The Pharoah Contract

The goddess Hashupit walked one day along the edge of the world, alone. This was long before the building of the Worldwall, so that she could stand at the very edge and look out over the poisonous clouds.

She heard a dry voice, tiny, calling as if from a great distance. “Hashupit, cool, pale Hashupit,” it said.

She paused and looked out across the gulf of Hell, for the voice seemed to come, however impossibly, from the void. But she saw nothing, only the thick steams of Hell. After a time she felt a touch of fear, the first time she’d felt that emotion during the long eons of her existence. She heard nothing more, so she shrugged her perfect shoulders and returned to her father’s palace.

The next day she didn’t walk, nor the next.

When finally she resumed her walks, she stayed away from the edge of the world. Yet when she heard the voice again it was stronger, and beneath its arid rasp she felt the unmistakable resonance of power. “Hashupit — sweet, cool, cloud-haired Hashupit,” it said, then the voice drew a breath, a bellows firing a forge. “I can show you a clever trick.”

She waited a safe distance from the brink until almost dark — then she fled home feeling a mixture of panic and curiosity. A million long years had worn away since Hashupit had had a new admirer.

* * *

Ruiz was amazed at the texture of the performance. With delicate, controlled gestures, the phoenix acted the part of the goddess, soft and foolish, so effectively that Ruiz was not distracted by the primitive mechanisms of the play. The illusion was remarkable.

The three magicians clustered together on the lower level of the stage. From the huddle a thin orange paper snake occasionally shot skyward, symbolizing a poisonous thought directed at the favored gods above. The snakes sailed up into the night and then fell among the spectators, who ripped them open for the cheap beads and candy within.

Ruiz’s staff shuddered in his hand, signaling the movement of a large metallic mass nearby, and Ruiz jerked his attention from the play to the staff’s readout, disguised as a nacre inlay. It nickered unsteadily. But a moment later the indicator faded to normal. Ruiz frowned. Either the staff was reacting to a chance orientation in the metal-bedizened crowd — or they had very good dampers on the vessel he hoped to board.

In any case there was nothing he could do yet, and he sank back into the performance.

* * *

Now Hashupit came to the edge of the world every day, but the voice was silent.

But a week later, when she’d almost lost interest, it returned, with a power like avalanching dust.

“Hashupit — smooth-skinned dewy Hashupit, have you forgotten me?”

“Who are you?” she asked, as bravely as she could.

Below the edge of the world Bhas paused at the top of his climb, mightily pleased. The fair gods above had truly forgotten him. “I am the spirit of this place,” he replied. “I can be pleasing.”

“Just show yourself,” she said.

* * *

Ruiz saw the player pull a black silk hood down over the horrible features of Bhas. He mounted the upper stage with a clever slither. He stood before Hashupit, and from his fist sprouted a bouquet of poisonous pink thistles, arranged with black razorgrass.

* * *

He presented an interesting appearance to the goddess. He was tall, elegantly thin, and though his black garments were unfashionable, she saw that he dressed with a dandy’s attention to detail.

“We meet,” he said, bowing low. He handed her the bouquet. “From the foothills of Hell, for you.”

She took the bouquet, but the blossoms stung her, and when she dropped it the razorgrass sliced her fingers.

She was angered, and a red shimmer filled the air. “This is my father’s world,” she said. “Be off with you, before I call him to devour you.”

“As you wish,” Bhas said. “But first, allow me to make amends, please.” He raised his hand high, and the red glow of her anger was pulled from the air into the cup of his hand. In an instant a silver bowl lay there and Bhas proffered it to her.

“Here, lovely Hashupit, lave your pretty fingers here,” Bhas said, in courtly tones.

Her anger had been pulled away from her so quickly that she was disoriented and pliable, and without thinking she put her hand in the clear fluid. The blood from her fingers swirled in the bowl and the fluid began to darken, from claret to thick purple to black. Hashupit felt an intolerable pain in her hand. She jerked it out. “What have you done?” she gasped.

Bhas laughed, a cruel dry croak of amusement. “Poor Hashupit,” he said cheerfully, “you mustn’t depend upon your father in this. If you seek his aid, your fingers will never be pretty again. Look now, Hashupit.”

She looked and it was almost worse than the pain. The skin was dark and mottled, the fingers swollen into five ugly sausages.

“You’ll pay…” she said, but Bhas gripped her arm in a hot dry hand.