The Puzzler's War

by Eyal Kless

  Broadrik bowed slightly. “I came with my wife, Reya.” He gestured at the blurry cart. “We bring food and supplies, leather and cotton. Reya baked a nice goat meat pie for you, and we also brought ale. I beg you for an audience.”

  Artium waved in the air. “Of course, Master Broadrik. Pleasant you and yours be on these grounds. Come in.”

  Broadrik signaled to his wife and she picked up the reins. Artium watched the cart roll forward and pass him. Then he pulled the lever to close the gate behind them. For some reason, the reverse movement of the heavy Tarakan steel gates never needed manual help. Artium waited until it was completely shut, wondering about the unexpected visit. To have a man he barely knew bring a cart full of fresh supplies was unusual. Might as well let them ask questions. Unless they wanted to talk about the weather, Artium was sure he wouldn’t be able to satisfy the Tanner and his wife. But it had been a while since he had company outside Milbored or his goats and been even longer since he’d tasted pie or ale.

  Broadrik was already unloading the cart when Artium approached. There was a distance, not too close, not too far, where Artium could still see clearly. He stopped at that sweet spot. Definitely two women. One older, busty, and energetic. She was helping her husband unload a basket of apples from the cart. The other figure was different, still sitting in the cart. By the shape of her body he recognised her to be a female, but she was covered by a long-sleeved, ill-fitting dress, and her head was still hidden in a cloth travel cap with a wide brim that covered her face. Even her hands were gloved. This was not so strange, Artium thought. After all, the winds of the mountain, even this time of year, could be unforgiving, but the way she just sat there, unmoving, made him feel odd. Then again, Artium was not too familiar with women. Any desires of the flesh he might have had in his youth had faded long ago.

  “Emilija, come and help,” the older woman ordered in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

  The girl obediently climbed off the cart, albeit very slowly. Her dress was too broad at the shoulders and wide like a sack, as if it had been sewn for someone else. When she approached the back of the cart Artium got a glimpse of the girl’s face. Her skin was as pale as a ghost’s, and he was immediately drawn to her eyes. They were the greyest he had ever seen, and even from this distance Artium thought there was a strange look in them. Despite her youth, her movements were slow, as if she were old—or, Artium thought as he worriedly brushed his bushy white beard, perhaps she was suffering from some kind of malady.

  Broadrik, his hands fully loaded, approached the front door. “Don’t go through there,” Artium called after him. “The goats will escape.”

  This caused the man to pause and glance at his wife, then back to Artium. “The goats are inside?” he asked with incredulity.

  “Yes, well . . .” Artium stroked his beard again. “There is no shortage of space here, and they are much safer inside than out. At least that’s what Milbored says . . . used to say.” Artium sighed. “Just follow me.” He turned and walked towards the side door, and the three of them followed him.

  Artium heard Reya’s intake of breath as they entered. He was aware that the place was far from guestworthy. Even when Milbored was around it was a messy place. The owls hooted from above.

  “Don’t mind Ingrid and Fred.” He pointed upwards. “They keep the place free of rats.”

  Mrs. Broadrik mumbled something about small blessings and then took control. She and her daughter helped set the table with clay and wooden cutlery. Then they put out the food. Less-than-a-day-old bread, fruit, goat cheese, meat pie, and a bottle of ale. The bread’s crust was a bit hard, and Artium had to chew only with the right side of his mouth, but that did not matter. SkyMaster or not, he could not recall the last time such a feast had been laid on the table. He ate with enthusiasm, remembering his manners only around halfway through the meal and slowing down, but by then there were pieces of food stuck in his beard.

  “Apologies,” he managed to utter with a mouth full of food. “It’s very good, Mrs. Broadrik of Kethan.”

  “‘Reya’ will do, Master SkyWatcher,” she answered, unable to hide her discomfort. Artium noticed she did not touch the food on the table. Even Broadrik, who was sitting at his side, was eating half-heartedly, as if something was bearing on him. “If you don’t mind me saying,” the woman continued as her husband refilled Artium’s wooden cup with ale, “the place could use a woman’s touch.”

  “Well . . . perhaps,” Artium conceded. “But it is too long to make the trip from the village below and, as you may know, the Order of the SkyWatchers forbids a woman from staying inside the premises overnight. It has been like that for twenty years.” Actually, Artium’s mother was the last woman to have lived in the compound, and she was already old when one of the village’s girls got drunk one night with two young apprentices and . . . that unfortunate mess almost brought down the order. With angry villagers clamoring at the gates and their elders threatening to cut supplies, Artium did not blame SkyMaster Shuefar, the Order’s previous leader, for hanging the two, paying blood coin and subsequently laying down the law that no woman would spend a night inside the premises.

  “Excuse me for saying so, Master SkyWatcher,” Broadrik intervened, “but from what I hear, there are only two of the order left.”

  Artium dropped the remains of the pie slice back on his plate. “Actually, there is only myself now. Milbored had an unfortunate accident and passed away last night.”

  He could not make out the expression on their blurry faces, but the husband and his wife turned their heads towards each other. He guessed they were exchanging a meaningful look.

  “With respect, Master SkyWatcher”—Reya did not bother with condolences—“perhaps it is time to change the rules? Get a woman here to help you.”

  Artium shook his head. “Even if the rules permitted, I cannot afford such help. I do not have the metal, or even the food—”

  “You were two, and now you are one.” Broadrik’s wife turned out to be as stubborn as the mule who’d brought her up the mountain. “And you need help, Master SkyWatcher. Excuse my manners, but the place will soon be ill fitted even for your goats. Emilija here—” She gestured to the lone figure sitting at the edge of the table, who was still wearing her wide-rimmed cap. The girl was so motionless Artium had forgotten all about her. “She is a good lass, quiet and clean. Very quiet, Master SkyWatcher. She’s a little . . . lost sometimes and needs to be told what to do, but Emilija is a quick learner. She can wash and mend clothing, clean, cook, tend the garden, milk the goats, clean the privy . . . she never complains and eats very little.”

  The proposition surprised Artium so much he forgot about the rest of the food. “Your daughter is of marrying age, Mistress Broadrik. Surely you do not want to stick her here, halfway up the mountain and with a blind old man.”

  “Not so old . . .” Reya almost choked on her own words, but the obvious suggestion lingered in the air.

  “The thing is, Master SkyWatcher,” Broadrik quickly intervened, “Emilija is not our daughter.” He shot a worried look to the edge of the table. “We are taking care of her for her mother, who comes to visit every season and . . . pays solid metal.”

  “Not nearly enough solid metal . . .” The murmured comment reached Artium’s ears.

  “It’s enough, Reya,” Broadrik snapped, and turned back to Artium. “The thing is, we are leaving. My brother-in-law has a farm farther up north. For the last three seasons his land has been yielding healthy crops. Their village is growing fast and needs a Tanner. With so few of us left below the mountain, there is a better chance for my sons to find good wives there.”

  “Broadrik, that is not the Master SkyWatcher’s concern.” It was Reya’s turn to snap back, glaring at her husband before turning to Artium. “With all due respect, I . . . we think this is best for everyone involved. The girl’s mother visits at least once a season. She is . . .” Reya hesitated briefly. “A woman of means, but we have no way
of contacting her to let her know where we are going, and we couldn’t take Emilija with us even if I want—” The woman stopped and glanced nervously at her husband, but he kept his eyes down and absentmindedly played with the food on his plate. “The girl’s mother will come this season or the next one, for sure,” the wife continued, “and she will pay you for your efforts. She always said she’d take her away once the girl was old enough, so you could just let her go then.”

  An hour ago, Artium had shoved the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and thought about pulling the trigger. Now he was eating goat meat pie, although with slightly too much onion and too little goat in it, and was being offered a female companion to clean and cook and perhaps warm his bed. Life was strange indeed.

  “There is still the matter of the Order’s rule,” he said stubbornly, more to himself than to the Kethans. You couldn’t just change the rules because you were the last one of your Order, could you?

  “I was not here many times”—Broadrik scratched his tangled beard—“but I remember this is just the main building. There is another one a little farther up the mountain, is there not? The one with all the stairs leading up to it.”

  “You mean the observatory? That’s at least an hour’s climb.”

  “Much shorter than the way to the village, but far enough from here to keep the Order’s rules.” The heavyset man tapped the table with his stubby finger. “And the girl could use the fresh air and some exercise. She was cooped up in our barn for far too long. I could help you set things up.”

  Artium considered this. There was logic in the Tanner’s suggestion, and he certainly could use some help around here. He looked at the girl, and the memory of his own mother came to him. How she stayed behind to be with her sickly son even when she had the chance to live a better life somewhere else. The girl wasn’t the Kethans’ blood. They took her in for the metal and now they wanted to abandon her on this mountain. Artium regretted letting them through the gate.

  “Does she know her letters and numbers?” The sudden harshness in his tone of voice startled the two.

  “Yes, she does,” Reya answered, “although I have no idea where from. She never went for any lessons, and our barn is filled with strange symbols she scratches everywhere.” Her voice dwindled into silence as Reya realised she was not helping her cause with her blabbering.

  Artium took a little time to try and take it all in, gulping what was left of the ale, and then said, “I will not hold the girl here against her will. I will agree only if she will give her consent freely.”

  They all turned to Emilija at the far end of the table. She was actually sitting in the sweet spot of his eyesight, and he saw her staring into the distance with those big grey eyes. Somehow, he knew that she was seeing something other than the surroundings of the hall. He noticed for the first time the mass of tangled hair that was imprisoned in the cap she kept on her head. There was something odd in her, for sure, but suddenly Artium did not care. At least there would be someone to toss earth over his own dead body.

  The Tanner’s voice broke Artium’s thoughts. “There is one more thing we need to show you.”

  “Broadrik,” Reya hissed.

  “He needs to know. Goodness, woman.” He turned to Emilija. “Show him. Give Master SkyWatcher your hand.”

  It took the girl an unnaturally long time to react. Her expression never changed when she slowly peeled the thick glove off her left hand. From where Artium was sitting, her hand looked black. He squinted. “What is that? Does she have the Plague?”

  “Oh no, Master,” Reya was suspiciously quick to respond, “it is just that—”

  “Emilija, come closer so Master SkyWatcher can have a look,” Broadrik said in a kind tone that nevertheless had steel embedded within it.

  Obediently, the girl got up from her chair and walked slowly towards Artium. When she was close enough she thrust her arm in front of his face. Artium’s first instinct was to recoil, but then he remembered that he’d almost shot himself an hour before. He grasped her hand, which was warm and soft to the touch, and leaned down until his nose almost touched the skin.

  “Interesting.” He voiced his thoughts out loud. “These are distinct shapes—three balls, a crescent moon, triangles . . .” As if reading his thoughts, the girl pushed the sleeve up her arm and Artium saw that the shapes came up to her elbows. “Who did this to her?”

  “She is marked, Master SkyWatcher.” Artium heard Reya’s words as he scrutinized the shapes on her arm. “Don’t you know of the tattooed?”

  “I have heard of them, yes.” Artium leaned back, reluctantly letting go of Emilija’s arm. For some reason touching her hand gave him comfort. Emilija did not move back, but stood there, as still as a statue, looking at something that was not there. “What about them?” Artium did not venture far from the compound’s order. He always felt he had everything he wanted and needed right where he was.

  “I told my husband that it was a mistake to take her in. That we would regret—”

  “Enough, Reya.” Broadrik lost his patience. “Her mother’s metal was solid enough when it clinked in your palm, and you weren’t complaining when it bought us wood to warm us in the harsh winters. But now . . .” Broadrik turned back to Artium and sighed heavily, leaning his elbows on the oak table.

  “Here, with our farm a little away from the village, the people were lenient, especially as I am the only Tanner around. So long as we kept her hidden nobody minded. But where we are going people are less forgiving. We waited as long as we could for the girl’s mother to show up. Usually her visits are quite regular . . . but we need to leave before the season changes.”

  Artium looked to the girl. The logical part of his brain was shouting to him that this was a mistake, but for once in his life, he chose not to listen to it.

  “What say you, Emilija? Would you like to stay here with me?” he asked.

  For a moment nothing registered in the young woman’s face, then she blinked and turned her face towards him.

  “This place has some interesting patterns.” Her voice had almost a song-like quality to it. “And Ingrid is going to have little chicks soon.”

  Artium turned to Broadrik. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, believe me, SkyMaster.” Reya’s relief was clearly laced in her voice. “It’s a yes.”

  Chapter 35

  Peach

  Gret offered again to give me a ride but I refused. There were still some repairs to be done to his little home and besides, I wanted to feel my city again. There was nothing left of Tarkania’s famous public transportation system, and the walk to the centre of the Middle Plateau took the best part of the hour, giving me enough time to absorb how much the city had changed. The streets, which long ago were filled with people from all over the globe, were mostly empty. I recognised many buildings: schools, offices, even a once-famous gallery, which now stood derelict. The walk down memory lane was bitter.

  Closer to the centre the streets filled up a little more, especially with ShieldGuards, the city’s notorious police force. They were wearing modern uniforms, including full combat helmets, and the weapons they held were as impressive as they were deadly. I wondered, not for the first time, where they got their gear from. The difference between the ShieldGuards’ modern attire and the almost medieval dress code of the rest of the crowd was something I had to force myself not to gawk at. This was not the time to draw attention to myself. Someone using a combat helmet could easily detect the concealed power sword on my back, and although a few others were carrying weapons on their person I noticed they were the ones stopped and questioned by the guards. I kept my gaze away from them and blended with the crowd.

  Just before the central square of the Middle Plateau I veered to the left and walked through the rundown streets, filled with human waste and stench, until I reached Bird’s Square.

  It was designed by Annabella Redman, “the Mozart of architecture,” and was considered one of the “must visit” plac
es for every tourist coming into the city. As opposed to many of the famous features of Tarkania, this square was a little out of the way. Hidden among medieval-looking towers, it was designed to be a place for “contemplation about the wonders and quiet joys of life,” as the sign still said.

  The beautiful fountain was still there. I found a bench and sat on it, feeling the FlexSteel morph itself under my body and taking comfort in the fact that it still functioned the way it was supposed to. Long ago I could sit for hours by this fountain, watch the water rise, turn into magnificent shapes and colors, and fall back in slow motion while genetically grown songbirds landed on my shoulders and chirped in harmony with each other. Now it was just an empty square. Empty but for an elderly-looking man in a wide straw hat who was sitting on the other side of it.

  I watched as he slowly got up, retrieved his walking cane, and began making his way towards me. This was no coincidence or chance encounter with a bored or curious neighbourhood elder. The straw hat and the bird had featured in my dream briefing, and for the last three days I made my way here every day and sat for several hours, waiting for someone to show up. Now that he did, so many questions came into my mind at once that I was momentarily breathless.

  When he was close, I realised the man was not just old but terribly sick as well. Most of his exposed skin was peeling and his open wounds were filled with pus. He laboured with each breath, and as he sat down and adjusted his hat, long wispy hairs fell down from his head. I recognised the symptoms of radiation sickness from lengthy or intense exposure.

  “Hello, Colonel Major.” The man’s voice was throaty and dry.

  It took my entire self-control to remain silent. The man took out a piece of cloth and slowly wiped the sweat from his brow. It came back stained with blood and discharge. When he was done he turned his body towards me, grimacing as he did so.