The Emperor of Everything

Then he was distracted by dark memories. He recalled the Art League factor on Dilvermoon who had hired him for this job… and then the League-owned Gench who had installed the death net and mission-imperative compulsion in his own mind. He discovered to his surprise that he had at some point reached a decision: He would never again permit his mind to be tampered with. It occurred to Ruiz Aw that he might have to find a new profession, in the event he survived his present difficulties. A remote possibility, he thought, and put the notion away.

“Also,” Ruiz continued, “the Gencha are a nontechnical race — they appear unable or unwilling to design machines to augment their abilities. Otherwise they might indeed control the pangalac worlds. Oh, occasionally a particularly ambitious Gench gains substantial power by converting a few influential humans. None has ever consolidated its position successfully. Partly luck, I suppose, but mostly it’s because the Gencha as a species don’t seem to be interested in power for its own sake. Finally, there are very few Gencha — and most of them are prisoners.”

“Very valuable prisoners, so I would suppose, if they can be forced to do their work at their captor’s behest,” said Dolmaero.

“Yes. Very valuable.” Ruiz was forced once again to consider an unpalatable truth: The Art League had sent him not to identify those who had been poaching valuable slaves from the League’s client world of Pharaoh, but to lead the League to an enclave of Gencha on Sook.

Ruiz glanced downslope, verified that the tumble of loose stone ended in a sheer drop, and shuddered.

Dolmaero followed his glance, smiled. “More luck. I must remember to stay close to you, Ruiz Aw.”

Ruiz sighed. “The luck comes and goes, Guildmaster. We’re far from safe yet.”

“What do you think we should do?” Dolmaero leaned forward attentively.

Flomel spoke in testy tones. “We must rely on the Lady Corean’s mercy. She’ll surely understand that we had nothing to do with the casteless slayer’s outrages. She’ll soon be here to rescue us from this bizarre place.”

Ruiz laughed, astounded. Even the other Pharaohans were watching Flomel with wide eyes, as if he were some odd menagerie beast, trained to perform eccentric tricks.

Dolmaero only shook his head.

“Flomel, Flomel,” said Molnekh. “This is no moment for jests; besides, you were never a great joker. The Lady Corean’s mercy strikes me as unreliable. Don’t you remember her ‘mercy’ to Casmin, your favorite enforcer? She cut his throat and burned him to a cinder.”

“I think Flomel’s too stupid to learn,” said Nisa. “He’s like Kroel, only he hides it better.” She looked at Flomel with vindictive eyes. “He’ll end up just like Kroel, with any luck.”

Flomel purpled, knotted his hands into fists. For a moment Ruiz thought Flomel might strike Nisa, and he swayed forward, filled with a hot impulse to commit violence. Here was an opportunity to be done with the treacherous conjuror; his fingers ached with the urge to snap Flomel’s thin neck.

Flomel looked into his eyes and stumbled back, suddenly pale.

Ruiz took a deep breath, and by degrees relaxed the snarl that had frozen on his face.

The others were watching him with frightened eyes. Even Nisa had drawn away, as if suddenly unsure of him. His heart twinged, and he managed a smile.

Her responding smile was genuine, if a bit cautious, for which he could not blame her. She would need to be mad or utterly foolish to trust him entirely… and she was neither.

“Well,” he said, in a somewhat shaky voice. “You may wait here for Corean, if you wish, Master Flomel. She’ll be here in two days, or a little less. Yonder ledge will make a roof for you, but we can spare you no food.” He smiled a different smile. “Still, I can almost guarantee you won’t die of hunger.”

Flomel looked down. “Guildmaster,” he said in a low voice. “What do you advise.”

Dolmaero answered reluctantly, “I think Ruiz Aw is our only hope, Master Flomel. We’re babes here, in a wilderness full of banebears. I think we should accompany him as long as he will permit it.”

“I must accept your advice, then,” muttered Flomel.

Ruiz was disappointed.

He examined the weapons he had salvaged from the wreck. He wore, clipped to his belt, Marmo’s splinter gun — the only really effective weapon they possessed. From Banessa’s collection of archaic weapons he had taken an antique stiletto, a heavy two-edged dagger, a small lady’s kris with a garter sheath, and a short solid-brass club with a spiked head. The giant woman had owned more powerful weapons: a graser, a brace of seeker-stingers — but like many personal weapons, they were designed to function only under their owner’s control. He’d jettisoned them along with her body.