The Pharaoh Contract

Chapter 16

The narrow passageways twisted and turned as they continued through the warren.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of unlicensed slavers must maintain facilities here, as well as pirates, kidnappers and bootleg fleshtinkers. In the course of his work, Ruiz had visited many of Sook’s slave pens and shipping depots, but nothing looked familiar to him, nor did he remember an operation staffed by Pung guards. He wasn’t surprised; Sook was vast and the Shards, the planet’s alien owners, vigorously suppressed attempts to map the surface — and that deliberate obscurity was another attraction for the criminals who based their operations here.

Here and there observation ports were set into the walls. The ports were ancient, caked with dust and clouded with scratches, but Ruiz could see enough to be amazed at the diversity of the merchandise. Within the paddocks were beings of most of the races Ruiz was familiar with, and some he had never seen. The majority of the specimens were human, or near-human.

He saw a Noctil presentation group, the lessers ranked carefully about their primary on a small grassy knoll. The primary was a lean vulpine woman with a great mass of fiery orange hair; the color of the lessers’ hair cooled from the center out, until those on the edge of the setting had sleek blond heads, and plump vulnerable bodies. The primary was orating. Ruiz was impressed by the fluid pattern that the setting formed, the manner in which each gesture of the primary was taken up by the lessers, repeated and interpreted all the way to the edge. He would have stayed and watched, had it been possible; here was a valuable property indeed. But the guards hurried him on.

Each observation port was a window into strangeness. He saw a pack of Parbalong clone yodelers, a herd of wood gnomes from Sackett’s World, a strong collection of fancy marine-adapted humans from the ocean world Cholder, sporting in a deep green pool — and many others. Most of the specimens were exceedingly fine. The compound was impressive in both size and scope.

By the time they arrived at the Pharaohan paddock, Ruiz had fallen into a subdued and thoughtful mood.

A port pierced the wall next to the doorway, and Ruiz looked inside while the larger of the guards fumbled in its pouch for the molecular seal that operated the door. The landscape within the paddock approximated a small Pharaohan oasis, without the fields and catchment system. A dusty compound huddled in the center of the paddock, surrounded by the feathery foliage of dinwelt trees.

The door hissed upward, revealing a security vestibule, lined with storage bins, closed at the far end with another door. “In you go,” said the guard, flipping the nerve net at Ruiz’s heels.

Ruiz moved with respectful speed. Once inside, the other guard opened a bin and hauled out a tunic of coarse brown fabric and tossed it to Ruiz. Ruiz put it on, and then the sandals the other guard handed him.

The guards inspected him. “Looks authentic to me. Didn’t the other ones want to shave their heads?”

The other guard laughed, a choked whistle-gurgle. “He doesn’t have to, so it appears. A natural pluckhead; can you believe it?”

Uneasiness touched Ruiz. He hoped no one else would notice that he did not have to perform that particular Pharaohan grooming ritual. His depilation was good for a few weeks yet, but his tattoos would fade before the depil wore off — another problem.

One guard touched a control panel. The first door dropped, and a moment later the inner door popped open. The guards shooed him cheerfully out of the lock. The door slid shut behind him with a clang.

Ruiz stood alone, the light of Sooksun beating on his naked head.

He looked about curiously. The paddock seemed to cover a roughly circular area of slightly more than a hectare. The walls were high and smooth, made of the same meltstone masonry as the rest of the compound. The tops of the walls were protected by snapfields that reached high above the compound, forming a faint lacy pattern in the air where they intersected with other fields. The glowing fields would be quite beautiful at night.

He set off down the path to the compound at the center of the paddock.

He resolved to pass himself off as an innocent Pharaohan bystander, to step lightly with his fellow slaves, to collect information but give out none, to fit in as seamlessly as possible, to wait for an opportunity to improve his circumstances. After all, this was his profession, which previously he had practiced with reasonable skill. He shook his head, feeling a bit pessimistic.

Taking care not to touch the corrosive fronds, Ruiz edged past the dinwelt hedge into the compound’s central square. It was deserted in the noontime heat, but after a moment a burly man with the tattoos of a guildmaster emerged from one dark doorway. “Man or demon?” he demanded of Ruiz, in a voice hoarse with suppressed terror.

Ruiz stood quietly for a moment, adopting an unthreatening posture, open hands held at his side.

“More than man, less than demon, or perhaps the other way about. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to tell,” he said cheerfully.

The man squinted at Ruiz, then relaxed. “It’s just a snake oil peddler, by his tattoos and speech.” At this reassurance, a half-dozen other Pharaohans emerged into the square.

“Oh yes,” Ruiz said, “I’m the dream merchant, but alas, I’m fresh out of dreams. Perhaps this is the dream, eh? Certainly it’s stranger than any realm I’ve visited on snake-back.”

“You spoke true, Guildmaster Dolmaero,” said a thin fellow with a blind eye and the tattoos of an animal handler. “I thought never to welcome such a one, but he’s an easier sight than those warty gray horrors.”

They studied Ruiz with tired red eyes. Finally Dolmaero spoke. “What is to be our fate? Have you word of this?”

Ruiz spread his arms in a gesture of puzzlement. “I’d hoped,” he said, “that you could tell me.”

Faces fell. After a bit the Pharaohans turned and shuffled within. Last to go was Dolmaero, who paused and said kindly, “There is the dwelling of the casteless.” Dolmaero pointed across the square to a building that showed signs of long disuse. “Twice a day the demons come to summon us to feed. You must wait your turn, but there will be plenty to eat.” A look of private sorrow touched Dolmaero’s broad face. “There is no snake oil here.” Then he disappeared, leaving Ruiz alone in the square. Ruiz had the uncomfortable sensation that many eyes watched him from the shadowed doorways that fronted the square. The remainder of the conjuring troupe was housed here, perhaps forty or fifty men and women who — working the traps and slides and pulls that made the illusions possible — had been beneath the stage when the catchboat had taken them.

Ruiz shrugged and walked to the door of the indicated building. The hanging wilifiber strands that once had protected the interior from noxious flying insects were tattered to uselessness. He pushed them aside and entered.

Within, it was dark and a bit cooler. In the moment it took for Ruiz’s eyes to begin to adjust to the gloom, he sensed that the hut was, unexpectedly, occupied. He sidled aside from the silhouetting light of the doorway, all his senses reaching out. In addition to the musty scents of dust and mud and timber and ancient leather, he caught a thin organic waft — the smell of sickness. As his eyes adjusted, Ruiz made out a line of dilapidated cots against the wall. One was occupied by a still figure.

Ruiz moved cautiously forward. The woman on the cot lay still a moment longer, then twisted uneasily, as if tormented by a fever dream. A tiny moan escaped the pale lips of the phoenix.

Ruiz sighed and sat down gingerly on the nearest cot, which supported his weight with only minor ripping sounds.

Here was the tangible evidence of his foolishness. He sat for a long silent while, watching her troubled sleep. She represented an anomaly to his enemies, a source of suspicion, a focus for their paranoia. Ruiz was among them, a potentially fatal infection, and this woman was the first tangible symptom. For a time he weighed the notion of smothering her — no one would be able to say she had not simply succumbed to her wounds. When she was gone, perhaps his mistake might be forgotten.

Later, Ruiz could not remember just when he discarded that hopeful idea. He watched her sleep, watched the sweat bead on the sweet contour of her upper lip, watched her dark lashes flutter against the flushed translucent skin of her cheeks. Almost as an afterthought he assembled the logical support for his decision; the girl was already entered into the inventory banks of the slavers — her death or disappearance would remind them of the troubling question of her presence on the slave ship.

Finally he put his hand to her forehead and felt the fever burning bright in her. “Too hot,” he whispered, as if she could hear. He rooted about in the debris at the back of the hut and found a cracked plastic bowl and a wad of filthy rags. He went outside, located the watershed. Inside, in addition to the traditional bathing pool, he found a universal tap, the kind installed by slavers who couldn’t be sure what sort of hands their property might have.

When the rags were washed clean, he carried them back inside. She shifted feebly when he pulled off her rough tunic, but she was more than asleep.

The slaver should have left the limpet awhile longer, he thought.

He washed her as well as he could, and then continued to bathe her with the tepid water. He felt no sexual stirring as he passed the rag across her handsome body — she was still too ill to be beautiful, too close to death. But there was pleasure of a more detached sort in touching her; it was like running his fingers over a fine carving. Her skin was as smooth as polished wood, the topology of her body cleanly modeled. The scars of her brief death were only faintly visible in the dim light of the hut. The replicant gel would continue its work until they were gone entirely. Even her hand was healing cleanly, restored to youth.

For the remainder of that afternoon she slept. Occasionally Ruiz was able to squeeze a trickle of water into her mouth, using the cleanest rag. She was able to swallow, and her lips looked less parched. Ruiz began to take an odd guilty satisfaction in his nursing. When he realized this, he became angry with himself, but he continued. She began to look a bit more comfortable, and she seemed to rest more easily.

As the sun was setting, a tone rang out in the paddock, and Ruiz looked out to see a robocart trundle into the square, trailed by a gray guard holding a nerve lash ready.

The other Pharaohans emerged from the buildings. Ruiz was surprised by their numbers; there were at least fifty Pharaohans, mostly men, all commoners. The conjurors were apparently being held in the high-security cells below, as befitted more valuable stock.

The Pharaohans watched silently until the guard waved them forward. As they surrounded it, the robocart opened, revealing steaming tubs of Pharaohanese edibles: sand-mussel stew, hot pickled vegetables, a gray mush of ground jemmerseed. The slaves dipped reluctantly into the provender, with no great evidence of appetite.

When all were provided, Ruiz approached, and the others drew away. He saw that the food was only superficially Pharaohanese; it was, in fact, synthetic, crudely textured and colored and flavored so as to resemble familiar fare. Ruiz took a disposable plate and piled it high with the most digestible-looking choices.

With his mouth full of tasteless pseudo-barley and stringy synthalizard, Ruiz approached Dolmaero, who leaned against a wall, chewing stoically. A bit farther along the wall, a tall angular man with the tattoos of a coercer squatted, glaring at Ruiz with scornful eyes. The man had enormous hands, which he curled into hooks as Ruiz neared Dolmaero. Ruiz stopped at a respectful distance.

Swallowing with some difficulty, Ruiz spoke politely. “Honorable Dolmaero, favor me with your wisdom.”

Dolmaero looked at Ruiz, his heavy jaws working. He grunted, which Ruiz took to be permission to proceed.

“It was kind of you to inform me this afternoon,” Ruiz continued, “but perhaps you’ll be generous again, and tell me of the woman who lies in the House of the Alone.”

Dolmaero looked away and Ruiz thought at first that Dolmaero would not answer. Then he looked back at Ruiz with hard eyes and spat a bit of imitation redstem on the ground. “She was brought here by demons. She was barely conscious. I instructed the women to move her to the House, that our souls not be tarnished by her death.”

“It may be that she isn’t dying,” Ruiz said.

“Her wounds were terrible,” Dolmaero said. “Were you at Bidderum when she died?”

Ruiz was momentarily taken aback. Somehow he was not prepared for that question, so he dissembled.

“Her wounds seem minor, now. Who knows what amuses the gods?” Ruiz said.

Dolmaero laughed bitterly. “Wherever we are, it’s not the Land of Reward. And now, get away. Your familiarity infringes on my dignity.”

The tall man rose and assumed a threatening posture, his face a mask of disapproval and eager violence.

Ruiz shrugged and returned to the robocart to reload his plate. He carried it back to his hut, and as he stepped inside he sensed that the phoenix was awake.

“Who… who is there?” she asked in a tiny dry voice.

She was attempting, without much success, to sit up. Ruiz hastened to help her. Setting the plate aside, he lifted her so that she rested against the wall. She appeared confused, as was natural for one who had undergone a death, however short.

“Don’t be afraid, Noble Person,” Ruiz said softly, reassuringly. “It’s Wuhiya, a simple seller of dreams, who attends you.”

Her eyes snapped wide open. “This is the Land of Reward?” she asked in a stronger voice. “Where is the light, where the godservants? I hear no music. What has happened?”

Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with imminent tragedy. She looked at Ruiz and recoiled, clutching to her the rough tunic that had fallen away when she sat up. “You’re casteless,” she accused. “Oh, what’s gone wrong?”

Ruiz felt a strong impulse to comfort her — but how? She huddled back against the wall, her eyes darting about the disordered hut.

“Try to calm yourself,” Ruiz said. “True, this isn’t the Land of Reward, but things might be worse. We’re alive; here is food and water and shelter from the sun. And you’ll soon be feeling better.”

She was hearing nothing he said. “My servants… such a terrible dream…” she muttered, her voice growing weak again. Her fingers pulled at the tangles in her hair, and the cloth that covered her torso slid down, exposing her scars, still faintly puckered in the smooth skin of her belly. She looked down absently and saw them. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth as if to scream, and then her eyes rolled back in her head.

“You faint a lot,” Ruiz said, catching her before she could thump her head on the wall. Ruiz arranged her as comfortably as possible on the cot, then bathed away the sweat of her exertions. It was best to let her sleep, he thought. He settled down to his dinner, now cold. He ate mechanically, but he finished every scrap. He began to feel stronger, for the first time since Bidderum.

He sat beside her far into the night, long after he could see nothing but a shapeless darkness where she lay.

In the morning, she still slept when the robocart made its appearance. Ruiz came out to get his share of breakfast. The other prisoners were still distant, though Dolmaero favored him with a curt nod. Ruiz found a sunny section of wall away from the others. The food was not tasty, but doubtless it was sufficiently nourishing to maintain slaves in salable condition. It probably contained a multitude of beneficial additives, and Ruiz returned for another helping when he was done. When next she woke, he’d attempt to get some food into the phoenix.

Dolmaero eyed Ruiz as he heaped his plate full again, and he had the sensation that Dolmaero watched him with more suspicion than before. The tall coercer, who seemed to be Dolmaero’s dog, stood up and made as if to approach, his nostrils flaring with combative anticipation. Ruiz smiled disarmingly and returned to his hut.

The phoenix still lay quiet, but she breathed easily, and when he touched the back of his hand to her forehead, her skin was cool. He set the food aside for later.

While he waited for her to wake again, he pulled off his tunic and began to exercise the kinks from his body. He discovered, unsurprisingly, that the passage in the slave ship had sapped much of his strength and suppleness. With each slow movement, he found unexpected little pains, dangerous small weaknesses. He twisted and pressed, stretching the ligaments, pitting muscle against muscle. He found, after a while, an intense pleasure in the familiar dance, and his abused body began to respond, moving faster and faster, until the world was a spinning blur, and his heart pounded.

When he was finished, his skin ran with sweat and his muscles were tingling with hot fresh blood. He wiped away the sweat with a rag and dressed.

He sat down beside the phoenix, breathing deeply, mind empty, happier than he had been in weeks.

She was awake. She watched him with wide eyes, as if he were some strange performing beast, encountered in a menagerie.

“Noble Person,” Ruiz said carefully, “you’re awake? That’s good. Would you care for some breakfast?”

She made no response.

“Perhaps a cup of water?” Ruiz asked, getting up to fetch it.

“Yes,” she finally said, cautiously. “I’m very dry.”

He helped her to sit again, though she shrank from his touch. Then he handed her the cup. She seemed not to notice when her tunic fell away from her breasts. She drank the tepid water greedily, keeping wary eyes on Ruiz.

When she finished she held out the cup for more. Ruiz took it and said, “Wait a bit; see how your stomach receives it.”

Her eyes flared briefly, as if she were about to remind him of his station, but then she seemed to remember her surroundings.

Ruiz was pleased by her composure; it indicated an attractive strength. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you’re calmer today.”

“Have you told me your name?” she asked after a bit.

“Wuhiya of Sammadon,” Ruiz said, sketching a bow, “late of Bidderum.”

Her gaze darkened and Ruiz wished he hadn’t mentioned Bidderum. “Ah, Bidderum,” she said. Her voice became distant. “Bidderum, a dismal place. Though not so dismal as this. And I was in better health there, for a while.”

She looked down then at her naked belly. The scars were almost gone, only faintly visible in the dim light of the hut. She gasped and rubbed her fingers over her flesh. “Look,” she said. “Did I die? Was I resurrected? The Land of Reward, where we were to be reborn perfect — I’m not perfect but I heal. I heal.”

Her eyes were full of wonder when she turned them back up to Ruiz.

“This isn’t the Land of Reward,” Ruiz said, suddenly uncomfortable. He saw no point in theological discussion, so he lied as gracefully as he could. “You were badly injured, but you didn’t die. The doctors in this place are excellent beyond our experience; thus you mend rapidly.”

She giggled, which astonished him — there seemed no hysteria in the sound, just a sweet skeptical amusement.

“‘This place,’ you say. You make it sound as if we were no longer in the lands of Bhasrahmet. What other lands are there?”

This was a difficult question indeed, and Ruiz turned it over in his mind before answering. “We are far from Pharaoh, Noble Person. Very far.”

Before he could think of anything else to say, she spoke, and her voice was fearful again. “Are we in Hell, then? But we cannot be; the steams there would melt the flesh from our bones.”

“This isn’t Hell, either,” Ruiz reassured her. “I’m not sure I can tell you….”

She touched his arm gently. “Can you tell me anything?”

Ruiz suppressed, with amazement, a mad impulse to tell her of his offworld origin. He was distracted by a sharp knock against the door frame.

“Come forth,” spoke Dolmaero’s harsh voice.

She took fright again, shrinking back against the mud wall. Ruiz smiled reassuringly, and went to the door.

When he stepped through, Ruiz confronted a ring of guild elders, who glared at him with uniform expressions of outrage. Dolmaero was closest; the big coercer stood beside the Guildmaster. The coercer seemed eager; Dolmaero looked unhappily determined.

“What is your name and village, casteless one?” Dolmaero demanded.

“I’m honored by your curiosity. I’m Wuhiya of Sammadon.”

“With whom do you speak, Wuhiya?”

“Sir?” Ruiz feigned incomprehension.

“Inside, witless one! Who speaks?”

“Ah.” Ruiz allowed understanding to spread over his face. “You mean the noblewoman who lies ill.”

Dolmaero’s broad face paled. “She still lives, then,” he said, as if to himself. He stood rubbing his chin, an unhappy man. Finally he seemed to reach a decision — though from the set of his mouth, it was not a decision he took pleasure in. “You must fetch her out,” he said to Ruiz.

“Ah,” Ruiz said, with forced friendliness. “You wish to house her in a manner more suitable to her rank; am I right?”

Dolmaero made no reply, though his face set into a more dour expression. Then the coercer drew a long cord of twisted fiber from his tunic and wrapped it around his huge fists, smiling.