The Pharoah Contract

While he waited for her to wake again, he pulled off his tunic and began to exercise the kinks from his body. He discovered, unsurprisingly, that the passage in the slave ship had sapped much of his strength and suppleness. With each slow movement, he found unexpected little pains, dangerous small weaknesses. He twisted and pressed, stretching the ligaments, pitting muscle against muscle. He found, after a while, an intense pleasure in the familiar dance, and his abused body began to respond, moving faster and faster, until the world was a spinning blur, and his heart pounded.

When he was finished, his skin ran with sweat and his muscles were tingling with hot fresh blood. He wiped away the sweat with a rag and dressed.

He sat down beside the phoenix, breathing deeply, mind empty, happier than he had been in weeks.

She was awake. She watched him with wide eyes, as if he were some strange performing beast, encountered in a menagerie.

“Noble Person,” Ruiz said carefully, “you’re awake? That’s good. Would you care for some breakfast?”

She made no response.

“Perhaps a cup of water?” Ruiz asked, getting up to fetch it.

“Yes,” she finally said, cautiously. “I’m very dry.”

He helped her to sit again, though she shrank from his touch. Then he handed her the cup. She seemed not to notice when her tunic fell away from her breasts. She drank the tepid water greedily, keeping wary eyes on Ruiz.

When she finished she held out the cup for more. Ruiz took it and said, “Wait a bit; see how your stomach receives it.”

Her eyes flared briefly, as if she were about to remind him of his station, but then she seemed to remember her surroundings.

Ruiz was pleased by her composure; it indicated an attractive strength. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you’re calmer today.”

“Have you told me your name?” she asked after a bit.

“Wuhiya of Sammadon,” Ruiz said, sketching a bow, “late of Bidderum.”

Her gaze darkened and Ruiz wished he hadn’t mentioned Bidderum. “Ah, Bidderum,” she said. Her voice became distant. “Bidderum, a dismal place. Though not so dismal as this. And I was in better health there, for a while.”

She looked down then at her naked belly. The scars were almost gone, only faintly visible in the dim light of the hut. She gasped and rubbed her fingers over her flesh. “Look,” she said. “Did I die? Was I resurrected? The Land of Reward, where we were to be reborn perfect — I’m not perfect but I heal. I heal.”

Her eyes were full of wonder when she turned them back up to Ruiz.

“This isn’t the Land of Reward,” Ruiz said, suddenly uncomfortable. He saw no point in theological discussion, so he lied as gracefully as he could. “You were badly injured, but you didn’t die. The doctors in this place are excellent beyond our experience; thus you mend rapidly.”

She giggled, which astonished him — there seemed no hysteria in the sound, just a sweet skeptical amusement.

“‘This place,’ you say. You make it sound as if we were no longer in the lands of Bhasrahmet. What other lands are there?”

This was a difficult question indeed, and Ruiz turned it over in his mind before answering. “We are far from Pharaoh, Noble Person. Very far.”

Before he could think of anything else to say, she spoke, and her voice was fearful again. “Are we in Hell, then? But we cannot be; the steams there would melt the flesh from our bones.”

“This isn’t Hell, either,” Ruiz reassured her. “I’m not sure I can tell you….”

She touched his arm gently. “Can you tell me anything?”

Ruiz suppressed, with amazement, a mad impulse to tell her of his offworld origin. He was distracted by a sharp knock against the door frame.

“Come forth,” spoke Dolmaero’s harsh voice.

She took fright again, shrinking back against the mud wall. Ruiz smiled reassuringly, and went to the door.

When he stepped through, Ruiz confronted a ring of guild elders, who glared at him with uniform expressions of outrage. Dolmaero was closest; the big coercer stood beside the Guildmaster. The coercer seemed eager; Dolmaero looked unhappily determined.

“What is your name and village, casteless one?” Dolmaero demanded.

“I’m honored by your curiosity. I’m Wuhiya of Sammadon.”

“With whom do you speak, Wuhiya?”

“Sir?” Ruiz feigned incomprehension.

“Inside, witless one! Who speaks?”

“Ah.” Ruiz allowed understanding to spread over his face. “You mean the noblewoman who lies ill.”

Dolmaero’s broad face paled. “She still lives, then,” he said, as if to himself. He stood rubbing his chin, an unhappy man. Finally he seemed to reach a decision — though from the set of his mouth, it was not a decision he took pleasure in. “You must fetch her out,” he said to Ruiz.

“Ah,” Ruiz said, with forced friendliness. “You wish to house her in a manner more suitable to her rank; am I right?”

Dolmaero made no reply, though his face set into a more dour expression. Then the coercer drew a long cord of twisted fiber from his tunic and wrapped it around his huge fists, smiling.

Chapter 17