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.
A heavy-shouldered youth with the tattoos of an assistant lizard tamer pushed forward. His meaty face was tight with frustration. “Yes!” he shouted, and Dolmaero drew back. “What use indeed. We live in these hovels, we are forced to eat this alien sludge; now they force us to rush this new production into being, without proper sacrifices and observances, without any firm payment schedule, without any of the customary relaxations and stimulants to which we, as artists of the first rank, are entitled. And why?”
“Tell us, Nusquial.” Other shouts of encouragement came from the crowd.
“Because we gave the finest performance ever seen in the southern nomarchies? Because our fates are harvested away from the soil of Pharaoh? Because we’ve fallen among demons? No! I don’t believe it!”
Ruiz was fascinated. Nusquial had obviously been erroneously trained as a beastmaster. The boy had a fine gift of rhetoric. The Pharaohans were captivated, eager to hear his words.
“No!” Nusquial shouted “I say it’s because our Guildmaster, the once-Honorable Dolmaero, has failed us. Has he interceded with the demons who hold us captive? Has he? Has he requested those comforts that are our just due? Why must we simply accept the miserly dole that Dolmaero seems to think proper? There is strength in our unity; that is the message that a hundred generations of our guildfellows send us. It’s our power not to perform that Dolmaero will not use.”
Nusquial jumped forward and took Dolmaero by the arm. The Guildmaster recoiled in shock, but the husky lizard tamer held him fast.
Nusquial’s face burned with violent energy. The two conjurors drew away, putting distance between themselves and whatever unpleasantness might occur. Nusquial dragged Dolmaero through the circle of elders, toward the west wall of the plaza, and Ruiz noticed that some of the elders seemed troubled. But the other members of the troupe seemed united in their anger with Dolmaero.
Reluctantly Ruiz followed. His natural inclinations and training urged him not to get involved. But he felt an unnerving certainty that he would be wise to act. In the first place, Dolmaero was an intelligent, resourceful man, and the troupe would need such a leader very badly in years to come. And Dolmaero had been kind to Ruiz. In the second place, if the troupe destroyed a valuable member of Corean’s new property, her rage would fall heavily on the troupe. Some would inevitably splash on Ruiz, if he made no effort to head off the disaster.
Nusquial shoved Dolmaero up against the wall, stepped back, and took up a piece of rubble. Dolmaero held himself straight, maintaining an impressive but useless dignity; all eyes were on Nusquial. The crowd pushed close. Nusquial held the chunk of stone high, like a trophy. He didn’t notice Ruiz threading the crowd behind him. “With this,” Nusquial declaimed, “we make a change for the better. With this, we wipe out the stain on our honor, in the time-honored manner. With this, we show our captors what manner of men we are.” Before Ruiz could reach him, he threw the stone with all his strength. Dolmaero ducked away, but the stone glanced off the polished top of his head, and the Guildmaster went to his knees, blood sheeting over his face.
Others bent for stones. In the midst of this, Ruiz tapped Nusquial lightly on the shoulder. Nusquial turned, his face full of feral excitement. Ruiz hit him two slashing blows, one on each ear, so quickly that the sound of the blows merged. Nusquial’s eyes went dim, and he fell like a tree, to lay face up in the dirt, quivering.
In the sudden silence, Ruiz stepped forward. He looked down at the prone lizard tamer, then nudged him tentatively with a toe. Nusquial lay as if dead. Ruiz drew back his foot and kicked him in the ribs. The sound of breaking bone shivered the air.
Ruiz turned to the crowd. “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. He slowly scanned the circle of white faces; no one seemed disposed to be rash. Ruiz smiled.
“A bit of wisdom, paraphrased from an ancient sage of the Home Worlds,” he said. “‘Let he who is without good sense cast the next stone.’”
A clatter of dropped masonry sounded in the plaza, and the crowd evaporated.
Dolmaero, on his knees, was trying to find a way to stand up. Ruiz helped him over to the shady side of the stage. He settled Dolmaero there on a bit of scaffolding erected by the stage painters, and went for a clean cloth and a basin of water.
Dolmaero said nothing while Ruiz wiped his face, though he winced and vented a small curse when Ruiz clamped his fingers down on the wound to stop the oozing blood.
When Ruiz was finished, Dolmaero lifted weary eyes to him. “Once again, you’ve saved the rubes from their own foolishness.”
Ruiz shrugged, smiling. It wasn’t the sort of remark that called for a response. After a bit, Dolmaero smiled back. “Not,” he said, “that I’m ungrateful. But tell me, what made you exert yourself?”
“The same thing that should be motivating your flock, Guildmaster. The fear of Corean’s displeasure.”
Dolmaero nodded. “Yes. In my own provincial way, I’ve stumbled on that truth. Strange that something so beautiful should be so deadly, eh?”
Ruiz laughed. “I’ll point this out, though doubtless you’ve already noticed: Many of the deadliest things are beautiful. For example, take the Lady Nisa.”
“Nisa? I would have thought her utterly harmless, except to herself.”
“Harmless? Ask Flomel about that when next you see him. She took up a pair of sewing scissors and did a thorough job of airing his innards.”
Dolmaero’s eyebrows climbed to the top of his forehead. “So the mage is dead?”
“No. The quacks here are very good. And fast. I have it on good authority that we’ll all be traveling together soon. Where, I don’t know.”
Dolmaero digested this information at length. Finally he said, “You’re a source of strange predictions, Wuhiya.”
“Call me Ruiz,” Ruiz said.
“Ruiz, then. Is that truly your name? Never mind. Your tattoos have washed away, I see.”
Ruiz rubbed at his face. “So. Well, I apologize for any offense my naked face may give.”
Dolmaero clapped him on the back and grinned broadly. “You could paint yourself blue and eat with your feet, without offending me in the slightest. I’m truly in your debt. Besides, a naked face frightens. I would guess that causing fear is part of your trade. Whatever that might be.”
Dolmaero got up, puffing with the effort. “But now,” he told Ruiz, “I’ll have to see to young Nusquial. He was always a hothead, which is why I made him a lizard man when he wanted to be a mage. Some don’t wear power as well as you wear yours.” He went off across the square, before Ruiz could ask him where Nisa might be found.
But he found her easily enough, in the bathhouse, attended by three ancient women — gowners, Ruiz supposed. Nisa stood on a low stool, while the women tried the drape of a rich red velvet against her. Bolts of other fine fabrics lay about in disarray. When Ruiz entered, the gowners failed to notice him at first, and he watched as they pinned and marked and debated in shrill cackles. Nisa looked at him, her arms lifted from her sides to accommodate the gowners, her face set, her eyes distant.
Against the cistern, Ayam lounged, watching the gowning. Ruiz glared at it, but it gazed back blandly, undisturbed.
When the gowners finally looked around and noticed Ruiz in the shadow of the entryway, they dropped their fabrics and pins and chalks and tapes, and fled out the back door with a chorus of small wheezy shrieks.