The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless

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