The Pharoah Contract

He dropped wearily to the rope mattress and assessed his situation. He could not shake off a sense of foreboding, which, he thought, was natural under the circumstances. He was in the hands of a man who apparently recognized no limit to his whim, no constraint on his authority — never a healthy situation. Additionally, Ruiz still felt a bit unsettled by Pharaoh’s alien ambience, and by his personal uncertainties.

He lay back, fixed his attention on the rough stone of the ceiling. He could hope that Brinslevos observed the Pharaohan custom that allowed snake oil men a greater degree of eccentricity than other low-caste persons. He could hope to be sufficiently entertaining to avoid Brinslevos’s disfavor, and at the same time he must be careful not to be so lovable as to be offered a permanent position at the Keep. The thought of staying long was a depressing one, so he put it aside and instead considered the problems involved in catching the poachers.

All over Pharaoh, conjuring troupes competed for fame and for “translation to the Land of Reward.” Translation was the Pharaohan interpretation of what occurred when a League harvest crew collected a troupe, which occurred whenever the League observers on Pharaoh Upstation decided that a troupe was ripe for collection. The selected troupe was usually allowed one last performance, which almost always took the form of one of the great religious plays called Expiations, during which a victim, usually a condemned felon, was sacrificed to the conjuror’s art. Immediately after the conclusion of the play, a League catchboat — made invisible by pangalac technology — moved in and scooped up the troupe. To the spectators, a miracle had passed.

Religion flourished on Pharaoh, as it did on most League-owned worlds. The League found it easy and efficient to exploit the religious impulses of client populations; what better way to conceal the bizarre evidences of its activities? On Cardoon, from which the League exported astonishingly beautiful women, the most beautiful were chosen at great religious festivals, and then were sacrificed to the gods — a process that involved loading them into small boats and sending them down an underground river. League personnel plucked the victims from their boats, just before the river disappeared into a vast siphon.

On Mortadinder, famous for the quality of its gladiators, men and women competed for the gods’ favor, playing a variety of deadly sports. The survivors became saints — and then product, to be marketed to pangalac worlds that permitted blood entertainments.

On Scarf, scholars strove to outdo each other at intellectual pursuits, for the glory of the gods. The superior were packed off to monasteries on high crags, from which none returned — since the monasteries were staging areas for cataloging and shipment.

On Pharaoh, more than religion drove the conjurors to heights of artistry. Those magicians who weren’t quite brilliant enough to win entry to the Land of Reward, yet were capable of consistently entertaining performances, might move upward through the otherwise rigid caste system, might even attain the status of aristocrats. Anyone at all, even a peasant, might strive for a career as a conjuror.

Ruiz’s problem was one of discrimination. With dozens of major performances on Pharaoh each week, how was he to pick the one that would be attended by the poachers? Presumably the poachers had some means of choosing the best available troupe not yet scheduled for harvest; the League catchboat had never come in conflict with the poachers’ boat. The League organization here was riddled by collaborators, obviously.

Ruiz worried at the problem, coming to no conclusions, until his eyes grew heavy and his thoughts drifted into disjointed speculation. Presently he slept.

By the time Ruiz woke, the sunlight had faded from the high window. Later, the hunchback brought a meal, one markedly less palatable than the food at the Denklar Lodge. Ruiz ate stoically. A long time later, he fell again into uneasy sleep.

* * *

Another man wearing the gorgeous rags of the snake oil peddler arrived in Stegatum at sunset, and rode his weary striderbeast through the sandy streets at a stumbling trot. He pulled up in front of the Denklar Lodge and bellowed for a stable boy. One appeared almost instantly and took the beast to the stable.

The man pushed through the doorway into the common room, jostling a pair of departing farmers, who glared at his back. He went up to the bar and ordered a mug of ale from Denklar. Denklar served him with unusual alacrity, then glanced along the bar, to see that no one stood close.

“What brings you back to Stegatum so soon, Anstevic?” asked Denklar in a soft voice. “I didn’t expect to see you again for a threemonth.”