The Puzzler's War

by Eyal Kless

  Erasyl spat again. This time it landed on Mannes’s boots. “Even? I could kill you now. I want to kill you now. Bastard. For all that you did. I just might do it.”

  They stared at each other. Mannes, now almost blind with pain, tried to force himself to slow his breathing, but something snapped in him. The pain, the cold, the mud, the fucking maniacs with their guns and their decapitations. The stupidity, the sheer stupidity of it all. He suddenly saw everything clearly for the first time in months. It made him angry.

  Mannes took one tentative step towards Erasyl, so close he could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he raised his foot and wiped the spit and mud on the man’s leg. He watched Erasyl’s upper lip tremble and turn into a snarl but before he could react Mannes reached down and opened his coat.

  “Yes. You could kill me,” he said and watched Erasyl’s eyes take in the explosives that were strapped to Mannes’s body, “but we will both be dead. If I let go of the button I am holding in my left palm, there will be nothing left of us but a nice little crater. So, if you want to deal, deal. If you want to die, well . . . I can’t say it was nice meeting you.”

  Erasyl took half a step back but this time Mannes moved forward again.

  So, you want to live, eh? Maybe this is not a trap after all.

  “You killed my men.” He raised his voice deliberately. “I killed yours. How about we stop it now and deal?” Erasyl was a heartless killer, not a man accustomed to the art of negotiation. His emotions were plain to see, and Mannes watched the man’s resolve dissolve.

  “Your brother sent word that he agreed to safe passage. Enough fuel. Twelve thousand gallons of fresh water, and I will check for poison. Your brother, the warlord, was even kind enough to add a hundred mortar rounds, too. What I do not understand is—all this sudden generosity comes in exchange for what?”

  Erasyl’s head was slightly bowed as he signalled back to his men, and one of them darted back to the truck. When Mannes’s attention turned back to Erasyl, he was holding something in his hands, but luckily for Mannes it was not a gun or a knife.

  Mannes looked at the leather scroll case.

  “Maps,” Erasyl said through gritted teeth. “The land has changed. Where countries used to be now there is a great sea, and many areas have air and water that will kill you. This is what my brother knows, and he is sharing it with you.”

  Behind Erasyl’s back, a heavily pregnant woman was gently helped to climb slowly off the truck. Another soldier lowered a bound man whose head was covered by a black sack.

  Mannes turned his attention back to Erasyl, who explained without prompting.

  “She is my brother’s and carries his boy, but she is not well. We heard what you can do, how you cure people. If she and the boy live, you will get everything you were promised, and I will only pray for your slow death or that you’ll be stupid enough to try and return here.”

  This is the reason Alikhan became so generous suddenly. A reason as old as time.

  “But if the woman or the boy die . . .” Erasyl did not need to complete the sentence.

  Mannes turned his head to the bound man and Erasyl answered the unasked question.

  “Inkahr, the woman, she has rare blood. We found this man to have the same blood. You can use him. In any way you need . . .”

  The bound man stumbled and was roughly hauled back to his feet.

  “He is your prisoner,” Mannes said. That would be hard to conceal from Norma. She was a stickler for things like World Council resolutions and human rights to the point he had to mislead her several times during the past few years.

  “He tried to steal.” Erasyl shrugged. “But I gave him my word. If he survives, he may live, too. Take him.” The man was pushed and fell to his knees near Mannes, who looked down and nodded. There was no point in arguing.

  As it happened, the woman delivered not just a boy but a pair of twins, a boy and a girl. She lost a lot of blood in the process, and Erasyl did not need to keep his word to the prisoner. Mannes and his army were granted safe passage and slowly progressed north, to the Russian border.

  Chapter 33

  Peach

  By the time we completed the tour I regretted asking Gret to show me around. The cart did not have shock absorbers, but in truth, it was not just my backside that was hurting me. The tour was restricted to the Middle Plateau, and the darkness of night was limiting even with my vessel’s night vision, but what I saw was enough to depress me.

  There were some forms of old technology still working in the city. A few of the streetlights and lifts were operational, the climate and sewage systems were functioning, too, and Gret mentioned there was water in many of the pipes of the original buildings, but that was pretty much all that was left.

  From my long chat with Gret I gathered people lived in the city but were oblivious to its wonders, or to the Tarakan ethos. Most of the Upper Towers were locked, and the buildings in the Middle Plateaus were falling apart. I was not surprised to learn that the powerful secluded themselves in the upper regions of the city and controlled the masses below by any means necessary. When we crossed a still-functioning light bridge, I got a glimpse of the area below Gret called the Pit. A shantytown of makeshift huts at the base of the towers, where light could likely barely get through, even during the day.

  I tried to hide it, but apparently Gret was an excellent judge of character and moods. “Not exactly what you were expecting,” he commented when he caught me brooding.

  “No,” I answered, “it’s . . . different from what I remembered.”

  “It is a wondrous city, Mistress.” His hometown pride was apparent. “How long ago since you left?”

  “Long,” I mumbled. “I was just a child.”

  “Well, that mustn’t have been so long ago, Mistress,” Gret smiled at his own flattery, then changed back to tour-guide mode. “You see over there? Just between that building and the spire? To answer your question from before, this is where the garbage goes.”

  I squinted. “That’s just a hole in the wall.”

  “You have very good eyes, Mistress, but poor memory. If you lived here you must know of garbage day.”

  “Like I said, I was just a little girl . . .”

  “It’s when the ShieldGuards come and grab anyone they find and make them collect all the garbage and shove it through the hole.”

  “But that means it falls—”

  “—to the Pit, and good riddance. All the plateaus do it, except the Upper Towers, maybe. The garbage goes down, and the people in the Pit collect what they find and sell what they can. It’s a dangerous job for sure, because you never know what could fall on your head, but I hear you can find things worth plenty of coin. In the Pit, they call it ‘the metal waterfall.’”

  “I’ve seen enough.” The hardness in my voice surprised even me. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  Gret released the brake. “Right you are, Mistress. Home is just a couple of blocks away. Usually I wouldn’t recommend we stay out alone on these streets at this time of night, but people know me around here.”

  We drove in silence through streets that used to be restricted to pedestrians only, with artfully designed cobblestones instead of the smooth magnetic roads for vehicles. Now it was filled with houses made of wood. The towers were also mostly occupied, Gret told me, but there was not enough space for everybody. My poor backside and spine took the brunt of every bounce and sway until we finally stopped in front of a small wooden structure on the edge of a park. I was guessing that this structure was meant to host machinery that help cultivate the small park. Now it was turned into a small cottage, complete with a small wooden fence and a garden, but something was wrong. I sensed Gret tensing as we stopped at the gate.

  “Oh no,” he whispered as he jumped down from the cart and opened the latch on the low gate. It stayed in his hand. “Not again,” he said.

  I followed Gret, with my hand on the hilt
of my sword. The small garden was trampled to a pulp. The door was kicked open. Inside was a mess. Whatever simple furniture decorated the two tiny rooms was broken, and there was a large pile of feces in the middle of the room. It had originated from a human, I could tell.

  “Oh no.” Gret slumped against the wall. “I am sorry, Mistress Peach. I did not know—”

  “Who did this?”

  “Just troubled local no-gooders. They do that sometimes when I am away.”

  I looked around. It was an all too familiar scene. “Do they want you to pay them so they’ll stop doing it?”

  “No, it’s not like that. It’s my fault. They . . . I . . . had to borrow a few coins when we tried to help my missus with the Menders, first when we tried to have a baby and later when she got sick. The treatments were costly, and I had to borrow. I’ve been late on the payments, that’s all.” He sighed.

  This was not my fight and I had to focus on my assignment. I reminded these two facts to myself, and kept anger in check. “Report this to the guards.”

  “The ShieldGuards?” Gret found an upturned bucket and held it in both hands. “They are worse, believe me, and they don’t care about people like us. They just guard the Upper Towers and leave people like us to fend for ourselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll bring water from the fountain nearby and I can clean the place up in no time.”

  I picked up a broken stool. “Where can I find these people?” I asked casually.

  “Oh no.” Gret’s expression was of utter fear. “This bunch does not know how to treat a lady, Mistress. And they control this area. It used to be a nice place when my missus and I moved in. There used to be a local tavern a few streets away. The Seven Swans, a lovely place it was. Good brew, quiet like. But the owner had to borrow coin as well. They took it over, and it became a bad place. I only tell this so you’ll be careful not to go in that direction.” He pointed. “Not a good area for a lady to walk by herself these days. So, please, remain here and I’ll go fetch some water; I have a sheepskin rollup in the cart you could sleep on. We’ll air the place and the smell will go away.” He brightened up. “And I kept us some onions and potatoes, so we could have us a little stew later.”

  I nodded and watched him leave, then stepped out and brought Summer and the cart into the fenced area.

  This isn’t your fight, Vera, I said to myself again as I stroked the tired mule. Focus on the assignment. You can help Gret straighten his debt once you accomplish your task. Then, inexplicably, I bent down and gave Summer a hug and closed my eyes. The mule stank, but so did I. She pressed her long muzzle against my neck, and for a moment everything felt just a little better.

  Chapter 34

  Artium

  Entry 11671

  Typical summer season, although geting closer to autumn. The instruments show 57.2 degrees midday, half of that at night. Atmospher is normal, with only a small amount of radiation comnig from the south. Chance for a storm is small. The numbers for today are:

  Artium’s trembling fingers hovered over the old keyboard. Six keys were missing on it, replaced by hardened eggshells. On the rest of the keys the letters and numbers had long faded away, not that they would have been much use to Artium even if they were clear. He raised his eyes to the screen. The green words he typed over the black screen were blurry, despite using the largest font. Artium leaned closer until his nose almost touched the wide screen and found three words he had misspelled. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, and leaned back on the old chair, which creaked. Why was he still doing this, and today of all days? He knew what it was: duty! It was stronger than the knowledge of the pointlessness of his task.

  Artium decided to ignore the spelling errors for now. He’d come back to them later. He straightened in his chair and took a deep breath to clear his head, then leaned back to the keyboard and punched in the list of numbers he had memorized. After checking for errors again he moved the cursor to his personal log and typed in the sad news.

  This morning I buried Milbored. He was in his seventh month of his four and twenty years of age. A good man and a fine assistant. His tragic death spells the end of our small order of the SkyWatchers. As my previous entries tell, my colleagues, those who haven’t left long ago, are all dead and buried in this very compound. The village below is dwindling as well and is now but a hamlet. I believe it will not survive the strong winter that is inevitably coming. I cannot rely on them for support anymore. I myself am old and going blind. I may not survive the winter, certainly not the one after that. I will continue logging the numbers in the hope they will help someone one day, although once I bring down the weather balloon at the end of the month for calibration and maintenance, I’m afraid I will not have the strength to relaunch it. l will have to rely solely on the readings from the instruments on the mountaintop.

  Artium checked again for spelling mistakes, an action instilled in him from his boyhood days, when his mother would stand over his shoulder. He didn’t have a personal log back then, but in the past few years Artium’s personal entries had become much longer and more detailed than the actual weather report. After he entered the numbers and weather charts into the program, he liked to add his innermost thoughts and feelings, ideas, and even dialogues of conversations, things he didn’t want to share with the others, not even with Milbored . . .

  I am now all alone here. Once I go completely blind I will be useless, unable to read the numbers on the instruments or even take care of myself. There is no one to continue our work and not enough people in the village below to produce worthy apprentices. There will be no one left to bury me.

  Artium hesitated briefly before finishing his daily personal log with the words: Maybe it is best to end it on my own terms.

  Maybe one day, long after his death, someone would study his reports and personal notes and learn of the sacrifice he and the men of the SkyWatchers order had made. Artium logged out, but not before ordering a backup to be created, as was his custom. The machine was still humming and buzzing when Artium’s hand touched the old revolver on his belt, the one he carried on his daily outings with his goats since a mountain cat had killed Fiodore almost a decade ago. On a whim, he drew the revolver. Maybe it was best this way. The hand holding the heavy revolver trembled, but not from fear, just old age. He leaned the cold steel against his temple, then, after consideration, moved it to his forehead, then under his chin, and finally, shoved the barrel into his mouth. There would be no one to bury him. He closed his eyes and touched the trigger with his thumb.

  The goats. He needed to release the goats if he was going to kill himself.

  Artium pulled the barrel out of his mouth. What was he thinking? He couldn’t just shoot himself. There were things to do first. Prepare the premises, power down the machine, bring down the weather balloon and store the instruments and his handwritten notes somewhere dry so if someone with the right knowledge came one day . . . Maybe when he was done with the chores, he should dig a shallow grave next to Milbored and lay in it. Might as well finish it cleanly. And he’d record one last glorious log . . .

  Artium heard the bell but only reacted to it when it rang the third time, getting up to his feet and shoving the revolver back in its belt holster. He was almost sure it was not time for the village to send supplies, a token of their gratitude for the help the SkyWatcher order had given them in the past. The thing is, gratitude tended to fade when times got tough. Last month’s supplies barely lasted a week and a half. He had to live off his vegetable garden and, when that ran out, on goat’s milk alone.

  The bell buzzed the fourth time.

  “Coming,” Artium called, even though no one was there to hear him. Standing up was never a problem. Maybe his eyesight was fading and there was the issue of the slight tremble, his growing toothache, and the pain in his left knee, but all things considered, Artium was still strong enough to get up from a chair, and he took pride in that. He didn’t hurry to reach the outer gate. The folks from the village knew someone
would come to meet them, and besides, the compound was built on the lower slopes of the mountain, where greenery could still survive, but the way up still took at least half a day on horseback. You didn’t climb halfway up a mountain just to turn back after the third buzz of the bell. He passed the row of graves, including the ones of his own mother and brother, and the freshly dug grave of Milbored. The surrounding greenery, all the way to the high metal walls, needed taking care of—at the very least a good trim—but he knew in his heart that he would just let them grow wild. When Artium reached the heavy gate, he pressed the intercom without bothering to look through the narrow slit at the side or even ask who it was. What was the point of being careful when you’d just decided to blow your brains out?

  “You’ll have to push the gate a little from your side,” he shouted to whoever was on the other side of the gate as he pressed the code he knew by heart and pulled the lever. It took him three tries because he’d forgotten to oil the lever the previous month, but eventually the gate’s enormous double doors unlocked and began to slowly open inwards. A blurry man was leaning against the gate, pushing with all his might from the other side. When the gap was wide enough for him to step through, he straightened up. Artium walked slowly forward and the man’s features became clearer. Middle-aged, grey beard, strong frame, but still unrecognisable. Behind him there was a mule who had pulled a cart up the mountain. Two figures sat on the bench, but Artium could not make them out except that they were both probably women.

  “Yes?” he said, standing his ground.

  “Master SkyWatcher,” the voice was familiar enough, “a pleasant you be.”

  He recognised the voice and connected it to the man’s heavy frame. “Ah, Broadrik of Kethan.”

  “Aye, Master SkyWatcher.”

  Artium nodded and smiled to himself. His eyesight might be gone but his memory was sharp, and hearing his title said by the villager rekindled his pride. “It’s been several seasons since I saw you. A pleasant you be, Master Broadrik.”