The Artifact of Foex (20 page)

“Er, yes?” Chet was not a little freaked out
by this line of questioning. “Yes, fire burns me like it burns
everyone else.”

“Oh, thank
Pantheon
,” Journey
murmured, bowing over until her forehead rested on the wooden
table. “I didn’t screw up, then.”

Othnielia and Knife chuckled. Chet frowned at
this. “Does someone care to explain?”

“To initiate as Flame, you have to be a
virgin,” Knife said.

Chet grew hot—his face probably almost
matched his hair. Journey thought he might have been a candidate to
be Flame? But... he was just a guy. A normal, everyday guy. Despite
having just, um, cross dressed to experience anal sex with a man.
Anyway, he
couldn’t
initiate to Pelin now. Chet cheered up
at the thought, grateful that he was no longer a virgin. His aching
ass, so recently plundered, felt like an insurance policy in his
pocket.

Masie closed the front door, calling goodbye
to her friend. She turned and murmured in Othnielia’s ear.

Othnielia went instantly still. “Is she
sure?” Masie nodded, her expression serious. Othnielia took a deep
breath. “You four had best climb down into the cellar. Our local
sheriff is going door to door, asking after you. Not by name, but
by description. He’s my friend, and I’m sure he won’t look further
than he has to, but best we don’t stretch his dedication to the
badge, eh?”

Masie had already rolled up the rag-tied
carpet in the kitchen to reveal a cellar door. She pulled the
trapdoor by a ring to reveal a black void. “Saemion, light a lamp.
We can’t send them down in the dark.”

Chet couldn’t believe it as he descended the
ladder behind Journey. The events from three days ago rushed back
to him, and he gulped residual nausea. By the steady, dim light of
the oil lamp, he could see the cellar was more like a large pantry.
It was filled with wax-sealed canning jars, rotund barrels, packing
crates of wizened melons, sacks of root vegetables, and dusty
bottles that undoubtedly held alcohol.

Othnielia stuck his face in the hole. “You
okay?”

“We’ll be fine," Journey assured him.

The trapdoor closed, locking them in. Chet
sat on the dirt floor, repressing panic. He took deep breaths,
listening to the footsteps and murmured words overhead. Noise
resonated just fine through the floorboards, anyway.

Fenimore glanced around. “Where’s the
Raptus?” he whispered.

“In the living room. My purse," Journey
replied, glancing at the ceiling.

“If we had it, we could try to gain control
of the sheriff’s mind and send him away,” Fenimore said. “If he
discovers us and attempts to use force, the shielding power might
work even now.”

Knife sighed. “I trust Othnielia to cover for
us.”

“She’s the reason I survived the World War,”
Journey put in. “Most Flame died, you know. That’s why three
council members just initiated. The medical experiments carried out
on Flame were the worst of part...”

Chet jerked at a knock on the front door, and
Journey fell silent. Chet’s whole body was tense, his shoulders
shaking. He pressed his face into his knees and waited.

No one spoke in the cellar as someone walked across the wooden
floorboards to answer the door. “Jindo, welcome! We just finished
eating midday—would you care to set in?”

“No thank you, Masie. I just need to talk to
Othnielia.”

More footsteps. “Yes, Jindo? How can I help
you today?”

Chet blinked, sorry that he couldn’t see
anything. This was like listening to a soap opera on the radio. The
strange male voice murmured, and Chet only caught a phrase or two.
“Murdered," was the most prominent word, and also “renegades,”
“stolen car.”

Chet heard Othnielia sigh. “Got it. I’ll keep
an eye out.”

Jindo’s voice rose in volume. “Of course, of
course. I’m canvassing the whole neighborhood for clues, starting
with the west end and moving east in a leisurely fashion. Can’t
miss a thing that way. The law enforcement up the mountains seems
quite keen; they don’t understand our way of doing things.”

“I understand completely, Jindo.”

More murmurs, a laugh. Someone was smoking by
the smell of it. Discerning the pattern of footsteps, Chet decided
they’d moved into another room. More talk. Doors opened and shut.
Silence. Chet was going out of his head, waiting. Journey had her
eyes closed and was taking deep breaths. Fenimore had his hunting
blade out, his expression grim. Knife... Knife looked like a man—or
an individual, rather—finally in his element after a long, dull
day. His eyes sparkled with interest, and his leg jiggled, like a
benched athlete waiting for a coach to put him in the game.

Movement overhead, scrapping. The carpet
being rolled up? Sure enough, the cellar door creaked open. “All
clear. Come on out,” Othnielia said.

“What’s the word?” Knife said, climbing the
ladder first.

Othnielia had a distracted, unhappy look of
someone being pulled in two directions. “Sheriff Jindo is being
mighty good to us. He carefully visited all our neighbors first,
including Masie’s best friend, who is the biggest gossip in these
parts. I gather that he’s playing a delicate game, and a
jurisdiction game at that.”

“He’s covering for us?” Journey said as she
put the lantern on the kitchen table.

“Covering for me. He doesn’t know you from a
herd of macrauch, but he knows you’re here, of course. It’s
obviously why you abandoned that stolen car in the
neighborhood.”

Saemion, who was leaning in the doorway,
said, “Jindo owes you for a couple of solved cases, ’Lia, going
back some years. You
are
the local expert on god
affiliates.”

“So when do we leave?” Fenimore asked, his
whole body radiating pent-up energy.

Othnielia eyed Knife and Journey. “Well, now.
That’s a question, isn’t it?”

Journey looked reluctant. “We need to go to
Plainsdaugheau to see Aureate but don’t have enough funds on hand.
I have reserves in a cache near my home. So does Knife, of course.
My place is closer than Knife’s, but it’s a long ways north to Eich
Che, especially when we’re wanted by the police and all.”

Chet nearly choked. “Plainsdaugheau? We’re
going to
Plainsdaugheau?
” Half a world away, the
city-state was located in the middle of the ocean, perched at the
edge of an unassailable land mass. It was so far away they might as
well have been headed to Elderbeth in outer space.

Knife eyed him speculatively. “Chet, you’re
from the Door area. That’s half as far as Eich Che,
and
in
the right direction.”

“Um. Yes?”

“You mentioned before that your family is
rich.”

Chet dropped his eyes. “My family would
rather see me locked in an insane asylum than accept the company
I’m keeping.”

Both Knife and Fenimore grinned in response;
identical grins, in fact. Fenimore slapped Chet on the back
bracingly. “I think we can slip through that net, fair enough. Lead
us forth.”

“My parents actually live outside of Door in
the suburban community of Fengfu...”

“Yes, yes. We’ll figure it out," Knife said.
He turned to Othnielia. “We’re headed west. Door is only about six
or seven hundred miles away. The Arch Trade Route is near here,
isn’t it?”

“People call it Highway 1 these days, and
yes, it’s about ten miles via back ways, over fields and through
orchards. I wouldn’t want to take you by the front road anyway,
what with curious neighbors just having been spoken to by the
sheriff. You hitchhiking?”

Knife and Journey met eyes, and neither
seemed overjoyed by the prospect. “Yes,” Journey said. “Looks like
I’ll be taking the hit on this one.”

Chet frowned, not certain what she meant.
Knife and Othnielia each touched her gently: Knife took her hand
and Othnielia her shoulder, supporting her. “Maybe it won’t come to
that,” Othnielia murmured.

“Maybe. Think you can get us there
tonight?”

“Best not risk it. Ceroses do better in
daylight, and I’d like to get home before dark. Don’t think it’ll
rain tomorrow, and Sheriff Jindo made it clear he’s giving me
space. He even outlined where he’s searching next.”

“Of course, that would be the best way to
entrap you. And us,” Knife muttered.

Othnielia gave him a long, measured look.
“Can you think of a better plan?” The tension between them was
subtle but present. Chet looked from one to the other. They weren’t
exactly having a staring contest, but it was a near thing.

Knife gave up first, dropping his eyes. “No.
We are as you see us: without luggage or backup.”

“Well then, you’d best trust my friends and
not fool around here, making a mess of things.” Othnielia’s tone
was sharp.

Knife turned away. Journey looked like she
was being ground between two stones. Chet felt the same, though he
lacked her insight. He’d always thought of the past as fascinating
and intricate, all the battlefields comfortably far away. But to
three—no, four—of the people here, the past was alive, tainting the
present. Othnielia had been right about layers of rock, he decided.
Whatever layer of past lay between the Flame, it jutted into the
present in a distinct, geological fashion.

As for Chet, he was the same guy as always.
Just the same no matter how much he delved into dangerous sexuality
or conversed with historic men and Flame. Uncomplicated and
unaffiliated, unknowing of the past as he’d always been. He might
study hard as he pleased, but he could never seem to catch up.

Even now he was the odd man out.

While
up before dawn
might be normal
on the farm, it was not in Chet’s usual vocabulary.

Othnielia woke them while doing chores. Half
asleep, Chet stumbled through the motions of dressing and eating
until he was faced with a task he’d never had before: mounting a
ceros. Othnielia had assigned him an older gelding, placid yet
featuring a full rack of horns, which he and Fenimore were to share
pillion style. The beast was nine feet tall even without accounting
for the horns. Fenimore didn’t seem at all distracted or even
interested by the mode of transport, helping to saddle and bridle
without comment.

Chet hung back. His ass was still sore from
yesterday, but that would be nothing compared to what it would be
tonight when—what? When they were riding in someone else’s vehicle?
Asleep—or dead—by the side of the road?
Today couldn’t possibly
get more intimidating,
Chet thought irritably.

Journey and Knife seemed to be in a sober
mood. They both sported knotted kerchiefs under wide-brimmed hats.
Saemion—who was up to see them off—had clearly lent Journey
clothing. The fashionable purse had been replaced by an
army-surplus duffle, which held the Raptus plus spare clothing and
food rations. Knife remained exactly the same, of course, though
he’d ditched the college sweater.
What’s the use of being a
shapeshifter if you don’t ever shift your shape?
Chet
wondered. Now was a great time for the Flame to take on different
figures and faces. He kept his thoughts private.

Fenimore did not. He turned to Othnielia and
inquired, “Why do you change to female to travel? Seems to me it’s
best to travel as male.”

Chet blinked. He, too, had wanted to ask
Othnielia why she’d turned female, but hadn’t quite dared. She
appeared to be third of the age she’d been before—in her
mid-forties, perhaps. Still flaxen, she had a certain spare, wry
beauty to her face and figure. She was still missing a tooth.
Apparently, it was a real loss, not just for show. She, too, wore a
kerchief under a wide-brimmed hat.

Othnielia shrugged. “You never know when
you’ll have to navigate unfriendly terrain. Being female means
people will deliberately miss when they’re shooting at you. Not
that I expect to be shot at in peacetime, but territoriality is a
timeless trait. Chivalry and sexism not so much, but still.”

Masie and Saemion watched, unconcerned, as
they mounted up. Or at least as everyone mounted up save Chet.
Saemion giggled behind her hand as Masie encouraged him to ascend
the beast. “You’ve got to stretch your legs wide open, once you’re
on the mounting block," she said cheerfully.

“
You
know all about that, Chet.”
Fenimore grinned down at him, holding out a hand to haul him
up.

Fortunately, this beast was more placid than
the doedicu yesterday. Chet almost popped his thigh out of its
socket before he finally succeeded. He gripped Fenimore grimly,
expecting to fall any minute. To his relief, Othnielia chose a
walking pace.

Despite Othnielia’s time-tested fears, they
traversed territory without issue, cutting across fields and
shallow creeks. Chet’s leg muscles ached, but he managed to enjoy
himself. It almost seemed like his childhood dreams of camping; a
clear sky and real ceros riding. Chet’s family had taken their
vacations by a rural lake. He knew how to launch, handle and dock
just about every kind of small boat imaginable, but riding a ceros
through this rural area seemed a more authentically historic
activity. He wondered whether they would see a pride of wild
othnielias out here. Probably not, but he could dream.