The Emperor of Everything

Ruiz sighed. “Flomel, must you be so devoted an idiot? Don’t you understand that Corean was trying to smash us into that cliff?” He pointed out the forward viewscreen at the dark sandstone.

Flomel glared at him. “Nonsense. It’s your meddling that’s at fault. If not for your meddling, we’d still be traveling safely and comfortably toward our goal. If you think I don’t see through you and your lies, then you greatly underestimate me.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t underestimate you. But I’ll agree that in one respect things would be better, had I not ‘meddled,’” Ruiz said wearily. “You’d still be safely tethered in the cargo hold.”

A short silence ensued. “Speaking of the cargo hold, what of Kroel,” Dolmaero asked, a bit hoarsely.

Ruiz shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, but none of the others seemed to understand his meaning. “Kroel is dead.”

“But, how do you know?” asked Molnekh, looking stricken.

Ruiz stood. “I killed him. I couldn’t think of any other way to save us.”

The emergency lock was sufficiently intact that Ruiz and Dolmaero were able to manually crank it open. The others fled past Kroel’s headless corpse, but Dolmaero lingered with Ruiz for a moment, staring at the small jagged hole in the engine compartment bulkhead, torn open when Ruiz had detonated Kroel’s collar. Dolmaero turned his gaze to Ruiz. “How did you think to do this?”

“I don’t know. A lucky whim. For us, anyway — though I suppose Kroel would be dead with the rest of us, otherwise, so he’s no worse off. Here, help me with these food packs. The boat carried enough food for another day, but there are fewer of us now, so it should last several days, with care.”

Dolmaero hung the packs from one broad shoulder. “Kroel wouldn’t have lived much longer, anyway. His soul had already fled.” He shrugged and turned away. “You’re an odd man, Ruiz Aw — though I hope you’ll take no offense at my saying so. You kill your enemies as easily as another man might swat bloodbugs. Then you regret the death of poor Kroel, who meant nothing to you. But I fear for your remarkable luck. Can it last?”

“We only have to get off Sook. If my luck lasts that long I won’t ask any more of it.”

Outside, Ruiz examined his little group of survivors. They clustered around the airlock, all wearing unhappy faces, except for Nisa. Ruiz’s susceptibility to her beauty had been responsible for most of his recent difficulties… but there were compensations. He took a moment to admire her smooth pale skin, her great dark eyes, her long black hair, thick and soft and glowing with coppery highlights, and her graceful long-limbed body. Her loveliness complemented a quick intelligence and an admirably strong character.

He smiled at her. She gave him a sweet melting look in return, at which Flomel scowled and made a grunt of disgust.

Ruiz considered Flomel, a stringy middle-aged man with a hard face and a self-important manner. The tattoos of a senior conjuror were prominent on his shaven skull. Flomel had been as much a prisoner as the others, but unshakable arrogance compelled him to regard his captivity as a form of protective custody. He had yet to be convinced that Corean had intended to sell his troupe to the highest bidder.

Ruiz judged him a dangerous man, and he was certain that Flomel was hatching some treachery. Ruiz shook his head. What was wrong with him that he could not simply kill the conjuror, as common sense dictated?

Molnekh stood beside Flomel, looking about curiously. He was tall, gangly, and thin to the point of emaciation. Molnekh also wore the tattoos of a conjuror, and had assisted Flomel in performing the masterful illusion-plays that had made the phoenix troupes of Pharaoh so valuable in the pangalac worlds. Ruiz felt a certain admiration for Molnekh, with his optimistic acceptance of his changed circumstances. He couldn’t help contrasting Molnekh’s resilience with the fatal brittleness of Kroel, who had been reduced to comatose panic by the strangeness of Sook.

Finally there was Dolmaero, a stout somber man, tattooed in the spiky red and green patterns of a Guildmaster. He had been the leader of the troupe’s supporting crew — the dozens of scene setters, animal trainers, gowners, carpenters, surgeons, and other specialists whose expertise beneath the stage made possible the conjurors’ miraculous tricks. His position was subordinate to the conjurors, on Pharaoh… but on this new world he was evolving toward a more dominant role. Dolmaero took his responsibilities to his people seriously, Ruiz thought, and his was a supple, clever mind. When Corean’s catchboat had scooped up both the phoenix troupe and Ruiz Aw from the harsh world of Pharaoh, Ruiz had believed his disguise a near-perfect one. But Dolmaero had been the first to notice that Ruiz was not a Pharaohan.