“What sort of folk could live in such a strange place,” asked Nisa in hushed tones.
“I don’t know. All kinds, probably, like everywhere else.” Ruiz spoke in a distracted voice. He felt something of the others’ uneasiness. The forest was dense enough that it offered ample opportunity for ambush.
Nisa took his distraction as a rebuke and drew away, for which he was sorry.
Despite Ruiz’s anxiety, nothing sprang at them from the undergrowth. No missiles flew at them, no nets dropped, no traps sprang. But by the time the light began to fall toward twilight, his troops were footsore and slow, except for Molnekh, who seemed as fresh as he had at the outset of their trek. His frail-looking body apparently disguised a hearty constitution.
They passed into a belt of up-tilted limestone strata. Here and there breakdowns had formed caves; just ahead a fairly capacious one opened just off the trail. The roof projected sufficiently to keep off the rain that threatened, but the cave was too shallow to attract large predators. Soot stains on the gray ceiling showed where other travelers had camped under the overhang, but none of the signs of use seemed recent, and Ruiz decided to call a halt. He was pinning all his hope on the highway he’d seen from the pass. They would reach it in the morning, and stumbling down the path in darkness would save little time, or at any rate not enough to risk the possibility of broken ankles and night-roving beasts.
Flomel stared gloomily at the shelter. “This is where we must spend the night? This damp hole?”
Ruiz grunted. “Be grateful you’re not still at the pass. That you have a need for shelter,” he said. His dislike of the conjuror had grown more intense over the last few days. It wasn’t just that Flomel had arranged Nisa’s brief death in the first phoenix play, or that he would have cheerfully killed her again at Corean’s behest. Dolmaero and Molnekh were equally culpable; none of the Pharaohans saw any great immorality in the brutality of the phoenix play, not even Nisa, who in an attempt to avoid a second death had once ripped a pair of sewing shears through Flomel’s guts. No, Flomel was an innocent product of his primitive culture, just as Ruiz Aw was a product of his own hypercivilized one.
But Flomel saw other human beings only in terms of their usefulness to Flomel.
Ruiz frowned, struck by an unpleasant notion. Was Flomel so different from himself? Yes, of course, he told himself fiercely. Otherwise I’d just kill the little snake and rest easier.
He shook himself; that was developing into a disquieting line of thought.
He directed the other men to set up the tents under the overhang, while he and Nisa gathered wood for a fire. He was reasonably certain that Corean wouldn’t catch up with them until late the next day, and so a fire would be a fairly safe luxury.
Several seasons had apparently come and gone since the last traveler had visited the shelter; there was plenty of wood within sight of the shelter. But they moved far enough away for a private conversation.
Nisa bent close to Ruiz as he snapped dry twigs from a small deadfall, and he caught the clean scent of her hair. He smiled and drew a deep breath. She turned to look at him through the dark veil of her hair. “Have I angered you?” she asked. Her voice was almost truculent.
“No, of course not,” he said. “Have I angered you?”
She smiled at his serious tone, and her face became cheerful. “No, not really. But you’ve been different, since you captured the boat.”
“I suppose so.” Ruiz set the deadfall across two boulders, and used his boots to snap its trunk into usable sections. “It’s because I’m working at my trade, and not just waiting for an opportunity to act. Though… waiting with you was as sweet a pastime as I’ve ever known.”
Her smile grew warmer, and her eyes shown with held-back tears. “I’m happy to hear that, Ruiz Aw. Though perhaps I shame myself to say so. No… that’s wrong. I’m a princess, but I’m sure you’re a prince in your own lands.”
He patted her hand. “I grew up a slave.”
Her eyes widened. “Then the princes in your land must be mighty indeed.”
He laughed. “I know of few especially mighty ones. In the pangalac worlds, persons of any station, even slaves, may make themselves kings and queens, if that is their desire — and if they can out-climb and out-fight and out-scheme all the other would-be rulers. There are many candidates, very many.”
“Your lands aren’t so different from mine.” She seemed a bit wistful, as if she had hoped that the wider universe was a happier and more just place. She straightened up with the armload of wood she had collected. “Well. You said you were working at your trade. What might that be?”
Ruiz shrugged. “It’s a simple one; staying alive. I hope to be a success for a few more days, long enough to get us away from Sook.”
She looked at him quizzically, lovely head tipped to the side appraisingly. “My confidence in your prospects grows daily. Will we share a tent tonight?”
“If that’s your wish.” He felt a sweet unfamiliar glow.
“That’s my wish, yes,” she said, and bumped him playfully with one round hip.
Later, with a low fire casting an orange light on the stone overhead, the five of them ate in silence. Looking at Dolmaero’s broad face, Ruiz saw that the Guildmaster had evolved more questions.
“What?” Ruiz asked.
“You will not be offended?” Dolmaero raised cautious eyes to Ruiz’s.
“No, speak freely.” Sometimes it saddened Ruiz that he seemed to inflict fear on everyone he met. Of course, Dolmaero had seen Ruiz perform terrible violence — so he could hardly blame Dolmaero for being wary.
Dolmaero sighed and looked down. “I must trust to your restraint, then.” For a long moment the Guildmaster was silent, staring into the fire. “I would ask you to tell me the truth about yourself, and about Pharaoh. Who are you, really? And what are we? And what have you to do with us?”
Ruiz was unprepared for such direct questions. His first impulse, born of a lifetime of subterfuge, was to lie as reassuringly as possible — he told himself that he must still protect his secrets, or risk triggering the death net. The meddling of Nacker the bootleg minddiver, and the near trigger after his attempted escape from Corean’s slave pens, had weakened the net somewhat… but if Corean recaptured him in such a way that he was helpless, the net would fire, and he would die. If the Gencha took him, the net would fire. If any other enemy of the League held him helpless, the net would fire.
It struck him that telling the Pharaohans the truth was no great threat, compared to these other likelihoods. After all, before any of them could be returned to Pharaoh they would be mindwiped.
He felt a sudden overwhelming weariness with deception. Caution evaporated. “Are you certain you wish to know these things?”
Dolmaero nodded heavily. Molnekh wore his usual look of bright-eyed amiable curiosity. Flomel curled his lip and feigned indifference.
“Please tell us, Ruiz Aw,” asked Nisa.
So he did.
He explained, with some hesitation, that he was a freelance enforcer, a man whose profession involved inflicting pain, stimulating fear, committing atrocities. No one seemed surprised, not even Nisa. Ruiz was a little taken aback by her easy acceptance of this ugly truth. Never forget, he told himself. She comes from an alien society, however human she may be genetically. Somehow the concept lacked force; perhaps he didn’t care what she was, as long as she was Nisa.