The Artifact of Foex (10 page)

Was the relic robust or fragile? Despite its
delicate appearance and materials, it seemed to have survived
almost four thousand years without so much as a scratch. By magic?
Even the idea of magic—missing so long from the world—was exciting.
Chet wished he could have lived during the millennia when Foex was
alive if only to witness blood magic. Why on Uos did this thing
still work? Even the Flame, who’d locked it centuries ago, didn’t
know. The mystery was absorbing, fascinating, almost more vivid to
Chet than his first sexual encounters.

Fenimore opened the van door, and a delicious
scent of wet gravel and pavement wafted through the van. Chet
breathed in greedily, but both Flame winced. The rain hadn’t quite
stopped, the air alive with humidity. Topless and sweaty, Fenimore
traipsed down the street, looking back every few seconds. He slowed
near the corner.

“Is it stopping you?” Knife called.

“Indeed, yes. But... it also feels like there
will be more give to come. Like whatever binds us is stretching
even now, like gut string,” Fenimore said, walking back to the
van.

“Mmm. About a hundred feet, give or take.”
Knife turned to address the front seat. “Miss, we have an address
for you to drive us to, so we can pick up our luggage.”

“Right-oh,” came the cheerful reply.

The curtain swished aside and the prostitute
smiled at them. Her smile became a grin when she looked at Chet; he
dropped his gaze, ashamed. His face was cherry red, he was sure.
He’d just been deflowered—both ways!—and she’d witnessed the whole
thing.

Chet gazed up at Clementina’s palatial
residence with misgivings. He noticed the university van was parked
outside; was Rory back from the shuttle errand?

Journey studied him with an anxious
expression. “You will go in, won’t you? We do very much need our
luggage. Knife and I can’t even get dressed as our clothes will be
damp for some time, and I’m afraid this wig is done for until I get
a chance to work on it.”

“Right.” It was time to take one for the
team, again. Chet sighed. At least most of the graduate students
should still be at the dig site this time of the day. Was it only
early afternoon? Chet’s sense of time had vanished in the van. With
all the strange events and disruptions, who knew where people would
be?

Chet’s key worked just fine. No one seemed to
be around. The invisible cord binding him to the Raptus stretched
like a rubber band as he poked through the living room door into
the library. It was a bit like being attached to an umbilical cord;
it physically hurt to stretch too far.

Journey’s bulky suitcases were mostly still
packed. He stuffed loose items recklessly, though his fear of being
caught decreased as time passed. There were no footsteps in the
house. Knife’s small suitcase was easier, already packed. Chet
humped everything downstairs to the porch for Fenimore to take to
the van. Emboldened, he decided he wanted his own things. Who knew
how long he’d be gone in this cascading stream of events? He hopped
upstairs again and slipped into the room he shared with several of
the other guys...

Rory was waiting for him, sitting motionless
on his cot. Chet froze. Her brown eyes were murderous. “You’re a
doedicu, Chet Baikson.”

He frowned at her, his shock giving way to an
awkward uncertainty, off balance. Had she been in the house all
this time? He knew Shadow Dancers could reputedly turn invisible,
but she’d never done it around him. “Um, I don’t think name calling
is necessary, Rory.”

She waved this aside. “You’re in serious
trouble. Among other things, Clementina is threatening to have you
expelled from the program.”

“I—you’re kidding.” Chet was conscious that
he was feeling—of all things—his aching anus. He’d never realized
that sex with a man meant a sore ass afterwards. He’d never needed
to know, and now was the
worst possible
time to realize
the fact. “Surely Tibbets won’t let them expel me. He’s my senior
advisor.”

“Just watch her.” Rory turned away, her arms
crossed. She gazed through the window at the prostitute’s van,
visible from the street. “That’s... rather clever of the Flame.
I’ll give them that much. Considering they just won the arms race,
they’re certainly ready to run with their prize.”

“Arms race?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.
I think. I
hope
you don’t understand. Oh, Pantheon, Chet.
I pegged you as a normal guy. When you refused to trade places with
me on the university run, I thought you were just being obstinate.
Have I misjudged you so badly? Are you really one of us?”

One of who? Or maybe he should ask, one of
what? For a woman who hated deception, she’d certainly deceived
him
. “I
am
a normal guy," Chet said, clinging to
the only truth he knew in this floating conversation.

“If that’s true, you’re caught in the
riptide. Tell the Flame the others will be here at dark, and we
expect them to fully justify their actions.”

“Yeah, I gather there’s something going on
between them and your people, but I don’t think it’s about you
personally.”

She glared at him. “Of
course
it
involves me. I’m leaving the university. My doctorate isn’t nearly
as important as what the Flame—and you—are holding right now. This
matter impacts my Cluster on both personal and political levels. My
family
, Chet. Not to mention the world at large. So, if
you’ll excuse me...”

She didn’t move, despite her words. Chet
realized he could see the window frame right through her. Right
through her body. His ex-girlfriend was fading before his eyes,
fading into thin air, except she was still a wavering shape. Ghost
like. He took another step toward her just as the faint outline of
Rory raced at him, toward the door.

He was knocked to the ground. She—whatever
she had become—was like touching an electrical current. Chet
gasped, the breath knocked out of him. When he was finally able to
struggle upright, Rory was gone.

There was no sign of Rory. Chet looked at his
strewn clothing and books. He packed mechanically, leaving dirty
clothes under the cot. He did make sure to take his books. He’d
need them, he thought, for comfort if nothing else. His compact
array of classics with tiny print would keep him going as he
traversed unknown territory.

The rain had stopped, sun peeking through
clouds. Knife and the prostitute were chatting amicably in the
front seat of the van, sharing a cigarette like comrades in arms.
Journey was swiftly unpacking a suitcase, half dressed in sensible,
casual clothing. Fenimore seemed to be napping on the bed. All was
apparently under control. Only Chet was undone.

“Look, I have to tell you guys something,"
Chet said. He recounted Rory’s words and actions as they were
driven to—where? Chet didn’t know what came next.

Journey and Knife shared a significant
glance. “I’ll talk to them," Knife promised. Journey nodded and
kept riffling through her suitcase.

Chet hugged his knees. They didn’t see
surprised or even mildly curious. Of course, they were god
affiliates, too. God affiliates' in-born or granted powers had been
a point of contention his whole life. Chet’s family
still
expected him to choose a god or goddess, like all eight of his
siblings had. He had carefully chosen not to do so. His
unaffiliated status and field of study had been the only times he’d
ever disappointed his family. Chet had never been able to fully
answer their persistent questions of why he didn’t want to become a
god affiliate; none of the Pantheon appealed to him. He didn’t want
them. He didn’t want to be bound, entrapped, to surrender his
humanity to a god’s political goals and agenda.

Well, Foex had always appealed to him,
bloodthirsty as he’d been. But Foex was dead.

The Raptus was on the bed next to Fenimore,
who lay snoozing. Chet picked it up and turned it over his hands.
The etched writing caught his attention, and he studied the
markings intently. The ancient language was one he’d studied about
two years ago when he’d transferred programs from law to
archaeology: it was a variation of a Door dialect used by
Magicians. Zang and Tene had been clever to create something like
this—perhaps a little too clever. Chet recognized the symbols for
“control,” “force," and “stifle," but couldn’t make out anything
else. He licked his lips, feeling nauseous. What a... one-track
device. And he was constrained by it now, along with the
others.

The van slowed to a stop. “You’re here,” the
prostitute said from the front seat.

“Where?” Chet asked, bewildered as Journey
and Knife opened the door and began decamping.

By the painted bricks and blocky architecture
outside, they had to be in a historic district, one that harkened
all the way back to Wetshul’s days as a camp for the First
Conversion Army. Fittingly enough, it was called the Training
Grounds for United Victorious Equality District. Chet really had to
wonder at the church fanatics and poor squatters who would choose
such a mouthful to describe their patch of swamp.

“We’re at a hotel that will hopefully take
us," Journey replied shortly. Knife was heartily thanking the
prostitute as he shook her hand; by Knife’s words, Chet realized
she’d recommended the place.

It turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall, not
in a bad way. It smelled intensely of the past: lead paint, musty
curtains and a certain fragrant mold beneath it all. Chet breathed
deeply. The proprietor seemed about eighty years old and was going
blind, though he addressed Journey and Knife readily as, “My good
Flame.” He personally rode up with them in the rickety,
old-fashioned elevator to a room. Unlike the lobby, the room was
bright and airy. There were two double beds and mullioned glass
doors leading out to a wrought-iron balcony. The view was
spectacular. Chet even caught a glimpse of the university, an
hour’s drive up the Monastery Mountains.

“... I’ll have your meal sent directly up,"
the proprietor noted congenially.

Chet’s head snapped around, alert at the
possibility. “What meal?”

“They have a kitchen downstairs, run by that
gentleman’s wife. Traditional Wetshul cuisine," Journey
promised.

Fenimore sat on a bed to remove his boots.
“Mmph. Prepare yourself for sand and false teeth in the dirty
rice.” He curled on a bed in the same position he’d taken in the
van.

“Pessimist," Journey laughed at him. She
seemed far more at ease now that they were settled.

Despite Fenimore’s low opinion, Chet’s own
spirits were decidedly repaired by fish stuffed with sweet potatoes
and crawdads, doedicu in white garlic sauce, and spongy flatbread
that was the local custom. A shower after the meal was also
welcome. Chet had never before appreciated clean underwear in quite
the same way.

When Chet emerged, he found Journey, Knife,
and Fenimore had gathered on one of the beds, gazing at the Raptus.
It lay nestled atop the white comforter, innocent and inert as
Abyss. He joined them self consciously; as always, Chet felt the
odd man out. Nevertheless, there was a place for him on the bed. As
if echoing the ancient magic that had brought them together, they’d
automatically formed a cross-like shape around the Raptus... even
Chet had done so, he realized with a start.

Knife looked like a man—a Flame—laboring
under a heavier load than he’d anticipated. “We must decide how to
proceed.”

Proceed?
“I thought you were going
to give the Raptus to the Shadow Dancers," Chet said.

“We were," Journey said. “But it has us, now.
We’re trapped. We don’t know what it wants with us, and I’m afraid
we’re going to find out.”

“Is our course not obvious? It wants to be
used. It
should
be used,” Fenimore said. Though he seemed
to be trying to look relaxed, he was failing miserably. His pinched
nostrils and the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

Both Journey and Knife shook their heads. “I
want to consult with Aureate and Doyen," Journey muttered. “We
shouldn’t be the only ones making this decision.”

“It’s ours to make.” Knife raised an eyebrow.
For the first time, Chet noticed that both Flame actually had
eyebrows—and eyelashes, for that matter. How bizarre that they were
bald, yet Pelin allowed this. It seemed to fall into the same
category as distinguishing between bodily fluids and water: an
irrelevant, subjective distinction, completely illogical.

Knife continued, “Everything’s changed, yet
nothing has changed. The Raptus is as big a pain in the ass as it’s
ever been, and it’s high time to be done with the thing.
I
say we strive to destroy it. Barring other methods, all members of
the Flame Council are currently alive and have been initiated to
Pelin. This sort of confluence doesn’t happen often.”