The Pharoah Contract

Just before the stage rumbled into Bidderum’s central square, she caught sight of an extraordinary figure in the crowd that lined the gate. He was garbed in the fantastic rags of a snake oil peddler, as tall as if he carried noble blood, with a face like a daybat, sharp and imperious. He was so unexpected a sight that she was briefly shocked from the grip of the drug. Her eyes looked into his for a moment, and his glance reminded her of the mirrored hall of her father’s palace, where Nisa could look into the polished metal and see herself growing smaller with each new reflection. His eyes were hard as glass, but just for a moment they softened.

She allowed her gaze to float away. Were she not promised to Expiation, were she at home in her father’s palace, she would probably send her guards for the strange casteless man, and so would have yet another folly to Expiate. Then the drug pulled her under again, and she thought no more.

* * *

The square of Bidderum was broad and level, surrounded by earthen walls that gave increasing shade as the sun dropped toward the west. Ruiz elbowed his way through the press, ignoring the muttered curses that followed his progress, until he reached a low buttress that provided an excellent vantage. He unceremoniously displaced a group of urchins who were already established there, swinging his staff cheerfully until they fled, cursing him. He hitched up his rags and settled back on his heels to wait for the opening act.

To his left a stocky woman, wearing the clay-spattered apron of a potter, talked with her neighbor, an ancient with the tattoos of a scribe. “Mark my words,” she said, speaking loudly into the ear of the scribe, “this is an unhealthy sort of entertainment. Things were different in your day, eh?”

“Yes, yes. I sometimes think the young are too ambitious.”

“Too ambitious? You put it gently, venerable Dudmose.” Her hairy brows knit into an expression of righteous concern. “Others might call this blasphemy. I’ve yet to witness a phoenix, and this is the fifth attempt in Bidderum this tenyear. And the King’s daughter besides; where will it end?”

The scribe hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat untidily. “I stand by my statement.”

Then the two were swept away by the eddying crowd, out of eavesdropping range.

The square was packed, not only with townsfolk, but also with many farmers and artisans from the outlying regions of the nomarchy. On the far side of the square, Ruiz could see a bright pavilion, full of local nobles, drinking wine and smoking oil. A platoon of the nomarch’s guards stood before the pavilion, sweating in leather corselets and iron helmets. The soldiers watched the commoners enviously, particularly those who had come equipped with wineskins, food hampers, and one-legged stools.

A ripple ran through the crowd as the senior mage stepped from his place to the apron of the stage. He was a wiry man of late middle age, and his tattoos emphasized dignity and artful restraint. His voice was a fine resonant baritone. “Citizens of Bidderum, I greet you in the name of the King of Kings, to whom is given life forever: Bhasrahmet, son of Halakhum — Bhasrahmet, called the Great, who has graciously permitted this attempt to portray the deepest mysteries of our calling.” From the air the conjuror produced a gilded wooden tablet, sealed with the indigo chop of the king. With a flourish he presented it to the waiting captain of the guard, who relayed it briskly to the pavilion. The nomarch of Bidderum, a slender, nervous-looking young Lord only recently elevated, took the license and gestured his approval.

The conjuror bowed deeply. He turned to his two fellows, clapping his hands together with a sound like wood striking metal. They leaped forward in a flutter of rich gowns, leaving the woman motionless at the back of the stage. The lesser mages touched hands ceremoniously, and as they drew apart, a wand of polished black wood appeared to grow between their hands. Their leader seized the wand and struck it to the stage. Crimson light flared and a veil of red silk shot up, to be deftly taken in midair by his two assistants. Trailing the swirling cloud of fabric they ran back and flung it over the woman, where it settled over her still form. The leader made a series of arcane motions with his wand, culminating in a dramatic slash in the direction of the shrouded woman. In a glitter of golden sparks the shroud collapsed to the floor of the stage. Ruiz leaned forward, watched the empty shroud disappear into the cracks of the flooring, running like quicksilver blood.