Dolmaero’s eyes crackled with interest. “You saw Master Flomel?”
“Is that his name?”
“Yes. What of Master Kroel or Master Molnekh? Did you see them, too?”
“No.”
“Umm.” Dolmaero seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “Some among the elders believed that only the masters were translated to the Land of Reward, while we lesser folk were forced to bide in this land of Expiation. Apparently they’re wrong. I’m not sure this is hopeful information.”
A long silence ensued, during which Ruiz finished his meal.
Dolmaero sighed. “I believe that your story is longer than the one you’ve told, but I don’t blame you for keeping your own counsel. We’ve given you little reason for trust, so I thank you for your news.” He got up, with an effort. He stood looking at Ruiz for a moment with both puzzlement and interest. Finally he said, “Your tattoos are interesting to me, if I may comment on them without incurring your animosity.”
Ruiz nodded slowly.
“Well,” said Dolmaero. “They seem to partake of several traditions, in a manner that I’ve not seen before. Furthermore, and I mean no insult, they seem a trifle pale. An interesting variation.” Then, in an apparent non sequitur, Dolmaero said, “A study of obscure legends is a pastime of mine. You know of the discredited Cult of Saed Corpashun? Bhasrahmet has several times expunged the cult. But a few devotees survive, and claim that men from the far stars occasionally walk Pharaoh.”
Ruiz allowed no emotion to reach his face, other than polite interest. Dolmaero nodded in a friendly manner and walked away. Ruiz was amazed. Here was a canny primitive, indeed. And if Ruiz’s tattoos were losing their brightness already, there was little time left to engineer an escape. He returned to the hut in a sober frame of mind.
Nisa was standing by the door, holding her empty plate. He smiled cordially as he stepped by her. His intention was to sit quietly for a while and consider the possibilities of the situation, to try to rearrange them into a shape that offered a chance of escape.
As he passed, however, she reached out and tugged at his arm. “Wuhiya, will you help me?” she said.
He stopped reluctantly.
“I’d be very grateful if you’d take me to the bathhouse. I’m afraid to go by myself. You know why.” Her eyes were large, her small smile appealing; Ruiz saw that she was holding on to her dignity with difficulty. When he didn’t reply immediately, her lip began to tremble.
Ruiz sighed. “Of course, Noble Person, though I don’t believe anyone would molest you, now.”
Her eyes brightened, and she smiled. “You may call me Nisa,” she said. “I will appoint you a Royal Friend.”
He had to laugh. She took no offense, apparently mistaking his amusement for simple pleasure.
At the bathhouse, two men and an old woman left hastily, rolling their eyes fearfully. Ruiz watched while Nisa dropped her tunic and scrubbed her body with a handful of soapweed, then rinsed away the filth of her illness with dippers of cool water from a crock. He took a surprised delight in the pleasant lift and jounce of her breasts as she lathered her mass of dark hair, in the way the sudsy water ran down her pale flesh, flowing in the hollows, shining on the convexities. For the first time, Ruiz perceived the phoenix as more than a lovely but pitiable object. An urgent desire kindled in him, so that he could not look away from her.
Nisa felt his eyes on her as she washed. After a while she felt his desire, and so she began to shift her body for his benefit, moving in the ways that gracefully emphasized the line of her breasts, the soft sweep of her thighs. At first she was hardly aware that she was being provocative. After all, his status was only a bit higher than a slave’s, and with slaves and peasants one did not provoke, one commanded. Too, with his sudden violence and his alien beauty, she was not even sure if she believed him to be human. He seemed undismayed by this world of demons — was that natural?
She avoided looking at him, pretending that she didn’t feel the touch of his gaze. As she rubbed the soapweed slowly over her body, the coarse tingling touch of the fibers woke a trickle of heat between her legs, and it grew more difficult for her to suppress an occasional shudder of pleasure. She became aware of an aching tension in her breasts.
Still he sat quietly in his shadowed corner. Abruptly, her mind formed the image of Wuhiya at his exercises, his body flowing from one position to the next in a blur of hard beautiful flesh.
Nisa seemed to pay no attention to him, until she was finished and relaxing in the bathhouse’s deep cistern, as was the Pharaohan custom.
He could see nothing of her but one small hand where she held the side of the tank. He tried to quell his desire, to regain a cautious perspective, but his desire refused to cooperate. It painted pretty pictures in his memory, until he could think of nothing but Nisa.
“And you — do you plan to wash?” she asked, in a soft voice.
“Why not?” he answered. He soaped and rinsed in the prescribed Pharaohan manner, and it was very pleasant to rub away the dust and blood and sweat. He felt clean for the first time since he had left the Vigia. He stood on the step at the tank’s edge, looking down at her for a moment. She floated on her back, eyes closed, her hair a cloudy swirl, her breasts like white water flowers. Ruiz sighed, and then slid into the tank.
“How long may we stay?” she asked, without opening her eyes.
They were alone in the bathhouse, and Ruiz speculated that word had spread through the paddock: The undead phoenix and the mad casteless slayer were using the facilities. “As long as you like,” he said.
“Good.” She smiled and arched her back, so that her breasts emerged deliciously from the water.
Ruiz felt a little out of breath.
She allowed her legs to sink and turned to face him. He could almost feel the warmth of her body through the water that separated them. He floated silently, heart thumping.
“Did you see?” she asked in a wondering tone. “The scars… gone.”
“Yes, I saw.”
“Truly, you were right about the doctors here. Though now I’m not so sure that I didn’t dream the scars. The scars… and what went before.”
Ruiz was uncomfortable with that line of thought, but before he could think of a way to divert her, she pushed her shoulder lightly against his. Her skin seemed so exquisitely smooth… it was difficult for Ruiz to hold any other thought in his mind. But he didn’t shift away, and in a moment she pressed more firmly against him. Her face was very close to his; he felt her breath on his cheek, sweet and warm.
“Wuhiya, you were at Bidderum, I remember you at the gate. Did you see my death? No, don’t tell me. It was too ugly. If I didn’t die, I came close enough to satisfy the gods, and now I’m guiltless.”
He felt no curiosity about her crime; all his curiosity was focused on her body. What would it feel like to run his hands over those lovely contours, to touch her inner heat? He had the eerie sensation that she heard his thoughts — they were so close now — but she didn’t draw away.
“It’s odd, but I feel more alive now, in this terrible place, jostled by commoners who’d like to see me dead, than I can ever remember feeling in my father’s palace.” Her voice was slow, musing.
A long moment passed, and then he felt the tips of her breasts touch his chest. “Will you touch me?” she whispered. “Here, where the wounds were.” She took his hand and drew it across her belly. He found that she was as pleasant to touch as he’d imagined.
He wanted her with a fixity that amazed and horrified him. What was wrong with him, that he could so forget his precarious situation? She sensed something of his ambivalence and drew back, eyes wide and hurt.