The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless
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but every single one of them was drinking from a cup or a mug, which struck Rafik as odd. There was also a strange, rhythmic music emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, but Rafik could not see any bards or musical instruments, so he assumed the musicians were upstairs or in the basement, which seemed a very strange place to put them. Rafik’s village tolerated travelling bards, and they were allowed to sing and play to the men of the village and entertain them with news and stories from the world. Rafik and Eithan were fascinated by them and never failed to secure a secret vantage point from where they could enjoy the show. The biggest troupe that visited in Rafik’s lifetime consisted of four musicians, and they came only once and had to leave in a hurry after one of them was caught talking to a woman. There must have been at least six or seven of them here, concluded Rafik, yet his brother and uncle didn’t seem to pay any attention.
They walked farther inside. Rafik wondered if this was a den for Tarakan sinners, like the ones mentioned in the holy scripts sixteen times, a place that sold poisoned water, and all who drank from it would burn in hell for all eternity.
“I am looking for Khan Carr,” Simon said to a burly man. The man turned and pointed sluggishly towards a table at the back corner, where a large group of men sat, surrounded by smoke and plenty of upturned jugs. When they approached the table, two of the men got up and moved towards them. Words were exchanged, bodies were patted, and weapons put aside for safekeeping, but the situation was not tense, since a shaggy-looking man at the table recognised Simon.
“Banishla,” he bellowed and moved away from the table to hug Rafik’s uncle. The man was thin, almost gaunt, with short-cropped grey hair and black eyes that missed nothing. He wore a black tunic stained with grease and a pair of trousers like most truckers wore, made of a rough-looking blue material. His boots were the shiniest Rafik had ever seen.
“Banishra,” Rafik heard Simon mumble under his breath.
The man waved dismissively, “How are you, old dog? How’s your dear brother, eh? We have to drink to his life and health.”
“These are my nephews, Fahid and Rafik, sons of Sadre Banishra. Boys, this is Khan Carr, a dear friend of your father.”
Khan Carr shook hands with Fahid and added a pat to Rafik’s head. He stank of smoke and other less recognisable but equally repulsive odours.
“Fine boys, from a fine man,” he declared with what Rafik thought was not a sincere voice, yet Fahid stuck out his chest with pride and stood a little taller.
“Master Carr,” Simon began, looking nervously at the guards surrounding them.
“Call me Khan, my friend,” Khan slapped Simon on his shoulder.
“As you wish …” Simon’s unease was apparent.
“Sit down, have a drink with me, we’ll get something for the boys to eat? They look hungry.”
“Khan, I need to talk to you, privately,” Simon said firmly, and stood his ground.
The small man paused for a few heartbeats, then his manner changed and he said quietly, “I see that you did not come here to sample my fine brews and reminisce. This is business, yes?” He glanced at the two brothers. “Or perhaps it is about something else altogether? Fine, follow me, then.”
He led the three of them to a small room, which was less noisy and, just briefly, less smoky. Only one other man came into the room with them. Tall and lean, he had a short greying beard, which did not cover the ugly scar on his left cheek, and he carried a large handgun at his belt. He took his place by the door and focused his stare at a point on the far wall.
Khan produced a black pipe from his pocket, lit it with a silver fire maker, and blew stinking smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Several chairs and tables of various sizes were placed in the room without any logical design and after being prompted by Khan everyone sat down. Rafik sat on one of the smaller stools.
“I need your help, Khan,” Simon said as soon as the door was closed. “Sadre needs your help.”
Khan blew more smoke from his mouth and said, “What is it?” in a dry, calculating voice.
Simon turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand.”
Hesitantly, Rafik took the bandage off.
Khan blew another puff of smoke, thankfully to the side this time, before placing the still-smoking pipe gently on a side table.
“Come closer, son,” he ordered, but not unkindly. “Do not be afraid. I owe your father and uncle much and will not harm you.”
Rafik walked cautiously closer, without raising his eyes from the floor, and thrust his hand forward. Only then did he dare look at the man’s face.
Khan’s eyes went wide. He swore under his breath and grasped Rafik’s hand, spreading Rafik’s fingers wide and staring at the markings for a long time. He kept breathing in and out and mumbling to himself so softly that even Rafik could not understand what he was saying.
Eventually Khan let go of his hand, and Rafik snatched it back and hid it in his tunic pocket.
“You understand our problem, yes?” Simon asked gently.
“Perhaps,” Khan answered carefully, “you should spell it out for me, so we can avoid … any misunderstandings.”
Rafik found his voice. “My father said that you could help me—that you could cure me.” He slipped his hand from his pocket again and waved it in the air.
“Is that what you were told?” Khan asked, glancing sideways at Simon and Fahid. “That I could cure you?”
“Well? Can you, or can’t you?” Rafik asked boldly but added in a softer tone, “I really want to go home. Please …”
Khan shook his head, a thin, sad smile touching his lips. He took his time fetching and relighting the pipe and placing it in his mouth again. The room remained quiet. After several puffs of smoke he said, “I can help you, Rafik, son of Sadre, and I know a few people who could help you even more. But I cannot cure you from this … condition of yours. No one can.”
“We just want him to be safe,” Fahid said, “to be—” he hesitated, glancing at his younger brother “—with his own kind.”
“Is that what you want?” Khan got up and paced the room slowly.
The man near the door kept looking at Khan, as if waiting for some kind of a signal.
“How much, then?” asked Khan.
“How much what?” asked Simon.
Fahid jumped to his feet. “My father told me what he did for you,” he said angrily, “and you yourself admitted that you owe a blood debt to my family. Yet you ask us to pay you for doing a decent thing. You are no friend of ours!”
“Fahid,” Simon cautioned, as the man at the door began moving forward with obvious intent and was stopped only by a small hand gesture from Khan.
Khan turned his back to Fahid and walked to a cabinet. He opened the glass doors and came back to the table holding a bottle in one hand and three beautifully crafted small glass cups in the other. Khan carefully poured dark liquid from the bottle into the small cups and brought them to Simon and Fahid.
Fahid refused his glass, shaking his head, but their uncle accepted it, holding it tentatively in his hand. Khan bent down and picked up his own glass.
“You misunderstood me, Fahid,” Khan said. “When I asked ‘how much,’ I meant it as ‘How much do you want for the boy?’”
There was a stunned silence in the room.
Simon broke it with an almost inaudible “What do you mean?”
“I am no expert, but the markings on the boy’s hand indicate that he is a—” he paused, then he shrugged and continued “—rare breed … and a very coveted one. All of the tattooed