The Pharaoh Contract

Chapter 13

Ruiz Aw squatted in the meager shade of a mud wall, waiting for the parade. Sweat trickled over his body, though the sun was sinking fast.

The townspeople of Bidderum filled the street leading into the square. They kept a cautious distance from Ruiz, respecting his strangeness. To encourage them, he fixed a leer of affable madness on his face.

Ruiz felt the hard-packed clay of the street tremble under his feet. As the crowd condensed on the shady side of the street, he heard the gasp and whistle of steam thumpers, and he stood up in the properly respectful attitude. The parade toiled up the street toward him, moving at a slow dragstep that matched the rhythm of the thumpers. The thumpermen passed, three abreast, the huge steel feet of their machines slamming down on the street with jarring force, in perfect unison. As the thumper rebounded into the air, each man stepped forward smartly, wrestling his machine ahead, straining at the long handles braced to it. It was clearly no job for weaklings, for the men, all brawny specimens, sweated and struggled as they marched their smoking machines into the central square. In earlier times the thumpermen would have carried great balks of timber to shake the earth. Progress, Ruiz thought, and chuckled.

Behind them came several dozen musicians in the traditional Pharaonic mourning garb, which consisted of masses of thorny shrubs bound to the torso with leather straps. Ruiz saw that they were of all ages and sexes, and that many exhibited entertaining deformities. All held eccentric musical instruments in their hands, but marched in silence. It was an artistic and well-balanced group, and the thorns were cinched in so that the blood ran in thin striations down each lean dusty body, an effect which indicated a first-class production budget. Dancing about the perimeter of the orchestra was a cadre of clowns, jugglers, minor mages, streamer tossers, and glitter flingers.

The last mourner, a much-scarred ancient with a particularly large and uncomfortable collection of thornbushes, preceded the steam engine that drew the stage. This engine was in the shape of a scarab, plated with damascened steel and turning man-high spiked driver wheels.

The stage it pulled was skirted with flashing metal-thread tapestries, showing scenes from the Pharaohan mythos. Mounted on a central platform was a grand gilded sarcophagus, carved with various beasts, demons, and the several Pharaohan gods of redemption and resurrection. On the four corners of the stage stood the members of the phoenix troupe. Each held a ritual pose, as still as the jounce and sway of the stage would allow. Three were older men in the fanciful costumes of senior conjurors, and one was a young woman of great beauty. She had the pale olive skin and fine coppery-black hair of the Pharaohan nobility, and wore the linen robe of the intended phoenix. As the stage jerked past she looked directly at Ruiz Aw, but then her gaze swept past, impersonal and unseeing.

He found that he had dropped his lunatic grin, just for a moment.

Behind the stage trudged three fat doctors, there to certify the death. They wore over their shoulders the tanned hides of large arroyo lizards, with skull and toothy upper jaw worn as hats. This symbolized the chancy nature of their calling, though Ruiz supposed that the costume was also a gesture of professional respect. The lizards provided many patients.

Ruiz Aw bent his head and stared at his dirty toes. The datasoak had given him the outline of what was to follow. Reluctantly, he joined the crowd filtering into the square.

Nisa, former favored daughter of the King, concentrated on her balance as the stage jolted toward the Place of Artful Anguish, willing all other thoughts away, pushing her mind into a safe golden corner, feeling nothing but the throb of life in her veins. The drug made it easier; she remembered the way the philterer had made it for her, stirring the fine red granules into the pale wine. He’d handed the goblet to her with an air of ceremony, and in his faded old eyes she’d read both envy and compassion.

Since that moment, she had only broken bits of memory, like the dreams or nightmares of a restless sleeper.

…The gowners, washing her with sweet oils, while she stood, passive, arms lifted, eyes closed, feeling their subtle touch on her body, caressing, teasing.

…Flomel, helping her to mount the stage, dark eyes burning in his narrow face. He pulled her toward her station as if she floated above the scarred wood of the stage. “You will be magnificent!” Flomel whispered to her fiercely, holding her face in his long clever fingers.

…The heat, the dust, the smell of the people in the narrow streets of Bidderum, the stench of refuse from the alley mouths. She breathed it all in, as if it were fine perfume, filling herself with sensation one last time.

Just before the stage rumbled into Bidderum’s central square, she caught sight of an extraordinary figure in the crowd that lined the gate. He was garbed in the fantastic rags of a snake oil peddler, as tall as if he carried noble blood, with a face like a daybat, sharp and imperious. He was so unexpected a sight that she was briefly shocked from the grip of the drug. Her eyes looked into his for a moment, and his glance reminded her of the mirrored hall of her father’s palace, where Nisa could look into the polished metal and see herself growing smaller with each new reflection. His eyes were hard as glass, but just for a moment they softened.

She allowed her gaze to float away. Were she not promised to Expiation, were she at home in her father’s palace, she would probably send her guards for the strange casteless man, and so would have yet another folly to Expiate. Then the drug pulled her under again, and she thought no more.

The square of Bidderum was broad and level, surrounded by earthen walls that gave increasing shade as the sun dropped toward the west. Ruiz elbowed his way through the press, ignoring the muttered curses that followed his progress, until he reached a low buttress that provided an excellent vantage. He unceremoniously displaced a group of urchins who were already established there, swinging his staff cheerfully until they fled, cursing him. He hitched up his rags and settled back on his heels to wait for the opening act.

To his left a stocky woman, wearing the clay-spattered apron of a potter, talked with her neighbor, an ancient with the tattoos of a scribe. “Mark my words,” she said, speaking loudly into the ear of the scribe, “this is an unhealthy sort of entertainment. Things were different in your day, eh?”

“Yes, yes. I sometimes think the young are too ambitious.”

“Too ambitious? You put it gently, venerable Dudmose.” Her hairy brows knit into an expression of righteous concern. “Others might call this blasphemy. I’ve yet to witness a phoenix, and this is the fifth attempt in Bidderum this tenyear. And the King’s daughter besides; where will it end?”

The scribe hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat untidily. “I stand by my statement.”

Then the two were swept away by the eddying crowd, out of eavesdropping range.

The square was packed, not only with townsfolk, but also with many farmers and artisans from the outlying regions of the nomarchy. On the far side of the square, Ruiz could see a bright pavilion, full of local nobles, drinking wine and smoking oil. A platoon of the nomarch’s guards stood before the pavilion, sweating in leather corselets and iron helmets. The soldiers watched the commoners enviously, particularly those who had come equipped with wineskins, food hampers, and one-legged stools.

A ripple ran through the crowd as the senior mage stepped from his place to the apron of the stage. He was a wiry man of late middle age, and his tattoos emphasized dignity and artful restraint. His voice was a fine resonant baritone. “Citizens of Bidderum, I greet you in the name of the King of Kings, to whom is given life forever: Bhasrahmet, son of Halakhum — Bhasrahmet, called the Great, who has graciously permitted this attempt to portray the deepest mysteries of our calling.” From the air the conjuror produced a gilded wooden tablet, sealed with the indigo chop of the king. With a flourish he presented it to the waiting captain of the guard, who relayed it briskly to the pavilion. The nomarch of Bidderum, a slender, nervous-looking young Lord only recently elevated, took the license and gestured his approval.

The conjuror bowed deeply. He turned to his two fellows, clapping his hands together with a sound like wood striking metal. They leaped forward in a flutter of rich gowns, leaving the woman motionless at the back of the stage. The lesser mages touched hands ceremoniously, and as they drew apart, a wand of polished black wood appeared to grow between their hands. Their leader seized the wand and struck it to the stage. Crimson light flared and a veil of red silk shot up, to be deftly taken in midair by his two assistants. Trailing the swirling cloud of fabric they ran back and flung it over the woman, where it settled over her still form. The leader made a series of arcane motions with his wand, culminating in a dramatic slash in the direction of the shrouded woman. In a glitter of golden sparks the shroud collapsed to the floor of the stage. Ruiz leaned forward, watched the empty shroud disappear into the cracks of the flooring, running like quicksilver blood.

The three performers linked arms and began to spin in a tight circle. As their speed increased the leader began to whirl his wand overhead, making a moaning sound. A great tube of shiny blue cloth rose slowly around the spinning mages, lifting higher and higher until they were completely hidden. It rose higher still, until it swayed over the platform like a vast serpent. The stamping of the mages’ feet and the shriek of the wand were clearly audible. When it seemed from the sounds that those within had accelerated to a humanly impossible speed, the tube belched forth a small cloud of metallic glitter and collapsed empty to the stage.

During the lengthy intermission that followed, Ruiz Aw leaned back and tried to get comfortable against the hard mud of the buttress.

The blinding pinpoint of the sun sank behind the toothy crags of the Senmut Hills. With twilight, torches flared into life on the stage and the nobles ordered braziers lit in the pavilion against the swift chill.

With full dark, two snag-toothed ruffians attempted to dispossess Ruiz of his perch, but he rolled his eyes maniacally at them, and set his staff to output subsonics in the most tooth-grinding register. The ruffians faded away with gratifying speed, making curse-warding gestures.

The mourner-musicians, who were arranged in ritual ranks between the stage and the pavilion, began to play a portentous dirge. On the stage the lid of the gilded sarcophagus rose. When the heavy stone lid had rocked back completely on its stops, the three mages leaped out. There was a final screeching crescendo from the orchestra, then silence.

The three stood in a row at stage front, arms raised, each wearing dull black robes, their features concealed beneath the fantastic masks of the Dead Trinity. Central was Bhas, the dry god, god of death and heat and choking dust. The lower half of his mask was an insect’s complicated mouth; the upper half, with its armored eyes, was the skull of a deadly lizard, one that carried venom in the spikes of its crest. The mask was edged with plumes of yellow and rust, signifying barrenness.

Flanking Bhas were his two sons by the lost goddess Nekhret, deity of improvidence. On his left was Thethri, god of famine, masked as a starving child. On his right was Menk, god of slavery, with a man’s eyes but a dog’s muzzle.

Behind them a fourth figure emerged from the sarcophagus, lifted on a hidden piston; the goddess Hashupit. In the first moment Ruiz hardly recognized the phoenix. The embroidered robes of the goddess enclosed her, a rich pale gem in a finely wrought setting. In Pharaohan theater, gods are introduced in masks, but not goddesses.

Her fine-boned face was alive now, as if the pleasure of the performance had overcome her dread.

Pipes skirled and the dark gods tore off their masks, revealing smaller masks that clung tightly to their heads, even uglier and more realistic than the overmasks. They flung the overmasks into a heap at center stage and pranced in a circle, while the goddess ignored them. A puff of green smoke obscured the masks and when it cleared the pile heaved with unpleasant movement. The mages drew aside and stood like statues. The heap burst apart with a hiss and a shriek of pain. A jackal-like creature scrambled free, dragging its hindquarters, pursued by an armored lizard. In a bound the lizard was on the jackal, crushing the foxy head with one snap of its jaws.

As the lizard fed, the scrabble of insect feet was clearly audible over the crunch of flesh and bone. Ruiz was surprised to see the audience closest to the stage drawing back in a welter of overturned stools and spilled wineskins. Then he saw the first of the bonan, an insect with a painful, but not dangerous sting. The wings of these were so heavily gilded that they could make only short flights at the shrieking crowd, but they made a fine glittering display as they shot through the torchlight.

It was not until the last bonan was crushed underfoot and the crowd had regained some composure that the lizard lurched toward the edge of the platform. There were some genuine wails of fear at this development, and even some rapid movement in the nobles’ pavilion. But the lizard disappeared down a trap just a meter from the edge. A faint shriek from within the stage drew several gloomy mutters from the nearest spectators.

Through all this savage movement, the phoenix looked on calmly, a faint inward smile in her eyes.

Thus began the performance of the traditional play called The Withering of the World.

It was in the Green Time, before the Mistake, when the land was covered with sweet grass and water ran naked under the sky. The Three were in their great banishment, imprisoned in Hell, far below the edge of the world. The Three had festered there for a million years; and so above all was tranquil.

The goddess Hashupit walked one day along the edge of the world, alone. This was long before the building of the Worldwall, so that she could stand at the very edge and look out over the poisonous clouds.

She heard a dry voice, tiny, calling as if from a great distance. “Hashupit, cool, pale Hashupit,” it said.

She paused and looked out across the gulf of Hell, for the voice seemed to come, however impossibly, from the void. But she saw nothing, only the thick steams of Hell. After a time she felt a touch of fear, the first time she’d felt that emotion during the long eons of her existence. She heard nothing more, so she shrugged her perfect shoulders and returned to her father’s palace.

The next day she didn’t walk, nor the next.

When finally she resumed her walks, she stayed away from the edge of the world. Yet when she heard the voice again it was stronger, and beneath its arid rasp she felt the unmistakable resonance of power. “Hashupit — sweet, cool, cloud-haired Hashupit,” it said, then the voice drew a breath, a bellows firing a forge. “I can show you a clever trick.”

She waited a safe distance from the brink until almost dark — then she fled home feeling a mixture of panic and curiosity. A million long years had worn away since Hashupit had had a new admirer.

Ruiz was amazed at the texture of the performance. With delicate, controlled gestures, the phoenix acted the part of the goddess, soft and foolish, so effectively that Ruiz was not distracted by the primitive mechanisms of the play. The illusion was remarkable.

The three magicians clustered together on the lower level of the stage. From the huddle a thin orange paper snake occasionally shot skyward, symbolizing a poisonous thought directed at the favored gods above. The snakes sailed up into the night and then fell among the spectators, who ripped them open for the cheap beads and candy within.

Ruiz’s staff shuddered in his hand, signaling the movement of a large metallic mass nearby, and Ruiz jerked his attention from the play to the staff’s readout, disguised as a nacre inlay. It nickered unsteadily. But a moment later the indicator faded to normal. Ruiz frowned. Either the staff was reacting to a chance orientation in the metal-bedizened crowd — or they had very good dampers on the vessel he hoped to board.

In any case there was nothing he could do yet, and he sank back into the performance.

Now Hashupit came to the edge of the world every day, but the voice was silent.

But a week later, when she’d almost lost interest, it returned, with a power like avalanching dust.

“Hashupit — smooth-skinned dewy Hashupit, have you forgotten me?”

“Who are you?” she asked, as bravely as she could.

Below the edge of the world Bhas paused at the top of his climb, mightily pleased. The fair gods above had truly forgotten him. “I am the spirit of this place,” he replied. “I can be pleasing.”

“Just show yourself,” she said.

Ruiz saw the player pull a black silk hood down over the horrible features of Bhas. He mounted the upper stage with a clever slither. He stood before Hashupit, and from his fist sprouted a bouquet of poisonous pink thistles, arranged with black razorgrass.

He presented an interesting appearance to the goddess. He was tall, elegantly thin, and though his black garments were unfashionable, she saw that he dressed with a dandy’s attention to detail.

“We meet,” he said, bowing low. He handed her the bouquet. “From the foothills of Hell, for you.”

She took the bouquet, but the blossoms stung her, and when she dropped it the razorgrass sliced her fingers.

She was angered, and a red shimmer filled the air. “This is my father’s world,” she said. “Be off with you, before I call him to devour you.”

“As you wish,” Bhas said. “But first, allow me to make amends, please.” He raised his hand high, and the red glow of her anger was pulled from the air into the cup of his hand. In an instant a silver bowl lay there and Bhas proffered it to her.

“Here, lovely Hashupit, lave your pretty fingers here,” Bhas said, in courtly tones.

Her anger had been pulled away from her so quickly that she was disoriented and pliable, and without thinking she put her hand in the clear fluid. The blood from her fingers swirled in the bowl and the fluid began to darken, from claret to thick purple to black. Hashupit felt an intolerable pain in her hand. She jerked it out. “What have you done?” she gasped.

Bhas laughed, a cruel dry croak of amusement. “Poor Hashupit,” he said cheerfully, “you mustn’t depend upon your father in this. If you seek his aid, your fingers will never be pretty again. Look now, Hashupit.”

She looked and it was almost worse than the pain. The skin was dark and mottled, the fingers swollen into five ugly sausages.

“You’ll pay…” she said, but Bhas gripped her arm in a hot dry hand.

“I have paid, no, never doubt that,” he crooned, low and malevolent. “But that time is over. Remember, if you go to your father, it will be much worse. Think of the wrinkles, the sagging flesh of age, the ugly bones beneath.” Then he released her and she stumbled away as fast as she could go.

At the palace, she went up to her apartments, hiding her hand in a fold of her dress, going by little-used ways. She met none of the other gods and godlings, for which she was grateful. The pain in her hand had subsided to a dull ache, centered in the joints of fingers and wrist. She looked fearfully at it, then held it up before her eyes.

In those days, the gods were above decay — immortal, for all they knew. Hashupit stared at her hand, withered, knob-knuckled, blue-veined, spotted with the discolorations of age. She made a small, unbelieving sound and fainted to the gold-leafed floor of her bedroom.