The Artifact of Foex (16 page)

Knife grinned and fished a leather wallet out
of his pocket... only it wasn’t a wallet, it held tiny metal tools
instead of money. “Thought these female professors don’t have the
salary of their Literati counterparts.”

“I believe she married into money,” Chet
said, watching with fascination as Knife picked the car door lock.
“Her husband’s family controls copper mines in the mountains.”

“In that case, she can afford to lend us her
ride.” The door clicked quietly, and Knife opened it. “Come on, get
in.”

They piled inside except for Knife, who knelt
under the steering column. He extracted another tool from the
leather wallet and unscrewed a front panel, then ripped through the
wires inside. He touched two wires together, and the car
started.

Chet shut his gaping mouth. He really
had
fallen in with bad company. These were the people that
mothers warned their children about. Well, not
his
mother,
but mothers in general. Stealing cars, possibly murdering people
and having sex like crazy... Chet couldn’t help but grin at this
last quality, despite his deep-set unease with sexuality,
especially his own.

“Want to try for the rental car in the
economy lot?” Knife asked. Chet nodded and gave directions.

Fenimore looked at them in disbelief. “Is it
worth the risk?”

“Yes!” Journey and Chet said simultaneously.
Chet didn’t want to lose his books much in the way he didn’t want
to lose his right arm. Journey apparently felt the same about her
things, too.

Except the economy parking lot was being used
as overflow for the numerous police cars that had responded to the
murder investigation. Policemen were walking between the lot and
the archaeology quad. There was no way to enter without being seen.
No way to retrieve their stuff. An officer glanced up at them even
as he filled out paperwork on his dash.

“Shit,” Chet said, wanting nothing more than
to sink down in the seat.

Knife said, “Everyone, stay calm. Look
bored.”

Chet closed his eyes, waiting for lights and
sirens to blaze up behind them. Nothing happened. Knife gently
steered them down the hill, and they passed not one but three more
police cars, sirens wailing.

“I can’t believe we got aw—” Chet paused as
they rounded the corner. Police were putting up barricades even now
at the base of campus. A checkpoint crossing.

Knife glared at him. “You realize this is
your fault, right?”

Chet swallowed and glanced at Journey in the
backseat. He was the most conspicuous member of their party, with
his police hat and bald head beneath. Journey knew it, too. He
slipped to the floor of the car. Chet watched as he flattened out;
it was a bit like watching pastry dough being rolled out. After a
moment, Chet realized Knife was changing, too. The shape—and
color—of his exposed skin was shifting, morphing. Chet stared,
wondering what the results would be.

“Face forward, Chet,” Journey hissed. “Act
like nothing’s wrong. Fenimore, take off your sweater and drape it
over my head and arms, then put your feet on me like I’m the
floor.”

“Try to stay calm, everyone. This is going to
get hairy,” Knife said. Even his voice was changing—it sounded
familiar, somehow. They were about a hundred feet from the
officers.

This couldn’t work. It would never work. Chet
faced forward with wide eyes and a smile plastered on his face.
What had Knife changed into? Who was he now? And how could the
police possibly miss the lump—the flat lump, but still—of Journey
on the floor behind them? Chet could
feel
cold sweat,
something he’d never felt before, as Knife brought them to a
complete stop.

“Morning, officers," Knife said in an
entirely different tone of voice. Abyss, his voice was
familiar.

“Step out of the car, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chet stared at Knife’s back, jittering with
unease. Knife seemed shorter in his new form. Chet glanced back and
caught Fenimore’s eye; Fenimore looked cool and collected. He
either didn’t understand the severity of the situation or—more
likely—he’d experienced worse. Chet swallowed and tried to emulate
Fenimore’s nonchalant attitude.

“What seems to be the pro—hey!” Knife cried
out. The officer had grabbed his hair—the wig—and swept it off his
head.

“A Flame!” Both officers drew their guns and
trained them on Knife, who’d raised his hands above his head.

“Yes, I’m Flame. But I’m also a student
here.” Knife had finally turned so Chet could see his profile. Chet
gaped. He
knew
that face, knew it well. Knife continued,
“My initiate name is Oak, but on campus I’m known as Steve.”

“There are no Flame at Semaphore University.”
The officers seemed hesitant, the tips of their guns wavering.

Knife made eye contact with Chet. “That’s my
friend and former roommate in the front seat. His name is Chet
Baikson. Could he step out of the car to verify my identity?”

The second officer moved around the stolen
vehicle, his gun now aimed at Chet, and nodded once. “Keep your
hands visible," he muttered as he opened the passenger door.

Chet rose from the seat, hands raised in the
air. He was shaking. “Um, hello.”

“Chet,
tell
them," Knife hissed.

“Okay, yeah. This is Oak, but I still call
him Steve," Chet said valiantly, gazing at Knife. Knife short as
Steve, but he was rounder: his belly protruded, and he had a bit of
a double chin. Was it because he was usually taller than Oak? Maybe
he had more mass. Chet continued, “Oak’s a graduate student in the
law degree program. We’ve known each other for three years, from
before he initiated to Pelin last summer.”

“What else?”

“Don’t you guys know a student when you see
one? Look, his last name is Irkshie and his student ID number is
772A-3-9G34,” Chet went on, warming to his work. Of course he knew
Steve’s ID, as Steve had let him cheat off a test that first year.
Chet was heartened that he still remembered it in the heat of the
moment.
Knife isn’t the only one who can pull this trick
.
“You don’t have to take my word for it. Why don’t you call the law
department on campus and
ask
them? Abyss, ask Professor
Espies. Oak, aren’t you’re taking a test in Espie’s maritime-trade
class tomorrow?”

Knife nodded, hands still raised in the air.
To Chet’s surprise, he was crying and shivering, as if he really
was scared out his mind. Despite the extra weight, he looked
exactly like Oak when he was crying. “Y-yes. P-please don’t hurt
me. It’s not a crime to be Flame! Not even outside W-Wetshul.”

“All right, stay put while we check this
out.” Both guns had been put away, now.

One officer went back to the car to confer on
his radio while the other walked around the car. “Hey, who’s
this?”

“Recent exchange student from Tache. He knows
almost nothing of our language, and his name is Fenimore LaDaven,”
Knife supplied, as if eagerly.

Fenimore smiled and waved through the car
window. In the Tache language, he said, “Very pleased to meet you,
you son of a rabies-infested dium and a scrotum-dragging
doedicu.”

Chet glared at him, and even Knife shot him a
sharp look, but the officer just shrugged. “Huh. Well, okay,
then.”

That was close,
Chet thought.
Fenimore had taken a chance, and not a small one. The officer might
well have known the Tache language... or, more likely, he could
have recognized some of the words Fenimore had used. It would have
been easy for the guy to deduce he was being mocked. Doedicus and
diums were universally thought of as common, stupid creatures
across Uos, no matter the language.

They waited. They waited some more. Finally,
the other officer came back. “What was your ID number, again?” he
asked Knife.

“772A-3-9G34,” Knife recited promptly. Of
course.

The guy checked his pad. “Okay, I guess
you’re free to go.”

An hour later, deep in the Monastery
Mountains, Chet said, “So where are we going next? We can’t go back
to Wetshul.” How strange it felt to be a wanted criminal. How
strange to have his whole professional future swept out from under
him.
Now
he could believe he’d be expelled. Abyss, he was
probably going to prison.

Knife glanced over his shoulder at Journey,
who was still rubbing the back of his neck. “We do the job. The
plan hasn’t changed. We visit the next council member on our
list.”

“At least Othnielia is relatively close. Only
about eight hundred miles away," Journey said, coughing. He looked
like he was in pain, and his voice cracked when he spoke.
Apparently, he’d flattened out his lungs and throat with the rest
of his body on the floor. “Pantheon, those wigs we just left behind
cost me 2000 gilt. Not to mention my wardrobe. Knife, how much
money do you have?”

“Some. The rental car and hotel took a chunk,
though, and we may have to get a little inventive soon.” By his
tone, Knife didn’t find the concept of stealing abhorrent.

Chet glanced around their stolen luxury car
and sighed. He’d just covered for the crime. Aided and abetted,
quite willingly. Even his family couldn’t save him if he got caught
with these people.

“
Inventive
would add more theft to
the charges on the list," Journey muttered. Chet was comforted that
he wasn’t the only one evaluating their growing number of
felonies.

Knife said, “They’ll want our heads for this
anyway. I mean, just think of the headlines. ‘Flame Murder Beloved
Professor After Stealing Ancient Relic.’ A roll of cash will make
little difference.”

“Prison is not my favorite place," Journey
said shakily. He was close to tears, Chet realized. “I don’t like
being locked up.”

“I know, lovely one. I know.” Knife glanced
at Chet. “You and Fen will miss most of the blame. They might get
you for being accomplices, that’s all.”

“My father’s rich," Chet said
reluctantly.

“There you go. You don’t have a criminal
record, right?”

Chet shook his head. Fenimore chuckled in the
back, and Chet glanced over his shoulder.

“I never thought to leave behind my own
deeds, but history has probably forgotten me,” Fenimore said. “How
untoward to have all my notoriety swept away in an instant.”

Now there was a thought. If Chet really
screwed this up, he could jump in the lucid mud river that Journey
claimed ran beneath the city-state of Allistair.
And then
what?
End up in some unknown future, all his friends and
family dead? Chet wanted the past, not flying cars and spaceships.
He wanted his
books.
Chet sighed and leaned against the
window, watching life pass him by.

The stolen car broke down a few miles short
of their goal, the engine smoking something terrible. It was early
evening, insects chirping in the dimming light. Knife and Chet did
the manly thing and popped the hood. They looked at the smoking
engine, then at one another. Chet instinctively understood that
Knife knew as little about engines as himself but had responded to
the masculine urge to seem in charge of such matters. They vented a
simultaneous sigh. There was a greenish yellow liquid dripping from
a ruptured part inside. Who knew what kind of part? Certainly not
Chet, to whom all engines were a closed book.

Knife cleared his throat. “Um. Maybe that’s
the radiator?”

“Could be.”

The sun was setting. After escaping Semaphore
yesterday, they’d driven thirty out of thirty-five hours on the
road, taking short breaks and switching out drivers. Chet had
bought snacks at a convenience store, but they’d avoided the few
restaurants scattered in the mountains, let alone hotels. The
results were hunger and seedy exhaustion. Knife had insisted
everyone drive at the speed limit, which had been a pain. Nearly
nine-hundred miles over the Monastery Mountains hadn’t been a
straight line, either.

Now they were surrounded by rolling hills and
farm country. West Eicha was a decidedly civilized chunk of
continent. On one side of the road, a herd of marauch watched them
curiously from behind a picket fence. The graceful, seven-foot tall
hoofed animals craned their long necks, probably hoping for
carrots. One occasionally honked through its distinct droopy
nose.

“Let’s start walking," Journey said, touching
her head nervously.

Journey was back in female form, apparently
because she felt like it. Knife had given her back her jacket, and
she’d fashioned a turban of sorts out of the white tee-shirt. It
looked odd, but at least it covered her baldness. Nothing else
could be done.

Knife sighed. “Walking is exactly right. We
can’t hitchhike like this—we’re too memorable together.”