by Eyal Kless
“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 loo
ked, 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.”