The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  Chet watched the movement of her hand. “Yeah. Next time.”

  Fenimore picked himself off the ground and began whistling a cheerful ditty. “Everyone ready? Let’s head back to civilization!”

  Chapter 16

  Family Values

  Chet had expected his parents to be home on a weekend morning. What he had not counted on were his two older brothers with their families. That meant two sisters-in-law and the eleven assorted children between them. Pantheon help them, one of his sisters-in-law was pregnant again. Chet could only be grateful that none of his actual sisters were home. With the Flame still in Nun costume, he didn’t want anyone taking a real close look at them.

  “Chet!” his mother cried out. “What are you doing here? We thought you were doing that silly dig thing out in Wetshul, burrowing in the earth like some common construction worker.”

  “Waste of time,” his father put in, stuffing his mouth with sausage and whitefish. “I could put you to better work here as mid-level management. You’d have fifteen employees under you tomorrow morning.”

  His brothers echoed this sentiment, adding brotherly comments about his lack of intelligence and motivation. The in-laws ignored the name calling and focused on the children, who were running wild. Chet kept his still-oily mouth shut and glanced at Knife, Journey and Fenimore. Journey’s eyes were wide and fascinated, vague no more. It was hard to tell what Knife was thinking behind the ugly visage, but Chet rather thought she was taken aback by the noise and bustle of the family weekend breakfast. Fenimore was truly taken aback. He looked appalled by both the children and uproar.

  It felt bizarre to be home. Chet's mother had put her finger right on it: he hadn’t expected to show up for a long time with the dig of the century going on. He felt out of time as a man who’d fallen into lucid mud.

  The sensation was especially intense with Fenimore and the Flame trailing him. His parent’s house somehow made recent events more real, not just a dream he’d wake up from any minute. Despite the pain and uncertainty of the last few days, he felt proud of himself. He’d endured with newly acquired friends and skill sets, yet he couldn’t help but feel this rise in self esteem was a soap bubble about to burst. Chet always felt smaller and insignificant at home, outshone by every other family member. Abyss, even his sisters—the Nuns—were blazing extroverts. Not like him. He’d been the odd guy out from the cradle on up.

  Even so, he felt reasonably optimistic. Maybe now that he was traveling in bad company—dastardly Flame and a libertine courtier—he would have the spine to stand up to his family. Maybe.

  Chet cleared his throat.“Uh, I brought some friends home.”

  “We can see that, Chetling,” his mother said. She hugged him and frowned, trying to straighten his hair. “I swear, you seem to be covered in grease. There’s something matting your hair, too.”

  Semen, Chet thought sourly. He ducked away from his mother’s reflexive grooming. “Do you mind if I go upstairs and take a shower? My friends wouldn’t mind having some breakfast, if that’s okay.”

  “There’s plenty, help yourselves," his father said congenially.

  One of Chet’s brothers, Brae, made eye contact and smirked, then let loose a belch, purposefully winding Chet up. Abyss, Chet hated how crass his brothers were. No one else seemed to mind, though; his wife just sighed and the younger family members giggled. More competitive burping followed. Chet ignored them. He wasn’t anyone’s favorite uncle, and—though it kind of hurt—he didn’t want to be. Sometimes he felt like Brae was training the next generation to make fun of him, too.

  Chet stayed long enough to make sure the Flame received loaded plates and were seated at the table. The Baikson family had servants but preferred to only be served formally at supper. Or rather, his father preferred to eat breakfast, “With everything hanging out," as he liked to put it.

  Fenimore followed Chet upstairs, presumably to flee the Baikson circus. “Your family is insane. The house is stately enough, but they act like peasants," he commented in undertone.

  “They’re my folks, okay?” Chet said, put out.

  “Well... I suppose they’re more like minor hangers-on of the court, the type who’d ferry a commission to a brothel owner or pilfer through a rival’s jewels. For a fee, of course. I used to employ the type all the time.”

  Chet supposed Fenimore was attempting to be diplomatic. Too bad he was so lousy at it. “There’s nothing minor about my family.”

  “My words sting, do they? The truth can be hard to swallow, I know. Like swallowing my sweet jam.”

  Chet wrinkled his nose, catching the reference to semen without difficulty. He was getting better at this. As for his family... Chet paused at the top of the grand staircase and looked down at the noble foyer with its twenty-five foot high ceiling and massive crystal chandelier. Seeing it not only for everything it was, but everything it symbolized.

  He lowered his voice and said, “Not at all. I think you misunderstand the suffering my family has inflicted. My father and brothers cheat and steal for a living, not just from a few people but from millions. No one is safe, not even their own employees. They’ve learned to be subtle about it, that’s all. Why do you think my sisters chose to be Nuns? It wasn’t for the eye-catching habits.”

  Fenimore blinked. “Ah. Puffed-up hangers on, then.”

  Chet rolled his eyes. He was still pissed at Fenimore, and didn’t intend to do anything but shower and get rid of the icky, awful clothing that clung to him like rags. Being arrested, dunked in a doedicu lake, rubbed against a ceros for five hours, and fucked by an oily smuggler hadn’t done his clothing any good.

  Once inside Chet’s room, Fenimore glanced around with curiosity. “That’s quite a collection," he said, gazing at the books in the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls.

  Chet unbent a little. “Thank you.” As a teenager, he’d fought with his father to have those bookshelves installed.

  Chet grabbed a change of clothes and started into his private bathroom, then paused, eyeing Fenimore. Fenimore seemed to be innocently studying the titles in the bookshelf. If Chet took his eyes off of Fenimore, would he get in trouble? Or get Chet in trouble, which was far likelier. Fenimore seemed to have a knack for it. Chet sighed and closed the bathroom door behind of him; he was not Fenimore’s keeper and, Pantheon curse it, he wanted his shower.

  Feeling almost human again, Chet emerged to find Fenimore in the exact same position as when Chet had left, unlikely as it seemed. “Want to shower? I’ll lend you clothing,”

  “Certainly!” Fenimore grabbed the proffered fresh clothes and disappeared into the steaming bathroom.

  Feeling obscurely that it would be bad manners to leave his guest, Chet lay down on his bed and gazed at his ceiling. It seemed so strange to be in his childhood home after everything that had happened in less than a week. In that short time he’d bonded with an ancient magical relic, been deflowered by men and Flame, watched his ex-girlfriend disappear into thin air, witnessed the dead body of his professor, and... everything else. Too much, too fast. Chet turned over and pressed his face into the pillow. It smelled nice, like lavender. One of the servants must have changed the sheets in his absence.

  Chet felt dirty and corrupted after last night, yet he also felt strangely free. He’d survived, just as he’d intended. Horrible things had happened to him—he’d been taken without his consent—but he’d lived through the experience. Like... like the Flame themselves. Even when they didn’t survive, they ended up living again, remembering all the same. They dealt with the hurts and moved on. Chet had survived one night, but Journey had survived over two-thousand years. Clearly not all of that had been pleasant.

  It was like tasting a slice of eternity. Chet wasn’t sure he liked the flavor.

  What would Rory think of him now? He was warm and tingly at the thought. He missed her. Chet felt like all his ties to life had been cut: Professor Tibbets, his archeology program, Steve, the university and Rory.
Her common sense and self efficacy would come in really handy about now. Too bad she wasn’t here.

  What had she said about the Raptus? That it was more important than her degree, her own life. Chet frowned—he could barely feel the cords anymore. How far could he travel away from the Raptus before he’d have to return? It was unnerving that even the Flame didn’t understand the nature of this binding. Why had the Raptus waited until he’d grabbed it to tie them together? He’d never heard of four being a traditional magical number; not that there were any Magicians left to tell him, but still. Six and twelve were numbers laden with far more ancient power, thanks to the gods, each of whom had an extra finger on each hand.

  Why, why, why? Chet glanced at the books—and by proxy, the authors—surrounding the walls of his room. So many secrets between those pages, hidden between the lines. He didn’t have a key to unlock them. Yet for whatever reason, the Raptus wanted him. Unaffiliated or not, it wanted him. Personally.

  Someone jumped onto the bed beside him and Chet yelped. Fenimore grinned at him. “Startled you, did I?” he purred.

  Chet sighed, eyes narrow. “I’m so not fucking you right now. You realize what an asshole you were back on the road, right?”

  Fenimore raised an eyebrow. “I believe we’ve established that I’m here to—what’s the charming word you use? Ah, yes—I’m here to fuck, not to be fucked.”

  “Knife had you first thing, back in Wetshul.”

  Fenimore actually blushed and looked away. Chet was impressed by the show of emotions and wondered whether it was real. “Knife is... special. She knows what a predator I am. She likes predators, the way I like innocent young men.”

  Chet raised himself on his elbow. “At this point, I’m not innocent by any stretch of the imagination. Why are you still around?”

  Fenimore clasped his chest. “Ah, you’ve sliced me to the quick! Such a sharp sword you wield this morning, Chet.”

  Chet paused, taken aback. “I don’t believe you’ve ever called me by name.”

  Fenimore nuzzled Chet’s chest, almost as if he were an inofe—an enormous cat that had once roamed rural Uos. “What, must I call you by demeaning pet names all the time?”

  “You tell me.” Chet frowned at Fenimore. This behavior was very unlike him. “You want something from me, don’t you? Not sex. You’d just take that, if that’s what you wanted. No, you must want something else.”

  Fenimore blinked up at him with his long eyelashes and didn’t answer. Those eyelashes ought to be illegal, Chet thought. But all Fenimore said was, “I think we should go have breakfast before it is either set aside or disappears entirely.”

  No, he definitely doesn’t want sex, Chet thought as they descended the staircase. Whatever Fenimore was after was lost in the general uproar and chaos of Chet’s family. Chet was alarmed to see Journey missing from the table—her plate thoroughly emptied of breakfast—until he heard her voice from the rumpus room. He ducked down the hall and around the corner. Sure enough, Journey was surrounded by his nephews and nieces. Even as an elderly Nun, she drew attention: singing and acting out the lines to something silly and rhyming. The children were spellbound and clearly delighted. Bemused, Chet returned to the dining room to find that Knife, meanwhile, had struck up a conversation with his father. They were talking about stocks and bonds on the Genis Exchange in Allistair, a subject his father knew a lot about.

  Knife seemed incongruous as a bowlegged Nun while saying things like, “Simeon Brothers has really gone downhill since the war. I don’t think their stock has ever topped out since the faulty arms scandal of ’587...”

  Chet snorted. All was well, apparently. He even managed to eat something before his mother descended upon him once again.

  “Chet, the police just called. Something about stealing a valuable artifact and some sort of other investigation. Also, a woman from the university called last night about your whereabouts. A Professor Clemena? Claminata? No, that’s not right.”

  The police? Clementina? Chet froze instinctively. “Did you tell them I’m here?”

  She managed to glare while straightening his collar. “What do you take me for? Of course I wouldn’t tell the authorities you’re here. When the family is in trouble with the law, we back each other up. But I don’t know why you’d steal anything—we give you everything you could possibly desire, and more.”

  His father, alert to the conversation, turned to Mother and said, “You know, I wish he would steal something. Far as I can tell, Chet's life is all about scurrying around like a filthy dium, scrambling in the dirt for ancient trash and reading his old books. No one should live like that. In fact, I think prison would do him good. When I was Chet’s age, I’d already done six months for tax evasion and bank fraud. There’s nothing like prison to make a man of you, to focus your ambitions and help you make connections in the business and political world.”

  Chet looked at the table, feeling tears rising to his eyes. Apparently, he couldn’t count on his father to bail him out. His father wanted him in prison for his own reasons. Chet's life might be dour and colorless compared to the flashy, let-it-all-hang-out attitude his family strove for, but it was his life. No one else’s.

  “I don’t want Chet going to prison," his mother said in a wavering voice. “He’s my baby. Men do horrible things to boys like Chet in prison.”

  Chet nearly rolled his eyes. Too late, mother.

  Brae seemed to perk up at the subject matter. “What, Chet’s going to prison? About time you stopped being such a goodie-goodie, you little prick.” He leaned over and cuffed Chet on the head. Hard. Chet breathed through his nose and tried not to react, as usual. Brae continued, “Last season, I had to testify in front of the magistrate for the usual litany of tax loopholes. It would do you good to be accountable to that kind of inquiry, doedicu. You can finally stop being such a sensitive fruitcake.”

  Chet covertly swiped tears and glanced at Knife, who was staring at Chet’s family with disbelief. Knife cleared her throat and said, as if she couldn’t help herself, “You clearly care about Chet’s future prospects.”

  His father slammed the table with his open hand, making everyone jump. “What I care about is if he finally chooses a god to affiliate himself with! Genis told me he’d have you, boy, no questions asked. At least choose Philapo, already! It’s expected for a professor, which is what you seem bound and determined to become. Our family pride is at stake.”

  This inspired a whole chorus of agreement and the endless questions. Chet hunkered down and weathered the storm, as usual. He didn’t want to be an affiliate for Genis—the god who specialized in commerce—any more than the rest of them. Less, all things considered. Fenimore, gulping breakfast rabidly, nudged Chet with his foot, as if to remind him why they were here.

  Chet took a deep breath. “Actually, Father, I was wondering if I could possibly float a loan.”

  His father glared. A long pause went by, then he said, “You can have all the money you want... once you become a god affiliate. I don’t care if you jump in a fireplace and become a stinking pervert of a Flame, so long as you make up your abysmal mind. Though I’d obviously prefer if you took up with Genis.”

  Chet felt something inside of him snap. “No. You can’t have that,” he muttered toward the floor.

  “What?”

  He looked up into his father’s face and yelled, “I said, you can’t have that. I’d rather peddle my ass on the streets of Door before becoming a god affiliate. My life and my, my soul are my own! I will not declare myself in a god’s camp until I’m ready. And I never will be.”

  Chet was almost too angry to watch for reactions around the table, though his heart twinged when his mother put her hands over her mouth and turned away. His father, on the other hand, seemed unmoved. “So be it. I’m putting my foot down and pulling your tuition for fall term. You can go join the ranks of unaffiliated and work for a living, far as I care, though I’d prefer if you didn’t throw it all away. I’ve pa
id too much for your private schools to squander an investment like that.”

  “Fine,” Chet growled. He could almost feel the last tie from his old life give an audible ping as it was cut from him. “I can find work in a library or as a research assistant. Pull my way through and earn the degree on my own.”

  “Not at Semaphore, you won’t. You’d never make tuition.”

  “Then I’ll go to an independent city-state university! I’ll make my own way in life. You can’t make my choices for me, do you hear?”

  What was he doing? He’d never intended to yell, not at his family. They may be messed up, but he loved them and disliked them so much. Why did they make everything more difficult? Yet he felt a glimmer of satisfaction because he'd stood up for himself at last. Chet’s face was hot and his whole body tingled with rage.

  At that moment, the backdoor opened and all six of Chet’s sisters piled inside, one after the other. They wore their Nun’s habits though only two wore headdresses; the others had their hair down. All were chattering away. The tension broke in the room as the noise increased six fold. Chet’s anger began fading abruptly, giving way to fear. Sisters hugged and carried on with the family already present, drawing a crowd from sisters-in-law and various children trickling in from other parts of the house.

  That does it, Chet thought. It was clear they weren’t getting any money from his father—thanks to his outburst—and the game had changed with his sisters home. Though he liked some of his sisters more than other members of his family, he and the others couldn’t stay. Chet glanced at Knife nervously, and Knife returned a wide-eyed look. Definitely time to go.

  Chet nudged his head to the left, indicating the escape route, then murmured in Fenimore’s ear, “Come on.”

  Getting up from the table, Chet spotted Brae’s car keys on a side table. He quietly pocketed them, feeling a twinge of satisfaction course through him. Was being a criminal getting easier, or was it just because it was Brae? Knife was already ahead of him, retrieving Journey from the rumpus room.