The Artifact of Foex (2 page)

He shot her a surprised look. She didn’t
look
like she was smart, but Journey had hit the nail on
the head. Professor Tibbets had said she had “practical
experience”—meaning she wasn’t an academic? “We always believed"
seemed bizarre, though it matched the “centuries” comment. Journey
seemed to think she was hundreds of years old.

Well, that would be practical experience,
wouldn’t it? With a name like that, she was probably a god
affiliate of some stripe, but he couldn’t tell which one. Her
normal—if glamorous—appearance didn’t match any god affiliate he
could think of off the top of his head. Was she dangerous, like
some affiliates? Would she hurt him? Tibbets seemed to trust her,
anyway.

Chet decided to stick with strict academic
fact. “As you say, lucid mud is a preservative. A find of this kind
is an archaeologist’s dream. This site seemed to have solidified
more than two-hundred years ago—around 7390—to judge by the top
layer of finds. The cut-off date is unsurprising, given evidence in
the literature. It is estimated that most lucid mud dried or
disappeared around that time period. It is believed the mud trap
was here before Wetshul was founded during Resoan’s millennia,
5262, which gives us a historical cross-section of over
two-thousand years.”

“Mmm, lucid mud isn’t all gone. There’s still
an active system beneath Allistair, you know. Quite the churning
river of lucid mud.”

“What?” Chet stopped cold and stared at her.
“You’re kidding!”

“Not at all. You just have to know where to
find it. They lost quite a few workers when they built the sewage
system beneath the city-state. They’re still down there somewhere,
I’m sure. Sleeping—we can only hope they’re unconscious rather than
awake—and completely unchanged.”

“Oh.” Chet realized that his foot was
hovering in air; he set it down on solid ground. The idea of people
falling into lucid mud was well established in historic literature.
However, the idea that victims didn’t die—that they were in some
kind of hibernation mode and could be reanimated—was viewed by most
academics as little more than superstition. Journey seemed to fall
into the superstition camp. “Um, in any case, let me show you some
of what we’ve found.”

Journey took in the processing pavilion with
serene confidence. Chet soon learned that Professor Tibbets hadn’t
been exaggerating: her grasp of history was excellent. She was able
to positively identify every object, whole or broken, laid out on
the folding tables, including a few that hadn’t been cleaned yet.
She instantly identified the broken fragment of a chew
stick—precursor to the toothbrush—that had given Rory such
difficulty last week. Listening to her speak was an education in
itself. Chet was growing more impressed by the minute. He couldn’t
help but wish she’d teach a class at the university. He would have
fallen deeply in love with her as an undergraduate or even now.

And yet... was it a trick of some sort? Was
she really a genius, the way she seemed, or was his head just foggy
with lust for her?

As they exited the pavilion and headed toward
the active dig site, he said, “Have you ever given thought to
teaching at Semaphore University, ma’am?”

Journey chuckled low in her throat. “Even if
I were inclined to do so, I’m afraid they wouldn’t have me.”

“What? Why not?” That seemed outrageous.
Women could be associate professors in the Philapo University
System. They weren’t as prestigious or well paid as the regular
professors, but they could still
teach
.

“For the same reason I haven’t been back to
Wetshul in ages.” Her perfect lips tightened. “The Literati are
quite specific as to their methods and structures. Professor
Tibbets is a rarity among Literati, you know. I’ve always found him
a kind and understanding soul.”

“Yes, I know,” Chet said automatically. The
Literati—affiliates of the god Philapo—dominated the academic
world.

As they passed among the pits, Journey
stopped to inspect an upside-down pair of boots that were still
half buried in the ground. “Tache-style stitching,” she said, her
voice suddenly hesitant. “Why hasn’t someone pulled them out of the
ground, yet? Are they... still attached to something?”

Chet shrugged—the boots were
unexceptional—and instead pointed out some of the larger objects
they were in the process of extracting. Case in point was the
artisanal grandfather clock with heavenly bodies etched in copper.
It was three-quarters extracted, the lower part still lodged in
dust. Chet knew the university would probably sell it after
cataloguing. It was beautifully preserved and not historically
important. The same went for the complete carriage, the back end of
which was sticking out of the ground at a forty-five degree
angle.

Journey eyed the carriage door with
amusement. “Ah, a Ceremente-style window latch, named after the
inventor. The part must have been imported from Maansterdam around
7310 or so. Was the door open when you uncovered it?”

“I believe so.” There was something about the
carriage that gave Chet the creeps. A strange reaction for such a
mundane item. When he’d first helped uncover it, he could have
sworn he’d seen it before.

“No bodies found inside, right? They must
have jumped out before the whole carriage went down in mud. Have
you found the ceros or ceroses, yet?”

“We haven’t gotten that far.” Chet knew his
colleagues were looking forward to inspecting the remains of any
horned beasts-of-burden that may have been hitched to the carriage.
The angle at which the carriage had gone down indicated
something
heavy had dragged it down, anyway.

“You may want to get their heads unearthed
sooner rather than later. They’ll still be alive.”

Chet couldn’t help but roll his eyes. To his
embarrassment, Journey caught the gesture; instead of looking
angry, she smirked. As if she knew better? Abysmal god affiliates.
So full of themselves.

Journey poked her head inside the carriage
with an air of mild curiosity. “The individual who owned this had
slaves. See the specialized ring screwed in here, to clip a slave
collar to? Another Ceremente patented invention. The original owner
may have been from Maansterdam, was affiliated as a Merchant, or
both.”

“Hey, Chet, look at this!” Rory called out,
running toward him with something cradled in her hand. “Linley just
found it in pit 198.”

Journey climbed out of the carriage, and they
both inspected tiny object in Rory’s hand. It was an anuro, a
flying reptile with a blunt beak. A common enough animal,
completely unremarkable, except the preserving power of lucid mud
seemed to have saved it from decomposition. The anuro was still
covered in dust, but Chet thought it would be of the red-tipped
variety once clean. He touched it and nearly jumped. He’d expected
the anuro to be mummified and leathery, but instead it was soft
and—warm? Chet stared at it, then looked up at Journey.

Naw. Couldn’t be. Could it?

Journey chuckled at his reaction. “Want to
see a trick? Miss, I notice that you have a canteen. Pour water
over the anuro—especially in its mouth—and watch what happens.”

Rory gave Journey a strange look, but handed
the anuro corpse to Chet and unslung her canteen. Journey took a
step back when Rory popped the cork. Chet frowned at Journey. Was
she expecting this experiment to be dangerous? Rory poured a
trickle of sun-warmed water on the body. Sure enough, the anuro
turned out to be of the red-tipped variety once the dust washed
away.

“Tip some water into its mouth," Journey said
again.

Rory did so, and the anuro stirred in his
hands. Chet jerked, repressing the desire to drop the moving
creature.

“So it’s true,” Rory whispered, covering her
mouth. “My ancestors were right.”

Journey shot her a sharp look. “Ah, a Shadow
Dancer. Great, more complications,” she muttered under her
breath.

Chet glanced at her, startled, then staring
at the reptile stirring in his hand. It blinked and meeped softly,
struggled upright, its tiny claws pinching his palm.

Rory laughed and stroked the anuro with her
fingertip. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. The
current layer of that pit dates back to 7280. Which means this
little fellow’s been asleep exactly three-hundred twenty six
years.”

The anuro spread its wings and swiftly
launched into the air. Chet yelped, closing his hand too late.
“Shit!”

“Relax,” Journey said. “Let it go.”

“But—but...”

“There’s more where that came from.” She
nodded at the dig site. For some reason, she looked grim at the
implication of finding more living things under the lucid mud.

Chet rubbed his treacherous hands together,
hating how he’d accidentally let the living relic go. Journey was
probably right, but still. Inexplicable longing filled him. History
had literally slipped through his fingers; he couldn’t hold onto
it, couldn’t cage it. But then he often felt that way about the
past.

Dinner was a lively affair at the house where
Professor Tibbets and his graduate students had taken up residence
for the summer. The house’s owner, Associate-Professor Clementina
Golub, was due to show up tomorrow. She and Professor Tibbets were
co-sponsors of this dig; occupation of her Wetshul house had been
part of the bargain. Though her home was palatial, Chet wasn’t
looking forward to Professor Clementina’s arrival.

He’d first encountered Clementina as an
undergraduate. It had been his first semester, and he’d admittedly
been a strutting, cocksure, self-absorbed guy with more book
knowledge than common sense, but Clementina hadn’t needed to be so
mean
. Her introductory class had been the only course he’d
failed in his life. She’d ripped up Chet's term paper to his face,
smiling all the while. He’d been so proud of that paper. When he’d
switched graduate studies from law to archeology, Clementina had
been the only reason he’d hesitated.

It was a shame, too. She taught some of the
most intriguing classes at Semaphore. A world-renown scholar, she
was widely published and praised. Well, he’d never really wanted to
know much about Tache history. Really. Even though he spoke the
language and loved the culture.

Journey supped with them. Von Sampson topped
off her wineglass and tried to engage her in what he probably
thought was cunning wit. His dirty jokes about the mobile brothels,
a veritable fleet of specially marked vans throughout Wetshul, were
anything but subtle. Von Sampson even had the audacity to hint how
many prostitution vans he himself had visited since their arrival
in the city. Journey did not encourage this train of thought and—to
Chet’s relief—Professor Tibbets snagged hold of the conversation,
bringing it back to more classical matters. Journey’s knowledge
base was once again trotted out and, predictably, stunned the
table. Chet watched his fellow graduate students grow engaged at
her detailed grasp of everything from the roots of words to
Pantheon political struggles. Just as he, himself, was thoroughly
engrossed.

Only Rory held back as others debated and
questioned, her eyes narrow. She studied Journey with the air of a
skeptic at a stage-magic show. Chet raised his eyebrows at her,
curious what his girlfriend—his, um, former girlfriend—was
thinking, but Rory didn’t meet his gaze.

She finally leaned forward during dessert.
“Excuse me, Journey. May I ask what you do for a living?”

“I act on the stage in Eich Che.”

“Ah. You know, I’m from Eich Che. I
understand that competition for acting jobs is really tough at
home. Are you any good at it?”

Journey quirked an ironic smile, though her
eyes were wary. “I make a decent living. I’m currently scheduled to
play Julian in a modern version of
Syche Twins
for the
Basalt Stage House. Production begins next week. When Veyaon—your
professor, here—asked me to fly down to observe this remarkable dig
site, I knew I had a little time, which is why I’m here.”

“Julian is a man’s role,” Rory observed, her
voice tight. She acted like she didn’t believe Journey, somehow, as
if Journey was pulling a fast one, scamming them. Rory didn’t like
deception—she’d made that perfectly clear to Chet when they’d been
going out together.

“It is,” Journey confirmed readily. She was
watching Rory closely. In fact, the two women seemed to be having a
staring contest across the table.

“Are you Flame?”

Dead silence. The whole table seemed to hold
its breath. Chet felt his eyes bulge out of his head at the
thought. He glanced around and found the other graduate students
were having similar reactions. They looked like men stuffed by a
taxidermist. Flame were god affiliates, shapeshifters notorious for
their sexual peccadilloes and dastardly ways. They could be any
gender they chose, any race. Chet could, off the top of his head,
think of at least three classical epics that featured Flame
villains.