Chet sighed, silently agreeing with her slip of the tongue. Very, very carefully, Chet took Journey in his arms and transferred her to the middle wooden slat. She was wet in other places, he noticed, her skin covered in blisters where she’d been hit by spray and splashes. She was dressed in just undershirt and panties, after all.
“Knife, do you have that lighter?” Chet asked tightly.
“ One moment, let me finish this.” Knife was wrapping up Fenimore’s leg tightly with the scarf, knotting it with care, though he seemed to be using only a few fingers to do so.
Blistered hands, perhaps? Knife’s feet were touching the bottom of the boat, encompassed by his boots, Chet noticed. The boots he never took off. Apparently, they’d been water-proofed to the point where Knife didn’t worry about puddles. His pants legs were going to eventually soak all that water up and hurt his legs, though Chet snorted was sure Knife would know what to do in that contingency.
Chet wished he had a light other than fire to check inside the motorboat’s gas tank. He just had to assume they had enough gas to make it shore. He began angling toward the Plainsdaugheau skyline. Fenimore slouched on the edge of the middle rung while Knife tended to Journey. Knife held her hand while working the lighter between her toes, his expression radiating gentleness. In turn, she murmured over the blisters on his hands, worried at the pain he was feeling. Chet sighed, envious of their tender grooming. At least they weren’t freaking out anymore.
“Journey? You said you’d go first," Chet said.
“I did. It’s like this. I was really, really occupied for a while, okay? And afterwards I was pretty sweaty. I wanted a bath, but there’s nothing like a real fire on a modern vessel like that. So I thought, why not try the galley? They sometimes have these little cans of jellied chemicals that are used under chafing dishes, perfect for hours of contained flame. I wondered whether they might lend one to me. Or if no one was cooking and they had a gas stove, that would work fine, too.
“No one was cooking, which didn’t surprise me at that hour. I spoke to the last employee wiping down; the kitchen had closed an hour before. Only the bar was open all night. They had a gas stove, and she was fine with me bathing there, being used to Flame and all. After she left, I stripped down and climbed onto the stove. You can get almost clean if you lie down and roll over the burners, you know, depending on how greasy it is. I wish I’d put my clothes in the bag, instead of folding them on a counter. And my new shoes. Oh, well.”
“Were you interrupted by those guys in black?” Chet said.
She nodded. “I heard noises, at first. They were trying to be quiet and weren’t very good at it. They had these radio transceivers; old ordinance from the war, I think. They kept crackling, which is what alerted me at first. I didn’t want to be caught in the nude, so I started dressing, but I wasn’t fast enough. One of them barged into the kitchen and cried, ‘Flame!’ He drew an army-surplus pistol on me and ordered me to sit on the floor, then called his buddies on his bulky transceiver radio.”
Chet frowned, wondering how Journey had known where the pistol had come from. She’d talked about surviving the war but had never shared how she’d survived, he realized. Now was not the time to ask. Chet made a little noise to encourage her to continue, not that it made a difference. Journey was in full story-telling mode.
“They grabbed the duffle first thing and began searching it, which is when they found the Raptus. They seemed very pleased and called over the radio that they’d found it. They stopped paying so much attention to me; I saw my chance and rushed them. Whoever they were, I didn’t want them to get the Raptus.” Her mouth compressed into a thin line.
Chet glanced down at the rucksack on the seat, thinking about what it contained. The Raptus was the reason they were all here. He’d almost forgotten why Journey and Knife were putting their lives on the line, risking death and prison sentences.
“It was a mess. I was dressed as you see me now, and it’s been too long since I’ve been in combat. I kept wishing I had Knife or, or Aureate with me. The guys managed to get me down and were tying me up—silly doedicus to tie up a Flame—when Fenimore burst in.” She looked over Knife’s shoulder, smiling at Fenimore. Fenimore blinked and smiled back, seeming almost as surprised as Chet at her positive regard. Usually, she looked at Fenimore with cool, critical eyes, probably because of their—misunderstanding—in the Wetshul hotel.
“Fenimore was fantastic,” she continued. “He kicked them up, down and sideways. He grabbed the Raptus and tossed it to me. I stuck it in the duffle bag and was about to go out the backdoor when another one of those guys rushed in, blocking me. By that point, Fenimore had forced the others to retreat out the front. I could still hear them out there, fighting.
“It was just me and the new guy. He had a big bag slung over his shoulder, bristling with weaponry. Maybe he was their ordinance logistics man, I don’t know. The guy had at least three stones on me, so I danced out of the way and jumped on a table to keep the Raptus—and myself—out of his grasp. He flung the bag down on the nearest surface and came after me... the nearest surface being right beside the lit gas stove.” Journey paused, her face breaking into a grin. “He was clearly not the brightest doedicu there ever was.”
Chet blinked, remembering the explosion he’d heard. Journey’s burnt, hole-stricken clothes seemed evident of an explosion as well; even the wet duffle was speckled with little black burns. “He had something explosive in his bag?”
She nodded. “First we ran around a while. I don’t know why he didn’t just draw a gun and threaten to shoot me. He had enough firearms in that bag, I should think. He seemed to really be enjoying himself, chasing after me in my underwear. He was getting off on it—at one point he told me exactly what he wanted to do to me once I was pinned. Asshole. During our scuffling around, I kicked his bag onto the gas stove proper. It caught fire, and about a minute later—boom.”
“You weren’t hurt in the explosion?”
“I saw it coming in advance—not by much, but enough—and ducked out the backdoor into the hall. The big guy had just made it to the doorway when the galley exploded. He was a great shield for me, though of course it wasn’t so good for him. The shockwave was the worst part, but the fireball that followed was more helpful than not. From my perspective, you understand.”
Journey, of course, would not have been affected by the fireball, and had probably felt perfectly at home inside of it. Chet nodded succinctly.
Knife frowned, though. “You were lucky not to get hit by shrapnel. And you might have a concussion from the shockwave.”
“Yes, thank you. I have the headache of a lifetime, anyway. He was knocked out, or dead, what have you. The galley and hallway were on fire. I fled and went looking for you guys. Fenimore and the other attackers weren’t anywhere in sight or earshot by then.”
Journey fell silent, her expression grim. Remembering what she’d found next, Chet assumed. He took a breath, wishing they didn’t still have the body on board. He wondered what to do with it. No, one thing at a time. The shoreline was growing closer by the minute.
“Knife, want to go next?”
“Sure,” he shrugged, “but mine’s real brief. I was in the lounge: drinking, gambling and considering a mark. She’s a Tarro affiliate known to me who evaded the law about a decade ago. Ran a string of brothels and ruined what Flame she could draw in. It would have been a perfect time to make the first move; she was relaxed and only had two lackeys on board. She was considering her own mark, a professional gambler whom I gather owes her money. I decided not to pursue her, though. I figured she’d complicate things, and we don’t need complications. I’ll circle back to get her later, now that I know where she’s located.”
“I see. Thank you.” Chet could make out the Plainsdaugheau shoreline, now. He headed toward one of the many docks. Chet glanced at Fenimore. “Fen?”
“Yeah.” Fenimore glanced up, his eyes glazed and tired. “I, too, was busy for quite a while. That didn’t en
d well and I left. I thought to locate one of you, anyone who was still up, but got turned around. I heard strange noises and looked through this cunning glass window in a door. I saw those men holding Journey down. As she said, I rushed them.” Fenimore shrugged. “Some night in the future, when we’re deep in our drinks and carousing wenches, I’ll share each move in detail. For now... they were neither daring nor competent fighters. The explosion and fire with the chaos of the other passengers kept me from coming sooner. I apologize for my lateness. But at least I was able to catch that Metacor-like strumpet of a professor before she got the Raptus or injured one of you.”
“I see.” Chet angled around docked boats and ships, looking for an opening at which they could dock. He, too, privately thought Clementina resembled one of the ancient, legendary monsters, first children of the mother of gods, Aerora. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do with, with Aureate’s body. Should we... I mean, should we go to the police? She was a Plainsdaugheau citizen. I assume that means something around here.”
Knife and Journey looked upset and depressed at the thought of getting rid of the body. Journey said, “I’ve been in Plainsdaugheau enough times to trust the local police force with our affairs. There are Flame here who are on the force, eccentric body as it is. That said, I would rather not have to explain ourselves. Her death was mysterious enough to elect questions, and they’d want to detain us for further details. We need to keep moving and keep control over the Raptus. We should get transportation to Ventris next, to talk to Doyen, then on to Knife’s home in Allistair to complete our journey. We can’t stop now.”
Knife grunted. “They might speak to the police in Wetshul by telephone. They can do that quite easily now. I’d rather not have to lie, starting with our names. It would only make us look guilty of murdering Aureate if they uncovered contrary evidence. The best way is to avoid the issue entirely.”
Chet spotted an opening on the dock and headed in. “How do we get rid of the body, then?”
“Open sea," Knife said immediately. “Should have dropped the body in earlier except we didn’t have weights. It’ll float, you see.”
“Won’t the body disintegrate?”
“No. Bones, muscles, organs and tendons don’t melt. We need to find something to weigh it down. Rocks are good. They can be tied in to that loose sweater she was wearing.”
Chet docked the boat and helped the Flame onto the wooden dock. He scouted around, barefoot on the splintery wooden, Knife at his side. They found a substantial length of discarded string—nylon pilot cord by the feel of it—and, at Knife’s urging, Chet trespassed onto several boats until he found a modern sea anchor. Chet also grabbed a lifejacket. His years on the lake had taught him prudence, and he felt itchy without one. Making his way back to the motorboat, Chet realized how exhausted he was; he ached all over from exertion and emotional turmoil. In contrast, his genitals felt oddly satisfied and relaxed. So inappropriate, considering what had just happened.
“How far should I go out? About half a mile, say?” Chet asked.
“I guess.”
Knife sounded strange. His shoulders were drooped and shaking. He sank on the dock next to Journey, and she curled into his arms. They were both crying, Chet realized. Now that they were no longer at sea, they were free to let their feelings out. Fenimore sat to one side, holding his hurt leg. He looked uncomfortable at the display of emotions. The silk scarf wasn’t soaked with blood, nor did he seem in excessive pain.
Chet bowed his head as he faced the Flame. “Do you want to say goodbye to... to her?”
“That’s not Aureate anymore. We’ll see her again," Knife said, his voice cracking. Despite his tears, his expression radiated assurance, his spine straightening at this statement. “Pelin willing, we’ll see our friend again.”
Chet climbed back into the motorboat, feeling empty inside. Knife knew his goddess personally. His faith in her abilities was rock solid, beyond reproach. Chet almost wished he had a god on his side. Not that gods were particularly comfortable people to talk to, he imagined. To judge from their footnotes, Magicians had considered Foex a prickly character, his temper vivid and always bursting to the surface. No one could have equaled him as a teacher, though. What a random thought. Chet sighed and cast off.
He glanced back at the distant dock, determined to remember it. If there was anything he’d learned during lakeside vacations, it was terribly difficult to distinguish one dock from another from a distance. Especially in the dark. The image he saw was vivid: the two Flame were rocking and crying in each other’s arms with Fenimore sitting off to one side. The scene somehow struck him as odd. As wrong.
Chet faced forward, frowning. He just needed to focus on one thing at a time. It was the only way to get through this.
It was quiet in the boat. Chet’s only company was the corpse, hidden by Fenimore’s wet discarded clothing. He wondered whether Aureate’s ghost lingered near her body... yet Knife had said that Pelin took up souls. Chet felt nothing of Aureate’s presence. Not that he’d expected to.
This is insane. Of course, when had dumping a dead body in the ocean ever been a sane activity? They had been on the move for about ten days—a whole week—yet they’d left two bodies in their wake. The first two dead bodies in Chet’s life had occurred since they’d found the Raptus.
The deaths were too personal to be random events.
Were the Flame responsible? Chet compressed his lips. Flame probably could go insane, given the pressures, prejudice and pain they faced on a daily basis, but Chet could have sworn that both Journey and Knife were on the level. He trusted Journey almost implicitly at this point. Certainly she was a thespian with a masterful ability to act and control her facial muscles, but her reaction to both Tibbet’s body and Aureate’s ruined remains had seemed genuine beyond any skill as an actor.
As for Knife, he—no, she—was too slippery for such trust. It was probably due to her nature; she seemed most comfortable in the shadows, a lone hunter tracking nocturnal prey. She’d certainly cornered him back in Wetshul, buttoning his mouth with an efficient hint of force. Knife’s alibi both times had been vague. If Chet asked other gamblers on the passenger ship, would they have confirmed Knife’s presence in the lounge?
Wait. She’d had a silk scarf in her pocket. Chet had seen that scarf before: it had belonged to the female smoker they’d seen before the performance. The Tarro affiliate? Knife’s story was too consistent for the peripheral evidence to be coincidental.
Fenimore seemed the most likely candidate for murder. He grew uncomfortable and relieved at the oddest moments. Chet was willing to bet Fenimore was a sociopath, functioning without emotion or moral values. Hadn’t Knife said something of that nature back at the dig site? What words had she used? “He is a libertine who will lie, cheat and steal to meet his ends.” Given Fenimore’s words and actions since then, Chet could readily believe each accusation.
Then again, perhaps Chet was judging the mores of Fenimore’s vanished culture rather than his personality. Had a bad first impression prejudiced Chet’s opinion? And a bad second impression, and a bad third impression...
Fenimore was a tougher nut to crack than the Flame, but what on Uos might have motivated him to murder Professor Tibbets? They hadn’t even formally met. As for Aureate, the timing fit. Fenimore could have listened at the window, pushed Aureate to her death, then found the galley where Journey was being attacked.
No! He could have followed the black-clad group up through the ship, tracking them silently. Then he could have watched through the galley door while Journey was attacked. That was much more believable than happening on the galley randomly.
But... but why would Fenimore murder Aureate? That made no sense, either. Fenimore didn’t hate Flame. Not like a certain professor from Semaphore University.
Professor Clementina had been present both times. She’d had the means, opportunity and even a certain amount of motivation. Who was she really? Chet had always assu
med she was exactly what she’d seemed: a bulky woman frustrated by an artificially dead-ended career, married to wealth. Yet she was surrounded by strange, unaffiliated thugs who wanted the Raptus.
She’d seemed shocked when he’d insinuated she wanted to rule the world. What did she intend with the Raptus? No one made tea and dumplings with the thing, after all.
This was ridiculous. He didn’t have enough information. Fenimore had complained back in Wetshul that scholars asked too many questions. Chet’s lips turned up at the memory. Of course he needed to ask questions; he had even more questions waiting in his queue as soon as these had cleared out.
Like... what was he doing with his life? That one was too hard. He’d dived into the deep end of the pool of both history and sexuality, yet he had no direction. Worse yet, he was barred from returning to his old life. Even if he didn’t land in prison, his father had trashed his educational prospects. There was no turning back, but he had no answers. Rory was already lost to him. He’d given her up—less than twenty days ago?—of his own accord. Such a stupid thing for him to do. He wanted Rory at his side even now—her presence would be soothing, helpful. Chet had flubbed their relationship without help from anyone, let alone Fenimore, Professor Clementina and the Flame.
To ask what he was doing with his life was almost as bad as asking why the Raptus had chosen him. And it had chosen him. Him specifically. The more he thought about it, the more personal the binding seemed.
Chet glanced back at the shore; he seemed far away enough now. He cut the motor and uncovered Aureate’s body. It seemed smaller, and the hissing sound had ceased... because the body had no skin left. Chet gulped, nausea rising in his throat. It occurred to him that he’d made love to this body less than two hours ago. He turned, swallowing hard, but there was nothing in his belly to throw up. He had to do this. He had to touch... it.
What would Aureate have thought? In the short time he’d known her, she’d been funny, graceful and intelligent. Aureate might have sighed and rolled her eyes skyward toward the God Plain at being dead again, he thought. Perhaps she’d say something like, “I only just initiated!” Chet grinned. Yeah, that’s what she’d say. Knife was right—this body wasn’t Aureate at all.
The Artifact of Foex Page 22