The Pharoah Contract

One of the women chuckled sardonically. “The Lord is feeling poorly; in fact, I hear your Expiation must wait a day, until he feels well enough to give his complete attention to the performance. Myself, I haven’t much sympathy for you — since you botched the job. So many fine poisons exist. What madness possessed you to dose the Lord just enough to make him ill? If you’d succeeded in murdering him, they’d have hung you from the battlements and that would have been that — a clean death and a quick one.”

“Ill-considered of me,” Ruiz said in an agreeable voice. “And the other prisoner?”

The woman laughed again, and this time it was a sound of pure pleasure. “That’s Rontleses, who didn’t see you make the switch that poisoned the Lord — as was his responsibility. What’s worse, his gimpleg trusty has reported to the Lord that several days ago you and the coercer talked together in low voices, at an unlikely spot out in the catapple plantations. So the Lord suspects a conspiracy between you and Rontleses, though none of his advisers can imagine why you should thus plot.”

She leaned close to the iron. “In Stegatum, opinions differ. Though you blundered away your opportunity to rid us of Brinslevos, at least you’ve taken Rontleses to his death, which pleases almost everyone but Rontleses.”

“Well,” said Ruiz. “Every blessing is mixed. For my part, I’d prefer not to accompany Rontleses.”

“No doubt,” said the woman, whose voice seemed to come more faintly, as if she was leaving. “They undertake Rontleses’ Expiation tonight, and yours tomorrow night, so you can look forward to at least one more day of life. Who knows, perhaps he’ll speak under the question, convince the Lord of your innocence. Probably not. Rontleses is a hard man. He’ll be pleased with your company in Hell, even if you are innocent.”

Ruiz heard no more. He sank down, clutching his aching head.

* * *

Vilam Denklar stood in the room formerly occupied by Wuhiya the oil man. He peered from the window that overlooked the Place of Artful Anguish, wringing his hands. He was being forced to an unpleasant decision, but he could see no way out. The agent in the iron cage was an Uberfactorial; no doubt he carried a death net. Were Denklar to ignore his plight, and allow the agent to die for his foolishness — as Denklar would certainly do were the idiot of less exalted rank — the news of his inaction would immediately reach the League. Soon thereafter, implacable persons would come calling. “Denklar,” they would say, “tell us why you did nothing to save the Uberfactorial.” And what would he answer? They would judge him incompetent at best; at worst, a traitor.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he failed to hear the light step of Anstevic behind him, until a hand fell on his shoulder. He spun, to see Anstevic, looking dusty and red-eyed, as though he had spent an uncomfortable night in the waste. He opened his mouth to curse at Anstevic for so startling him, but the assassin clutched Denklar’s throat with one hand, sealing off his wind. In Anstevic’s other hand was a long dagger, thin as a wire. This he slipped into Denklar’s open mouth, so that the point pricked his palate. Denklar tried to pull away, to no effect. He tried to shut his mouth, but the wireblade was as rigid as an iron bar, and forced his jaw down cruelly.

“You have questions,” Anstevic said softly. “They must wait, possibly forever. First I’ll ask mine, and I hope you can give the right answers.”

Denklar nodded, a tiny careful movement, and Anstevic smiled. “Good,” he said. He withdrew the dagger from Denklar’s mouth. “Quietly now, tell me what has happened.”

Anstevic’s grip loosened slightly and Denklar drew a deep shuddering breath. “This morning men came from Brinslevos Keep, with Rontleses and the snake oil man. Wuhiya, he calls himself.”

With horrifying speed, Anstevic picked Denklar up by his shirtfront and threw him against the stone wall, where he hit with a dull thud. Anstevic jerked the dazed innkeeper to his feet and spoke in a harsh voice. “Do not dissemble. Tell me who the oil man really is.”

“All right, all right. He’s a League agent, Uberfactorial. I meant no harm — he told me to tell no one — but remember, I mentioned him before, I’m a loyal friend, Anstevic.”

Anstevic smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”

“I don’t really know what happened. After they put the prisoners in their cages, they came into the inn and ordered breakfast. They said the oil man had tried to poison the Lord, which makes no sense. He’s an Uberfactorial, after all; if he’d tried, he’d have succeeded, surely. Rontleses will die, they said, because he was on duty last night, watching from concealment to see that no treachery occurred when the Lord and Wuhiya smoked together. I can’t understand it at all.”

Anstevic muttered something under his breath. “Bad luck,” he said ambiguously.