Nisa fell facedown on the filthy cot, heedless of the ancient stains. Her throat was full of panic, but she refused to cry. She pounded at her temples with her fists, as if she could drive this unacceptable reality from her. She seemed to be doomed to a greater Expiation than she’d bargained for, lost in an alien place, surrounded by contemptuous enemies and monsters, her only friend a casteless man whose opacity matched his strangeness. He spoke with the semblance of proper respect, but she was somehow sure he thought himself her superior — an almost incomprehensible idea to a favored daughter of the King. He treated her as she might have treated a sickly pet glistle. And the hideous way he’d disposed of the coercer, as if the destruction of Casmin had been a source of deep joy…. In that brief terrible dance, Wuhiya had seemed not quite human, a soulless beast, like one of her father’s hunting dirgos, set loose on some helpless quarry.
And yet with her he’d been gentle. And in unguarded moments, his eyes sometimes lost that flinty glitter, his mouth softened from its habitual tense line.
She grew less agitated, thinking about her protector. Who was he? More to the point, what was she to him?
The Pharaohans drew back when Ruiz approached the robocart, this time more in fear than in loathing, which was at least mildly satisfying. As he dipped up the pseudo-food, Ruiz felt Dolmaero’s eyes on his back — not in anger, as he might have expected, but in speculation.
Casmin was nowhere to be seen. The Pung guard watched Ruiz incuriously; it seemed no complaint had been made.
When Ruiz brought their dinner back, the phoenix was huddled on her cot, her face to the wall. Her shoulders quivered, but she made no sound. Ruiz put her plate on the floor.
That night Ruiz sat outside, watching the snapfields — sheets of pale green fire fluttering up from the walls. Suddenly he bent forward, rigid with interest. A section of the snapfield on the western perimeter had winked out, leaving a patch of darkness. He counted the seconds; shortly the field popped back on with a shower of off-phase sparks.
Over the following hours it failed several more times, always over the same section of wall.
He allowed himself to hope. It was a fine feeling, and soon he felt calm enough to go in to sleep. He settled on the cot next to the phoenix, who stirred but did not wake. “Pleasant dreams,” he whispered, just as though she were a real person, and not just a character in this dangerous play.
Ruiz woke refreshed from his short night’s sleep. Nisa still lay on her cot, but from the regular rise and fall of her breasts, Ruiz saw that her slumber was healthier.
He took off his tunic and exercised. This time he felt a little stronger, a little quicker, and he pushed his body a little harder. The phoenix woke while he was finishing. Her eyes were large with some complex emotion, but she said nothing.
Ruiz dressed and went out. The soft early morning light slanted across the paddock, throwing long shadows. It was too early for the robocart, so Ruiz walked to the wall nearest the security lock, intent on evaluating the paddock’s security system. As he loped through the cool air, it occurred to him to wonder why it had taken him so long to get started. It occurred to him that his sudden incompetence had much to do with the woman. Ruiz shrugged, dismissed the idea.
The wall itself was a substantial impediment to escape — six or seven meters high, and built of smooth gray meltstone. Ruiz noticed where some small burrowing animal’s digging had exposed the roots of the wall to a distance of half a meter. No deterioration was visible, above or below ground level. Ruiz assumed that the barrier was deep enough to preclude escape by tunneling. He turned his attention to the lock itself.
To his disappointment, he was able to identify the mechanism that controlled the door. It was a Feltmann molylock, unpersuadable with any equipment he was likely to construct using the unpromising material he might find in the paddock.
Ruiz was bent over, absorbed in his examination of the lock, when the door whipped up. Inside the security lock, the Pung guard stiffened and brought up the nerve lash it carried. At the far end of the lock, another alert Pung stood, a widefield stun cone ready.
Ruiz stepped back hastily, smiling a harmless smile. The guard glared at him for a moment, then signaled the robocart forward. Ruiz turned away and walked back toward the huts, his back crawling. But the guard didn’t use the nerve lash. At least, Ruiz thought, the Pung didn’t seem to be a vindictive or sadistic group, as slavers frequently were.
Ruiz carried a breakfast plate inside to Nisa. She was sitting up, face composed. He smiled when he set the plate down next to her, but she looked away. He felt an odd twinge of unhappiness.
Ruiz went back outside to eat his breakfast and settled in a patch of sunshine, where a crumbling mud wall made a comfortable seat.
To his surprise, Dolmaero approached as he was finishing the tasteless meal.
“May I sit?” Dolmaero asked.
Ruiz nodded. “Of course, Honorable Dolmaero. How may I serve?”
Dolmaero settled his broad frame on the wall, and chuckled ruefully. “I don’t think you need be so concerned with the proper form of address between us. You’re evidently not what you appear to be.” Dolmaero shot Ruiz a shrewd glance. “Nor am I what I once was.”
Ruiz made no reply.
Dolmaero peered at him with good-humored intensity. “Casmin will live, it seems, though at present he takes no pleasure in that.”
“Good news,” Ruiz responded, ambiguously.
Dolmaero laughed with genuine amusement. “Well,” he said, “I must apologize for my henchman’s rashness, though I think it’s safe to say he’s even sorrier than I am.”
Ruiz was forced to smile.
“Listen,” Dolmaero said, “I approach you against the advice of the elders, who are convinced you’re a ravening beast. I don’t think so. I think you are someone who knows more of our situation than we do, and I intend to appeal to you for information. Where are we, for example?” Dolmaero gestured at the sky, where Sooksun would rise above the walls. “Where’s the sun of old? At night the stars are unfamiliar; small clots of light litter the sky, like so many tiny moonlets, but there are no moons.”
Ruiz looked at Dolmaero with sudden respect. Here was a primitive with a supple mind. He shook his head and started to reply, but Dolmaero held up his hand. “Wait,” Dolmaero said. “I must tell you, the decision to put down the phoenix was a poor one, prompted by despair. Be assured, no more such decisions will be made. If nothing else is clear, we can be certain that the gods have turned away from us, so I’ll waste no more time hoping for their mercy or kindness. Instead, I ask for yours. Please, tell me what you can.”
Ruiz considered. It could do no harm, he thought, to tell the guildmaster of his experiences following the unloading of the drone. “I know little enough, but I’ll tell it. I was taken at Bidderum. After I woke in the iron coffins, I was taken below the ground, deep below, and put in a dungeon there for some hours. Was this your experience?”
“No, no, we were brought to this enclosure. I myself remember little of the iron coffins, except for a smell of overcooked meat. You remember more?”
“My memories are confusing,” Ruiz said honestly.
Dolmaero’s bright eyes searched Ruiz’s. “What of the dungeons?”
“The lights were magical. I was given no clothing, but it was neither warm nor cold. Little else occurred.”
“And then you were brought here?”
“Yes,” Ruiz replied. “I had the impression that a mistake was made. The only other prisoner that I saw in the dungeons was the conjuror, the one who took the semblance of Bhas in the play.”