The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless

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