The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  Knife stood beside the boots with a funny look on his face. In fact, he looked like a person who’d been kicked in the gut but was unwilling to show pain or cry. “It seems like yesterday.”

  “What seems like yesterday?” Chet asked, sidling up to the Flame, his trowel held loosely in hand. “May I join you two?”

  The Flame met each others’ eyes, and Journey shrugged. Chet could almost see her thinking, He’s harmless, might as well. Knife nodded, and they all knelt down to get to work unearthing the rest of the boots.

  After a minute of digging, Knife said, “So you’d like to hear the story, eh?”

  “I would.” Chet eyed him curiously. “This must be important or you wouldn’t be here. Right?”

  “Smart boy. Well...” Knife paused, then kept digging. “It started in Tache around 7305. Slavery had not yet come to the continent, and it was still good to be Flame. At the time, I was a courtier of then-Prince Konstantine.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Chet said. Professor Clementina taught a class each year on that period of Tache history. She was an internationally recognized expert on the Tache royal family. Chet hadn’t taken it, of course, though he wished he had.

  Knife shot him an impressed, respectful look. “We got word that an, ah, object of vast power had been found. I should say it had been found again. It was being pursued by a faction of powerful royal cousins who were set to oppose Konstantine’s rule. I was dispatched along with a... colleague of mine, named Fenimore LaDaven, to track down the object and bring it to court.”

  Chet frowned in confusion. “I thought a courtier was like a fop. Someone who hung around royal courts while instigating intrigue and, um, having affairs.”

  Journey chuckled. “Knife does—or rather, did—those things too, but just to blend in.”

  “The same way I wear suits in these days. And play gentlemanly sports and read the newspaper on the train. To blend in.” Knife paused in his digging and brushed dirt from their goal.

  Chet was unsurprised to see that a pair of legs were attached to the boots. Whole, solid legs dressed in dusty trousers. Not skeletal legs.

  Knife cleared his throat and spat into the dust behind him. “In any case, we tracked the royal cousins to the Jantrael Straight, where we lost them. By that point, we knew they had more in mind than just ruling Tache; in the tradition of insane Tache royalty throughout history, they wanted to rule the world. LaDaven and I split up. He and his most trusted servant headed for Wetshul, where the rainy season was in full swing, while I headed to Door. Needless to say, the object wasn’t in Door. I returned home to Konstantine and was promptly collared into slavery. That was unpleasant but doesn’t come into this story. However, it means I was never able to properly follow up.”

  Journey shot Knife a sharp look, but held her peace. Chet had the feeling she understood what Knife was really saying. Their relationship seemed odd: on the one hand, they clearly shared personal history. On the other, they’d probably experienced the same time periods, too. It was like they were a generational cohort, affected in different ways by the same events.

  Knife continued, “It was only much later that I had the full tale from the servant. The royal cousins were near this lucid mud pit when LaDaven accosted them. He managed to kill them, but in the process he fell into the mud, going after the object which had apparently been tossed in first. LaDaven's servant said he couldn’t save him.”

  There was something odd about the story, but Chet couldn’t put his finger on it. As if he’d heard a different version years ago and forgotten it. Chet blinked and gazed at the legs; they’d now reached the thighs. “Wait. Are you telling me... is this... is this Fenimore LaDaven?”

  “I believe so. If not, there’s no harm in rescuing some poor fool trapped by mud.”

  Journey pursed her perfect lips. “I knew the story, and all of us on the Flame Council know about the object. We’ve been informed of its nature for some time. That’s why I sent for Knife when the good professor invited me to Wetshul.” She articulated the knees of the body. They swung readily, fully intact and working.

  “Um. Okay. But does that mean...”

  A ruckus from the edge of the dig site caught his attention, and Chet stopped digging. A sharp, two-packs-a-day kind of voice seemed to be raised in anger, booming across the dig site. He knew that voice. “Abyss,” Chet groaned.

  “What is it?” Journey said.

  “Associate-Professor Clementina Golub. We call her Professor Clementina when we aren’t calling her—other things.”

  Sure enough, Professor Clementina was striding down the grade, kicking up dust. She had a distinct presence. Though she was always dressed in the latest fashions, her face done up in heavy makeup, she always seemed to be bigger and taller than everyone else, even when she wasn’t. Chet wasn’t sure how she did it. Her shoulders were too broad, her voice too low. She seemed almost manly, though Professor Clementina herself would probably be appalled at the suggestion.

  As if Chet would make suggestions to her.

  Professor Tibbets followed her lead, his hands fluttering. “Journey is my honored guest, whom I invited to the dig site as a consultant. Her friend is welcome, too!”

  “They are not welcome in any way. I will not have fire perverts degrading my dig.” Clementina’s voice resonated across the site.

  Chet glanced down at the body, then removed his canvas outer shirt and draped it over the still form, still half buried in dust. He wasn’t sure why he did it—it wasn’t like he owed the Flame anything, let alone protection. And yet... he remembered that moment when Clementina had ripped his paper. She’d done it in front of the class, almost as a demonstration. Taking him down in the most humiliating way possible.

  “Your father’s money won’t help you here,” she had told him. “Get serious or go home.”

  He’d chosen to get serious. In a sense, she’d done him a favor, in a backwards way. But it still hurt. He didn’t want to get caught by her again—especially not with a body.

  What would the Flame do, anyway? Chet looked at them and did a double take. Both Flame were now of the fallow race, a light brown normally found in Tache. To match Clementina? Knife removed his hat, tossed it aside and drew himself to his full height—and then some. Journey seemed taller, too, her chest suddenly flatter. Wait. They really were growing taller. Shapeshifting in preparation to take on the striding, manly figure headed in their direction.

  Clementina arrived at the pit with Tibbets, the other graduate students flitting over with the air of kids anticipating a fight in the school cafeteria. Clementina gave the Flame a long, slow, once-over look. Roasting them. To Chet’s surprise, they both stood up to the treatment. Neither broke eye contact or tried to get a first word in. Masterful. Chet took a step back, holding his breath.

  “You have no right to be here, invited guests or not. This is private property, and I own it outright. You are trespassing. Leave now.” Clementina seemed obstinate and dangerous as a doedicu: a large, foul-tempered beast with armor and spikes.

  “I’m so terribly sorry!” Professor Tibbets said. He was the most flustered of everyone, wringing his hands. Chet actually felt more sorry for him than he did the Flame, and they’d each flown across Uos to get here. Tibbets continued, “Perhaps I can make it up to you somehow...”

  “It’s all right, Professor,” Journey said softly, but her eyes were on Clementina.

  “We are simple observers.” Knife’s manner was more than calm, it was casual. Taking her measure? Chet noticed he’d suddenly acquired a subtle but pronounced Tache accent—same as Clementina herself. “What harm is there in letting us watch the dig of the century unfold?”

  Clementina’s face grew suffused. “Leave, or I’ll call the police. Maybe I won’t bother. There’s a fire hose back at the pavilion, hooked up to the metropolitan water supply. What say I turn it on full blast and hose you both down? Like that, would you?”

  Chet frowned, uncertain why it was a threat.
It took him a beat to remember that Flame purportedly burned in water. On the outside, he assumed; Journey had drunk ice tea with supper last night. Indeed, Journey looked grim, and though Knife was still calm, he no longer seemed casual.

  “What threat do you think we pose to the extent that you threaten us with deadly force?” Knife asked softly. Still feeling her out, trying to make her react? He had a sparkle in his eye as if he were enjoying himself.

  Clementina reached into her dainty purse and withdrew a small, snub-nosed pistol with a mother-of-pearl inlaid handle, then pointed it at the Flame. “Get off my property. Now.”

  Chapter 3

  Resurrection

  The graduate students drew back, and even Tibbets took a step away from his colleague. Chet, too, shuffled backwards, trying to get out of the line of fire without being too obvious about it. He honestly didn’t know whether Clementina would shoot the Flame. She was smiling, but that didn’t mean anything.

  To Chet’s surprise, neither Flame moved. Knife slowly extracted a brown cigarette from his jacket pocket. It was odd, because Chet hadn’t seen him smoke before. Knife lit it with a bronze lighter, then took a long, theatrical drag. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he said in a tone so low it was almost a whisper. Yet it carried. It locked the attention.

  “Who would stop me? This is Wetshul, doedicu. No one cares whether Flame live or die here.”

  “Shoot us, and I pass on the favor. Surely you must realize that killing a Flame does not eliminate us entirely. Give me twenty or so years to reincarnate and grow up, and I’ll come after you. And your kin. I know your family even now, Golub. I know your family like I know the back of my hand.”

  “It’s true, you know. I’ve seen him do it,” Journey put in with a shrug.

  Chet stared. It had to be a bluff. Everyone—from Clementina and Tibbets on down—seemed befuddled by his statement. Some were probably skeptical because they didn’t believe in reincarnation. The Flame had powers, sure, but they were also known as crafty tricksters. Tibbets, at least, understood Journey to be a practical authority on history, and he seemed as confused as the rest. Wondering how far Knife would take his bluff?

  “I do not believe you know anything about me,” Clementina said. “Prove it.”

  “Clementina Khal Golub, citizen identification number 392-9442e. You are the third daughter of Cyril and Vera. Cyril is balding man with a large belly, and your mother died last year of cancer.” Knife blew out smoke, his whole body relaxed yet watchful. “You have three grown children. One is married, and I expect a grandchild will be on the way soon.”

  She looked genuinely shocked, and the students began whispering among themselves. Her grip on the gun wavered, and she put it away abruptly. “This is untoward.”

  Journey said, “Professor Clementina, I’m sure we can come to some reasonable agreement. We came here to help.”

  “Screw you. I’m still calling the police.”

  Clementina strode away, clearly shaken. Professor Tibbets gave the Flame a wild look before trotting after his colleague. Graduate students began drifting back to their assigned pits with many a backward glance in their direction. Knife quietly snubbed out the cigarette and pocketed the stub. At the same time, Journey uncovered the body, handing Chet his jacket back. Knife and Journey knelt and began digging again in earnest.

  Their movements were so frantic that it took Chet a moment to realize they’d both returned to their original races, bistre for Knife and flaxen for Journey. Chet rubbed his eyes, his head hurting. Flame took some getting used to.

  “We’d better hurry,” Knife murmured to Journey in the Tache language, the same as they’d spoken last night. “Pantheon knows how deep the Raptus is buried.”

  How deep what was buried? Chet sat and began helping again. “How could you possibly know her family?” he asked in the same tongue.

  “You understand?” Journey shot him a curious glance. “Funny, I had you pegged as a rich kid from Door.”

  Chet barked an ironic laugh, then covered his mouth, glancing around to see whether anyone was looking their way. Several were within clear earshot, even if no one was looking directly at them—probably the reason for the language shift. “I am a rich kid from Door. But my father is a Merchant with international clients. He was also a collaborator during the war.”

  “I see.” Journey wiped her brow with a handkerchief. The humidity was getting worse, Chet realized; it would thunder soon. Both Flame looked very uncomfortable.

  “Will she call the police?” Journey asked Knife.

  Knife shot her a dirty look. “Abyss if I know. I’m no Syche affiliate.”

  “How on Uos did you know all that stuff about her?” Chet said.

  “I’ve been around. When I’m a guest in someone’s house, I like to know a little about them. So, I snoop. Call it a habit. She has photo albums on the lower library shelves. Opened bills and letters in her study, and there’s all sorts of other documentation in the house, too. My bedtime reading last night.”

  Chet stared at him, impressed. “That’s not very ethical, you know.”

  “I notice that both Journey and I are still here, digging and not dead. Whether she calls the police is another story. Oh, shit,” he added in an entirely different tone. “My suitcase is still in the house. I liked that suit, Pantheon curse it. Journey, your luggage is there, too, right?”

  Journey nodded. She was crying, Chet noticed. Just a tear or two, no noise. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “What just happened reminds me so much of the bad old days.”

  “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, lovely one, but it’s still the bad old days around here. Chet, can you get our stuff later?”

  Chet nodded. “She’ll destroy your things if she finds them. She’s vengeful like that.”

  “Is it true that she owns this dig site?”

  “Outright. She bought it from the city for a huge lump sum of money. They closed this spring, which is why we just started.”

  The Flame exchanged a significant look, then dug faster. They’d long ago reached the body’s torso. Chet didn’t want to accidentally hit—and damage—the hands, still covered in dust. There was movement from the corner of his eye, and he glanced up.

  One of the younger graduate students was stepping between the pits and headed in their direction. He called, “Chet, do you mind if I—oh, Pantheon. Oh, Pantheon! Look, everyone! A body! They’re uncovering a human body!”

  Journey rolled her eyes and sat back on her heels. “That’s done it.”

  Knife shot Chet an exasperated look. “You’ve been digging here how long, and you haven’t even found a body, yet?”

  Chet shrugged, nonplussed.

  Journey put in, “They haven’t even found a live ceros yet. Told you they were going slow. Archaeologists, huh.”

  It became a mob scene. Graduate students gently tugged at the legs and discussed the style of clothing. Lively debate and more digging determined that the hands had to be above the body’s head, like those of a diver. Fenimore LaDaven, Chet realized, hadn’t fallen into the lucid mud—he’d dived. From the angle of the body, it hadn’t been a shallow dive, either. Had it been a scramble, sheets of monsoon rain coming down and engulfing everything, even rational thought? He could imagine the scene so clearly... the dive was not the act of a timid man.

  There were silences behind Knife’s words, so many significant gaps. Chet wondered how many details had been left out for the sake of the story, and how many had been left out because of delicate information.

  Knife is a spy, he thought abruptly. And he’s been a spy since forever.

  The graduate students uncovered the head, replete with lots of hair. The arms were still missing, shoulders clearly articulated above his head. A dive, indeed. The body still refused to be removed from the soil, as if it were stuck. Graduate students who normally spent hours—days, even weeks—uncovering artifacts, scrambled into action. Rope was found and tied to the body’s ankles, then people forme
d a line as if they were in a contest at a country fair. Caught in the moment, no one pointed out how illogical their actions were. They tugged once, twice. Tthe body shot out of the ground as if pulled by the roots. Fenimore’s arms were whole, Chet noticed thankfully. He had long, bony fingers, beautifully articulated.

  “Get his mouth and nose clear," Journey called out.

  No one was listening. Knife put two fingers in his mouth and whistled; Chet covered his ears reflexively. Silence followed. Knife opened his hand to Journey, who repeated herself and added, “He’ll need to breathe.”

  “Breathe? Breathe? But he’s dead," people murmured to one another, momentarily stunned.

  Chet had to do something. “Someone get me water.”

  Water was found. Chet held his breath, eyes wide, as he washed LaDaven’s exposed skin, then began trickling water into his open mouth. The moment stretched. In the breathless silence, Chet studied the man’s face. Beneath the dust, Fenimore LaDaven was... Chet gulped. Beneath the dust, LaDaven was a romantic dream. His closed eyes were set wide apart with lashes a girl would envy. His mouth was full and sensual. An arrow-straight, aristocratic nose. He, too, was fallow skinned: the race of superiority and colonialism on Uos. Chet imagined his long hair, once clean, might be golden brown and puffy, like a cloud. Holding his limp body was extraordinary—though not precisely alive, it wasn’t corpse-like either. Chet had never realized how beautiful a man could be.

  No, that wasn’t true. Chet had always admired men from ancient etchings, painted vases, marble statues and oil paintings. LaDaven looked like an oil painting. His bone structure was not of this century.

  The body—twitched. Fenimore LaDaven coughed. Chet caught his breath, his eyes round.

  He wasn’t the only one. Everyone surrounding the twitching body was reacting. It was pandemonium. “He’s alive!” people yelled. Students were running around in circles, bumping into one another and babbling nonsense, while others sat on the ground and hyperventilated, apparently overtaken by shock. Chet didn’t move. He cradled LaDaven in his arms, overcome by emotion.