“What is it? Is it that I am still dead? That I’m rotting and don’t know it yet? Do you fear a taint?” Her voice broke on the last word. “Will the grave infect you?”
He thought she might cry, for the first time, and it came to him that for reasons he could not understand he would find her tears unbearable.
“You’re alive. There’s nothing of death in you, Noble Person.” He touched her taut waist, pulled her close again.
She resisted for only an instant. “Show me this, make me believe it,” she said. “Make me know I’m alive.” She gripped his hips with her strong thighs, and pulled his head down so that he could kiss her breasts.
Afterward, he would remember the slow surge of the water as he moved inside her, and her upturned face, eyes closed, lip caught between small white teeth.
Shining through chinks in the bathhouse walls, the sunlight dappled her with golden glimmers.
But also he would remember that, although she was skillful and eager, there was in her lovemaking an odd detachment, a certain impersonality in the melting looks she gave him, a curious restraint to the soft sounds she made. By all the rules of his existence he should have found that detachment reassuring, but it made his heart ache a little.
Through some remnant sense of propriety, she insisted that she must leave before he did, and he saw no reason not to humor her. As Nisa stepped out into the sun, Ruiz heard her gasp. He went to the shadowed doorway, where he could watch and not be seen by those who stood in the square.
First he saw Corean the slaver, dressed in the same white shipsuit; her uniform, he supposed. Beside her stood the Mocrassar bondwarrior, the cyborg, and the conjuror that Dolmaero had called Master Flomel. Half a dozen Pung guards stood to the side.
Master Flomel caught sight of Nisa, and he jerked to attention, delight spreading over his narrow face.
“Why, it is you, dearest Nisa,” Flomel shouted jovially. “How glad I am that you survive.” There was no doubting his sincerity.
“Secure her,” Corean said, and the two nearest Pung moved with startling speed. They clipped a monoline coffle drop around her throat and led her away, out of Ruiz’s sight.
Chapter 18
There was nothing to be done. She was gone and it was time to start worrying again about his own precarious situation, time to stop worrying over the fate of some client world primitive. Still, Ruiz shivered with anger — anger at the slaver, anger at his own helplessness.
But it might have been worse. Flomel the conjuror was here, and Ruiz might have blundered out into the square and been noticed. He remembered the way Flomel had stared at him in the low-level cell, and the look that Flomel had given him, back in Bidderum, when Ruiz had flopped onto Flomel’s stage. Flomel had the look of a good hater. Ruiz was fortunate not to be in the hands of the conjuror, who would then surely tell the slaver about the blasphemous actions of the snake oil man, and then… where would Ruiz hide?
While Ruiz watched, the Pung herded out a delegation of the guild elders, headed by Dolmaero, who looked uncomfortable, but in control. In contrast, the others seemed terrified to the point of catatonia. They were, it seemed, most fearful of the Moc, and Ruiz silently commended their grasp of the situation. His own knees turned to water whenever he looked too long at the great insectoid warrior.
Ruiz found it difficult to analyze Flomel’s relation to Corean. It was almost as if the conjuror was unaware that he was property. Flomel spoke. “Dolmaero, Asewil, Tegabides, how glad I am to find you well.” Flomel used his orator’s voice, rich and sonorous.
Dolmaero stepped forward boldly, then bent his knee in a perfunctory bow. “Master Flomel,” said Dolmaero, without great warmth, “we’re happy to see you safe.”
Flomel seemed oblivious to the undertones in Dolmaero’s voice. “Thank you, good Dolmaero. You must be wondering what’s going on.”
“Yes, of course.”
Flomel paused and shot a somewhat anxious look back at Corean, who stood with her assistants, displaying no impatience. Apparently she preferred to deal with her property as uncoercively as possible.
Corean nodded, and Flomel turned back to the elders. “First,” he said, “I introduce our new patron. You’re privileged to meet Lady Corean Heiclaro, a Noble Person of this region, and a sponsor of follies and serious drama.”
“A great pleasure,” Dolmaero said, sweeping low in a more sincerely servile bow. The other elders imitated him, shakily.
Flomel continued. “There are many puzzling things about our arrival here, I know, but suffice to say, we’re not among gods or devils. Your confinement to these quarters is purely for your own protection, by the way; there are creatures in the outer corridors who have uncertain temperaments.”
Tegabides, a small round man with a perpetual expression of doubt, spoke bravely. “If yon monstrous bug is not a devil, what is it? And the fairness of the Lady Corean compels one to think in terms of goddesses, to say nothing of the magical manner in which we arrived in this unknown place.”
Flomel paled slightly. He spoke in a confiding tone. “It’s not good to speak rashly, Tegabides. The tall armored warrior is Dalfin, a member of the Mocrassar race, and our Lady’s bodyguard and executioner. These things have been explained to me in detail; at present I have no time to go into them with you.”
Tegabides seemed truculent, but Dolmaero laid a calming hand on Tegabides’ arm. “Let’s listen carefully to whatever Master Flomel does have time to explain.”
Dolmaero’s self-possession under these strange circumstances amazed Ruiz. He himself shook with rage and fear, and he was from a culture that took for granted much stranger things than Moc bondwarriors. But Ruiz excused himself; the phoenix was gone. He felt a shocking, irrational degree of loss.
“Come,” Flomel said. “Dolmaero is wise, as always. Lady Corean graciously permits us to go to the shade house to discuss these important matters.” Flomel turned and performed a deep theatrical bow, which brought a cool smile of amusement to Corean’s perfect lips. Then the conjuror herded the elders before him, and they disappeared from Ruiz’s sight.
Ruiz shrank back into the deepest shadows. How would the slaver pass the time? Would she call forth the stock for evaluation? Would she check the facilities for proper maintenance? Would she inspect the bathhouse? Ruiz watched in mounting apprehension as she stood quietly in the sun.
The Moc might have been a grotesque statue. The cyborg seemed to be playing a game on one of the dataslates built into his floater console.
Long minutes passed. Ruiz sweated.
At last Flomel returned, trailed by the guild elders. The elders seemed a good deal more cheerful, except for Dolmaero, who looked slightly ill.
Flomel approached Corean and spoke in wheedling tones. “Noble lady, Guildmaster Dolmaero asks a favor.”
“What is it?” Corean asked without inflection.
Dolmaero spoke. “There is an injured man. Could you speed the healing of his hurts, as you did for the phoenix? Or, at least, ease his discomfort?”
Corean came forward and the Moc moved after her, its great leaping limbs slowly pistoning. “Bring him out,” she said.
Dolmaero gestured and a moment later two men carried out an improvised litter. On it was the coercer, whose face was one vast bruise, radiating from his flattened nose. Casmin drew a sharp breath when he saw the Moc, then winced.
Corean stood over him, a look of detached curiosity on that incredible face. “How was he hurt?” she asked.