The Pharoah Contract

Corean felt a tingle of satisfaction. A slaver! Ruiz’s business was the one most likely to be helpful to her, further vindication of her good sense in preserving the man.

But she was cautious, so she probed deeper, below the verbal level of Ruiz’s mind. And in corroboration she found a well-defined inversion layer of memory: the harsh images of a thousand slave pens, the unmistakable stinks of confined humanity, the sound of nerve lashes buzzing on flesh, the cries of auctioneers in the markets of a thousand worlds. The deeper she probed, the more vivid these memories became, but the experiential pressure increased even more rapidly, and soon Corean gratefully rose to a less painful level. She could not doubt the reality of those memories. And nowhere in the memories she disturbed was any trace of the Art League, no indication that Ruiz possessed the subservient, authority-oriented personality that was usually attracted to League work.

“And what were you doing on Pharaoh?”

This was an important question, and Corean watched alertly as Ruiz gathered his thoughts to answer. “I was there to steal magicians. I didn’t expect to be taken myself.” The response contained dense undertones of fear, embarrassment, caution, and an intense desire to avoid punishment.

Corean laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said, projecting reassurance. “It’s all for the best.” She felt Ruiz’s mind relax slightly. She took up a different line of inquiry. “Why did you save the phoenix?”

Ruiz’s mind roiled with unmistakably genuine confusion. “I don’t know. But… she performed so well in the play. And she is good to look at. It must have seemed a waste, though I don’t remember much of the time after the boat caught me.”

This was not so satisfying a response. “And Corean,” she asked acidly, “is she good to look at?”

“Yes,” came the answer instantly. A red tincture of lust stained Ruiz’s depths, washing away her irritation at his previous answer.

Satisfied, Corean released the deadman switch and returned to her own body. She sat for a moment, admiring Ruiz Aw, thinking about what they would do together when he returned from the Enclave. She told herself that the pleasure would be as great as it might be now, that any other difference she might feel existed only in her own perceptions. But, she wondered, was a toothless tiger still beautiful?

* * *

Ruiz woke to the sound of quarreling Pharaohans. He was on the familiar dirty cot in the house of the casteless. That he was awake was proof that his shell persona had survived Corean’s peel. He seemed to be spending an unreasonable amount of time unconscious, though, an unhappy thought that touched off a reverie of self-pity, in which Ruiz gave himself over to feeling herded about by an unkind fate. This assignment had been characterized from the beginning by a distressing lack of control on his part. In retrospect, he had planned his escape attempt through the marinarium with a ludicrous degree of optimism, and the execution of the plan… the kindest observer would probably have described his efforts as having a certain hysterical exuberance.

The only sweet spots in the whole fiasco were the times he had spent with Nisa, who was a living symbol of Ruiz’s current ineptitude.

He sat up, his stiff muscles protesting.

No, Nisa was more than a symbol. She might hate him now, but she was intelligent; perhaps she would listen to his explanations. He went out into the square.

Most of the troupe seemed to be there, except for Flomel and Nisa. The elders formed a gesticulating circle, with Dolmaero at the center. The two lesser conjurors listened at the edge of the group of arguing elders. The others stood around in sullen groups, whispering.

“Quiet!” Dolmaero’s face was red; Ruiz had never seen him look so exasperated. “It makes no difference what you would or would not do. Do you not yet grasp the situation? We are owned!”

A fish-faced elder spluttered, “Owned? We’re not slaves; we belong to an honorable guild. How can we be owned?”

Dolmaero looked as if he regretted his outburst of candor. “Well, perhaps owned is not the correct term, Edgerd. But we are at least prisoners, can you argue that?”

“No, but whose fault is that? You’re our Guildmaster; why have you done nothing to protest our status? What use, to have a Guildmaster who can do nothing for his guildsmen?” Edgerd clenched his scrawny fists. A mutter of agreement ran around the plaza.

No one had yet noticed Ruiz in the shadow of the doorway, and he did nothing to draw attention. The air of the plaza was charged with incipient violence.