The Pharaoh Contract

Chapter 18

There was nothing to be done. She was gone and it was time to start worrying again about his own precarious situation, time to stop worrying over the fate of some client world primitive. Still, Ruiz shivered with anger — anger at the slaver, anger at his own helplessness.

But it might have been worse. Flomel the conjuror was here, and Ruiz might have blundered out into the square and been noticed. He remembered the way Flomel had stared at him in the low-level cell, and the look that Flomel had given him, back in Bidderum, when Ruiz had flopped onto Flomel’s stage. Flomel had the look of a good hater. Ruiz was fortunate not to be in the hands of the conjuror, who would then surely tell the slaver about the blasphemous actions of the snake oil man, and then… where would Ruiz hide?

While Ruiz watched, the Pung herded out a delegation of the guild elders, headed by Dolmaero, who looked uncomfortable, but in control. In contrast, the others seemed terrified to the point of catatonia. They were, it seemed, most fearful of the Moc, and Ruiz silently commended their grasp of the situation. His own knees turned to water whenever he looked too long at the great insectoid warrior.

Ruiz found it difficult to analyze Flomel’s relation to Corean. It was almost as if the conjuror was unaware that he was property. Flomel spoke. “Dolmaero, Asewil, Tegabides, how glad I am to find you well.” Flomel used his orator’s voice, rich and sonorous.

Dolmaero stepped forward boldly, then bent his knee in a perfunctory bow. “Master Flomel,” said Dolmaero, without great warmth, “we’re happy to see you safe.”

Flomel seemed oblivious to the undertones in Dolmaero’s voice. “Thank you, good Dolmaero. You must be wondering what’s going on.”

“Yes, of course.”

Flomel paused and shot a somewhat anxious look back at Corean, who stood with her assistants, displaying no impatience. Apparently she preferred to deal with her property as uncoercively as possible.

Corean nodded, and Flomel turned back to the elders. “First,” he said, “I introduce our new patron. You’re privileged to meet Lady Corean Heiclaro, a Noble Person of this region, and a sponsor of follies and serious drama.”

“A great pleasure,” Dolmaero said, sweeping low in a more sincerely servile bow. The other elders imitated him, shakily.

Flomel continued. “There are many puzzling things about our arrival here, I know, but suffice to say, we’re not among gods or devils. Your confinement to these quarters is purely for your own protection, by the way; there are creatures in the outer corridors who have uncertain temperaments.”

Tegabides, a small round man with a perpetual expression of doubt, spoke bravely. “If yon monstrous bug is not a devil, what is it? And the fairness of the Lady Corean compels one to think in terms of goddesses, to say nothing of the magical manner in which we arrived in this unknown place.”

Flomel paled slightly. He spoke in a confiding tone. “It’s not good to speak rashly, Tegabides. The tall armored warrior is Dalfin, a member of the Mocrassar race, and our Lady’s bodyguard and executioner. These things have been explained to me in detail; at present I have no time to go into them with you.”

Tegabides seemed truculent, but Dolmaero laid a calming hand on Tegabides’ arm. “Let’s listen carefully to whatever Master Flomel does have time to explain.”

Dolmaero’s self-possession under these strange circumstances amazed Ruiz. He himself shook with rage and fear, and he was from a culture that took for granted much stranger things than Moc bondwarriors. But Ruiz excused himself; the phoenix was gone. He felt a shocking, irrational degree of loss.

“Come,” Flomel said. “Dolmaero is wise, as always. Lady Corean graciously permits us to go to the shade house to discuss these important matters.” Flomel turned and performed a deep theatrical bow, which brought a cool smile of amusement to Corean’s perfect lips. Then the conjuror herded the elders before him, and they disappeared from Ruiz’s sight.

Ruiz shrank back into the deepest shadows. How would the slaver pass the time? Would she call forth the stock for evaluation? Would she check the facilities for proper maintenance? Would she inspect the bathhouse? Ruiz watched in mounting apprehension as she stood quietly in the sun.

The Moc might have been a grotesque statue. The cyborg seemed to be playing a game on one of the dataslates built into his floater console.

Long minutes passed. Ruiz sweated.

At last Flomel returned, trailed by the guild elders. The elders seemed a good deal more cheerful, except for Dolmaero, who looked slightly ill.

Flomel approached Corean and spoke in wheedling tones. “Noble lady, Guildmaster Dolmaero asks a favor.”

“What is it?” Corean asked without inflection.

Dolmaero spoke. “There is an injured man. Could you speed the healing of his hurts, as you did for the phoenix? Or, at least, ease his discomfort?”

Corean came forward and the Moc moved after her, its great leaping limbs slowly pistoning. “Bring him out,” she said.

Dolmaero gestured and a moment later two men carried out an improvised litter. On it was the coercer, whose face was one vast bruise, radiating from his flattened nose. Casmin drew a sharp breath when he saw the Moc, then winced.

Corean stood over him, a look of detached curiosity on that incredible face. “How was he hurt?” she asked.

“He fell,” Dolmaero said quickly, before anyone else could answer, and Ruiz remembered to breathe again.

“He fell?” She turned to Flomel. “How well do you know this man?”

“Well, indeed, Lady. He was warded to our family when he was only three. A loyal man, who deserves your help.” Flomel stared at Casmin, taking in his injuries with growing puzzlement.

“Describe the part this man plays in one of your productions.”

Flomel looked defensive. “Ah, well, noble lady, he actually plays no direct part. His services are among the perquisites of my position. He provides protection against evil deeds, and instruction to recalcitrants.”

Now her amusement seemed definite. “In other words, he twists arms at your behest?”

Flomel made no answer for a long moment, and then nodded jerkily, features stiff with suppressed annoyance.

“Then he no longer performs any essential function,” she said, is that sweet clear voice. “Still, I’ll ease his discomfort.”

She bent over the litter. At the tip of her index finger, a shimmering tongue of disrupted air appeared. The burbling sound of a sonic knife came clearly to Ruiz’s ears. With a graceful sweeping gesture she sliced Casmin’s throat open, down to the spine, then danced nimbly back from the blood. The elders scattered like frightened chickens.

She nodded to the Moc. It pointed a midlimb at the corpse, which still twitched. A plasma lance whooshed white fire and heated the remains to crumbling incandescence. Most of the troupe fled indoors. Only Dolmaero and Flomel stood their ground, staring.

When nothing remained but smoking ash, Corean left without ceremony, taking along a pale Flomel. Before she passed out of Ruiz’s line of sight, Corean glanced directly at Ruiz’s place of concealment, expressionless.

When the slavers were gone, the Pharaohans came forth and stood about in the square in little arguing knots, avoiding the blackened spot at the center of the square. Dolmaero seemed not to be taking part in the general discussion. He sat on the low wall, staring at nothing in particular.

Ruiz waited a long while before he came out of the bathhouse and joined Dolmaero.

Dolmaero looked at Ruiz without speaking.

“I’m sorry about your man,” Ruiz offered.

Dolmaero made a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t be concerned. Casmin was always a jackal. Away from the restraining influence of his guild, it would have been only a matter of time before he’d have begun to practice his ugly pleasures on the innocent. And how would I have controlled him?”

“Still… I appreciate your not revealing the source of his injuries.”

“I told no lie,” Dolmaero said heavily.

“No, I suppose not. Did Master Flomel say what they intended for the Noble Person?”

Dolmaero looked at Ruiz, and Ruiz sensed that evil news was coming. Dolmaero seemed reluctant to deliver it. “Yes,” Dolmaero finally said, “he went into that a little. I’m not sure you want to hear what he said.”

“Tell me,” Ruiz said.

“Do you remember when I said my decision to put the phoenix to death was a mistake? Now I’m not so sure. It might have been a kindness, had you not interfered. Master Flomel plans to use her in an upcoming performance.”

“A performance?”

“Yes, so he said. It seems we will perform for an audience of the mighty, to whom the goddess-woman is simply an agent. I don’t understand the details, but there will be bidding for our services.”

Clever of the goddess-woman, Ruiz thought, sickened. She would put the troupe on the block, and they would do their utmost to bring her a high price, thinking it their opportunity to impress the influential of their new world. She practiced the slaver’s art skillfully.

“And so,” Dolmaero continued, “the girl will be required to die once more. I wonder; will she again be revived? How many times could that be done? Do you know?”

Ruiz was silent. Not in his most pessimistic appraisal of Nisa’s future had it occurred to him that he’d saved her only to play the phoenix once again. But now that he considered it, it made perfect sense. She had been brilliant in the play. And she could be so again, for many more performances, until her sensorium was so damaged by the death trauma that she could no longer act her part. Long before that, Nisa would lust for the peace of a real death.

“Many times,” Ruiz answered, giving much away, but at that moment not caring. “Tell me, Dolmaero, when do your rehearsals begin?”

“Soon, I think. Master Flomel mentioned that the stage would be brought within the week. There will be a period of repair and restaging; then we begin. Perhaps the girl will return then.”

Dolmaero watched Ruiz struggle with his thoughts, and Dolmaero’s small bright eyes softened in sympathy. He patted Ruiz’s arm gently, then heaved his bulk up and went away.

That evening, Ruiz filled only one plate. The house of the casteless seemed very empty. Just before dark, a boy brought a small oil lamp to the door. “From Master Dolmaero,” he said, and handed it to Ruiz. Ruiz was touched by the Guildmaster’s gift, and he burned the lamp far into the night, sitting on Nisa’s cot and watching the tiny flame. But when the last of the oil burned away and the lamp went out, he rose from the cot and went out to walk the wall. His nocturnal explorations were aided by the absence of any other explorers; the Pharaohans did not go outside their walls after sunset. On Pharaoh, many hungry creatures hunted by night. He went about his business under the assumption that no one watched the paddock; if they did, he couldn’t understand why he had not already been taken.

Again, he found the section of wall where the snapfields occasionally failed. The failure was random, occurring once or twice an hour. The duration of the failure averaged between fifteen and forty-five seconds. Twice that night, however, the failure lasted less than ten seconds. If Ruiz were caught at the top of the wall when the field resumed, he would fall off the wall in pieces. It wasn’t an optimum escape route, but it was, so far, the only possibility he’d found. Of course, the other side of the wall might just be another paddock, not an access corridor. Ruiz could think of no good way to tell in advance; the harsh buzz of the fields made listening impossible.

It took him all the next day to braid a rope from the leather fragments he found in the house of the casteless. That night, he tied to the rope a slender stick, weighted at one end with a rock. He went to the defective section of the wall. When the first failure occurred, he heaved the stick over the top of the wall, hoping that no one watched from the other side. He pulled the stick back slowly. By watching the arcing tip of the stick, faintly visible against the starfields as it tilted over the rounded top, he was able to determine that the wall top was smoothly curved, innocent of angles where a grapple might catch. He sighed and pulled the rope down.

On the next darkening of the field, he tried it again, and before the field returned he got a fairly good idea of the shape of the wall top. Just for good measure he tried it one more time, but this time the field returned prematurely, and the rope fell down minus the stick. Ruiz heard it hit the ground on the other side, and he cursed. He could only hope that no one would notice the stick, with its tag of homemade rope, or pay enough attention to it to wonder where it had come from.

His next task was to fashion a hook that fit the contour of the wall top closely enough to hold his weight. This took the better part of a day. Ruiz cobbled it together from bits of wood salvaged from the cots, and bound the hook into rigidity with strips of wet rawhide. He dried the assemblage on the roof, in the hot sun. When he was finished, he had an object that looked as if it had been sawn from the end of a giant shepherd’s staff. Ruiz attached the braided leather rope and his escape apparatus was complete.

The drawback to this particular technique, he thought, was that the hook couldn’t be tested in advance. Once Ruiz managed to hang the hook on the top of the wall, he’d have to go up the rope to retrieve it.

So it was time to decide. Should he go immediately, escaping into the unknown territory of the compound, or should he remain in the paddock awhile longer, mending his strength? Complicating the decision was Ruiz’s completely impractical urge to see Nisa again, though there was nothing he could do for her that wouldn’t jeopardize the job he’d been hired to do, to say nothing of his life. He could not even give her a merciful death without accepting certain exposure. She was a valuable part of the troupe; Corean would take a dangerous interest in any harm that befell Nisa.

When Ruiz considered it, however, it did seem strange that the slaver had shown so little interest in the source of Casmin’s injuries. And why had she allowed Nisa, a valuable item, to be penned in the paddock, ill and vulnerable to superstitious peasants? Ruiz could make no useful inferences, so he took a deep breath, shook his head, and put all thought of Nisa from him.

On the day that Ruiz completed the hook, Flomel came again, late in the afternoon. Ruiz was in the house of the casteless, adding to the length of his rope and inspecting it for weaknesses. He heard voices in the square, and he went cautiously to the door.

Flomel stood in the middle of the square, conversing with Dolmaero and the other guild elders. Two Pung guards stood by, their bodies expressing patient boredom. Ruiz could just barely hear what was being said.

“But how will they bring it?” Dolmaero spoke, puzzled, and he gestured in the direction of the small personnel lock.

Flomel pointed overhead with a theatrical flourish. “Look,” he said. “See the beams, those silvery threads? The Lady’s minions will hang the stage from those beams and float it down into our practice quarters. Don’t ask me how. There’s a lot about these folk that none of us understands.”

You could say that, Ruiz thought, with a certain vengeful relish.

Dolmaero looked diplomatically dubious. “As you say, Master Flomel. And when will Masters Kroel and Molnekh join us?”

“Very soon, very soon. Now, I anticipate a problem with the girl. In Bidderum she was magnificent, but then she was an Expiant, no? Naltrehset, we’ll have to rely heavily on your philters to make her amenable, but to an extent she must cooperate willingly. Dolmaero, you worked most closely with her before. Have you any suggestions?”

Ruiz became even more intensely interested in the conversation. To Ruiz’s eye, Dolmaero seemed to sink slightly into himself. “Nothing comes to me at the moment, Master,” Dolmaero said, looking aside.

A man with pinched features and a subservient whine spoke up. “Master,” he said, “what of the casteless one, the one that protected her from Casmin?”

“What is this?” Flomel asked, his narrow face darkening. “Who is this casteless one, and why was it necessary to protect the phoenix? Who wanted to harm her?”

Dolmaero answered. “Before we knew you were safe, Master, before we understood anything of our situation, the elders decided, by guild ballot, that the survival of the phoenix was unnatural and possibly an affront to the gods.” Here Dolmaero paused, looking uncomfortable. All eyes turned toward the house of the casteless, where Ruiz hid. Reluctantly Dolmaero continued. “The casteless one, Wuhiya by name, a snake oil seller by profession, he cared for her, since she was mistakenly lodged in the house of the casteless. No doubt he recognized her value. At any rate, I sent Casmin in to fetch her out for judgment, and Casmin — you know how he was — Casmin attacked Wuhiya. Wuhiya defended himself. You saw the result.”

Flomel rubbed his chin. “I should be pleased, I suppose. The girl is far more important to the troupe than Casmin was, though I’ll miss his rough-and-ready humor. Had you restrained your religious impulses, none of this would have happened.” Then Flomel’s eyes widened, and rage suffused his features. “Wait,” he said thickly. “Is this Wuhiya the same oil-sucking wretch who threw himself onto the apron at Bidderum, spoiling the finale?”

Flomel started for the house of the casteless, his long fingers crooking into claws. “Is he the one?” Flomel shouted.

Dolmaero hurried after Flomel. “Wait, Master. Do nothing rash, I beg you.” He caught up with Flomel at the doorway, where Flomel had paused, staring past the fluttering insect-guards into the darkness inside. Ruiz Aw, meanwhile, was pressed against the wall, out of sight, wondering what he could do if Flomel attacked him or denounced him to the guards. They might not take Flomel’s accusations seriously; on the other hand, they might take Ruiz before Corean, where Ruiz would be hard-pressed to explain his eccentric behavior. But Flomel stopped, his breath whistling between his clenched teeth.

“Come out, dust rat,” Flomel hissed. “Come out and be rewarded.”

Ruiz made no sound.

Dolmaero reasoned with the conjuror. “Master, you can’t think to sully yourself with this one’s worthless blood. Besides, look what happened to Casmin.”

Ruiz heard nothing for a few seconds.

Then Dolmaero continued. “Listen, I have an idea. The phoenix is obviously attached to this Wuhiya. He nursed her, he saved her from Casmin’s cord, and they were observed in passion at the bathhouse.”

Flomel gasped. “You joke, Dolmaero! She’s a princess, or was before she became an Expiant.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true. Master. I don’t know the reason; it seems incomprehensible to me, too… but what doesn’t, these days? At any rate, we can use her regard for the wretch to secure her cooperation in the play.”

Flomel seemed to be considering. At last he said, in calmer tones, “You’ve given me good counsel once again, Guildmaster. I’ll petition the Lady for a more effective coercer. Perhaps she will loan me the great bug. Just the sight of that one should frighten her into helpfulness, and if not, we’ll pluck fingers from the oil peddler until she takes the point.”

Then the voices moved away, discussing the logistics of the rehearsals, supplies to be requisitioned, the choice of material to be performed, the changes required in the stage. Ruiz’s thoughts ran cool and distant, and he could feel the death net tug at him, a warning tension. He sagged against the wall. Just when the situation seemed worst, it deteriorated again.

Flomel was gone by the time the evening meal arrived. Ruiz took his dinner to his accustomed spot. To his surprise, Dolmaero joined him.

“Well, friend Wuhiya,” Dolmaero said, “I must apologize to you again. You heard?”

“Yes. Flomel’s a vindictive little fart, isn’t he?”

“He takes his art seriously; what more need be said? He’s a bad enemy. But I hope you’ll believe I was trying to do my best for you. I just couldn’t think of anything better.”

Ruiz looked at Dolmaero, appraising. Ruiz’s profession was one that bred cynicism, but in Dolmaero’s broad face, Ruiz saw only concern and weariness.

“I believe you,” Ruiz said. He seemed to concentrate on his meal, but he was thinking about the night ahead.