The Artifact of Foex (25 page)

Knife sighed and stepped back from the group
while Journey extrapolated wildly. “I hate to do this," Knife
murmured, drawing up her habit.

Chet’s eyes widened as Knife withdrew a tiny,
snub-nosed pistol out of her boot. Is
that
where Knife had
been keeping her gun all this time? No wonder she rarely took those
boots off. Did she have a blade in her other boot? Tibbets had been
stabbed, after all.

“You’re
not
going to shoot my
sister," Chet said, almost hyperventilating. Thankfully, Silvie
hadn’t noticed the pistol yet, still arguing in a loud voice with
Journey.

“Your family is big enough to be a mob, and
to judge by your father, a dangerous mob for us to be caught by.
Best nip this in the bud now. We’ll have to bring her with us. We
don’t have much choice.”

Fenimore touched the duffle bag on Journey’s
back. “No need," he murmured, somewhat smugly. Chet stared at
him—what was he going to do?

Silvie was yelling, “It’s a felony to imitate
a god affiliate! My sisters and I are going to tie you up and call
the pol—”

She stopped abruptly. Silvie had the same
bewildered look on her face as the officer back at the roadblock.
As before, Chet felt an odd vibration in the region of his navel.
He touched his belly, uncertain, and gazed at Fenimore with awe.
Though Chet had been around the Raptus as long as Fenimore, he
hadn’t even tried to make it work. It was a hesitation Fenimore
didn’t share, apparently. Knife, he noticed, didn't seem surprised
that Fenimore had a degree of control over the Raptus. She was
expressionless though she watched him closely, the gun held loosely
at her side.

Fenimore smiled. “You are going to eat
breakfast with the others and forget all about us.”

“Yes, I’m going to eat breakfast with the
others and forget all...” Silvie wandered off mid-sentence.

Chet gazed after his sister, worried. Would
this brush with the Raptus hurt her? Would she even remember? He
didn’t know the answers. Pantheon, did anyone? He wished he could
go after her and make sure she was okay, except he was already
committed to their escape—not to mention the rest. At least Knife
holstered her gun.

Chet led them to the garage where several
assorted vehicles awaited. Knife already had a familiar, abstract
look on her face, appraising. Chet touched her shoulder and shook
his head.

“I already got it.” He tossed his brother’s
keys in the air and caught them.

“Hah. You learn quick.”

It felt weird to steal Brae’s car, but Chet
could still feel the spot on his head where Brae had cuffed him.
Chet had stood for up himself—sort of—but some things were more
personal than that. His anger, repressed when his sisters had
walked in, bloomed within him like a spring bulb. It just wasn’t
fair. Father gave everything to Brae because Brae had followed him
into business and had done everything Father had ever asked of him.
Chet did not. And Chet got nothing for his troubles... well, almost
nothing. He supposed a high-priced education wasn’t small change,
but still. He sure wasn’t going to have an education now, was
he?

Everyone followed Chet to Brae’s family
station wagon, complete with crumbs and sticky seats. Chet backed
it out of the garage without further incident. “Where are we
going?”

“Door International Airport. Should be about
an hour and thirty minutes away, right?” Knife said.

“But I didn’t get the money! I suppose we
could sell Brae’s car.” Chet frowned at the thought. A brotherly
prank was one thing, but selling Brae’s car was something else. Bad
crowd or not, he didn’t really want to cross that line, much as his
family pained him.

“Fen?” Knife murmured, glancing at the
backseat.

Fenimore extracted a wad of cash, a
checkbook, his father’s watch, some jewelry and several papers from
his shirt pockets.“I found a copy of his signature, sure enough,
Knife.”

Chet opened his mouth and left it open.
Fenimore must have gone through his father’s study while Chet had
been in the shower. “But how did you know to look for a checkbook,
Fenimore?” Had they even
had
checkbooks in the 73rd
century? Chet didn’t think so.

“Knife told me what to look for.”

“We had long hours in the truck cargo hold to
plan,” Knife said smugly. “Get us to the airport, Chet. We’re going
to Plainsdaugheau.”

It was only later—as they were crossing the
tarmac to board the airplane—that Chet remembered Fenimore’s odd
behavior in his bedroom. Fenimore had never told him what he
wanted. Chet stared at Fenimore’s back and frowned.

Chet approached yet another bald-headed Flame
on the muddy street. “Excuse me, good Flame, do you know someone
named Aureate?”

The Flame paused and eyed him curiously. Chet
noticed that though she wore bright, colorful clothing, she had
also taken the precaution of wearing knee-high rubber boots to
protect herself from the pervasive mud.

“I know
of
her. Why, what do you
want to know?”

“My friends and I are wondering where she’s
performing tonight with the Intako Dance Company. We’d like to see
them in action,” Chet said. Over the past hour he’d repeated the
same question many times. Lacking a phone number and address, they
had to find Aureate the hard way.

Fortunately, Plainsdaugheau was an easy
city-state to search for a Flame. Chet had seen more Flame in the
last hour than in his entire life. At first, he’d found it rather
alarming to see Flame openly walking down the street, ducking out
of doorways, kissing, talking and riding bicycles like normal
people. The Silk District was brimming with them. Despite this—or
perhaps because of it—finding one Flame among many had turned out
to be its own challenge.

Indeed, the Flame he was questioning shook
her head with a shrug. “Sorry,” she said, moving on. Chet sighed,
watching her go.

Fenimore whistled at him from the street
corner, and Chet slopped over in his muddy shoes. “Come on, Journey
found our answer. The Intako Dance Company is apparently performing
aboard a luxury passenger ship tonight. They’re launching off Syn
Port’s Pier 24 at sunset.”

“Flame at open sea? That doesn’t seem right,"
Chet said. Fenimore shrugged and Chet could only agree. If this
Aureate didn’t care about such things, who was he to judge?

Chet glanced around him as they moved off
down the street, admiring the city-state. Now that he was here,
Plainsdaugheau was breathtaking in an eclectic, handmade way.
Houses stacked up like shipping containers, trimmed with decorative
gingerbreading and stained-glass windows. People walked about in
similar, gaudy styles. Chet had yet to see a man wearing a
suit—instead, they wore bright colored pants or gradient sarongs.
Everything seemed home dyed or otherwise modified. And the women!
Toplessness seemed normal among women of all ages, even among
mothers with half-grown children traipsing behind them.

They met Journey and Knife on the next street
corner. “Now that we know where we’re headed, let’s go shopping
before we find somewhere to eat,” Journey said with enthusiasm. “We
can’t possibly attend a party in these awful clothes.” She’d
changed back into Saemion’s clothes and Knife had his outfit from
Wetshul, but they both looked rather wilted. Not to mention the
smell.

“If it’s a private party, will we be allowed
on board?” Chet said.

Knife shrugged. “Aureate’ll get us in.”

Chet thought the Flame would shop for
themselves but found himself roped in, too. Journey held up
clothing and regarded Chet narrowly. “I think we’ll go with warm
colors for you. Oranges and reds with black for contrast. How do
you feel about prints, Chet?”

“Uh, what?” Chet slouched, feeling trapped
and panicked by the many choices available in the boutique.

“Just let Journey dress you. It’s easier,"
Knife advised him cheerfully. Knife was naked to the waist with
black dress pants and his ever-present boots on. He was back in his
favorite bistre-skinned, tall-and-skinny male form. By his relaxed
stance, Knife must feel relieved about this.

Journey hit Knife playfully on the shoulder,
and they engaged in a brief tussle. Then Journey deliberately
turned her back on Knife and pressed a pile of folded clothes into
Chet’s hand. “Go try these on, Chet, and see what you think.” As he
left for the dressing room, Chet heard her turn to Fenimore and
say, “Now for you, how about white and black...”

An hour later, Chet had to admit that Journey
knew what she was doing. He’d never been dressed by someone head to
toe. He felt
stylish
. When two young women—with perky,
exposed breasts bouncing above their crocheted skirts—stopped to
giggle and stare at him behind their hands, his back automatically
straightened.

“Miss, miss," he said, nodding his head in
their direction. More giggling before they moved off.

“You should have asked them to step around
the corner into the alleyway,” Fenimore said from where he leaned
against a wall. “I’ll bet they would have let you under those
skirts.”

Chet blushed. “You’d do that kind of thing.
Not me.”

“Why not? You should take initiative, Chet,
and stop being such a pansy.”

Chet brushed imaginary dust off his new
jacket. “I will when I’m ready. Don’t push me.”

Syn Port’s Pier 24 was crowded as the sun
sank in the poppy-orange sky, spectacular with reflective blues and
greens of sunset. It was pretty, but Chet felt his heart sink at
the crowd wandering around the wooden pier, though they quickly
spotted the luxury passenger ship in question. Chet eyed it
curiously. Older members his family had been passengers on such
ships and had hosted many a dull slideshow based on their travels.
This one seemed compact. It was more like a private yacht than a
luxury liner. It was only four decks and two-hundred feet long. At
least it was still at port, though the gangplank not out yet.
Closed for now.

After employing the same tactic of spreading
out and questioning the crowd, someone pointed them to a
hand-painted van at the end of the pier. The van was rocking. Maybe
the troop was practicing dance moves in there.

Yeah, right
, Chet thought, feeling a
new kind of cynicism.
Different kind of dance.

Knife knocked. A middle-aged man, his
thinning hair dyed in orange and green streaks, slid open the door.
He was naked to the waist and wearing a long grass skirt, two
smaller grass skirts tied around both knees—obviously a
costume.

“Yes, good Flame? May I help you?”

“Is Aureate around?”

“Knife!” a voice squealed from inside the
van. “‘Scuse me, people, I gotta say hello!”

Chet’s first impression of Aureate was a
moving streak in a grass skirt. She was wearing a similar costume
as the man and others in the van, some of whom were still entangled
together in a half-dressed state. She was bald, of course. Her tits
were enormous and bouncy, Chet noticed instantly. Unfortunately,
they were covered by another part of the costume: a halter top with
woven rhamph fur-feathers.

Aureate ran between Knife and Journey,
kissing and hugged them with enthusiasm, chattering away the whole
time in some other language that Chet didn’t understand. It was
different from the tongue Knife and Journey had spoken before, full
of clicks and glottal stops. Knife grinned at her fondly, and
Journey replied in a rapid patter of the same tongue.

Aureate turned to Chet and Fenimore and asked
a question in the unknown language, gesturing at them. Chet felt
his heart stop. All of him just—stopped. Aureate had honey-colored
eyes. Yellow eyes like a Magician.
But... there are no more
Magicians,
he thought. What had Othnielia said about Aureate
being the oldest living thing on Uos that wasn’t a god? Fenimore,
he realized, was standing very still at his side.