The Artifact of Foex (32 page)

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.

Chet tied the anchor into the crocheted
sweater with the pilot cord. Gathering his courage, he lifted the
body and tipped it into the sea. It sank slowly, feet first. Chet
watched until he couldn’t see it anymore in the dark water.

He had to say something. It was traditional,
wasn’t it? Chet licked his lips and murmured, “May Pelin keep you.
Thank you for everything, Aureate.”

He turned the boat around and touched the
throttle. It sputtered. Chet swore as the motor abruptly died. He
tried it again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

Shit.

There was no help for it. He could either
wait here until daylight when a boat or ship might just happen to
come by and rescue him, or he could swim. Considering he’d sunk a
body on this very spot, he was disinclined to wait for a random
rescue. At least he’d thought to grab a life jacket, and he was
already barefoot; he wouldn’t have to tie a pair of shoes around
his neck. Even knowing what he had to do, Chet sat in the boat a
long time. He was tired, hungry and distraught. He didn’t want to
do this.

Come on. It’s not going to get any
easier
. Chet took a deep breath, stood, aimed for what he
hoped was the direction of the dock and jumped in. Unsurprisingly,
it was just as chilly as before, but at least Plainsdaugheau was
close enough to the equator so that it wasn’t
cold
cold.
Chet swam. He’d always considered himself a strong swimmer, but had
never taken on the open sea or such a distance. His mind was caught
in an endless loop, recalling the last moments of Aureate’s life...
no, this would never do. Chet focused on poetry.

A verse by the Magician Zang popped into his
head, unbidden.

“Will, I hail thee
Lend me the strength
To see this twisted bough into a
house
To crack stone into a
pathway
Yea, lend me the
strength
To throw open gates to the
lost city of El
Rendering god barrier
to splinters of light
So Metacor
bones and all Mother Earth’s works may see the light of
day
And be mystery no more.”

Though pure doggerel, the verse seemed to
help more than any other. Chet repeated it over and over again as
he swam. The sea was endless and seemed to go on forever—surely an
illusion. He could see the Plainsdaugheau skyline growing
infinitesimally closer. Sort of. Chet closed his eyes and kept
swimming.

After a time, he frowned. He could hear a
motor in the distance, growing louder by the minute. Chet paused
and gazing around him. A large, dark boat was zooming across the
water at full speed, headed directly for him.

“Abyss!” Chet said out loud, accidentally
swallowing salt water.

Why, why,
why
with all this open sea
was someone bearing down on him? Undoubtedly it was random—no way
they could see him. Smugglers or drug dealers, maybe. They seemed
to be pursued by a blocky craft. Chet couldn’t see much from his
perspective, but he thought it was a law enforcement vessel.

They were almost on top of him. If they hit
him, he’d be dead.

A new verse rose unbidden in his mind:

“Will, I hail thee
Lend me the strength
To deflect these boats from my path
And gain ascendency once more.”

Chet repeated the new verse as the boats bore
down on him. They were coming closer, closer. He bit his lip,
tasting blood. Chet wanted to close his eyes but couldn't. At the
last minute—only feet away—the boat in front swerved. He gasped as
a deluge of wake hit his face; Chet went down momentarily, his
lifejacket bouncing him back to the surface. The second boat was
already swerving in pursuit as he reoriented himself.

The motors grew faint as they swung off into
the distance.
Huh. That was lucky.
Chet bobbed a minute,
regaining his strength. Then he started back toward Plainsdaugheau
one stroke at a time.

Booking a flight to the city-state of Saene
turned out to be impossible. There was a general labor strike at
Saene International Airport, and flights to nearby airports were
booked solid. The best they could do was fly across the ocean and
land on the western edge of Tache, then take a transcontinental
train over land.

Chet slept on the flight, losing all sense of
time. He felt itchy and uncomfortable in his skin and kept
sneezing. Chet didn’t make any decisions, not even when to eat. He
felt drained of initiative, grateful that both Journey and Knife
were competent travelers. They took a taxi to the train station and
bought tickets, including a private train compartment and bunks in
the sleeper car with a plan to sleep in shifts.

Journey frowned at Chet as they boarded the
train. “You look terrible, sweetie.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Why don’t you rest on one of the bunks.
We’ll save you some dinner from the dining car, okay?”

“Okay.”

The white noise of the train lulled him to
sleep immediately. When he woke, the sun was up. It seemed to be
closer to noon than morning. They were traveling through a
civilized rural area, everything neat and tidy, land portioned in
precise orchards, fields and houses. In contrast, Chet felt seedy
and awful. He stumbled to the bathroom, then found their private
compartment. Fenimore was the only one there, reading.

He glanced up when Chet entered. “You look
like a strong breeze would knock you down.”

“I feel it.” The promised dinner—and
breakfast—sat in take-out boxes on the seat. Chet opened a box and
frowned at the food; it didn’t look at all appealing. He closed it,
swallowing nausea.

In contrast, Fenimore seemed smug and
contented. He was reading the newspaper like a modern gentleman,
his locks tied in a plait down his back, a fresh drink with ice
cubes in hand. They were on his home continent, and he appeared far
more at ease here. Yet for all Chet knew, he might have committed
atrocious crimes. How did you ask someone whether they were a
murderer?

Chet sighed. “So we only have one more Flame
to go, eh?”

“Three,” Fenimore corrected mildly from
behind the newspaper.

“Three?”

“This Doyen Quor person, then Knife and
Journey. They have not yet said their verses or shed blood on the
Raptus.”

“I didn’t realize you were tracking these
procedures so closely.”

Fenimore shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know
why Journey is waiting. She
said
she remembers her
verse.”

“Okay, so three to go. Then Knife will
destroy the Raptus. Do you think she’ll need our help? I wonder if
Pelin will come down from the God Plain in person.” Except Rory had
made it clear that Pelin couldn't destroy the Raptus, and Knife had
been bluffing, but toward what end? What really awaited them at the
end of this slow, plodding race?

“Mmm.”

Chet nibbled on his lip. “You
are
going to assist in destroying it, right, Fenimore?”

“Why should I do otherwise?”

Evading the issue, Chet noticed. Feeling
reckless, he decided to push. “Well, you could try to take it by
force.”

Fenimore closed the paper with a crackle,
folding it. With the bulk of the newspaper out of the way, Chet
realized Fenimore had the Raptus on the seat beside him. The
Raptus...
and
the bottle of lubricant from the Wetshul
prostitute. Chet’s heart fell.

Fenimore watched him steadily. “What makes
you say that?”

“Uh. You didn’t want to destroy it in the
first place. You seemed to like using it on my sister, and you
enjoy doing things—forcefully.” Chet shouldn’t have brought this
up. He should have kept silent. Fenimore’s calmness was like a
flashing red light seen too late. Chet looked out the train window,
burning hot although he felt chilled; he hadn’t felt warm since
climbing out of the ocean.

Fenimore steepled his hands. “Chet, are you
accusing me of something?”

“No.”

“Because it sounds like you are. Very serious
accusations, too. I have no wish to rule the
entire
world.”

“What do you want, then?”

A slow smile spread over Fenimore’s face. He
leaned back and said, “I’d like you to unbutton your shirt.
Now.”

Chet frowned fiercely at him. “I don’t feel
well, Fenimore! I’m not going to have sex with you.”

Fenimore touched the Raptus at his side.
“Take off your shirt. One button at a time.”

The cord at his navel vibrated—hard. A fog
settled over Chet’s head. In fact, it felt almost like a cartoon
icon of a personal, dark cloud hovering above him. Chet‘s fingers
unbuttoned his shirt without his consent. Fenimore watched, his
eyes predatory slits.
This can’t be happening,
Chet
thought mussily. Where were the Flame?

How had Fenimore gotten such total control
over the Raptus?

As Chet pulled his shirt off, he remembered
that moment on the dock when he’d left to take care of the body.
Knife and Journey had been curled up together, weeping and
unstrung, while Fenimore had been sitting off to one side with the
duffle bag. Two emotionally distraught Flame left alone beside a
predator.

Now Chet was alone with him, too.

“Very nice. Remove the rest of your
clothing.”

Chet obeyed helplessly. He glanced at the
windows; the shades were up so anyone outside could see them. The
country homes and communities they passed looked so peaceful...
Chet shut his eyes.

“Fenimore, may I close the shades?”

“It does not please you to be seen naked by
everyone?” Fenimore’s voice was a low purr. “Perhaps you should
learn to enjoy it. Perhaps I will make you rub your naked body
against the window.”

“Please don’t.”

Fenimore licked his lips like an inofe eating
a meal. “You know, I believe you owe me from a few days ago when
you used your teeth in exactly the wrong manner. It’s time for me
to collect on my debt. Turn around, hands on the seat in front of
you. Stick out your arse so I can have access to it. Oh, and when I
tell you to do something, you are required to answer. Call me
‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir.” Chet turned and took up the
position, his genitals dangling, exposed and vulnerable.

Fenimore was quiet behind him. Chet wanted to
turn and look, but he was frightened of what he might see. Fenimore
had proposed to flog him with a ceros whip back on Othnielia’s
farm. He didn’t have a whip here. Would he use his hands to spank
as Chet had done with Aureate?

Chet yelped, startled. An entirely different,
painful sensation touched his buttocks. It was ice. Fenimore had
fished an ice cube out of his drink and was running it up Chet’s
ass cheeks. Chet looked over his shoulder. Fenimore was grinning.
He ran the ice over Chet’s ass crack, then popped it inside his
anus. Chet mewled, writhing at the sensations. Fenimore fished out
another ice cube and grabbed Chet’s genitals, rubbing it all over
his penis and balls. Chet squeaked, unable to stop squirming.
Again, the ice cube was inserted inside him.

“Tell me you like that,” Fenimore said.

“I... like that, sir.”

“Very good. I notice you have a belt, Chet.
Journey kitted us out beautifully, did she not? Untangle the belt
and pass it to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Chet did, his ass tightening
convulsively. He could feel the ice melting inside of him,
rendering his anus numb.

“Twenty-one strikes, was it not?”

“Sir.”

Fenimore stood and moved to one side of him,
undoubtedly to gain leverage. He stroked Chet’s ass lightly with
the folded belt. “You are not to make noise while I mete out your
punishment. It’s about time you started being a man instead of a
milk sop. Oh, and you’re not to close your eyes, either. If someone
sees you through the window, I don’t want you to miss the
opportunity to view yourself being exposed.”

“Yes, sir," Chet whispered. He could feel his
throat shutting down. He
couldn’t
make noise with that
kind of command laid upon him. His eyes felt dry already, forced
open.

The first strike was a shock, and a second
followed swiftly. Each strike made Chet jump and flail. The silence
was the worst part, he decided. If only he could yelp, swear and
scream, he’d feel better, letting loose some of the energy being
invested in him. He bit his useless tongue as he took another
stroke, and another, and another. Fenimore moved to his other the
left side and began again, focusing on his left buttock. After a
time, he stopped. Was it over?