The Pharoah Contract

Ruiz felt a cold dread. Despite his conditioned detachment, he had begun to see the phoenix as something… human. Something more than an anonymous victim on a backwater client world. As she twisted and struggled, moving down the narrowing corridor of the plot, closer and closer to her death, it became more and more difficult for Ruiz to watch. Her eyes seemed to turn inward, the fullness of her lips was cramped into a tight line of misery, but through it all, she performed her role flawlessly, admirably, still the foolish sweet goddess.

The climax of the play approached. Ruiz stirred himself, descended from his vantage point. He began to slide through the crowd, as if in a trance, encountering no resistance from the citizens of Bidderum, who were even more caught up than he. Ruiz worked his way closer to the stage, his training taking over, while his mind continued to be held by the play and its marvels and terrors.

* * *

In the palace of Canesh — where before all had been cool delight — dry ruin spread. Bhas moved at will, corrupting all within, even the sacrifices on which Hashupit’s father fed, so that the greatest of gods grew deathly ill. Canesh had barely enough strength to scrape the decaying scraps into his maw, and as Canesh weakened, all of Pharaoh approached death. Menk and Thethri stalked the land, infecting the world with their own special horrors.

As for the goddess Hashupit, she sat at the far end of her father’s feasting table and watched, thinking of her mating ceremony on the morrow. She had no faith that she would survive long after that, after Bhas had secured his triumph, and in any ease, Pharaoh would be dust, utterly and forever.

* * *

Ruiz stood at the apron of the stage, waiting. His staff trembled in his hand. But he was so transfixed by the play that the staff had to increase its signal to a painful tingle before he responded and dropped his eyes to the indicator. Metal was moving nearby, a mass suggestive of the craft that Ruiz watched for. He looked back over his shoulder, striving to pierce the gloom beyond the cressets, though he knew that such a craft would have excellent visual shielding. He felt a familiar tightening between the shoulder blades, and he should have taken steps to purge the spell of the play from his mind. The indicators zeroed again, and he relaxed minimally. The poachers were evidently willing to wait for the end of the play.

* * *

For the last time, Hashupit stood at the south edge of the world, looking down into Hell, her silk slippers touching the crumbling verge, where a heavy man would not dare stand. A hot wind lifted her cloud of fine hair and brought the scent of her body to her. She wore her favorite gown, so fine and sheer that her elegant flesh showed clearly beneath. Her ruined hand was wrapped in satin ribbon, cinched by strings of black sandpearls. She was, again, a magnificent sight, a believable goddess.

From the north came Bhas, to perform the ceremony of joining, the final cementing of his power. From the east staggered Thethri, bridegroom, holding his bloated belly as if it might fall off. From the west came Menk, a jealous witness to the ceremony. They slowly converged on the goddess, who shifted just a bit closer to the edge.

Bhas cried out in alarm, “Take care, beautiful Hashupit; the drop is far. You would not care for the steams of Hell, nor would I care to descend after you.”

Thethri made a faint gurgling sound and extended his skeletal arms toward her.

“You see,” Bhas said, “your husband-to-be is concerned. Please, come away from the edge.”

She held up her hand, the one wrapped in ribbon. “I’m no longer so beautiful, am I?”

“No matter,” Bhas said, edging closer by imperceptible stages. “Thethri is not particular.”

“So I guessed.”

Bhas stopped, just out of reach of Hashupit’s arms. He eyed Hell’s void uneasily, then stepped back a bit. “Menk,” he ordered, “bring her away from the edge.”

Menk folded his massive arms. “No, Father; I have no stomach to begin another million-year climb. You must fetch her yourself, or perhaps Thethri will do it.” Menk laughed, a soft throaty snigger.

The end came swiftly.

Thethri tottered forward with a strangled cry of desire, and the goddess welcomed him with open arms. Bhas darted forward, too late, as the two toppled off the edge of the world, Thethri shrieking fear, Hashupit smiling like a bride, clinging tightly.

* * *