The Pharaoh Contract

Chapter 7

The Denklar Lodge was a low rambling building, well kept and newly whitewashed, with many muslin-screened windows. The League agent who ran it apparently took some pride in his ostensible occupation.

Ruiz entered the common room, which at that early hour was occupied only by three idlers, who sat together in a dark corner, nursing small tankards of barberry ale.

The proprietor stood behind the low bar, wiping mugs with a dank cloth. At first glance he appeared to be a plump Pharaohan of middle age, bearing the tattoos of the publican’s guild. Ruiz’s second glance detected subtly wrong details; an un-Pharaohan directness of glance, an indefinably urban stance, a gloss of health.

The man — who would certainly prove to be Vilam Denklar, Agent Second Class — fixed a disapproving look on his face. “Can you pay for what you consume, wanderer? We have little charity to spare in Stegatum.”

Ruiz bowed and smiled cheerfully. “As elsewhere. Yes, I can pay, if rates are reasonable.”

“Hmph. Well, the rates are posted.” Denklar indicated a slate board on which was chalked a schedule of prices. “Can you read?”

“A little,” Ruiz said, squinting ostentatiously at the board.

After a bit, he ordered a barberry ale, which he paid for and took to the side. He sat quietly on a bench and relaxed, sipping occasionally from the mug of ale. After his night and day of exertion, he foresaw little danger of insomnia that night.

Dark fell before Ruiz finished his ale, which had an unpleasant resinous quality and was sour. But eventually his hunger grew to exceed his weariness, so he stirred himself and went into the inn’s adjacent dining room. He found a table in a dark corner and sat down expectantly. Time passed, and the room filled with local craftsmen, and a few well-off farmers who presumably preferred the inn’s cuisine to that of their wives.

Plates of aromatic stew, loaves of dark bread, and tall tankards began to appear in front of these customers, fetched in by two skinny young slaves. No one came to take Ruiz’s order.

The serving boys began to turn uneasy glances toward him as they passed back and forth. Still, they didn’t pass closely enough for Ruiz to reach out and snag one, so finally he sighed and rose from his seat. He followed one of them into the kitchen, where Vilam Denklar supervised three sweating cooks.

On noticing Ruiz, Denklar whirled to stare at him in annoyance. “What do you want? I can offer no employment.”

Ruiz smiled in a friendly manner. “What about supper? Can you offer that?”

Denklar scowled. “You can pay? I’ll take none of your potions in trade. It’s a fool who buys oil from a wandering nonesuch.”

Ruiz produced two worn silver coins, caused them to ripple across the back of his hand and then vanish. “Will that buy me a supper, a night on clean bedding, and breakfast?”

Denklar no longer scowled, though he didn’t smile, either. “Might be so, if they’re real. One felk in advance; that buys you supper, if you’re not too famous a trencherman. The other in the morning — for lodging and porridge with water and scirfruit.”

“A bargain,” Ruiz said. “I’ll return to the dining room, aquiver with anticipation.”

“First the coin.”

“Certainly,” Ruiz said, and caught a silver felk from the air. He laid it respectfully on the counter and returned to his table.

A few moments later the serving boy set a plate of stew before him. In a thick white gravy floated pieces of pale meat and waxy chunks of some mottled pink and blue root.

Ruiz attempted the authentic cuisine of Pharaoh for the first time, beginning cautiously, and then proceeding more enthusiastically. It was, he decided, not nearly as bad as he might have feared, though rather heavy-handedly spiced with pepper and some unfamiliar bittersweet herb.

When Ruiz was finished, a serving boy came and conducted him to his room. They passed Denklar in the hall, where the innkeeper was berating a charwoman for some minor offense.

“You set a fine table,” Ruiz said, smiling. “As good as the Acorn’s Ancestor, almost.” The Acorn’s Ancestor was a widely esteemed establishment convenient to the League’s Dilvermoon headquarters, frequented by League crew on furlough. Ruiz fixed a significant glance on the innkeeper, and then winked.

Denklar’s mouth fell open briefly, but he clamped it shut and returned to abusing his employee. Ruiz went on.

The room was hardly bigger than a broom closet, but the straw was clean and even the blanket appeared free of vermin. The only window was protected by close-set iron bars; it overlooked the Place of Artful Anguish, which was empty but for several upright man-sized iron boxes. Ruiz lit the small oil lamp that sat on the corner table, set his splinter gun/magewand within easy reach, and pulled off his sandals. His feet were a bit tender, so he rubbed them with a soothing ointment while he waited for Denklar to appear.

A moth with gauzy green wings emerged from some crevice and circled the lamp. In the minutes that followed, Ruiz finally began to feel the precariousness of his position — alone on a strange and dangerous world, without friends or allies. The feeling was not precisely self-pity, but it was close enough that Ruiz felt somewhat disgusted with himself.

Many times he had found himself in similar situations, and not succumbed to such maudlin thoughts. What was wrong with him? The image of Nacker came to him suddenly. What had Nacker done to him, that he should suddenly feel so vulnerable? He shook his head and tried to empty his mind of distraction. To some extent he succeeded, though he was still conscious of a formless discontent.

When Denklar came through the door, Ruiz snatched up the splinter gun.

“Why do you point your wand at me?” Denklar said heavily. “Will you transform me into a hoptoad?”

Ruiz twitched the wand to the side and fired a splinter into the doorjamb. The masonry shuddered from the impact, and Denklar paled slightly. He raised empty hands. “No offense. Just an attempt at humor. And I hope you don’t hold it against me, the way I acted earlier. Just staying in character, doing my job.” His voice had changed, become lighter and more fluid, and he spoke in the pangalac lingua franca.

Ruiz frowned at this carelessness. “Can anyone hear us here?”

“No, no. I put you where the walls are thickest — and the window looks out to the Place of Artful Anguish and the waste. The snake oil men sometimes scream in the night, which disturbs the other patrons. Anyone who spends the night in the square doesn’t care about the screams of others, or so I conjecture.”

Ruiz pointed the wand elsewhere, though he didn’t put it down. “Reassuring. I’ll have to remember to shriek occasionally.”

Denklar grinned, rather unpleasantly. “Not too loud, please. The local muckety, Lord Brinslevos, is entertaining two commoner doxies in the honeymoon suite. If you disturb him, you’ll end your career yodeling on an ant heap — and there won’t be a thing I can do about it. Touchy, is his lordship. I recommend that you avoid his notice, if possible, though that may not be easy. He’s a man for the oil, and he’s probably already heard about you.”

Ruiz blinked. “I appreciate the advice.”

“My job. Now,” said Denklar, rubbing his hands together, “to business. Who are you and what brings you to Stegatum?”

Ruiz brought forth his identity plaque and fingered it in a particular way. The white porcelain became transparent, to reveal a glowing golden torc, identifying him as a League agent with Uberfactorial carte blanche.

Denklar seemed impressed. His wide face showed a sheen of sweat, though the air was growing chill. “I see,” he said.

Ruiz put the plaque away. “Good. I can tell you this much: I’m here to analyze certain operational deficiencies. And when I’m done, heads may roll.”

“Not mine, I’m certain. My job description is simple and exact. I watch for unauthorized technology, I provide housing for League agents visiting the region, and I try to check the worst of Brinslevos’s impulses….”

“Oh?”

“Yes, of course — we want life to be hard for the peasants, else what pressure would drive them to excellence in conjuring? After all, it’s the only way out, for an ambitious child. But revolutions are too likely to breed unwelcome change, and Brinslevos is particularly careless of his property.”

“Ah.” Ruiz examined Denklar carefully. No doubt the innkeeper had things to hide; what League employee did not? The crucial question was this: Was Denklar a part of the faction which had tried to eliminate Ruiz, and if so, had the conspirators been able to communicate new instructions to Denklar regarding Ruiz? It seemed at least possible to Ruiz that there had not been sufficient time to formulate a policy and give the necessary orders. In any case, Denklar had reacted to the sudden appearance of a stranger at his inn with no perceptible anxiety, which argued for his innocence — or lack of information. And to suspect every League agent on Pharaoh of duplicity was probably feckless paranoia. Possibly.

Denklar shifted uneasily. “How may I assist you?”

Ruiz allowed him to fidget, while Ruiz maintained a frown of officious suspicion. “Well,” he finally said, “I’ll tell you later. For now, I’ll stay at your inn, sell a little oil, and soak up the lay of the land. Acclimate. You’ve noticed the blackout from the orbital station?”

Denklar seemed startled. “Actually… no. We have spy beads active here, of course, beaming data up to the platform, but very little downlink traffic. This is an unimportant station, after all. Any child who shows any talent for conjuring is immediately sold off to a mage school in one of the major towns, so no serious collecting occurs here.” A light seemed to switch on behind Denklar’s eyes. “You’re here to investigate the poachers, aren’t you?”

Ruiz frowned more severely. “My mission is classified. Don’t be inquisitive. The blackout I mentioned now includes your uplink; my boat is monitoring the spectrum for violations. It’s a very good boat.”

“Of course, of course. Well, count on me. What shall I call you, by the way?”

“Call me Wuhiya. Don’t alter your behavior toward me, except to permit me to peddle my wares in your common room.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. Word may get around, and then I’ll have snake oil men infesting every corner.”

“You can handle it.” Ruiz was suddenly very tired. “Go away now; we’ll talk more in the morning.”

Denklar left, clearly unhappy. Ruiz barred the door, then set out various alarms and mantraps, which might preserve his life if enemies arrived while he slept.

Just before Ruiz was ready for bed, the green moth flew into the lamp and perished in a puff of twinkling sparks.