The Pharoah Contract

When he eventually appeared for his breakfast, the dining hall was empty and the porridge had gone stone-cold stiff, but a handsome young woman wearing a dirty shift bustled in and cut him a generous slice. He guessed she might be one of the “commoner doxies” Denklar had mentioned in connection with Brinslevos. She had a dusky bruise on her cheek and moved too carefully, but she seemed cheerful enough otherwise. She occasionally smiled at him, as she went about the dining hall collecting the dirty dishes, and he smiled back.

When he had finished the porridge, he leaned back in his chair and began to pick his teeth with the needle-point bodkin he carried on a chain around his neck. His attention, for some reason, fixed on the doxy’s legs. Her legs were long and smooth and brown, and her feet had the healthy beauty of feet that had never known shoes.

He pulled his gaze away and fixed it again on the empty porridge bowl. He was beginning to feel a bit frightened by his undisciplined thoughts. Nacker had certainly tampered with his priorities. He would have to watch himself very carefully, until he could get this over with and get to another trustworthy minddiver. If he lived to see Nacker again, he would have to discourage the freak from exercising his sense of humor at Ruiz’s expense. Ruiz shook his head. If he allowed himself to be distracted at a crucial point, he might not get to repay Nacker for his little joke. And wouldn’t that be a shame?

He forced his thoughts back into productive channels. First, he’d spend a few days selling oil to the local yokels. He’d try to pick up the texture of Pharaoh; his head was full to bursting with facts and dialects and sociological analyses — but these existed in a cold intellectual void. He needed to know what it was to be a Pharaohan, before he could safely move toward his objective. He’d deliberately chosen to emerge in this obscure backwater, to give himself a bit of respite from intrigue. He’d relax and merge more thoroughly with his snake oil man persona, and then he’d go about his business. The mission-imperative twitched in the depths of his mind, causing a tiny stab of pain behind his eyes, but then it settled back into quiescence; apparently it would permit him the delay.

The doxy finished with the clearing up and came to sit at his table without waiting for an invitation. “Hello,” she said, flashing white teeth.

“Hello,” he said, returning the bodkin to its sheath.

“What a pretty little knife,” she said.

“Thank you. My mother gave it to me; she said it would protect me from dangerous women.”

“Has it worked?”

He sighed theatrically. “Not recently. But I continue to hope, quite faithfully.”

She laughed, apparently delighted. “You’re not very gallant.”

He fixed a look of comic tragedy on his face. “Alas, I’m not very rich, either.”

She hitched her chair closer to his and laid a warm hand oh his arm. “I’d make you a special price. One entertainer to another. Or we’ll barter.”

He smiled. But his anxieties about Nacker and his determination to keep his mind on his business had combined to cool his ardor. “That’s extremely kind of you. I might hold you to it.”

She apparently sensed his dispassion, but didn’t seem to resent it. She patted his arm in a friendly manner. “Let me know. My name is Relia. And yours?”

“Wuhiya. Sometimes known as Wuhiya the Too-Little-Too-Soon.”

She laughed again. “Somehow I doubt it. Besides, that can be better than too-much-too-long. For example, last night…” Her expression darkened.

But then she smiled and went back into the kitchen, swaying pleasantly. Ruiz watched her go, feeling a little wistful.

A few minutes later, Denklar bustled in and sat down. “What are your plans now?” Denklar asked, looking somewhat rumpled, as though his night had been restless.

“I’ll set up in your common room. I won’t work hard at stealing your customers, and if anyone asks, I’ll say you’re getting a third of what I make.”

“Yes. All right.” Denklar drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

Ruiz smiled reassuringly. “Be calm, Denklar. I’ll soon be gone, and I’ll do nothing to excite your yokels.”

Denklar gave Ruiz an anxious look. “I hope you’re right. I also hope you won’t think me disrespectful for saying this… but an air of, well, unpleasant deeds clings to you. Trouble and pain.”

“Be calm,” Ruiz said, more sharply. “If I bring trouble, it isn’t to you, unless you’re an enemy of the League.”

* * *

Later, Ruiz chose a place in the common room where he could put his back against a solid wall and see all the doorways. He took a piece of dusty black velvet from his pack and smoothed it over the table — and then began to lay out his wares. The tiny glass vials of oil came in a dozen pale colors, each denoting a different variety of oil. The tops of the vials were flame-sealed, the leftover ribbon of glass swirled and looped into fanciful knots. The rows of vials made a pretty sight against the velvet, glowing like oblong jewels, their topknots glittering.