The Pharoah Contract

As time passed and Ruiz refrained from killing him, the factor relaxed somewhat, and became a passable guide. They passed other visitors to the submerged city, which Bolard called Thera. Ruiz glared fiercely at these others, who thereupon paddled in the opposite direction. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be the owner, who might have investigated a hard-looking guest he did not recognize.

One of the first buildings they approached was a dining hall, and Ruiz directed Bolard toward it, prompted by a sudden gnawing in his stomach. Long hours had passed since his last meal of pseudo-Pharaohan cuisine, and his exertions since then had been considerable.

When they emerged in the hall’s air space, the bond layer flowed away from them in sparkling rivulets. Ruiz took a deep breath, more satisfying than the rapid, shallow respiration that the bond layer demanded, and the odor of rich pangalac foods filled his nostrils. They were alone in the hall, except for a dozen robot servitors who waited by the dispensers. “Come, Bolard, I will try Preall’s table,” Ruiz said.

Bolard looked more enthusiastic than he had since he had made the mistake of speaking to Ruiz. “A fine idea, Scion,” he said, licking his lips. Ruiz guessed that Bolard was one of those fat folk who perpetually hungered, despite the availability of appetite conditioning, because such conditioning made gluttony no longer enjoyable. And here was Ruiz, ostensibly an irascible Macchias, the perfect excuse for indulging. Ruiz could almost hear Bolard explaining the situation to himself: But the Scion might have been fatally offended, had I not joined him at the table….

Well, Ruiz was not one to deny his victims their pleasures, as long as he wasn’t inconvenienced. He fell to eating with insistent enthusiasm, and encouraged his prisoner to do the same. Soon Bolard’s good humor was restored. Preall served a fine banquet, with choice food from many pangalac worlds, brought by the robots in unending rivers: rare meats, savory sauces, pastries light as sugared air.

Ruiz tasted a bit of everything, but refrained from gorging. Matters were proceeding suitably, but should an emergency arise, he must not be comatose with food and drink. Besides, an unbidden memory arose, of the phoenix play and the devouring mouth of the god of gods and the banquet that appeared as magically as this one did. That led to the memory of Nisa lying still with the stiletto vine violating her flesh.

Dark thoughts diminished the pleasure of his dinner.

Ruiz grew morose as his appetite waned, and Bolard noticed. “Well, Scion,” Bolard said timidly, “what would you like to see now?” The factor wiped greasy hands. “Perhaps the game rooms? The euphorium, or… would you like to visit Lord Preall’s peach pit? The harlots are imaginative and skillful, they say.”

Ruiz spoke sourly. “At present, none of those appeal.” Time, he thought, to restore the fat factor to a malleable terror. He leaned close to Bolard, spoke with a leer. “Let us return to the subject of killing. Tell me, Bolard, is artistry available, not simple butchery?”

Bolard’s chins trembled. “Oddly enough, Scion, I believe that the night’s entertainment commences soon.”

Ruiz was not surprised. The culture had the flavor of a barbarian conceit, where intensity in all the emotions was encouraged, where any number of abstract concepts such as honor and status and duty were artificially elevated to a higher status than life. “Take me to the place,” Ruiz said, with a barely perceptible touch of weariness.

Bolard was pompous, but he was no fool, and a calculating sidelong glance told Ruiz that Bolard was thinking too much, and that Ruiz had made a serious mistake in revealing any distaste.

But Bolard smiled and said, “This way, then, Scion.”

He smiled with a very near approximation of his original servile smile, but Ruiz resolved to keep a close eye on Bolard.

At that moment a burly scarfaced man in the somber uniform of the Lawbirth proctors stepped up into the hall. He looked at Ruiz as if inviting conversation. Ruiz looked back at the uniformed man with as unsociable a glare as he could summon, and after a moment the man turned away, shrugging.

Reentering the fluid, Ruiz and his guide swam downward, toward the roots of the city.

* * *

Marmo watched with one eye, as the spy bead showed the unknown as he and his captive went deeper.

Marmo’s ploy had been a long shot, so he was not unduly frustrated by its failure. Had the unknown rushed up to the false proctor with his tale of being kidnapped, then the proctor, who was one of Corean’s best coercers, could have burned down the unknown without further ado. But the unknown was apparently not an innocent bystander; he knew he was on Sook, where no pangalac law reached.