The Pharoah Contract

The three performers linked arms and began to spin in a tight circle. As their speed increased the leader began to whirl his wand overhead, making a moaning sound. A great tube of shiny blue cloth rose slowly around the spinning mages, lifting higher and higher until they were completely hidden. It rose higher still, until it swayed over the platform like a vast serpent. The stamping of the mages’ feet and the shriek of the wand were clearly audible. When it seemed from the sounds that those within had accelerated to a humanly impossible speed, the tube belched forth a small cloud of metallic glitter and collapsed empty to the stage.

During the lengthy intermission that followed, Ruiz Aw leaned back and tried to get comfortable against the hard mud of the buttress.

The blinding pinpoint of the sun sank behind the toothy crags of the Senmut Hills. With twilight, torches flared into life on the stage and the nobles ordered braziers lit in the pavilion against the swift chill.

With full dark, two snag-toothed ruffians attempted to dispossess Ruiz of his perch, but he rolled his eyes maniacally at them, and set his staff to output subsonics in the most tooth-grinding register. The ruffians faded away with gratifying speed, making curse-warding gestures.

The mourner-musicians, who were arranged in ritual ranks between the stage and the pavilion, began to play a portentous dirge. On the stage the lid of the gilded sarcophagus rose. When the heavy stone lid had rocked back completely on its stops, the three mages leaped out. There was a final screeching crescendo from the orchestra, then silence.

The three stood in a row at stage front, arms raised, each wearing dull black robes, their features concealed beneath the fantastic masks of the Dead Trinity. Central was Bhas, the dry god, god of death and heat and choking dust. The lower half of his mask was an insect’s complicated mouth; the upper half, with its armored eyes, was the skull of a deadly lizard, one that carried venom in the spikes of its crest. The mask was edged with plumes of yellow and rust, signifying barrenness.

Flanking Bhas were his two sons by the lost goddess Nekhret, deity of improvidence. On his left was Thethri, god of famine, masked as a starving child. On his right was Menk, god of slavery, with a man’s eyes but a dog’s muzzle.

Behind them a fourth figure emerged from the sarcophagus, lifted on a hidden piston; the goddess Hashupit. In the first moment Ruiz hardly recognized the phoenix. The embroidered robes of the goddess enclosed her, a rich pale gem in a finely wrought setting. In Pharaohan theater, gods are introduced in masks, but not goddesses.

Her fine-boned face was alive now, as if the pleasure of the performance had overcome her dread.

Pipes skirled and the dark gods tore off their masks, revealing smaller masks that clung tightly to their heads, even uglier and more realistic than the overmasks. They flung the overmasks into a heap at center stage and pranced in a circle, while the goddess ignored them. A puff of green smoke obscured the masks and when it cleared the pile heaved with unpleasant movement. The mages drew aside and stood like statues. The heap burst apart with a hiss and a shriek of pain. A jackal-like creature scrambled free, dragging its hindquarters, pursued by an armored lizard. In a bound the lizard was on the jackal, crushing the foxy head with one snap of its jaws.

As the lizard fed, the scrabble of insect feet was clearly audible over the crunch of flesh and bone. Ruiz was surprised to see the audience closest to the stage drawing back in a welter of overturned stools and spilled wineskins. Then he saw the first of the bonan, an insect with a painful, but not dangerous sting. The wings of these were so heavily gilded that they could make only short flights at the shrieking crowd, but they made a fine glittering display as they shot through the torchlight.

It was not until the last bonan was crushed underfoot and the crowd had regained some composure that the lizard lurched toward the edge of the platform. There were some genuine wails of fear at this development, and even some rapid movement in the nobles’ pavilion. But the lizard disappeared down a trap just a meter from the edge. A faint shriek from within the stage drew several gloomy mutters from the nearest spectators.

Through all this savage movement, the phoenix looked on calmly, a faint inward smile in her eyes.

Thus began the performance of the traditional play called The Withering of the World.

* * *

It was in the Green Time, before the Mistake, when the land was covered with sweet grass and water ran naked under the sky. The Three were in their great banishment, imprisoned in Hell, far below the edge of the world. The Three had festered there for a million years; and so above all was tranquil.