The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  Of course he could do that. Grateful for direction—at last!—Chet grabbed Aureate... and cried out. Her skin reacted to his touch: it was sinking, popping and receding at the same time. A sensation he’d never felt before and instantly hoped to never feel again.

  Her face was worse than ever. In Elderbeth’s light he could see... Chet closed his eyes. He thought he’d seen a flash of skull, through a pustulating bubble. It can’t be true, can it? The Flame he’d just had amazing sex with, the Flame who’d been a Magician, who remembered thousands of years of history... she couldn’t really be dying, could she?

  No. Fire would fix her. Knife would make it all better.

  After all, Aureate still breathed. She was alive. She moved in his arms, independent of the bizarre chemical reaction. Against all reason, she opened her eyes. Close enough to see every detail, Chet noticed one of her eyeballs was clouded and ruined, probably because the eyelid had melted off. In hideous contrast, the other eye was intact, bizarrely unharmed in the mess of her face.

  The single eye focused on Knife. “Knife...” she whispered, her voice raspy but clear. “Please.”

  Knife rolled up his pant leg, reached into his boot and pulled out the tiny pistol. Chet stared, aghast. He didn’t understand what Knife intended until he aimed carefully, using both hands.

  Chet screamed, “Wait—” as the shot reverberated. The gunshot had been shockingly loud in his ears.

  Aureate’s body still hissed. Chet let it fall to the bottom of the boat, his hands twitching. He looked at Knife. Knife sat on the wooden slat, holding his gun in both hands, staring at nothing. Not even the body.

  Chet found his voice. “Why? Why, Knife? She would have... you could... she was asking you for help!”

  “It was too late," Knife whispered. “Fatal exposure.” He looked at the gun in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there, then holstered it carefully.

  “But she was still conscious.”

  “Yes. She might have remained conscious to the very end.” To Chet’s shock, Knife began crying. He gulped tears, his shoulders drawn inward, his body rocking back and forth.

  Chet wiped his wet hands on his pants and joined Knife on the central wooden slat. He put an arm around Knife’s shoulders, though it felt awkward to do so. The Flame smelled of cigarette smoke and gin.

  Knife laid his head on Chet’s shoulder. “Abyss. I thought we’d have time to catch up in the morning, after she’d had her way with you. I thought... oh, Pantheon. I just shot my best friend.”

  Chet regarded the corpse at the bottom of the boat with reverence. “She was a spectacular person," he said, feeling tears rise in his own eyes.

  “She will be again. That’s the beauty of it.” Knife sniffed, rubbing his nose on his sleeve.

  “Knife! Aureate! Chet? Where are you guys?” It was Journey’s voice.

  Chet and Knife looked up simultaneously. Knife called out, “Journey, down here.”

  “Oh, thank Pantheon. There’s the strangest stuff happening, and the weirdest people on the upper decks. I couldn’t find you. Are we leaving? Is that why you have the boat? Where’s Aureate?” Journey glanced over the railing; she was back in female form, worse for wear. She wore only an undershirt and panties, her feet and bald head bare.

  Chet blinked. Were those burns on her clothing? On what little clothing she had, that was.

  She tossed the duffle bag onto the motorboat and carefully climbed down the emergency-rung ladder. Chet wanted to warn Journey, to say something, but found that he couldn’t speak. Knife stirred beside Chet but also remained silent. Journey turned from the rung ladder to step into the boat and caught sight of the corpse. She screamed, her face radiating shock and terror.

  “Journey, stop," Knife said.

  Journey put a hand over her mouth, eyes immense in the dark. “S-s-sorry. Wh—wh...”

  “I’m not... I don’t... Chet, what happened?” Knife turned to Chet as if realizing he didn’t know the answers.

  Chet shut his eyes to make reality go away. It didn’t help: his hands still felt the sensation of melting flesh. “Aureate went outside to take a piss off the deck. I stayed in the room. We’d been talking after we—I heard a splash. She was, was screaming. This boat was right around the corner, and I think maybe someone’s on board who wasn’t before. An enemy of some sort? Though why—and how—I think someone pushed her in. Maybe someone was listening at the window, I don’t know. I don’t think it would have been hard to sneak up on her if they were quiet. She was so relaxed.”

  “Abyss," Journey muttered. “Yeah, there’re these violent people on board. About five or six of them, dressed in black with masks on. Not affiliates of any sort, I don’t believe. They seem to want the Raptus. Or me personally, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Why—” Knife’s question was cut off as a figure appeared on the deck above them, holding a gun pointed in their direction.

  “Don’t move!”

  Chet’s eyes widened. Though a colorful theatrical mask covered her face, he knew that deep, two-packs-a-day voice. “Professor Clementina?”

  She jerked in place and her arm swung up—as if automatically—to point the gun at the deck roof above her. “Chet Baikson, you little dium. Why aren’t you back in Eicha where you belong?”

  “Abyss," Knife muttered under his breath. “This is what comes of traveling at a slow, plodding pace.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chet saw a shadow of movement from the walkway’s rounded corner, creeping closer to Clementina. From what little he could see, it looked like Fenimore’s shape and size. Distract her so he can get closer, he thought wildly. What bait would she respond to? Based on what she’d said back on campus, she’d paid hundreds of thousands of gilt for the dig site, all for the Raptus. Did Clementina want to rule the world?

  “What’s the story, Professor? You couldn’t get the Raptus by throwing money at it, so now you’ve resorted to murder?”

  She jerked back as if shocked. “We’ve no intention of killing anyone unless we’re forced.”

  Journey snorted, glaring. “Shouldn’t have come armed then, should you?”

  “You’ve already murdered,” Chet put in. “We have a dead body on our hands.”

  She shook her head as if to discard their words. “Toss up the Raptus and I won’t hurt you.”

  Whoever was creeping up on her was about six yards away, almost near enough to pounce. The mask must be cutting off any peripheral vision Clementina might possess, and the conversation was doing the rest. Chet must keep her occupied. He rose to his feet, arms out for balance. The Flame clutched each other, and Chet self consciously tried not to rock the little motorboat.

  “Professor Clementina, you’d better shoot me because I would die before seeing you rule the world!” He pointed at her—more of a stabbing gesture, actually—and raised his voice to a full roar. “You are not a fit guardian for the Raptus!”

  Chet couldn’t see her expression with the mask on, but her body language radiated sarcastic exasperation. “We’re not trying to—“

  She screamed as she was tackled. Chet watched breathlessly from the odd angle, craning his head up. There was a flash of Fenimore’s hunting knife. Clementina seemed to be below him. Was she struggling with both hands to keep from being stabbed? Muffled yelps emerged from the deck.

  Thundering footsteps rang out. More masked people dressed in black ran toward the struggling pair. On instinct, Chet scrambled to the stern of the motorboat and grabbed at the rope securing them to the ship. Journey yelped at the motorboat’s rocking movement, and dove into Knife’s arms. Knife was—rationally enough—sitting in the exact center of the boat, far away from water as possible.

  A gunshot went off above their heads, and Fenimore bellowed.

  There was no time. Even as Chet unhitched the line and pushed them away from the larger vessel, someone dove into the water only a few feet away. One of the black-clad attackers? Both Flame screamed, clutching each other as the b
oat rocked violently. Chet yelped as a wet hand slopped over the side.

  “Knife, your gun," Journey cried out. Knife clawed at his pant leg.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” said a familiar voice. Fenimore’s head popped up, thoroughly soaked. “Get us out of here now! Row, I tell you!”

  Chet glanced up just as a black-clad individual dove off the railing in pursuit. Another was climbing down the emergency rungs. Chet turned to the motor, his fingers fumbling through the ignition process. Someone on deck was yelling about the Raptus. The motor turned over and Chet hit the throttle.

  Fenimore yelped, his head disappearing as the boat leapt forward. Only his white-knuckled hands remained wrapped around the edge. A small wave of water splashed inside the boat with the momentum. Both Flame screamed at the top of their lungs, curling themselves into a splayed huddle on the bench. Shamefaced, Chet eased off, gaining control of the momentum. Gunshots rang out behind them, rekindling his panic. Chet ducked instinctively but kept a hand on the throttle. They needed to get out of range, out of range now. Not caring which direction they went, so long as they didn’t go in circles, Chet kept at it, his head down.

  After a minute of silence, he looked around, careful to keep his profile low. The ship was a good distance away—maybe a quarter mile? Chet exhaled. Both Flame were huddled together on the middle seat, sobbing. Chet hoped their reaction wasn’t due to burns. Fenimore’s hands still clung to the hull near the front of the motorboat.

  Chet cut the motor, carefully climbed past the Flame and navigated around Aureate’s body to reach the bow. “Fenimore? Are you alive?”

  “I think so," came the hollow response. “I... oh, Pantheon. Chet, they shot me.”

  “Where?”

  “Below my left knee. Get me out of the water. Please, get me out.”

  Chet hauled Fenimore into the boat, every muscle in his body protesting. Water slopped as Fenimore clambered aboard. Chet couldn’t tell whether his leg was bleeding between the dim light and wet trousers. Fenimore was dripping wet. The Flame jerked away but didn’t move off the wooden slat, their eyes wide. Chet breathed deep and gazed at Fenimore, who was lying in the bottom of the boat. Was he really bleeding out?

  They were almost completely alone on the water, Chet noticed, glancing around to assess their position. The Plainsdaugheau coastline was perhaps two or three miles away. It must have been after midnight based on Elderbeth’s position in the sky. Few other boats were out sailing, none nearby.

  Fenimore coughed and rolled over... only inches away from Aureate’s body. His eyes widened as he gazed straight into her ruined, melted face. Fenimore shrieked at the top of his lungs. Chet tried to grab Fenimore as he attempted to scramble away from the body. They almost went over the side. Chet had to hold Fenimore back by his jacket as the boat rocked violently. Chet splayed his arms out, praying they wouldn’t flip over.

  Fenimore switched directions. The Flame screamed in earnest as he scrambled toward them, panicked by his sopping clothing and erratic movements. The Flame, in turn, stumbled toward the stern. Journey cried out, clutching her bare feet. The bottom of the boat held a considerable amount of water, Chet realized. His bare feet and pant legs were wet, too.

  Fenimore kept advancing on the Flame, looking back with horror. Cornered, Knife untangled his gun from the boot and wet pant leg, turning it on Fenimore. “Stop!” he yelled, voice raspy with pain.

  “Fenimore, calm down!” Chet cried. “Knife, put that thing away. Fenimore isn’t getting near you. Are you, Fenimore? Fenimore!”

  Fenimore still seemed wrapped in blind panic, his eyes rolling white as he gazed at the gruesome remains. Any second he might jump toward the stern again, gun or no gun. Chet couldn’t let him. Chet snagged Fenimore’s sopping jacket, hauled him around and slapped his face. Fenimore hissed outrage. He unsheathed his hunting knife with a quick flick of his wrist. Chet held onto Fenimore grimly as cold steel was pressed against his throat.

  Everyone froze. The boat rocked under them, water splashing against the sides. Chet looked Fenimore in the eye. “You’re not going to kill me. You need me. I’m the only one who can get us out of this mess.”

  The knife was slowly lowered. Fenimore wheezed and looked over Chet’s shoulder at the body. “What... what on Uos is that?”

  “Our friend. She’s dead. She cannot possibly hurt you,” Knife growled from the stern. He holstered the gun and held Journey in his arms, his expression twisted with fear, anger, pain and outrage.

  “Oh.” Fenimore breathed out, seeming to crumple into himself.

  Chet had to take charge. No one else could. The Flame were useless at sea; the extreme danger was evidenced by the corpse at their feet. Fenimore didn’t know modern motors, and he was injured, although how badly Chet couldn’t tell. Besides, Chet didn’t trust him. Especially not after what he’d just done.

  Chet sighed. Even simple maneuvering around the boat required a strategic upper hand. He wanted the Flame back on the central wooden slats where they’d be at the least risk of injury, but asking Fenimore to sit beside Aureate’s body was right out. He didn’t want an argument. He also didn’t want to move the body again, mostly because he didn’t want to touch it. A useless wish. Chet suddenly understood he was the only one who’d be able—and willing—to get rid of the body... if that indeed was what needed to happen.

  Abyss. Take it one step at a time. If he tried to do it all at once, he’d sink and take everyone down with him. Chet needed to put one foot in front of the other. He could get them out of this. He could. They just needed to calm down, to see each other as human again. Chet glanced at the duffle bag at his feet. It held the Raptus, but he didn’t think that would help just now. What would?

  “Journey, do you have any food in this bag?”

  “Uh.” Journey seemed to switch gears with difficulty. “I think so. A paper bag of nuts and dried fruit.”

  Chet riffled through the duffle. The outside was wet, but it was lined with rubber, sparing the contents. He felt soft clothes, the hard, thorny Raptus, and... there. The small sack seemed promising. He pulled it out and poured a handful of fruit and nuts into his hand. Then he passed the bag to the Flame. “Have some.”

  “Chet, we need to get out of here.”

  “Eat,” he growled.

  They hung their heads and obediently took a handful each. Chet could see precisely what Knife had meant about Flame being too easily controlled. They both seemed cornered, their personalities flattened in the face of the immense danger surrounding them. If Chet were the kind of guy into abusing Flame, it would be absurdly simple to gain the upper hand with psychological and physical manipulation. Knife grimly handed the sack back to Chet, and he offered it to Fenimore.

  Fenimore stared at it blankly. He was clutching his leg, his face deeply etched in the dark. “Um...”

  “Eat.”

  Fenimore, too, obeyed. Good. Now they were getting somewhere. Minute crunching sounds filled the boat. Chet glanced up at the clear sky and could only be grateful that there was no wind. If there had been the sea would have been rougher, and the motorboat would have probably tipped over in the chaos, instigating more deaths. Chet issued up a quiet prayer to the Pantheon, grateful beyond measure for smooth sailing.

  After a minute, Chet sighed. “Fenimore, you are to strip out of your wet clothes. Everything goes.” On impulse, he said, “Throw the wet clothes over the body.”

  Yes, he thought, that’s right. Best get Aureate’s ruined face out of sight where it wouldn’t be so alarming. As Fenimore obeyed, Chet reached into the bag and pulled out what proved to be Fenimore’s dirty trousers, the same pair he’d had on in the lucid mud. The puffy shirt followed. Fenimore hissed as he drew the wet pants off, and Chet took a closer look at his leg. The wound didn’t seem large: the emerging blood was more trickle than gush.

  “I think the bullet grazed the side of your calf. You’re not bleeding too badly, anyway. Knife, what do you think?”

&nb
sp; Knife reluctantly craned his neck, then crept forward for a better look. “I agree that it’s a graze. I don’t see entrance or exit wounds. You’re lucky; we can bandage you with something for now, but you’ll need stitches later. Here, um...” He felt through his pockets and extracted a fluttery silk scarf.

  Chet blinked. It was feminine and kind of familiar. Had Knife been sleeping with someone when Chet’s cries interrupted him? And hadn’t Knife said he didn’t like women? No, he’d said he didn’t like being a woman, which wasn’t the same thing at all. Anyway, one scarf did not mean a sexual tryst. Maybe he’d won it while gambling with other passengers.

  Reminded, Chet glanced back toward the ship. Whatever fire there had been seemed contained now, or at least, he didn’t see evidence of it. “Knife, you bandage Fenimore. Journey, in a moment I’d like to switch places with you. I’m going to get us out of here.”

  “Finally!” someone—or several someones—muttered.

  Chet grinned as he stood up. “While I’m getting us out of here, I think we’d all like to hear what happened to each other tonight. Who wants to begin?”

  Chapter 20

  Coming Clean

  Pregnant silence followed. “I’ll speak first," Journey volunteered after a few seconds, her voice shaking. “But Chet, could you lift me up and put me on the other seat? I’m, um...”

  Chet blinked down at her. By Elderbeth’s light, she seemed very uncomfortable and, looking closer, he swiftly realized why. Her bare feet and legs were blistered, and some of the angry spots were bursting. Blood trickled even as he watched.

  Chet jerked back, alarmed. “Are you—will you...”

  “I’ll be fine," she said, clearly containing her pain.

  Chet could see by the little lines around her eyes what it cost Journey to remain calm. He immediately felt ashamed of his actions, making them eat before triaging her wounds. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I know why you did it," she murmured, touching his lips. “You had to get control of F—of the situation.”