The Emperor of Everything

To his delight, Ruiz could see a straight line striking down the center of the valley, parallel to the mountains, perhaps thirty kilometers away. It was too far away to positively identify, but it looked like a highway cut through the forest, on which might travel vehicles fast enough to get them away to a hiding spot before Corean arrived.

“It’s like my father’s gardens,” said Nisa, who stood close beside him. “Where do they get all the water?”

Ruiz smiled at her. “It falls from the sky here, all the time. Or at least often enough that the trees grow without tending.”

She turned an unbelieving glance at him. “Of course,” she said in tolerant tones, as though she was certain he teased her.

“No, really,” he said. “Wait, you’ll see.” As he spoke, he noticed that dark roiling clouds were building to the north. “In fact, we’d better hurry along, before we get washed away.”

Flomel sat down. “I must rest. And it’s time to eat.”

Ruiz sighed. “I tire of you, Master Flomel. I cannot leave you here; you would surely tell Corean where we’ve gone, long before she finished killing you. So, either come along without further complaint, or I must end your life. I can do it without pain.”

Flomel stood quickly. “I’ll go,” he said sullenly.

“Are you sure?” Ruiz asked gently. “I fear our association must end badly for one of us. And there are worse places to die.” He made a gesture that took in the broad sky, the green country beyond, the clean wind that blew up the pass. “And worse ways.”

“No,” said Flomel with more enthusiasm. “I’ll go.”

Chapter 3

The path, though steep, seemed in better condition on this side of the pass, and they made good progress. By the time the sun was halfway down the afternoon sky, they had descended to the wooded foothills, where the trees were tall and ancient. Ruiz set a fast pace, but apart from the occasional mutter from Flomel, no one complained. As they walked down the path, the day grew darker, and soon the sun was hidden behind the clouds, and the light further dimmed by the branches of the trees that overhung the way. The Pharaohans drew closer together, made uneasy by this unnatural exuberance of greenery. Pharaoh’s one habitable plateau was such a dry barren place that only the richest and most powerful Pharaohans could afford to maintain gardens.

“What sort of folk could live in such a strange place,” asked Nisa in hushed tones.

“I don’t know. All kinds, probably, like everywhere else.” Ruiz spoke in a distracted voice. He felt something of the others’ uneasiness. The forest was dense enough that it offered ample opportunity for ambush.

Nisa took his distraction as a rebuke and drew away, for which he was sorry.

Despite Ruiz’s anxiety, nothing sprang at them from the undergrowth. No missiles flew at them, no nets dropped, no traps sprang. But by the time the light began to fall toward twilight, his troops were footsore and slow, except for Molnekh, who seemed as fresh as he had at the outset of their trek. His frail-looking body apparently disguised a hearty constitution.

They passed into a belt of up-tilted limestone strata. Here and there breakdowns had formed caves; just ahead a fairly capacious one opened just off the trail. The roof projected sufficiently to keep off the rain that threatened, but the cave was too shallow to attract large predators. Soot stains on the gray ceiling showed where other travelers had camped under the overhang, but none of the signs of use seemed recent, and Ruiz decided to call a halt. He was pinning all his hope on the highway he’d seen from the pass. They would reach it in the morning, and stumbling down the path in darkness would save little time, or at any rate not enough to risk the possibility of broken ankles and night-roving beasts.

Flomel stared gloomily at the shelter. “This is where we must spend the night? This damp hole?”

Ruiz grunted. “Be grateful you’re not still at the pass. That you have a need for shelter,” he said. His dislike of the conjuror had grown more intense over the last few days. It wasn’t just that Flomel had arranged Nisa’s brief death in the first phoenix play, or that he would have cheerfully killed her again at Corean’s behest. Dolmaero and Molnekh were equally culpable; none of the Pharaohans saw any great immorality in the brutality of the phoenix play, not even Nisa, who in an attempt to avoid a second death had once ripped a pair of sewing shears through Flomel’s guts. No, Flomel was an innocent product of his primitive culture, just as Ruiz Aw was a product of his own hypercivilized one.

But Flomel saw other human beings only in terms of their usefulness to Flomel.

Ruiz frowned, struck by an unpleasant notion. Was Flomel so different from himself? Yes, of course, he told himself fiercely. Otherwise I’d just kill the little snake and rest easier.

He shook himself; that was developing into a disquieting line of thought.