The Pharoah Contract

“The same thing that should be motivating your flock, Guildmaster. The fear of Corean’s displeasure.”

Dolmaero nodded. “Yes. In my own provincial way, I’ve stumbled on that truth. Strange that something so beautiful should be so deadly, eh?”

Ruiz laughed. “I’ll point this out, though doubtless you’ve already noticed: Many of the deadliest things are beautiful. For example, take the Lady Nisa.”

“Nisa? I would have thought her utterly harmless, except to herself.”

“Harmless? Ask Flomel about that when next you see him. She took up a pair of sewing scissors and did a thorough job of airing his innards.”

Dolmaero’s eyebrows climbed to the top of his forehead. “So the mage is dead?”

“No. The quacks here are very good. And fast. I have it on good authority that we’ll all be traveling together soon. Where, I don’t know.”

Dolmaero digested this information at length. Finally he said, “You’re a source of strange predictions, Wuhiya.”

“Call me Ruiz,” Ruiz said.

“Ruiz, then. Is that truly your name? Never mind. Your tattoos have washed away, I see.”

Ruiz rubbed at his face. “So. Well, I apologize for any offense my naked face may give.”

Dolmaero clapped him on the back and grinned broadly. “You could paint yourself blue and eat with your feet, without offending me in the slightest. I’m truly in your debt. Besides, a naked face frightens. I would guess that causing fear is part of your trade. Whatever that might be.”

Dolmaero got up, puffing with the effort. “But now,” he told Ruiz, “I’ll have to see to young Nusquial. He was always a hothead, which is why I made him a lizard man when he wanted to be a mage. Some don’t wear power as well as you wear yours.” He went off across the square, before Ruiz could ask him where Nisa might be found.

But he found her easily enough, in the bathhouse, attended by three ancient women — gowners, Ruiz supposed. Nisa stood on a low stool, while the women tried the drape of a rich red velvet against her. Bolts of other fine fabrics lay about in disarray. When Ruiz entered, the gowners failed to notice him at first, and he watched as they pinned and marked and debated in shrill cackles. Nisa looked at him, her arms lifted from her sides to accommodate the gowners, her face set, her eyes distant.

Against the cistern, Ayam lounged, watching the gowning. Ruiz glared at it, but it gazed back blandly, undisturbed.

When the gowners finally looked around and noticed Ruiz in the shadow of the entryway, they dropped their fabrics and pins and chalks and tapes, and fled out the back door with a chorus of small wheezy shrieks.

Ruiz hoped their hearts were strong. He had no wish to cause any further casualties among the properties of Corean.

“May we speak?” he asked.

She regarded him with little apparent interest, then spoke in a slow detached voice. “Why not? You’ve frightened away the couts. Besides, you can do as you please; you’ve demonstrated that, have you not?”

Ruiz stepped closer. Nisa still held her arms out rigidly, as if she had forgotten that they belonged to her. Ruiz saw that her pupils were pinpoints; she must be almost blind in the dimness of the bathhouse. He felt a surge of anger. “Has the philterer been busy already?”

“Yes. It’s better this way.” A spark of faraway amusement lit her face for a moment. “But I think they’ll not be as happy with my performance this time.”

Ruiz looked into her face, saw nothing more of Nisa there. In her present state, there was no point to explaining his actions outside the paddock. Better to wait for a time when she could understand, if she would. Besides, Ayam was Corean’s creature, sure to report, with an unflattering twist, anything he might say to Nisa. He turned and left.

* * *

A dozen Pung guards came for them in the morning. They were herded into the center of the plaza: Ruiz, Nisa and the Dilvermooner, the two assistant mages, and Dolmaero.

Kroel, the mage who had taken the part of Menk, god of slavery, struggled briefly with the Pung who had collected him. The Pung touched him lightly with the nerve lash, and Kroel fell to the ground howling and writhing. Kroel was a short broad-chested man with heavy features and tattoos in an antique, mannered style.

The other mage, Molnekh, a cheerfully cadaverous man, helped Kroel to his feet and dusted him off. “Now, now,” said Molnekh, “is this dignified?”

“Dignified!” Kroel was still whimpering. “Dignified, you say? What is dignified about this abuse? I believed when we were reunited with the troupe that our torments were ending.”

“I, too, was hopeful,” Molnekh said, facing the Pung and baring his long yellow teeth in a fawning smile. The Pung gestured with its lash, and the two joined the others without farther incident.