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from all obligations herewith, provided the mortgage on the party of the second part’s soul is negotiated in good faith.”
    This is highly unusual, the psychologist said. Usually, two contractually joined parties can agree to waive the contract if they so desire. Placing this in writing indicates an erroneous motive, I believe.
    So the devil is sitting in on this hand, the gambler said. That doesn’t alter the odds.
    It made a difference. Taking on a freelance assignment for a wealthy eccentric man was one thing; taking on an assignment for a liar was another. Omar might not take his immortal soul seriously. I did.
    I scrolled to the escape clause. In plain words it explained that in one Earth year hence, if the undersigned returned with the Grail (subject to tests of authenticity and its untainted state), he shall be rewarded with the title to the Erato system, and—there followed a long list of documents verifying the quality of gems, the deeds to hundreds of slaves, and thirty escrow accounts scattered on a dozen worlds in triple-A rated banks. But if the undersigned failed, his soul became the property of the first party. Simple. Erybus Alexander’s signature was scrawled in blood at the bottom of the page; the capital “A” of his last name stood tall and pointed above the others. Three runes of Absoluteness glowed brilliant white at the very bottom of the contract. They made it unbreakable. In the lower right-hand corner was a blank line for my mark.
    A year. That worried me. I had never been comfortable with time limits. My assignments rarely had them. I preferred to oversee every detail, study my subjects, and get it right the first time. But a single year? It grated against my better judgment and professional training.
    Omar’s alliance had appeal. He was correct that we would cover more territory. But he was wrong: there could be only one winner. The contract indicated that clearly enough. In the end, we would have to kill one another. And I had already killed him once.
    Erybus’s solicitor distributed quills, albino peacock feathers with their tips sharpened. The ink we’d have to provide ourselves. Omar wasted no time. He impaled the tip of his finger, drew his blood into the quill’s tip, and made his mark. Goose flesh crawled across the arm that was next to him.
    I glanced up and saw the solicitor speaking to Erybus. I read his lips. He said: “Sir, we must find another champion to replace the pirate. His death was poorly timed.”
    “Yes,” Erybus replied and looked among us, “possibly … wait.”
    I lowered my head and pretended to examine the contract.
    Sign, insisted the gambler. Do it before we lose out!
    I held the quill firmly in my right hand, poised over the meaty pad of my left hand, and I faltered. The door the solicitor came through was wide open. I had a chance to escape. Did I need Erybus’s money? No. With my casino winnings I could live an extravagant life for a decade, or, if properly invested, I could retire and live comfortably for the rest of my days. I wasn’t greedy.
    Nothing justified this level of risk. Failure equaled death and eternal damnation in a year. I wasn’t willing to chance that.
    E’kerta disassembled his collective self. Each of the ten-legged scarab beetles in his body-hive made their mark upon the pact, a character and identifying scent that spelled his full name. Even Sister Olivia had signed and gently blew the ink dry on her contract.
    So why was I stalling? I should sneak out.
    You’re stalling because it’s a trap, Fifty-five said. That open door is Erybus’s way to see who’s going to chicken out. He’d be a fool to let anyone go who wasn’t under his thumb.
    He won’t kill you if you’re legitimately one of his thirteen, the gambler whispered.
    You were smart enough to take a second look at that contract, junior, Fifty-five continued, but not smart enough to know that the instant you stepped inside this room, you signed up.
    I felt like