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.
Journey sighed and glanced at Professor Tibbets, who spread his hands as if to say, It’s up to you. Journey reached up and swept off her... her wig. She removed the holding cap, too. She was completely bald beneath it. The mark of a Flame.
Chapter 2
Flame and Find
Chet felt the blood drain from his face. Reactions up and down the table varied, but most people leaned away, as if being Flame was something they could catch. Von Sampson even scooted his chair back from the table. Though shocked, Chet was surprised at his colleague’s disgust. He’d thought Von Sampson would love to pursue a Flame, not run from the possibility. It seemed not. Perhaps the fact that Flame could—and did, if rumors were true—change sex made a difference to Von Sampson. Chet didn’t blame him.
Professor Tibbets gestured amicably. “Come now, come now. We’re all friends here. Most of us are affiliated to Philapo, and of course Rory is bound to the goddess Aiena. Our gods are members of the Tutelary Party; by the gods’ grace, all of us at this table are political allies. The goddess Pelin and her Flame affiliates are on our side. Why should the opinion of unaffiliated idiots matter to us? No offense, Chet.”
“None taken, sir.” In the company of god affiliates, someone always made a comment like that once a day. At least Professor Tibbets didn’t mean it.
Chet tried to figure out how he felt about Journey being Flame. He’d never met a Flame before and certainly hadn’t expected to find one here. Wetshul had been a primary hub of slavery back in the old days, when the nearby continent Palister had been emptied of native coteries and their Flame leaders. No one would want to live where their forerunners had been boxed, masked, and chained.
Her affiliation might hold the answer to one of his most pressing questions, though. Chet eyed Journey with new curiosity, swallowing his knee-jerk prejudice in favor of a more scholarly attitude. “Pardon me, but in An Epic of Eicha and The Foex Chronicles, there are claims that Flame reincarnate over and over again at the behest of Pelin. Are you—I mean, have you...”
Journey shot him a grateful, amused glance. Lack of hair did not change her femininity one bit, he noted, though it still felt shocking to be confronted by an intensely feminine woman with a bald head. She really could be an actress—or, um, an actor. “Yes, I’m one of Pelin’s older souls. Not the oldest, though, not by far.”
“You’re being modest, my dear. Journey is a m
ember of the Flame Council, also known as the Council of Six,” Professor Tibbets put in, his habitual after-supper glass of aran in hand. Chet eyed it longingly. He loved the popular, licorice-flavored alcohol, but he dared not tap Professor Clementina’s supply. He didn’t want to draw her negative attention—or attention at all—in any way.
Tibbets continued, “Tell them what that means, Journey.”
Chet noticed that Rory had stiffened, her nostrils flared. Journey, however, rubbed her face with tips of her fingers. “Oh, Veyaon. Must I?”
“Of course you don’t. But it might help them understand why I asked you here.”
“The Flame Council is the internal regulatory body among the Flame. We do not have a hierarchy, but we do need to order ourselves. Anarchy is not a helpful system when you want consensus-based decision making.”
“No, no,” Professor Tibbets interrupted, waving his free hand. “Not the deadly dull parts. Tell them about when you were first initiated to Pelin.”
“Ah, I see what you’re driving at. Very well. The Council of Six is by definition comprised of some of the oldest reincarnating souls that Pelin keeps in her stable, so to speak. My colleague Doyen Quor is nearly the oldest of us, originally born in Foex 980, as the Pantheon count the millennia. I’m a youngster by comparison: my first life began in Resoan 198.”
Murmurs rose up and down the table; people whispered to one another, their eyes wide. Chet sat back and did the math. It wasn’t easy unless one had the Pantheon calendar memorized, which he did, though he hated how egotistical the thing was. At the end of each millennium, the Pantheon voted on which one of them had made the biggest impact during those thousand years. Whichever god won had the millennium named after them. Chet couldn’t help but feel it was a pissing contest, and resented having to acknowledge Pantheon members while studying historic facts that had nothing to do with them. His opinion wasn’t shared by many: popular culture mavens loved contesting which god would own the current millennia, the 7000s. Personally, Chet didn’t care. But he did care that Journey could remember over 2400 years of history. More than two thousand years!
He tucked his chin, feeling vulnerable for no reason he could discern. “That’s why you know so much about what we’re digging up at the site. You lived during those times.”
“That’s right.” The nod she gave him was a shade more respectful.
Chet wasn’t sure he wanted her respect, but... she’d originally been born in Resoan 198. Maybe should could tell him what it had been like back then. During the days he wished he’d been alive.
People were rising from their seats. The student on dishes duty was gathering the used plates and spoons, signaling the end of the meal. Usually they lingered in the large living room and well-appointed library. Tonight, however, people drifted back to their rooms. It was an unorganized, unofficial retreat.
Chet followed Journey and Professor Tibbets into the living room, hoping to learn more, but Rory beat him to the punch. As everyone maneuvered through the hallway, she leaned close to Journey and muttered, “Why are you really here?”
“You heard the professor,” Journey said brightly.
Rory scowled, but she refrained from saying more—more of what?—as Tibbets turned to say, “Please forgive my students, Journey. They’ll come around. Eventually.”
“Not a problem. You could say I’m used to it.”
“Nevertheless, it’s a shame that...” Tibbets paused as the doorbell rang.
Chet, who was closest to the front hall, ducked out to answer it. A tall, rail-thin man stood there. He was bistre colored, like Rory, and wore a neat suit. The sort of man who looked like he’d be at home with a mixed drink on the rocks, though the only item in his hand was a small suitcase. His pressed suit trousers were tucked into wicked-looking boots: knee-high leather, brown with decorative stitching. Alert to the possibilities, Chet studied his head. Beneath his tweed cap there were no sideburns or stubble. He was bald. Just like Journey.
“Knife!” Journey cried out from behind him. She leapt into his arms, and he swung her around, laughing. They giggled like school children and kissed. It was a friendly, warm, intimate kiss.
Chet looked away, his face hot. His groin tightened again.
“You came,” Journey continued. “I didn’t know if you would come.”
“Yes, well, I got your message.” The new Flame looked sober and didn’t say more.
Journey ushered him inside and introduced him around. Knife was well named, Chet decided—he looked like a weapon, all sharp edges and keen glances. Nothing wasted in that spare figure. He was clearly unconcerned about local views. Though his head was covered, he wore no wig.
Journey was bubbling on, her whole face animated. “Knife is another member of the Council of Six, professor. He also knows something about what’s buried under all that dust.”
“Splendid, splendid,” Tibbets said, warm and welcoming as always.
Rory, however, looked sullen, even murderous. Chet had only seen her look that way once, when a fellow graduate student had edged her out on a pet project. Why did she seem to feel the Flame were infringing on her territory? She excused herself curtly and went upstairs.
Some hours later, Chet was coming out of the hall bathroom and was about to go upstairs himself when he noticed the two Flame whispering to one another near the staircase. They were speaking the language of Tache. Chet, who had learned the language at his father’s insistence, eavesdropped shamelessly.
“... I figured he’s your meat, or I’d leave them to it,” Journey was saying.
“No, you were right to call me out. It is heartening that the Shadow Dancers are keeping an eye on the proceedings; a very good thing for us, all things considered. Have they found anything?”
“They’re getting close. Tomorrow, I think, if we both pitch in. I wonder if that young woman will give us trouble. I hate not trusting our allies, but their failure was pretty spectacular last time.”
The whispering stopped; they were both staring in his direction. Chet smiled blankly, as if he hadn’t understood a word, and ascended the stairs. Whatever Knife meant, something was down in the dust. Something important to both the Flame and Rory’s people. It seemed tomorrow would be interesting.
Chet woke with the salient question, Which one? Which pit would Journey and Knife volunteer to help dig? The carriage with its buried ceroses? The gaudy grandfather clock? More pertinent, however, was the tension between Journey and Rory. Chet trusted that Rory had good reason to be suspicious, and indeed, the Flame did seem to be up to something nefarious, or at least clandestine.
Alas, it was Rory’s turn to drive their collective finds back up to the university. It was an hour's drive each way, with unloading and documenting to do besides. Chet regretted not seeing more fireworks between Rory and the Flame, or at least finding out more about her issue with them.
Rory cornered him after breakfast with a put-upon expression. “Could I trade shuttling duty with you? I should be at the dig site this morning.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Then no thanks.”
“Look, just trade with me! It matters.”
Chet frowned. “If it really mattered, you’d tell me why. I just did it three days ago. Besides, Tibbets put me in charge of looking after Journey.” He was afraid he sounded whiny, but he didn’t want to miss out on the action. This was just too exciting. He felt like he’d fallen into a pulp novel filled with affiliate intrigue. Working on the find of the century was fun, sure, but it was also dull and monotonous. “Why were you were making scary eyes at the Flame last night, anyway? What do you think they’re up to?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Rory crossed her arms tight, her expression thunderous. “It’s none of your business. Besides, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Come on. You have to trade with me, Chet.”
“Hey, we’re not going out anymore. You can’t lea
n on me for favors.”
“I was asking as a friend,” she hissed.
“You don’t sound very friendly.”
“Fine! You’re nothing but a snotty, dull-witted ass.”
He glared. “And you're a stuck-up affiliate who doesn’t care about anything but your little political games.”
“Screw you, Chet Baikson.” Rory wasn’t the kind of woman who flounced. Instead, she stalked away with the air of a predator denied a kill.
At the dig site, Chet hung back, hands behind his back, watching the two Flame intently. No one else was looking in their direction. The other students had avoided looking at or speaking to either Flame at breakfast. Their loss, Chet thought.
Journey was dressed more sensibly today, her makeup toned down. She had donned khakis and a broad-brimmed hat, though she still wore the wig. She smelled fantastic. Well, both Flame did, really. Chet had noticed the scent again this morning at breakfast, especially since the intensity was double what it had been before. Chet’s involuntary, half-formed erections were becoming embarrassing. Somehow—he didn’t know why—he was vaguely reminded of his friend and former roommate, Steve. Which was funny, because Steve was the exact opposite of sensual in every way.
Knife, too, was kitted out in heavy canvas clothing. His still looked dapper, though. Chet had a feeling he would look dapper while naked and covered with blood. He didn’t know what Knife did for a living, but he couldn’t quite see the Flame riding the train every morning to a desk job, then coming home to pot roast. Anyway, who would cook Knife a pot roast? He was Flame, a pervert and sexual deviant.
Idly, Chet wondered why both Flame had decided to keep the same faces as they’d had yesterday. Didn’t shapeshifters shift their shape more often?
Both Flame chose flat-edged trowels from the tool table and wandered with seeming purposeless between dig areas. Chet grabbed a trowel and followed. To his surprise, they stopped at the upside-down pair of boots that Journey had commented on yesterday.
The Artifact of Foex Page 2
