The Artifact of Foex
Page 5
Fenimore seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Chet fought, mumbling inarticulate uncertainties, eyes wide. Fenimore drew him in as if reeling a particularly feisty fish. He slammed Chet against the van and kissed him on the mouth. Chet froze, bewildered and targeted. Fenimore penetrated his lips and thrust his tongue inside Chet’s mouth, his leverage excellent. Oh. But... oh. Chet’s cock rose like a flag, his muscles contracting and releasing. He should, he should... what? The kiss continued unabated as Chet struggled weakly.
Fenimore released him slowly—ever so slowly—and stepped away, grinning. His control was appalling. “Oh, how sweet your bum will be; I look forward to its sundering. But I’m afraid there is business at hand first. Come, my virginal catamite, let us be off.”
Chet noticed the dig site was less populated than before, mostly because graduate students were milling inside the processing pavilion. The students were apparently taking a break with the professors gone. A refreshing breeze cut through the stifling humidity as ugly, bruised clouds roiled overhead. A few graduate students were covering half-unearthed items up with tarps. Chet wasn’t worried. The dust had the tendency of only absorbing half an inch of water—if that—before the rest rolled off. Lucid dust did not soak through like soil because it was not a water-based medium. Complex chemical reactions of lucid mud, so important for his last final, flitted through Chet’s brain as he followed Fenimore down the steep grade.
“What is this barren wasteland? The work of your university?” Fenimore seemed taken aback. “This was all swamp. Trees and swamp, nothing more.”
“Oh, that’s long gone. They’re building a new highway nearby," Chet said absently, wiping his sweating forehead.
Ah, there were the Flame. He’d been expecting them to seek shelter, but they were still out on the dig site, same pit as before. Both were digging frantically. Chet saw Journey glance upwards at the coming thunderstorm with panicked eyes, her expression terrified.
“Knife!” Fenimore cried out as they drew closer. “You old cynodict, you look exactly the same. Why am I not surprised?”
Chet blinked at Fenimore’s words, and it wasn’t because he had just compared Knife to a skinny, hairless canine with a whip-like tail. Chet hadn’t realized that a shapeshifter would use their infinite flexibility to remain the same for three-hundred years. Or more.
Knife glanced up with a grin but didn’t stop digging. “Hello, Fenimore. I had a feeling those misguided doedicus couldn’t hold you long.”
“Why aren’t you two in the pavilion?” Chet said. Didn’t they realize rain would burn them? It was a stupid question, of course they knew. They must know. Lightning arced overhead.
“We won’t get another chance thanks to Clementina. We’re so close. It’s almost—” Journey gasped as the object they’d been unearthing popped free. She toppled backwards, the relic in her hands.
They all froze, staring at the dusty thing. It was about ten inches in diameter, a spherical shape with spikes coming out, like an archaic morningstar, or a doedicu’s tail. Under the dust, Chet realized the object was wrought of copper and glass, set with jewels. It was unabashedly gaudy. Chet knelt for a closer look, not yet touching the piece. There were Magician's symbols etched around the spiky parameter. He knew some of those symbols from years of study.
“Oh, Pantheon," Chet whispered.
This was fantastic! What a find. The god Foex had encouraged his honey-eyed affiliate Magicians to delve into dark, blood-bound magic. Real magic, not the fake stage stuff. Every affiliate had powers of one sort or another, gifted by their chosen god. Even Literati, like Professor Tibbets, had their mysteries and tricks. But no one—not even Flame with their showy shapeshifting—could hold a candle to Magicians. Foex had gifted his followers with astonishing power: the ability to draw energy from spilled blood, a power which ancient peoples had called magic. It hadn't mattered if the blood had been animal or human. Chet had always been taught that magic had vanished from the world since Foex’s death, yet here was something that looked like a magical relic.
Thunder echoed throughout the dig site.
“That would be mine,” Fenimore growled, making a grab for it. Journey pulled it away as he scrambled after her. “I lost three hundred years of my life because of the Raptus.”
So this is the Raptus. Chet stared as Knife placing a restraining hand on Fenimore’s shoulders. “Absolutely not, Fenimore,” Knife said soberly. “We’re taking the Raptus to the nearest Shadow-Dancer Cluster. It won’t be hard; their representative is nearby.”
“What? You want to give it away? Knife, we both know it was the Shadow Dancers who failed in their vigilance, letting the Raptus fall into the wrong hands. Why give it back to them when they’re clearly not the correct guardians for it?”
“It’s their god-given responsibility. Better than that professor woman, anyway. Petitioning a Pantheon member to destroy it would be best, but first we’d need to unlock it. Too risky. Not a task I was planning on taking on this week.”
“Destroy it?” Fenimore was obviously enraged.
He grabbed the object—the Raptus—and tried to pull it away from Journey. Knife grabbed it as well, and the two Flame united to keep it from Fenimore’s possession. A fierce tug-of-war ensued.
Chet was growing angry, too. “Stop it! That’s a valuable relic! Anyway, you can’t remove something from the site before it’s been catalogued.” Who did these Flame think they were? Give away or destroy a cultural artifact? The idea was repulsive. Horrifying. Instinct rallied against his training, and Chet grabbed the object, too.
An enormous pressure hit him, slamming him into unconsciousness.
He awoke to dust. Chet coughed and raised his head. He was lying on the ground, his hand still grasping the Raptus. Chet glanced around and realized Journey, Knife and Fenimore were all lying on the ground, unconscious. They formed a human cross around the object, each positioned at right angles with regard to each other. To Chet’s relief, the others stirred as a flash of lightning split the sky. No one was dead apparently.
“What was that?” Journey whispered.
Fenimore groaned, still face down in the dust. “Were we hit by lightning?”
Knife was frowning at own hand, still grasping the Raptus. “I can’t... can’t seem to let go.”
Chet tried and found that the ancient relic was stuck to his palm as if it had been superglued. “I can’t, either.”
“We must have triggered some reaction in the Raptus, asleep as it is,” Fenimore said as he looked up, his face plastered with dust.
“Locked as it is," Journey correctly sharply. “Neither of you two are god affiliates. This should not have happened.”
Chet stared at the Raptus. Journey’s condescending attitude was like a slap in the face, but it was a familiar feeling. Not like a magical relic which shouldn’t still work. Foex was dead, and nothing would ever bring him or his Magicians back. So why did this object still hold power?
Thunder cracked overhead, loud and immediate. “About fifteen miles away now," Knife whispered under his breath. Had he been counting the pause between lightning and thunder? “We don’t have much time.”
Chet grabbed his own hand and attempted to lever it off, using all his upper body strength. Fenimore was doing the same. They locked eyes. Fenimore’s pupils were enormous. No one had to say it aloud: they were trapped, and the Flame were about to burn. Chet wondered what that would look like and immediately decided he didn’t want to know. Journey and Knife didn’t deserve to suffer and die.
Chet licked his lips. “We’ll all run together. But where to?”
“Not the processing pavilion,” Journey said. He could see the whites around her eyes. “Clementina will be coming back.”
Reminded, Chet glanced over his shoulder. A few graduate students had spilled out of the pavilion and were headed straight for them. They must have seen the Raptus... Chet was suddenly possessed with an unfathomable urge to get away from them, to protect the r
elic stuck to his hand.
“We’d best run now,” Knife growled, as if echoing Chet’s instinctive urge.
Chet scrambled to his feet, dreading another marathon. His body was already aching. The alternative, however, was to witness Journey and Knife—do what? Melt or bubble away, hissing and sputtering like pure sodium dropped in a bucket? Not much of a choice.
Journey and Knife murmured, conferring as everyone scrambled up the grade, but this time, Chet didn’t understand the language. Journey glanced over her shoulder at him. “Chet, when you and Fenimore traveled here, did you see any of those prostitution vans?”
“Yes!” Chet cried out. “In the Shining Futures District.”
“Lead us there.”
“But... the prostitute had a customer," he said, gasping with exertion. Was that a drop on his cheek just now?
“Unless men are made of stauncher elements than they once were, he should be done by now,” Fenimore put in. He loped along at a steady pace, his expression grim.
Chet counted blocks and watched for landmarks. Yes, they’d passed that bank, that laundrette. Right, left, another left. People jumped out of the way as they ran. Chet saw a mother with her daughter, both of them wearing white gloves, neat and clean. The mother issued a short scream and grabbed her daughter, clutching her in fear as they passed. Chet blinked. Why is she afraid of us? Then he glanced at the Flame and got it. Knife had lost his cap somewhere along the way; his bald head was exposed for all of Wetshul to see.
The random drops resolved into a light pattering rain as they crossed over into the Shining Futures District. Three blocks or four? Knife and Journey were sprinting, and Fenimore’s loping had resolved into an all-out run. Perforce, Chet raced as fast as he could, yet he was slowing the others down. He could not breathe. The stitch at his side was agony, but the Flame must be in worse pain in this light rainfall. He could hear their labored, gasping breaths, their small whimpers. They should really duck into one of these buildings. Any of these buildings. It was stupid to keep going, but the Flame did not stop. Knife’s jaw was set, Journey’s eyes half closed to slits. Chet realized he could see the answer in the expressions of just about everyone they passed. This was Wetshul. Knife and Journey did not know what their reception would be in random locales, only that it would be unpleasant, possibly lethal if one or both of them were thrown out again. Who knew how long the rain would last?
They rounded a corner and Chet spotted the blue van. “There!”
The last hundred feet were the fastest he’d ever done in his life. Against all bets, the door was open. It was the usual sign of a prostitute waiting for a customer as Chet understood the process but still. They slammed inside the vehicle with the force and speed of stampeding doedicus, collapsing into a pile inside. Chet was buried beneath someone, but he didn’t care. Just so long as he could hold still and breathe.
“Hey, hey, this ain’t a playground. There’s no crack-the-whip games here. And I don’t do group rates!” a female voice complained. Chet groaned into the vinyl pressing into his face. He hadn’t considered that a prostitute van meant a resident prostitute.
Journey’s voice growled, “I will give you two-hundred gilt to let us stay here through the storm, and afterwards to drive us to the location of our choice in the city.”
“I ain’t fucking all of you. Well, maybe the two men, but not you, lady, or the Flame.”
“You will not be fucking anyone,” Journey said. Chet heard Fenimore protest wordlessly somewhere above him, and Journey added, “Or rather, if someone wants to have you, he can negotiate from his own belt purse. I’m not paying for it. Three-hundred gilt and that’s final. Best offer you’ll get in this rain.”
There was a sound like popping chewing gum, then, “What, I’m just supposed to sit here with you four, playing card games while it rains... for three-hundred gilt? Are you crazy?”
“Actually, we’d prefer if you stayed in the front seat and didn’t say anything," Knife put in. Chet realized the small whimpering noises filling the van emerged from Knife’s direction.
The prostitute snorted. “You’ve got a deal. Give me the money, and I’ll shut up.”
By the shuffling taking place above him, Chet assumed money exchanged hands. There was a slamming of van doors, and the space suddenly seemed darker. Of course, Chet thought. The windows were covered by gauzy curtains. Curious of his surroundings, he untangled from Fenimore—who had been draped over him—to looked around. Unsurprisingly, a majority of the space was taken up by a bed, built right into the van frame. It was covered by a demure, flowery comforter. The inside walls of the van were wallpapered with a print of sunshine and wildflowers. Chet hadn’t imagined a prostitute’s van would be so... homey.
Now that negotiations were out of the way, both Flame were hastily removing damp clothing. Sure enough, their skin was reddened and bubbled in places, as if from a very hot fire. Journey’s head had been mostly protected by her wig and hat, but Knife had been exposed. His bald scalp was covered in bubbling burns, some of them as large as a cherry. Water drops sizzled his skin as they dripped down his face; he swiftly wiped them off as he discarded clothing. Knife was crying, Chet realized. Journey murmured soothingly in some other language, perhaps the same tongue they’d conferred in earlier. Both Flame were down to their skivvies now. Journey’s bra was bright fuchsia and satiny—her tits filled it magnificently.
Chet looked away, his face hot. Then he gasped. “Knife, Journey, look! You’re not touching the object. The, um, Raptus.”
They appeared startled. “I still feel it, though,” Journey said as she retrieved Knife’s lighter from his discarded trouser pocket.
Chet tried to let go of it, and found that he could. Barely, but he could. He could feel an invisible cord running between the relic and his navel, as if it were physically tied to him. What a bizarre sensation. Journey was running the lighter over the worst of Knife’s head and face burns, which—depending on their size—smoothed out or burst under the tiny fire. Knife sighed in relief, his eyes shut tight as she ministered to him. Chet noticed that she ignored her own burns, which were admittedly lesser. Knife tended to his own hands, then gave her the lighter as he looked her over critically. Apparently satisfied with what he found, he turned to Fenimore, who was picking himself off the floor.
Knife took hold of Fenimore by his crocheted lapels, hauled him upright... and socked him full in the face. “You asshole.”
Chapter 5
Deflowered
Fenimore spat blood and grabbed Knife, grappling with him. “How—dare—you!”
“How dare you!” Knife said through set teeth. “You know what’s at stake! You know what destruction the Raptus could cause should it fall into the wrong hands. In this century, the danger is greater than ever before; it’s far easier to communicate and travel these days. The power of the Raptus would be a disaster.”
“I fought and nearly died for it.”
“You and I were charged with bringing it back to Konstantine. Well, he’s dead. Who are you going to bring it back to now, LaDaven? Who?” Knife let go of Fenimore, hissing under his breath. Fenimore must still be wet. “You weren’t even thinking, were you? You were just reacting.”
“So what? I—” Fenimore stopped, as if struck by a thought. “Oh. Prince Konstantine is dead. Isn’t he.”
“He is.” Knife sank to the bed where Journey was tending to herself. “He died in 7314 of a bleeding ulcer and treachery. Not that he didn’t deserve treachery at that point, the cunning bastard. While he might have had something to offer us as a prince, Emperor Konstantine would not have been a good guardian for the Raptus. I know that now.”
Chet had pressed into a corner to avoid the fight. As it seemed to be over, he reluctantly perched at the edge of the bed. They were going to be here for a while: Wetshul summer storms usually lasted an hour or two. They had time... which meant he might be able to find out what was going on.
“What is the Raptus? Is it
holy?” he asked. Meaning, had a god created it?
Knife glanced toward the front seat of the van, which was cut off from the back only by a flimsy curtain. Chet could hear gum popping on the other side. The prostitute was clearly listening—they must be better than a radio soap opera. Though the rain on the roof had become a heavier drumming and thunder grumbled outside, the storm wasn’t covering their words. Knife switched languages to the tongue of Tache.
“No, it’s not a holy object. The gods never had anything to do with it. Directly, anyway. It was created by the Magicians Tene and Zang around 3900, Foex’s millennium. The Raptus’s purpose is simple and direct: it’s a mind-control device. The person with full control of the Raptus can control every human within earshot.”
Chet had books by both Tene and Zang, respectively, in his bookcase back home. Also, admittedly, a few condensed volumes by each of them in his suitcase at Clementina’s house. He loved reading those two. Such different men with wholly divergent philosophies, yet similar in tone and style. But this was new information; how could these men have done something Chet had never heard of?
He scowled. “I don’t believe it. Why did they create something like a mind-control device? I would have expected more from the Magicians Tene and Zang than something a stage magician would use. In any case, I don’t understand why it works at all. All the Magicians are gone. Their god is dead. How did this thing just catch us like bugs on fly paper?”
Knife and Journey looked at one another, their expressions reserved. “We’re not entirely sure why it still works, either,” Journey said. “Let alone why it just caught us. Aureate would know more.”
Who? Chet frowned at them and crossed his arms. “The Raptus sounds like nothing but a cheap, showy trick.”
Knife snorted. “Oh, sure. Imagine being forced to kill your own parents, or to slaughter thousands of children, or to launch a nuclear assault, all against your own will. Some trick.”