”

Rafik shrugged. “I have to wait until the healer visits again. It feels all right, though. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Come on, let’s see it. It was really bleeding when you fainted. I carried you all the way to your home.” Eithan puffed his chest out with pride.

“It only happened four streets away.” Rafik tried to hide his embarrassment, especially because he’d insisted on walking unaided only to faint once they’d passed the centre of the village.

“Yeah? You were bleeding all over my shirt. I think you fell on it when you fain—when you fell,” Eithan said, quickly correcting himself when he caught Rafik’s expression. “Come on, let me look at it.”

“Maybe later.”

“Are you scared you’ll see your hand and faint again?”

“No, I didn’t faint because I was scared. It was an infection.”

“Maybe your hand got all twisted from the infection and now it’ll look like a claw.”

“No, it didn’t. It feels all right.”

“So … let’s see it.”

“I’m not supposed to. The healer said—”

“What are you, scared like a girl?”

“Fine, but if I bleed, I’m wiping my hand on your tunic.”

Rafik got up on his feet and quickly began unravelling the bandage. He could see the back of his hand as the strips of stained cloth fell to the ground. The skin there was notably whiter than the rest of his body, but he didn’t realise how different the colour was until it was completely free from the bandage.

“That’s strange,” commented Eithan, stepping closer.

“Maybe it’s the salve. It smelled like cow shit when he put it on me.” Rafik sniffed carefully. It smelled of soap.

“Well, it really healed your hand,” remarked Eithan.

Rafik flexed his hand. “True, there isn’t even a scratch on it.”

His skin was perfect, or at least the back of his hand was. There were still scabs on the tips of his three middle fingers.

“Ugh,” said Eithan, peeking from behind Rafik’s shoulder, “The scabs are really black.”

“It’s because of the salve,” Rafik said quickly. “I bet they’ll peel off.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers with his thumb, but the skin felt soft and whole, and he couldn’t catch a scab edge to leverage a good peel. Annoyed, he brought the injured hand close to his face and began scratching it. It was right then Rafik realised the scabs had shapes. The scab on his forefinger was shaped like a triangle. The scab on his middle finger was shaped like two crescent moons, and the scab on his ring finger was shaped like three tiny balls, one on top of the other, connected by a string. Blood drained from his face.

“What is it?” Eithan asked.

“Nothing,” Rafik closed his hand in a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm.

“No, I saw something.” Eithan moved closer. “Let me see it again.”

“No!” Rafik shouted. “No, get away. It’s the medicine. I shouldn’t have taken the bandages off.”

“But the scabs, they looked like …” Eithan suddenly choked on his words, but Rafik didn’t wait to see his friend’s reaction; he was already running away as fast as his feet could carry him. He burst into the shed and plunged his hand into the still lukewarm water of his bath. Then he pulled his hand out and looked at it again. The marks were still there. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Rafik began scrubbing his fingers with all his might—but every time he checked, the scabs where still there. He searched the shed, whimpering in fear, until he found a sharpening stone, then he began rubbing his fingers until they began to bleed again.

It was Fahid who eventually found him, crying, shivering and holding his bloodied hand in a tight fist.

12

Sadre Banishra’s expression was one of deep concern, barely held in check, as he entered the barn. He turned ashen when he saw the expressions on the faces of his wife and eldest son.

Rafik was standing in the middle of the barn. He shouted, “Papa!” and ran towards him.

Sadre laid a heavy hand on his son’s small head. He looked uncertainly at his wife and older son. Fahid bit his lip and lowered his head. Rafik’s mother slowly shook hers but held his gaze, tears trailing down her face.

“Fahid, go to the house and make sure the other children do not talk to anyone.”

“But father, he said Eithan saw—”

“Just do it!” Sadre snapped.

“Father,” cried Rafik, “I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. It’s the medicine, right? It’s only very small, look.” He held his hand up to his father’s face.

Sadre gasped and took a step back. “Blessed Prophet,” he mumbled.

“Papa, I … I didn’t … look … it’s so small … if I put the bandage back, maybe …”

Ignoring the boy’s words, Rafik’s father gripped his son’s arm and inspected it, before pushing it away and checking his other arm. He then grabbed Rafik’s head with both hands and searched the boy’s face, neck, and shaved head, even behind the ears, until he was satisfied there were no other tattoos.

“Take your clothes off,” Sadre ordered. When Rafik hesitated, he lunged and tore them off his son’s body in several violent movements.

“Sadre—” Rafik’s mother took a step closer, trying to calm her husband.

But Rafik’s father turned his head towards her and hissed, “Everything is lost, everything, unless we do something quickly.”

Rafik trembled from fear and the sudden cold as his father looked over his back, armpits, buttocks, genitals, and feet—he even checked between the toes. He found no other tattoos except for the three on Rafik’s fingertips.

Sadre glanced at the corner of the barn where the tools were kept and then looked at his wife, who must have realised immediately what her husband was planning to do.

“No,” she said in horror. “He is your son.”

“He is our son,” Sadre said, his voice hard. He got up and grabbed Rafik’s wrist. “And we have no choice. We do this for his sake, and for the sake of our family.”

“What are you going to do, Papa?” asked Rafik, his voice rising with fear.

Sadre kept a firm hold of his naked son. “You must be brave, my boy. You must understand and pray to God and the Prophet Reborn, and you must forgive—” His voice cracked, and he turned and led Rafik to the chopping block.

Rafik saw his mother hand the heavy axe to his father while saying, “It’s for your own good.”

Rafik began to pull back with all his might, screaming, “No, no, please no, Mama, please don’t!” But his struggle didn’t slow his father down. Not even when he dropped to the floor.

His mother was already tearing the hem off her long dress, preparing bandages while his father opened the latch of the small oven and thrust the axe’s blade into the flames. They waited, watching the metal turn red-hot. Rafik’s soft whimpering punctuated the silence.

Sadre, still holding Rafik firmly, finally beckoned to his wife, and she bent down and brought the gleaming hot ax. This brought a new wave of panicked wails from Rafik, and although his wrist was pinned to the chopping block, he managed to curl his fingers into a tight fist.

Sadre watched the axe in his hand for a long moment, steadying his breath before slowly turning his attention back to his son. “Rafik,” he said softly, “I need to chop the tops of your fingers off. Please son, I need you to be brave.”

“No, Papa, please, no! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Sadre grabbed his son’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. “You are cursed, marked.” The softness was gone from his voice as he spat the words into Rafik’s face. “This is an abomination, do you understand? If it is discovered, we are all finished. Your brother’s wedding will be called off, your sisters will never marry, we will need to leave this village, and you will be killed. They will hang you and leave your body to rot. Now stop crying and repent for whatever God and his Prophet Reborn have punished you for, and if you do not help me and be still, I swear by the Prophet Reborn that I will chop off your entire hand.”

It was that last threat which somehow calmed Rafik’s hysteria. Losing the tips of your fingers was not as bad as losing your hand. He slowly uncurled his fingers and turned his head away. His father suddenly bent down and kissed the top of his head.

“You are brave, my Rafik,” he whispered, “and you must remember, this was an accident.”

Rafik felt his mother’s arms around him, channelling warmth and love even as she pinned him down. He didn’t want to see what was going to happen, but after what seemed like an eternity he turned his head towards his father. It was exactly at that moment that Sadre must have gathered the courage to bring the axe down on his son’s outstretched fingers. There was a flash of pain which completely blinded Rafik, the sound of searing flesh, and an awful smell. Rafik shrieked and then collapsed on the ground as his mother rushed to cover the smoking hand with cloth. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was his father throwing the three digits into the flames, then collapsing to his knees and throwing up.

13

The voices woke Rafik up.

“How is he?” a man asked.

“He’s better today, thank the Prophet Reborn,” the familiar voice of Rafik’s father answered, “the fever is gone. He drank some water this morning and fell asleep again.”

“Thank the one God and the Blessed Reborn. What a horrible accident, and just after he got healthy. God saves us and protects us from harm.”

Rafik stood up unsteadily. His knees were weak and trembling and his mouth dry.

“Is this what all the people are saying? That it was an accident?” Rafik’s father lowered his voice.

“What else would they say? That is what you wrote in the message when you asked me to come. I traveled here, although I am no healer, so I do not know what help I could be. But Sadre, I only had to walk into the village to hear that you did not let the previous healer return or even let that pompous fool Isaak sit and pray at his bed. People are worried. They think that maybe Rafik has caught some kind of disease. What’s going on?”

“It was no accident.”

“What happened?”

“I chopped his fingers off, Simon. I took off my own son’s fingers with my ax, and my beloved wife held him down so I could do so.”

Simon was Rafik’s uncle. He lived in another village and rarely came to visit.

“Are you mad? Tell me you are jesting.”

“I am not jesting. Laughter will not touch my lips for the rest of my life.”

“But why?”

“He was marked, Simon. He had it, the curse, on his fingers.”

“No!” Simon gasped.

“They appeared on his fingertips after he fell and bled, after the sickness.”

“God save us.”

“I searched him, he did not have marks anywhere else on his body, so I … I had to … you should have heard him, Simon, my brave boy, he even stretched out his fingers for me … my little boy, why is God punishing me so?”

“Calm yourself. How is Fahtna taking it?”

“Badly. She’s putting on a brave face for the kids, but she cries every night and blames herself.”

Rafik leaned on the doorframe but his father and uncle, sitting at the kitchen table, did not notice him.

“What about Fahid?” Simon asked in a quieter tone

“He volunteered for extra guard duty. I don’t think he wants to be here, with him.”

“He has plenty to worry about.”

“I know. If word of this gets out … the wedding … everything I worked for my entire life … my girls. Why is this happening to me? I’m a good man. I pray each day, even in the fields. I pray to the Prophet Reborn to keep us all safe and healthy.”

“I don’t know, brother. Does anyone else know about this?”

“I don’t think so, but he shouted the name of his friend, Eithan, a few times in his dreams. These boys are inseparable, and Eithan brought Rafik home when he got sick the first time, and then sat by our door for four days until I had to chase him away. This time Eithan hasn’t tried to visit even once.”

“You think this Eithan knows?”

“Maybe, but if he saw the marks he hasn’t told anyone yet. They would have been on my doorstep if he had.”

Simon, Rafik’s uncle, scratched his shaved head. “I hesitate to ask, but are there many cases of the curse in your village?”

“No. The last one was two months before I moved here and married Fahtna. She told me they hanged the boy, left his body to rot for three days, then burned his family’s house and slaughtered all the livestock. That’s the only one I know of, and it happened more than fifteen years ago. But now that I think about it, there were also two girls who went to the fields and disappeared. We looked for them for weeks but found nothing, not a trace of them. I think they ran away, maybe they were marked, too …”

After a long pause Simon said hesitantly, “The situation is grim, may the Prophet Reborn protect us. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I need you to take Rafik away.”

“What? Are you asking me to bring Rafik into my household?”

“No, of course not. I’m asking you to help me send him far away from here.”

“But why? You said you chopped the fingers off. People will believe it was an accident. If you send him away, surely they’ll suspect.”

“I have to, Simon. I have to send him away as soon as he’s able to walk.”

“What are you are not telling me?”

It was in that moment that Sadre noticed Rafik leaning against the doorframe.

“Papa …”

Simon got up from his chair so quickly that it fell backwards to the floor with a clatter.

“You’re awake! Say hello to your uncle Simon. You last met him two years ago at the spring festival.”

Rafik nodded slowly. “Hello, Uncle.”

“Prophet’s blessings on your head, Rafik,” Uncle Simon answered nervously.

“Show Uncle Simon your hands,” Sadre said. “Go on, don’t be afraid.”

Rafik held out his right hand and Simon gasped, swore, then uttered a quick prayer of forgiveness to the Prophet Reborn.

Rafik’s hand was whole. His fingers were all there, fleshy pink and perfect, without a mark on them save the same black tattoos, which now spread across half of his three middle fingers.

14

A whistle and a snap from a leather whip marked the beginning of their journey as their cart rocked back and forth on the muddy road out of the village. Rafik was wedged tightly between his uncle Simon and his older brother, Fahid, with his hand wrapped in bandages and once again hidden inside his tunic. People stared and waved as the small cart picked up its pace and exited the village’s main gate. Two guards gestured to Fahid, who told Simon not to stop. One of the guards stepped aside only at the last moment, swearing. Fahid turned around and shouted a halfhearted apology as their pony went into a trot.

They were headed in the direction of Simon’s village, less than a day’s ride away, but it was a ruse. Shortly into their journey they would turn and head onto a narrow road that crossed the village and the fields. Rafik knew the area well; he had staged many glorious battles between warriors and infidels with Eithan on these very hills. Now he reckoned he would have to play on the infidel team, not that anyone would play with him anymore.

Rafik blinked away tears. His uncle said they were going to find a man who would know how to cure him. He clung to this hope with all his will. It would all be a great adventure and soon he would come back home, cured. Besides, he did not feel like an infidel; he still believed in God and the Prophet Reborn. He still prayed devoutly every morning. He didn’t feel the need to attach anything to his body like the infidels did, or to maim and kill innocents. He concluded this was all some kind of misunderstanding. Clearly the Prophet Reborn was testing him in some way, the way the Prophet himself was tested. Rafik swore to himself that he would pass this test and remain pious and true to the faith no matter what happened.

“When are we going to stop and pray?” he asked, but received no reply.

When Rafik asked again, Fahid muttered something noncommittal just as a barrage of rocks rained down on their cart. Most of the stones fell short but one stung Rafik’s back. The pony almost bolted in panic and Uncle Simon swore loudly. Fahid jumped off, leaving enough space for Rafik to turn around and see their attackers. There were nine boys spread across the hill, and Rafik knew them all. Half of them ran up the hill when they saw Fahid but a few stayed and picked up more rocks.

Normally Fahid had tolerance for pranks, but this was not a normal day. He cocked his gun and shot once over the boys’ heads, causing them to drop the rocks they were holding and scurry away in panic. The cart jerked violently as the pony tried to bolt again.

“Why in the Reborn’s name did you do that?” Simon bellowed. “They must have heard that shot in the village. Now we must hurry. Seriously, to waste good ammunition on such things …”

Rafik was once again wedged between the two nervous men. He did not watch the road ahead, or pay attention to his red-faced brother. He was still looking behind him at Eithan, who was the only boy who did not run away after the shot was fired. They were close enough to recognise each other but too far away to meet each other’s eyes. With a shout of rage, Eithan suddenly flung the stone he was holding at their cart. It fell short, rolling on the road until it came to a stop. Then Eithan turned and ran up the hill.

15

I shook my head in disbelief, even though I knew that Vincha was telling the truth. I had met too many liars on my journey, and I knew the difference. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill him outright,” I said.

“No, they just chopped his fingers off.” Vincha’s voice was venomous.

“You can’t beat fatherly love,” Galinak remarked from behind me. When I glanced back at him, he was shaking his head. “Rustfuckers.”

Vincha shrugged. “Some people get all messed up and do all kinds of shit when they first find out they’re marked. The worst is what they do to themselves. I knew a girl who plucked her own eyes out.” She levelled a meaningful gaze at me.

“Yes, it’s true these things happen, especially in rural areas,” I said, “and most of the time the severed or maimed part does not heal itself or grow back, although this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

I felt their attention on me almost as a physical sensation and added, “But I’ve never heard of it happening to an adult. Most likely the regeneration can only happen during adolescence.”

Vincha nodded and stroked her cropped hair. Galinak broke the awkward silence.

“Are you going to finish the eel?” he pointed at both our plates. “They get poisonous once they’re cold, and it would be a shame to throw good food away.”

Without a word both of us handed our plates to Galinak.

“I guess we all have similar stories, every one of the tattooed,” said Vincha softly.

I turned back to her and nodded. “For me it wasn’t so bad,” I said, feeling I should strengthen the bond I was slowly establishing with Vincha, in order to encourage her to continue with her story. “I was … I am from a well-off family, and Wilderners aside, the purges were already tapering off when my marks emerged. My family protected me.” I looked straight at Vincha, thinking, The way you protect your own, but she didn’t catch my eye.

“My mother tried to kill me when I was born,” said Galinak suddenly, “but I think she was just on a bad Skint trip or something. Both of my parents were marked, so their fear was that I would be born, you know, a naturalist.”

This time I wasn’t sure whether he was bluffing or not, so I just shrugged and focussed my attention back to Vincha. “So the boy ends up here, and …?”

“Hold your trigger, soldier,” she said with a smirk. “You paid well and good to hear the story, so I’ll tell it to you as it was told to me. When you reach my age, you learn to appreciate the slow things. Like Galinak over there.”

Galinak grunted something rude under his breath and busied himself picking eel skin from between his teeth.

“When I came back from the Valley, I went cold natural,” continued Vincha, “unplugged, vegan, call it whatever you like. As soon as I got over the craving sickness I went to the boy’s village, to see what happened to his family. Even though I was without any augs, they shot at me. If you think they’ll get used to us in time you’re wrong, Twinkle Eyes. It’s the same in all the outlying villages: some towns are dangerous, no matter what religion they follow. Makes me wonder how many of us got butchered out there just for having been marked.”

“And how many died for having a simple skin rash.” I nodded, trying to nudge her back to the story.

“And for a bunch of zealous religious freaks preaching the Prophet Reborn and trying to go back to the pure old ways, they sure packed some nice, modern weapons, if you get my drift. They don’t mind that part at all, never did. Anyway, I didn’t give up and finally caught up with this Eithan fella. He wasn’t very cooperative at first, downright hostile, to be honest, but”—her eyes glinted mischievously—“I have ways of endearing myself to young men, with or without augs.”

“You broke his ribs, didn’t ya?” said Galinak, smacking his fist to his palm for effect.

Vincha shrugged, but her smile broadened. “I made him talk, shall we say, in various pitches of voice, and in the end he told me what I wanted to know. Even with the boy gone, the gossip was too much. Fahid’s wedding was called off a half a year after Rafik left, the village spat the Banishras out.” She spat on the floor to emphasise the point. “Bunch of backwater rust arses.”

“Did Eithan ask about his friend’s fate?” I asked.

“Not in the beginning, but before I left he asked me if I knew how Rafik was faring. I told him the truth. Eithan just shook his head and said, ‘No, he is alive, I would know if he was dead.’ I thought it was an odd statement, but I couldn’t stay long enough to talk to him further since there was already a manhunt after me. I thought if I lingered any longer I might overstay my welcome.”

“I would have stayed.” Galinak’s smile was full of eel and bad intentions.

“And that’s why your skull is fractured in so many places. Half of your brain leaks away in those rare moments when you shower, dear.”

They began exchanging insults again, like bored children in the back of a cart.

“Vincha. The story!” I snapped. “Tell it your way, but tell it, rust.”

That, for some reason, stopped their bickering. They glared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“You know, you’re cute when you’re angry, Twinkle Eyes.” Vincha reached over and ran her fingers softly down my cheek. “Don’t worry, little cub,” she purred, seeing me blush. “I don’t think you have the strength or the stamina, to be honest.” Galinak chortled in amusement.

They went back to their bickering and I watched the two lethal warriors trade insults like misbehaved children until I could bear it no more. My palm hit the wooden table and got their attention. I felt like an admonishing parent when I bellowed “Can you please tell me what happened to Rafik?”

I guess I said the magic word, because finally she did.

16

It took ten days to reach Newport, nicknamed Trucker’s Heaven, a city Rafik had heard of but never truly believed he would ever visit. Under any other circumstances Rafik would have been ecstatic at the prospect of travelling so far, but when they caught their first glimpse of Newport he felt only anxiety. They were tired, dirty, and aching from the tough ride, and the rationing of supplies meant Rafik always felt either hungry or thirsty or both. With each passing mile the prospect of ever making it back home seemed more and more like wishful thinking.

On the second and third nights of their journey they stopped and bartered for supplies in two small hamlets. Rafik was ushered into a barn and was not allowed to go outside or speak to anyone, and as soon as the sun was up they moved on. The rest of the nights, they roughed it in the wilderness, pitching a makeshift tent off the road. To save time, they did not try to catch game or even cook on an open fire for fear of bandits. For obvious reasons, they did not purchase supplies in the village for a long journey; they had only taken whatever they could from Rafik’s home. As a result, for several days their rations consisted of stale bread, smoked sausages, and hard cheese, which stank so badly Rafik gagged with each bite he took.

He suffered from hundreds of itching ant bites, and he spent the travel time wishing for a long hot bath and a soft cushion to rest his aching backside on. Worst of all was the terrible itch he felt in his bandaged hand, but his brother strictly forbade him from unwrapping the linen and even cuffed him over the head when he caught Rafik trying.

When they were younger, the two brothers used to play pretend games where they travelled together, defeated enemies, and discovered new lands. But it was obvious that Fahid was not enjoying the reality of this particular adventure. He never let go of his gun, obsessively cleaning it or counting and recounting his bullets. Worse, he did not join Simon and Rafik in prayer, excusing himself with the need to take care of the pony when it was obvious he easily could have tied it to a tree and joined them.

Simon and Fahid took turns guarding their little camp at night. The lack of proper sleep made them tired and irritable during the day, yet they flatly refused to share their burden with Rafik. Every time they exchanged words or even glances, Rafik could feel the resentment in his brother’s eyes. It was not the trip Rafik had imagined when he’d daydreamed about exploring beyond the village’s fields.

On the seventh day they met two woodcutters who traded a crude but sharp hand ax for a leather pouch and a cloth tunic, and agreed to share food around a tiny bonfire. They were a father and son, both unbelievably strong and incredibly drunk but otherwise friendly and knowledgeable about the way of the land. The son had a wooden flute and knew a few tunes, many of which Rafik had never heard before, but mainly the pair chose to entertain them with stories of the skirmishes and close calls they’d had with a savage local gang of bandits who robbed and murdered their victims, then made clothes from their skin and goblets from their hollowed skulls. That night, Rafik had trouble falling asleep.

On the eighth day they reached what the woodcutters called the Smooth Road, which used to connect Newport with another city that was now gone and forgotten. The Smooth Road was wider than anything Rafik had ever seen but nothing like its name implied. Its hard surface was so full of potholes that Rafik could not fathom why it was called smooth at all. From there on traffic became more frequent, even though they were approaching Newport from the forest side, which was supposed to be relatively untravelled. Every so often, four- and six-wheeled trucks passed them noisily, throwing dirt and raising dust and scaring their tired, old pony. A few truckers honked their horns or waved from their high seats, but most ignored them completely, leaving them wheezing amid black exhaust fumes and dust. None of the truckers stopped to trade, rightly assuming that so close to Newport, the three had nothing left to barter with.

The dust and pollution that lay over the valley were so thick it took Rafik a while to notice Newport sprawled in the valley below them. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It seemed as if the thousands of buildings were part of a single mythical creature, a hundred times larger than his own village.

Newport had no protective walls. Instead, many roads led into its centre, like the tentacles of a giant beast. Simon explained as a matter of warning that everyone was welcome in Newport as long as you had coin to spend and weapons to protect your wares. Newport was a den of criminals, but the supplies and weapons it sold were crucial to the survival of Rafik’s village and the other communities of the west.

As the made their way to the city, they caught a glimpse of the shimmering Tarakan highway. Simon explained that this was a road built by the Tarakan infidels to connect their nefarious cities. Only a few of these roads survived the Catastrophe intact. Rafik heard his father once comment that the Tarakan infidels’ cities were so large they filled the horizon, reached the stars above, and were filled to the brim with the most hideous and unimaginable sins. He didn’t really believe such a thing could exist until he saw Newport.

Truck merchants visited their village about once a month, or more during the harvest seasons and festivals, but only a handful of people from Rafik’s village ever travelled to Newport, and none of them had done so more than once in their lifetime. When I go back home, Rafik thought, Eithan will be so jealous. He would beg Rafik to tell him every little detail of his adventure, with the grand finale being the tale of the curse being lifted. Eithan would apologize for throwing the stones at him, and Rafik would let his friend grovel and beg for forgiveness, but in the end, they would become blood brothers again. Rafik blinked away tears and quickly wiped his eyes with his bandaged hand.

Two nights before, when Fahid was not paying attention, Rafik had carefully loosened the blackened cloth bandages and took a peek at his fingers. If anything, the markings seemed to have grown larger. The skin on his hand was still whiter than the rest of his body and it tingled and itched. As they made their way towards Newport, Rafik began tugging nervously at the linen cloth until Fahid noticed and cuffed him on the back of his head again.

After that it took some time before Rafik dared to glance at his brother, who was sitting rigidly, staring wide-eyed at their destination. It was Fahid’s first time in Newport, too, and probably his last. Rafik clenched his bandaged hand into a tight fist inside the dirty cloth. There is a cure—there must be.

Truck merchants made a living going from town to village, selling and buying whatever was available. Every time a truck arrived at Rafik’s village the merchant would stop a few hundred yards away and signal with his horn. The guards would approach, and if everything looked safe the merchant would be let into the village. Women would hide in their houses while men would come out to the centre of the village and look as menacing as possible. It was important to show force, not only to lower prices but also because many truck merchants cooperated with bandits as a way of buying passage and protection, often selling vital information about a village’s defences. Once business was concluded, men and even boys Rafik’s age would carry merchandise back and forth from the truck.

When he was younger, Rafik was always amazed at the size and bulk of the trucks. They were immense and scary looking. Cnaan said it would take more horses than his village could gather to move a fully loaded truck, yet the merchant would simply get into it and the truck would move all by itself. On several occasions Eithan tried to explain about the dark magic of the truck’s heart, called engine, but Rafik was almost sure his blood brother was making this up.

As their cart approached Newport and their road merged into an even wider one, he realised that the trucks that parked outside his village were small in comparison to the ones he saw now. When they finally came into the last stretch before Newport he saw a SuperTruck for the first time, a mammoth of steel that travelled on Tarakan highways at unimaginable speeds. The thirty-wheeler dwarfed all the other vehicles around it. Each of its wheels was bigger than their own wooden cart, pony and all.

They were forced to move off road as the vehicle rumbled past. Roughly the same shape and size, the SuperTrucks differed in almost every other aspect including colour, and the number of naked women painted on their exteriors. Rafik had never seen a drawing of a naked woman before, although once he peeked at his bathing sister, and perhaps that was why he was cursed now. He tried to avert his gaze from the drawings every time a truck rumbled past, but his eyes had an uncanny knack of finding their way back to things he was not supposed to look at.

Slowly the city emerged around them. At the end of the long stretch of road they reached a roadblock manned by a dozen heavily armed men. Fahid gripped his gun with both hands, but Simon told him these men were aligned with the truckers guild. Their job was to inspect and collect tax and then direct trucks to designated parking areas. As it happened, they were in luck; the leader of the men was from a village to the southwest of Simon’s own village, and he had a soft spot for Wildeners, as he called them. He let them through for only a small amount of coin and gave them directions to a tavern called the Round Wheel, which he promised had an adjacent stable and lice-free beds.

The tavern was a formidable three-story wooden house but the stable looked and smelled as if it had not been cleaned in weeks. Simon went inside and haggled with the owner for a long time, and when he came back outside he was in a foul mood, grumbling that one night’s stay cost enough coin to feed his family for a fortnight. That struck Rafik as odd; he imagined lifting the curse would take longer than one day. Maybe he’d get an ointment to rub on his fingers and then they could go home. Simon had to persuade and eventually threaten Fahid to holster his weapon before they walked out onto the street.

“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, so 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 symbol 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.

The growl of a heavy engine and a horrendous blast from a passing truck’s horn startled Rafik from a very deep sleep. He found himself lying on a mat in a small room, naked under a thin linen sheet. His clothes were neatly folded on a sheepskin cushion, which matched the pillow under his head. At a glance, he saw several mats spread out evenly in the room, but they were unoccupied. Rafik’s heart lurched in his chest as he realised his brother and uncle were not with him. The only other person in the room was the scary-looking man who guarded Khan before and was now sitting on a stool with his back resting up against the wall. Upon seeing Rafik sit up the man became fully alert, got up from the stool, and shoved the pistol he was cleaning into his belt. “Finally,” he said, “I tried to wake you several times but you were out like a burned fuse.”

“Where are my brother and my uncle?” Rafik asked, his heart filled with dread.

“They went out to shop for stuff, they’ll be back soon,” the man said, but something in his eyes told Rafik he was lying.

“I want to see them.” Rafik jumped up and started to put on his clothes. He had to stop himself from bursting into tears. He remembered pleading with his brother to take him home with them, but Fahid kept promising they would come back for him when he was cured. But there was no cure. That was what Khan had said. Rafik didn’t remember who gave him the cup of sweetened goat milk, but his last memory was quenching his thirst with it. Now his uncle and brother were gone.

He had to run after them; they had to take him home. There was no cure, so there was no need for him to stay here with the man who puffed smoke from his mouth and drank cursed water and threatened his brother with a pistol. He would keep his hand in his pocket the whole time, he would never bring it out, he’d promise them. Perhaps his father could chop his fingers off again—maybe they wouldn’t grow back this time.

“You’re supposed to wait here,” the guard said. “Khan will be here soon.”

Rafik bolted towards the door.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The guard moved to intercept him with catlike speed, and he caught Rafik’s arm. But he underestimated Rafik, who was fed by the sheer terror of abandonment. The boy lashed out with all his might at the guard’s groin. The man swore in a surprised, tightly choked voice and folded over, releasing his grip on Rafik as he toppled over onto the stool behind him.

Rafik made it through the door and down a short corridor when Khan appeared in front of him, grabbed him with both hands, and dragged him kicking and screaming back to the room. The guard was still there and was not looking happy, but Khan didn’t pay him any attention. He plonked Rafik firmly on a stool, pulled over a second one using his leg, and sat himself down, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Look at me, boy,” he demanded.

“I want my brother, I want my uncle,” Rafik wailed.

Khan grabbed Rafik’s chin roughly, “I said look at me. Now tell me, how old are you?” Khan’s eyes were almost night-dark and his breath stank.

“I’m twelve.” Rafik’s voice trembled, “Where are—”

Khan leaned forward and dug bony fingers into Rafik’s cheeks. “Shut up and listen,” he said. “When I was your age I killed my old man. Do you believe me? I see in your eyes that you do. Good, now pay attention: I’m a bad guy, I am the bad guy, do you understand what I’m saying? I’m the kind of man your mummy warned you about, and the good news is that I’m on your side. I’m protecting you now, because I owe your father a favour and I promised your idiot brother that I’d take care of you.” Khan released his grip and sat up, still looking at him intently. “Now, as I said, I’m a nasty, bad man, and I won’t think twice about breaking my word, so don’t do anything that will convince me not to be on your side, like trying to run away, do you understand? And stop crying. I have no use for tears.”

“But where are my—”

“They’re gone. They left you here with me and ran back to the backwards village you were unlucky enough to be born in. They left you because—and listen to me well and stop crying, because this is important—they left you because they do not want you anymore. Because if they brought you back home you would be hanged and quartered and burned, and so would they. They abandoned you here with me, and now I need to take care of you. From this day on I am your father, and your mother, and uncle and brother and whatever other extended family you might be stupid enough to miss, Rafik. Those fools are so backwards they do not realise what a blessing you are. You may not believe it now, but one day you will look at this as the happiest moment of your life. You can never go back to your village, ever. I can see you don’t want to believe me, and perhaps you are already thinking about running back to the mud huts and the bearded fanatics there. But I’m going to stop you, not only because you wouldn’t last two strides in this town before a big, fat trucker turned you into his love doll, but because when I find you—and have no doubt that I will find you—I will make you beg for the trucker. Understood?”

Rafik did not know what a love doll was, or what a fat trucker would do to him, but he understood the threatening tone clearly. He nodded, too afraid to speak, but Khan seemed satisfied.

“On the bright side, if we play our cards right, you and I are going to be rich and live a nice, comfortable life. Do as I say, and I’m going to take care of you, understand? Nod if you can’t talk. Good. Now do you want some food? You need some food in you. Martinn here will bring you some food, and you will eat it all and you will not leave this room unless I give you permission to do so, are we clear?”

“I want to go to the bathroom, and I want to wash,” Rafik said suddenly, realising how many days it had been since his skin last felt fresh water.

“The shit shed is outside. Martinn will take you there. Be careful not to fall in. I’ll bring up a basin and some soap. If you’re good I’ll take you to the bathhouse in a couple of days.”

Rafik was taken to the shed outside, which was a hole in the ground boxed in by thin wooden planks. It was there that he discovered what had been left in the inside pocket of his tunic. It was the knife his brother had taken as a trophy from one of the bandits he’d killed. The sharp blade sprang in and out of its sheath with the pressing of a button. Rafik always envied Fahid for owning such a blade. He’d even stolen it once and played with it all afternoon, earning a hiding from his brother when he was discovered. Now he held the weapon in his hand and knew he would never see Fahid again.

But with this realisation, a certain calmness washed over him. This was the will of the Prophet Reborn. He was on an adventure, and in his hand he held a knife. When he came out of the shack the knife was hidden again.

Martinn gave Rafik permission to go and wash his hands and face in the basin rooms. Rafik opened one of the doors only to find the biggest man he ever saw, with a woman half his size crushed between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around the man’s mighty waist. They were doing something Rafik had only ever heard about in whispers. He did not see much because the woman, in a feat of impressive flexibility, leaned over and slammed the door in his face, muttering, “See something you want, boy?”

Rafik completely forgot about washing himself as he ran back to his room, knelt down on his knees on the sticky floor, clasped his hands before him, closed his eyes, and prayed to the Prophet Reborn with all his might.

18

Rafik was not a stranger to routine. His life in the village was defined by a tight schedule made up of daily chores, prayers, school, housework, and designated playtime. His new life meant a new routine, filled with chores and errands from before sunrise until way after sundown. There was no playtime, nor did he have anyone to play with. The only part of his old life he stuck to with vigilance was his regimen of daily prayers.

After a while he lost count of the days. Khan came and went, sometimes for hours and sometimes for days, promising Rafik he was “looking for a good contact.” He didn’t come through with the promise to take Rafik to the bathhouse but Rafik managed with what he had; a bucket and lukewarm water.

Eventually even Martinn got bored guarding the boy and let him have the freedom of the place. Half a day later Rafik was already serving cursed water to customers, cleaning tables, and even collecting coins for Dominique, the heavyset woman who kept the rowdy truckers in order with a sharp word and occasionally a hearty slap. She was the fattest lady he had ever seen, but she displayed the pink flesh of her middle for all to see without shame. From the first moment they met, Dominique took a shine to Rafik and, despite working him constantly, she made sure he ate, sent him to sleep early, even washed and dried his clothes, and made sure he changed the bandages on his hand every day. After Rafik complained about the bandages, Dominique knitted a colourful glove to cover his tattooed hand, and made sure the boy wore it at all times. Rafik believed she was married to Khan, because she shared his bed at night and they fought constantly.

Truckers were a rough bunch, but mostly they treated Rafik well, calling him a “mutt” and “pup” and sometimes giving him what Dominique called “a lousy tip” in order to impress their women. Very soon he discovered the basement, where rows of wooden barrels were stacked. “This is how we make the drink we sell upstairs,” Dominique answered when he asked what they were.

“It’s an art form, kid, and I’m the artist. Make it the wrong way and people will go blind or die. Make it the right way and they will part with all their metal to get their hands on my products. And I ain’t talking about these.” She hefted at her huge breasts with both hands and laughed when Rafik blushed purple.

Rafik had the sense not to point out that Dominique herself was drinking at least as much as the customers. She was nice to him, for the most part, when she wasn’t shouting or cursing or cuffing him over the head. She was as close to his mother as he could get, so he kept quiet and tried to be as helpful as possible.

Mornings were the hardest. He missed home terribly, and many times he thought of running, yet he dared not, remembering Khan’s words. He would not last long alone in the city, and even if he somehow made it back, in his heart he knew what it would mean: his dad, the ax, the stones … he was cursed, he had been sent away by his own family and shunned by his friends. They did not want him anymore. When he thought about that, tears would fill his eyes, and he would find a dark corner and choke his misery into his stained sleeves.

His dreams on the other hand, were a sharp contrast to his harsh reality. They were filled with images of twinkling, ever-changing symbols. He was now able to hold a dozen of them at once, still a fraction of the control he knew he needed to see the hidden patterns. Even when awake, Rafik was seeing symbols and patterns everywhere he turned; they were in the circles of the wheels on the trucks he saw through the window, in the different types of cups in the area downstairs called the bar, and even in the shapes of buttons sewed onto the clothes the truckers wore. He looked at everything differently, watching shapes, categorizing them, lining them up in his mind, joining them together, manipulating them, and exploring possibilities. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but it soothed him and kept his tears at bay, most of the time.

After what seemed to Rafik like an eternity, but was probably only a month, he was ordered to put on fresh clothes, and taken on a trip around Newport by Khan and Martinn. It was an even more fascinating place the second time around, because now he saw shapes and patterns everywhere he looked. Many parts of the city were in ruins, but some buildings were so high they had more stories than Rafik could count. When they climbed over hills made of broken stones, Martinn hoisted Rafik on his shoulders, the way Rafik’s father used to do when he was back home. It made him happy and sad at the same time, and Rafik was glad when they reached the top of the hill and Martinn let him down. Soon, they passed a large metal tower, which dwarfed the guard tower in his village ten times over. Engraved on one side of the tower was a symbol that was exactly like one that Rafik remembered from his dreams; five circles intertwined, with three dots in the centre. It was the first time he saw such a symbol while he was awake, and the realisation filled him with excitement.

“What is that?” he pointed. “That symbol over there?”

“This?” Khan said, squinting. “I don’t know what it means; it’s a symbol in the Tarakan language.”

“What is Tarakan?” Rafik asked. He kept hearing this word. Even the music in the bar was coming out of a small, yet surprisingly loud, Tarakan device.

“You mean you don’t know about the Tarkanians?” Khan looked genuinely surprised.

“Arse rusts, that’s what they were,” muttered Martinn, but Khan ignored him. “They were an evil race who used to live here but now they’re gone.”

“What happened to them?”

“Dead,” Martinn replied, “and good riddance.” He spat on the ground in the direction of the tower.

“We had a war with them,” said Khan, “and before they lost, they caused the Catastrophe.”

“Why did we fight them?”

“Because the Tarkanians enslaved humans, made us do all their work.”

“Like Dominique makes me do stuff?” asked Rafik, sensing the comment would be funny. It worked—both men laughed, and Khan ruffled Rafik’s growing hair. “The woman asks nicely, my boy. You are just wise enough to obey all her requests. I should learn from you. But no, the rumors were that the Tarkanians used the human slaves’ bodies for their weird experiments and even food.”

Rafik shuddered.

Martinn was still chuckling when he said, “Well, the Tarkanians are gone now, and we are free.”

“But they left us a legacy,” continued Khan, as they began climbing another rubble hill. He pointed at the remains of the buildings around them, “Their architecture, their cities, buildings, and roads, but most important: the remains of their technology, Tarakan devices that still work even though we have no idea how. Of course,” he said, patting Rafik lightly on the shoulder, “they also left us people like you.”

“Like me? What do you mean? I’m not a Tarkanian,” he said.

“We are going to find out what you are soon enough,” Khan answered, just as Martinn announced, “We’re here.”

They were on top of an enormous hill made of rubble, or perhaps it was a ruined tower, Rafik couldn’t tell. There was a large, redbrick building before them. Although it was not tall by Newport standards, it was still taller and wider than anything in Rafik’s village. They were standing high enough to be on the same level as the top floor. It was an exhilarating height.

Even from far away the sound emanating from inside the building was loud. There were harsh and fast drumbeats repeated again and again in a simple pattern, and from somewhere inside came the distinct sound of a brawl in full swing. Rafik noticed there were many cracks in the walls and none of the windows had glass.

The two men checked their pistols and looked at each other.

Khan turned to Rafik and looked him straight in the eye. “This guy we’re going to see, Jakov, he had an … accident.” He stalled, looking for words, then said with a shrug, “Some parts of his body are replaced by metal, okay? Don’t be scared, I just want him to have a look at you.”

Rafik nodded. Compared to being told you might be a member of an evil race who caused the destruction of the world, seeing a man made of metal sounded like a blessed distraction.

“You’re to call me Uncle, okay? You understand me? Do exactly what I tell you and nothing else. If I tell you to run, run; if I tell you to dive to the floor, you do just that, yes?”

Rafik nodded again.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

They made their way in silence down the hill of rubble towards the building.

More than a dozen men and a few women were sitting idly outside. With their weapons and wild, unkempt look, they reminded Rafik of the bandits who had attacked his village the previous spring, though they were a bit better dressed, mostly in leather or sheepskin, and equipped with guns instead of the rusty swords and wooden clubs. All were smoking or drinking, but they stopped what they were doing when they saw Khan, Rafik, and Martinn approach.

Rafik’s attention was immediately drawn to the strange bicycles. In his village there were only two bicycles, one for the village elder and one used by the messenger, and they were much, much smaller than the ones he saw now. There were at least ten of these great bicycles standing in a neat row. Some were making a strange humming noise all by themselves. Reluctantly Rafik followed Khan and Martinn away from the great bicycles, but when they turned the corner he was glad he did.

They saw two men in a clearing, each riding on a great bicycle, which somehow moved without any pedals. Both men held very large poles in one hand and maneouvered the great bicycles with the other. They were surrounded by large piles of stacked tires and a cheering crowd of spectators. The riders circled around a few times, then suddenly charged, levelling the poles down and passing each other at blinding speed. There was a large crack as the poles clashed, but the riders passed each other without anyone being hurt.

The crowd whooped, and even Khan grinned and said, “A fiver on the red-bearded fellow.”

Martinn cocked his head, then nodded. “Done.”

The men rode two more passes and cracked poles but didn’t manage to hit one another. The red-bearded rider’s pole snapped and was quickly replaced before the final pass, which left the other rider writhing in pain in a cloud of dust, as his vehicle skidded on the ground until it crashed into a pile of tires. The crowd cheered, and the red-bearded rider raised his pole in a victory salute. Martinn cursed under his breath, and Khan laughed.

They resumed walking, but after only a few dozen paces their way was blocked by four men and a woman, all brandishing weapons. The noise around them was deafening, and Rafik covered his ears with his hands and stopped paying attention to what was being said. Soon they were led inside. They walked through the lower level, filled with sprawling bodies engaged in all kinds of activities. Four guys were in the midst of a bloody fight, but no one tried to stop them. Rafik was drawn to the patterns on the side of their high boots. Martinn put a protective hand on Rafik’s shoulder and drew him close. Soon they were climbing up, walking over hazardous looking wooden boards placed over the gaps where stairs had once been. Rafik counted the stairs between the holes and tried to find a pattern; it was a nice little game that occupied his mind all the way to the top floor. The music was not as loud as downstairs but still loud enough to be uncomfortable.

There were more people standing around a large open area, holding, checking, cleaning, comparing, or just playing with all kinds of weaponry. Khan, Martinn and Rafik walked past them towards a doorway at the far end of the floor, this one with an actual door in its frame. Two guards stood there, holding even larger guns and wearing more metal than anyone else. They wore distinctive black cloaks. One of the guards stepped forward.

“Tell Jakov that Khan Carr is here to see him, with the boy.”

The guard nodded silently and kept watch as the other guard opened the door and stuck his head inside. After a brief, awkward pause, one guard said, “You and the boy go in, leave your weapons with your friend here.”

Khan gave his pistol to Martinn without argument, but the guard who talked to them insisted on a search and found another pistol hidden in one of Khan’s boots and a knife in the other. Khan apologized profusely, claiming he had forgotten all about “those little toys.” The guard didn’t look convinced, but he let them in. He didn’t search Rafik—which was a blessing, because Rafik didn’t want to give up his brother’s knife to anyone. He snuck his hand in his pocket and gripped it hard. He did this every time he was afraid, which was often.

They walked into the next room where another pair of identically clad guards stood. The man called Jakov was sitting between them. Just looking at him made Rafik grip Fahid’s knife even tighter than he had before. Master Issak’s stern voice rang in his ears, joined by the voices of his father, brother, Eithan, and eventually his entire village, repeated again and again, in sermons, lessons, and prayers, warning Rafik from the greatest sin of all: You shall not attach.

If it was not for Khan’s grip on the back of Rafik’s neck he surely would have tried to run away. The entire left side of Jakov’s face was hidden behind a grim-looking metal mask, with a protruding metallic eyepiece where his eye should have been. He wore a hood, which covered his head, and a plate of chest armour. Instead of a human left arm he had a metallic arm with seven fingers and two thumbs. The hand was picking and prodding at several weapons and other objects which were spread on the large table in front of him, and it kept going even when Jakov looked up at Khan and Rafik.

The room was large but filled with crates, barrels, and weapons to the point that there was not a lot of room to manoeuvre.

For some reason, the music from downstairs was louder in this room, and the floor was humming and shaking with the beat under Rafik’s soft sandals.

“Ah, Khan,” said Jakov in a raspy, metallic voice. Only the parts of his lips which were flesh twisted and moved as he spoke. “You came with the boy.” He didn’t offer them a seat, and all the while his metallic hand kept working on a pistol on the table.

“Hello again.” Khan’s smile was thin and brief. “Glad to see things are still well oiled.” When Jakov did not reply, Khan turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand, nephew.”

Rafik obliged. He released his grip on the knife inside his pocket as Khan propelled him forward until he stood so close to the man called Jakov that he could hear the soft whine of metal from his metallic arm. Hesitantly, Rafik pulled his hand out of his pocket and peeled Dominique’s glove off with his other hand. Jakov leaned forward and took Rafik’s hand in his, studying his fingers intently. After a while his metal hand stopped moving.

“Radja,” he said softly, not lifting his eyes from Rafik’s hand, “I can’t hear myself think. Please ask our hosts again to quiet their damn noise, and make sure you are polite about it.” Rafik heard heavy footsteps behind him and the opening and shutting of the door. Jakov released Rafik’s hand and patted his head in what was obviously an unfamiliar gesture, then leaned back and nodded at Khan.

The metal arm disappeared briefly under the table and came up holding a bottle, A moment later, two small glasses appeared as well. “This is a rare one,” Jakov said as his hand manoeuvred and poured. “Pre-Catastrophe. You would not believe how much metal I spent on only two crates, but it was worth it.” The liquid settled in the small glass and Khan accepted it. The part of Jakov’s face that was made of flesh twisted into a smile as he lifted his own glass. “Freedom, Metal,” he announced, and then there was the sound of a shot, followed by a woman’s shriek, which caused Khan to spill half his drink and swear. A series of shots followed, after which the music stopped abruptly.

“Much better,” commented Jakov and with a quick toss, drained his glass through the corner of his mouth. Khan hastily followed suit with what was left in his own glass. Jakov poured them another round.

When the liquid was gulped and the glasses knocked resolutely down on the table Khan asked, “So, is my nephew here the real deal?”

“We shall see shortly,” said Jakov. Again, his metal hand dove under the table and brought up a metal box, roughly the size of a hand. There were three holes on the side of the box, each roughly the size of a finger. Rafik was ordered to stand closer to Jakov, who turned his seat so he could face Rafik. His metal hand gripped the boy’s shoulder as he brought himself even closer.

“Now, young man, I want you to put your fingers here, here, and here.”

With every here Jakov’s human finger poined at a different hole and the metallic hand squeezed Rafik’s shoulder lightly, with just enough pressure to cause discomfort, silently promising crushing pain if the boy did not comply.

Heart thumping in terror, Rafik placed his fingers where he was shown. The metallic hand released its grip on his shoulder. “Good, now sit down over here and relax,” Jakov said. A guard slid a comfortable-looking chair over and guided Rafik with a gentle push to sit in it. Rafik tried to pull his fingers out of the box, but found that it was impossible. The metal grip on his shoulder was back. Jakov was standing too close for comfort.

“I said relax,” said Jakov as he pressed several buttons on the lid of the box. “This will not hurt, much.”

As he pressed the last button the box hummed, and Rafik felt a strong jolt of pain hitting his fingers and travelling up his arm. He must have screamed—he certainly heard something resembling his own voice—but it was as if he were screaming from a long distance away. He was somewhere else, somewhere safe, enveloped by darkness and staring into emptiness, happy to be away from the people and the noise. They were all bad people, he knew, even Khan, even Dominique—they were like the Tarakan infidels he was warned about, and Jakov was the worst of them. He was a metal man. The man who lets metal be a part of him is cursed for eternity. He and all of his shall perish in holy fire.

In the darkness, shapes and symbols began to form. They were closer than the symbols in his dreams, much less numerous and all drawn in a faint greyish colour. The symbols moved sluggishly around and in obvious patterns. Rafik stopped one symbol from moving the wrong way before he realised what he was doing. Then he did it with another symbol, and another, again and again. The pattern was so evident that Rafik almost laughed. He quickly stopped the symbols to form half the pattern, and then, with a surge of inexplicable pride, he exposed the entire pattern. There was a soft buzzing sound and a flash of light, and he was suddenly in the room again, with his fingers out of the box.

“I did it,” he said excitedly, “I solved the puzzle.”

“Yes, you did.” Jakov’s half grin was as wide as it was unpleasant.

“Are you sure?” asked Khan. “It was only a couple of seconds. What do you mean, ‘puzzle’? What did you see in there?”

Rafik was too confused to answer, but he heard Jakov say, “Yes, I’m sure, only his kind can do this, anyone else gets a mighty jolt, believe me. What you have here, my friend, is a genuine Puzzler.”

Khan whooped and even clapped his hands, unable to contain his joy, but Jakov kept calm and turned back to the boy. “Tell me, Rafik, who is Khan to you?”

Rafik turned his head towards Khan and said, “He is my uncle.”

“Really? Uncle?” Jakov’s made a show of turning his gaze back and forth from boy to man. “Strange, you don’t look alike at all. Even your skin colour is different.”

“Uncle twice removed,” Khan said quickly. “Or even three times. I don’t know, my family’s history is a bit … eh … complex, shall we say.”

“Interesting. Well, I can take him off your hands for a fair price, my friend.”

Khan shook his head vigorously at that. “No, no, no, I’m sorry I can’t. I promised the boy’s mother, you know how it is …”

Jakov leaned back in his chair. “Oh, well, of course. Promised, you say. Very important, a man’s word, that is. I can get you connected with someone, then, how about that, twenty-five percent of the agreed purchase?”

Khan spread his hands wide, “I’m sorry Jakov, but the family is in debt and desperately need the coin. I could do fifteen.”

Jakov’s human face hardened as if it were the metal part. He leaned slowly forward and gently brushed some dirt from Rafik’s shoulders. The boy was too scared to move away.

“Twenty-two, and you are making me look bad in front of my own men.”

“Eight—nineteen is what I can do,” said Khan hastily.

“Let’s agree on a nice round twenty, shall we?”

Khan spat on his hand and thrusted it forward before realising he was offering to shake Jakov’s metal hand. He dropped the hand to his lap and stuttered, “That’s a deal, Jakov, thank you.”

“Good man, good man.” Jakov smiled without humour. “Why shake hands when we could drink to our success, my friend? You should try this cheese I have. There’s a farm I stop in every time I come here. They are all cousins or something, some of them can barely speak, but they make the best cheese I’ve ever tasted. It’s really an art form.”

Khan turned his head, “You hear this, Rafik? You’re a lucky boy. There are some important people who want to see you, far, far away from this rust hole.”

Rafik did not understand too much of what was happening. He was still in a daze from what he had gone through only moments before. Everything around him seemed distant and sharp at the same time. The guard at the door had an interesting pattern engraved in the belt of his power armour; there were seven chairs in the room but only three of them were grey. Jakov’s metallic hand had long fingers with four joints each and two thumb-like digits with two joints each for a total of thirty-two joints …

At the front of his mind though, above all else, was the answer to the question he’d been searching for since the day the tattoos appeared on his fingers. These men told him what was wrong with him; they named his malady. He was a Puzzler. Now he had to find out what that meant.

19

The way back to the bar was a blur, but Rafik did remember Khan hugging him and pinching his cheeks. Khan hailed one of the small metal carts that could drive without a pony and paid the driver coin to bring them back to the bar faster. Rafik never sat on or in anything that could move so fast. Cold air blew through the open windows, and the setting sun warmed his face. The seat was soft and comfortable, and he was suddenly very tired from the excitement of the day. Rafik saw symbols dancing in front of his eyes. They merged into the Tarakan symbol that marked the tower they’d passed on their way to see Jakov. He was startled when Martinn shook him awake.

“We’re here. Now you can sleep on your own mat.”

As soon as they got into the bar, Dominique came charging at them and peppered Khan with questions. Every time Khan tried to deflect she became angry, and every time he answered truthfully she became furious. It was quite peculiar, really.

“You went to meet that tin head? Have you lost your mind, Khan? That man is more vicious than a rabid dog with hot peppers stuck up his hole.”

“Everything is under control,” Khan said. “We’ve been handed a truck load of of metal.”

Dominique shoved Khan aside and pointed at Rafik. “What are you going to do about the little mutt now?”

“I’m going to arrange transport for us—you, me, Martinn, and the boy. We will go to Regeneration, maybe even visit my brother Gandir, and take the long tube to the City of Towers. I know someone there, a contact. He can arrange things, he knows some influencial people. We’ll get the guilds interested, maybe even set up an auction.”

Dominique was not impressed. “Any plans involving your idiot of a brother is as foolish as you are.”

Khan spread his hands. “Who said anything about involving the lard bucket on this? I just want to see his face when he sees us chest deep in metal. I’ll even buy that stupid house he stole from me and toss him to the streets, that’s what I’ll do.”

“And who is going to take care of the bar?” Dominique shook her head at Khan. “Or did you forget the amount of coin you owe or the kind of people you owe to?”

“Dominique, bane of my existence, thorn in my side, sweet unreachable lips”—Khan lowered his voice to an almost inaudible whisper—“if this deal goes the way I think it will, there is no coming back to this lousy bar. There are far better places to live than Newport. I hear the coast has some wonderful ruined cities that are being reconstructed. We could build a house there, maybe even on the seashore like you always tell me that you dream of …”

Dominique glared at Khan and grunted something about him being too much of a miser to buy passage for four. “You’ll be lucky if he takes you with him,” she said to Martinn when Khan left, “and that will only be because he needs you to watch his back.”

Martinn shrugged and escorted Rafik to his room upstairs. Rafik was left alone to wash and pray. He silently apologised to the Prophet Reborn for having missed his midday prayers. Lately Rafik’s prayers had become less frequent. He felt bad about it, but truth be told, Rafik was also angry with the Reborn for inflicting this curse upon him. These new symbols and patterns were fascinating, and Dominique was nice, despite her gruff ways, but he missed home and he wanted his family back. He was surrounded by unbelievers, ruffians, ladies who walked about with their bits showing and kissed men who were not their husbands. The bar was full of drunks and sinners, but somehow—and this was what irked Rafik to no end—they were all nicer than most of the people back in his village, and definitely happier. How could that be? Could it be that Master Issak was wrong about the scriptures?

Rafik tried to chase from his mind these blasphemous thoughts and dutifully completed his nighttime prayers. He undressed, washed his upper body, and tried to fall asleep. Yet somehow, the fatigue that had hounded him all day was replaced by restlessness.

After tossing and turning for a while, Rafik got up and paced the room, looking for patterns in the floorboards and the walls. Eventually he got bored, opened the door, and asked Martinn if he could go downstairs. Martinn relented, and they both went downstairs to the bar.

There were a few regular patrons and a few new ones. Soon Martinn was talking animatedly to a young woman he apparently knew and seemed eager to get to know again. Rafik spent his time making a few coins by bringing drinks to drunks.

He was so used to the sounds of the passing trucks now that he didn’t pay attention to the roaring noise of the engines, and maybe that was why no one else noticed Jakov and the great bicycle riders until they were inside the bar. They were dressed in black and carried guns, except Jakov, who carried a power pistol in his human arm.

It took precious time for people inside the bar to realise that the armed men who’d just walked in were not coming for a drink. Jakov spotted Rafik handing brew filled mugs to two fat truckers and pointed a metallic finger at him.

“Grab him.”

That was the only order his guards needed.

One of the men approached Rafik, snatched him by his collar, and began pulling him towards the exit. Rafik’s squeal of alarm alerted even the two very drunk truckers nearby that something was amiss.

“Hey man, where’re you takin’ the boy, I ain’t tipped him yet,” one of the truckers said as he rose lazily to his feet. The man pulling Rafik stopped and turned, and with a casual motion he shot both truckers in the chest. The blasts completely deafened Rafik, so he didn’t hear the cracking noise of a bottle as it smashed into the shooter’s face. He ducked instinctively as broken glass mingled with drops of blood and beer that cascaded on top of him. The shooter let go of Rafik, who turned to see Jakov and another man shoot Dominique. There was movement, flashes of light, and bits of glass flying everywhere in a deadly chaotic swirl, which had no pattern.

Rafik ran without looking back. He rushed upstairs and, without remembering how, found himself in the room where his uncle and brother had negotiated with Khan. It was the wrong place to be, he realised, as there were no windows and no place to hide. Rafik leaned on the door, breathing hard and trembling, tears running freely from his eyes as images from the carnage below kept playing in his mind. He bit his own fist to stop the whimpers escaping his mouth.

Hide.

Rafik took several steps into the room, trying to find somewhere that would conceal him, but before he could get his bearings the door burst open and Radja, Jakov’s bodyguard, filled the door frame, a heavy gun in his hands. Rafik froze. All he could do was just stand there, his entire vision focused on the bloodstains on Radja’s leather armour. When he was satisfied that the room was empty save for the boy, Radja hefted his gun, extended his arm towards Rafik, and said something. At least his mouth opened and closed several times, but for some reason, no sound came out. Rafik awoke from his stupor only when Radja took several steps and grabbed him, but by then it was too late to escape. Still he resisted, but it was like trying to stop a horse midgallop. Radja trapped Rafik in a one-armed choke hold. Putting a knee to Rafik’s back, he pushed the boy forward one step at a time.

Rafik fought for air, but the man’s arm was like steel. He could not recall later how Fahid’s knife was suddenly in his hand. He pressed the small button, felt the handle shake as the blade sprung out, and stabbed with all his might at the arm that was choking him. Radja roared with pain and loosened his grip. Rafik ducked his head under the arm and was suddenly free.

He bolted forward, just when Martinn stepped through the door, holding a pistol in each hand and firing them in unison above Rafik’s head. As he passed by Martinn, Rafik saw a flash of bright light scorching the wall near the door. He heard more shots, and Martinn howled in agony. But Rafik did not look back. He kept on running and was almost at the stairs when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a room. “Don’t make a sound!” he heard Khan’s voice in his ear. “Where’s Martinn?”

Rafik pointed towards the broken doorway.

“Don’t move, kid,” Khan whispered. He peeked around the corner, holding a pistol with both hands, then signalled for Rafik to follow him. They stopped near the broken door, and Khan bent down and quickly looked inside. What he saw, however briefly, was enough to make him pull back and gag, holding a hand over his mouth.

Khan swore several times, then turned and pushed Rafik through another doorway and into the room he slept in. They made for the window, but when Khan looked out he saw that one man was already climbing up to it. He leaned out and shot twice, missed, then ducked back inside as a barrage of bullets blasted through the thin walls and ceiling.

“We’ll have to do it the hard way,” he said, more to himself than to Rafik. They moved back to the corridor and edged towards the stairs. They were halfway to ground level when the man who had first grabbed Rafik appeared. He was holding a combat rifle and pointed it straight at Khan. Half of the guard’s face was a bloody mess, but he still managed to say, “Let go of the kid, Rustfuck.”

Before they could react, the man jerked violently, bits of his flesh spraying everywhere as his body flew sideways and through the kitchen’s swinging door. A shotgun appeared, followed by the bulk of Dominique. She pumped it using her left arm and kicked open the kitchen door. “No one aims a weapon at my man but me,” she said and shot again, then looked up at Khan and Rafik. “I need a vacation,” she said, breathing hoarsely and leaning on the wall next to the still-swinging kitchen door.

Only when they were standing next to her did Rafik and Khan realise how badly hurt she was. Her blouse was torn and drenched in blood, and her shoulder was dislocated. There were cuts and burns all over her face, and a part of her right ear was missing.

“Rust,” Khan swore softly, “let’s get you to a Mender.”

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