Professors Tibbets and Clementina arrived, along with the promised policeman. The officer had a bored, acerbic expression and seemed unimpressed with the dusty man in Chet’s arms, but Tibbets and Clementina were immediately enveloped by the chaos. Fenimore LaDaven groaned, his eyes still closed. Chet almost forgot to breathe.
“Call an ambulance!” Tibbets said to the officer, his spindly arms flailing with enthusiasm.
Even Clementina seemed to have forgotten why the authorities had originally been summoned. She hovered right beside Chet, poking at LaDaven with a proprietary air. She probably felt that—this being the dig of the century taking place on her private property and all—the excitement should belong to her. Chet didn’t want to be the one standing between Clementina and her, um, target. Despite a twinge of regret, Chet awkwardly handed off LaDaven’s body to her and backed away. He joined the Flame at the back of the crowd, feeling glum as he brushed himself off.
“Medical intervention is entirely unnecessary,” Journey said, arms crossed. The only reason Chet heard was because he was standing right beside her. “People have been surviving lucid mud for thousands of years.”
She was ignored. In fact, both Flame were ignored, standing apart from the action. Curious, he studied their reactions. Journey was calm and watchful. But Knife... Chet thought he’d be cool as a cucumber, but the Flame was jittery, agitated. Knife nearly danced in place and jumped to see over heads, though he was currently over six feet tall.
Chet touched his arm, and Knife jerked around, startled. “Sorry,” he said, shooting Chet a rueful grin. “I haven’t seen Fenimore in three hundred years. I never got a proper chance to say goodbye.”
When Knife had been telling his story, he’d referred to the man as LaDaven. Now he was Fenimore? It was as if... Chet frowned. Normally, he wouldn’t have even thought they could be, um, involved. Two men and all. But Knife was Flame, a god affiliate known for being homophiles with bizarre sexual perversions beyond the knowledge of normal folk. Knife could become female, too, Chet realized abruptly. Neither Flame had changed sex yet, but it was what they were known for. Maybe Chet was seeing things where there were none. Maybe they’d just been friends.
The ambulance arrived just as the police left. More chaos ensued, spreading outwards like ripples in a pond. Fenimore’s unconscious body was strapped down to a gurney and hauled up the dusty grade by ambulance techs. Chet’s shoulders slumped, and he gazed at the ground. They were taking Fenimore away. He turned to find Knife watching him closely.
“You want to go with him, don’t you?”
Chet nodded, ashamed for no reason he could discern. Of course he was fascinated by this potential glimpse into the past. The man was three hundred years old!
Knife assessed him with a measured look. “I would be there by Fenimore’s side, but everyone at the hospital, from the secretaries to the chief physician, would bar my way. I’m Flame; I might as well be leper in their sterile ward. But you can go.”
“But—”
“Someone has to ride with him in the ambulance. If you ask first, Tibbets might let you. Besides us, you’re the only one here who knows anything about him. Ride with Fenimore. Answer his questions about this century. Don’t leave him alone! And Chet... be careful. I’m only going to say this once, so listen closely. I’m fond of Fenimore LaDaven, but he is a scoundrel and a rake. He is a libertine who will lie, cheat and steal to meet his ends. He will swallow you whole if you let him. Do you understand?”
“No, not really.” Chet felt bewildered.
Knife patted his shoulder. “Just remember, okay? Now run. Run!”
Chet ran. He reached the top of the grade and scrambled around other students to Professor Tibbet’s side. Professor Tibbets seemed utterly bowled over by this course of events.
“Professor, it occurs to me that the man will be disoriented when he wakes up. He won’t know what century he’s in, so someone should ride with him. I’d love to help out the team with our new... find.”
Graduate students began volunteering loudly to accompany the unconscious man. Although their words were more sophisticated, they sounded like children yelling, Pick me, pick me!
Professor Tibbets took off his wire-frame glasses, rubbed them on an embroidered pocket square and focused on Chet, ignoring the others. “You found him, didn’t you, Chet? You and Journey, along with her friend.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“I see. Seems to me you have the right. Quiet down, you lot! Chet found him first, Chet gets dibs. Clementina and I will follow in her automobile to meet you at the hospital. Though it seems to me, my boy...”
“Thank you, sir!” Chet didn’t wait around to hear what Tibbets had to say.
The ambulance technicians had loaded Fenimore into their double-tall, station-wagon like vehicle, the tiny light on top twirling around and around. A sour-faced nurse stood to one side, supervising her patient’s transfer.
“Excuse me, but I’m to ride alongside him," Chet told them, expecting another argument.
The techs barely shrugged. “Don’t get in my way,” the nurse grumbled at him.
“Yes, ma’am.” Chet scrambled inside, and the door was slammed behind him.
The station wagon was roomier than it looked on the outside. Chet hovered anxiously while the nurse checked Fenimore’s pulse and blood pressure, but she seemed bored. In fact, after hooking up an IV, she climbed up to the front seat to smoke and gossip with the techs. Someone turned on the radio; the top-hits station had a crackle of underlying static. Chet hated that kind of music. Of course, he didn’t like any cultural artifact under a hundred years old, and even that was pushing it.
The medical personnel weren’t looking back at all. Chet swallowed. He was very nearly alone with the unconscious man. He studied Fenimore’s gear with a historian’s eye, anxiously trying to ignore the breathtaking beauty of his face and hands. Fenimore was dressed in what had once been a white cotton shirt, puffy and romantic as Abyss, with a wide crocheted collar. It was half unlaced, revealing dusty chest hair. He had a sword scabbard at his side. Empty, Chet noticed. He did have a long hunting blade strapped to his chest, filthy as the rest of him. Chet wished he had a magnifying glass so he could inspect the piece more thoroughly. Instead, he leaned over it, squinting, trying to ascertain its origins. The scabbard was intricately woven leather, the pattern of the most artisanal, skilled Tache craftsmanship...
There was a flurry of movement. Chet was grabbed and dragged downward by a powerful grip. Cold steel touched his throat. A pair of feral, bloodshot eyes bore into him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t cut your throat, yellow-skinned pumpion.”
Chet froze, the blade at his throat—the very one he’d been admiring a second ago—sharp and real. Very, very sharp. He gazed directly into the snarling face of Fenimore LaDaven.
Chapter 4
Wet Flight
What plea, what reasoning, would Fenimore understand? “Knife sent me!” Chet choked out.
The blade was reluctantly removed from his throat. Fenimore settled back onto the gurney, his snarl transformed into a wary frown. “Knife sent you?”
“He did.” It was the truth, after all.
“He?” Fenimore raised the blade once again, his eyes so intent they seemed to burn.
Oh, shit. Anytime a Flame was not in visible sight, they were always assumed to be female. Chet couldn’t remember where he’d learned the rule; he’d never needed to know it before. It was just one of those cultural things you learned by osmosis, like never tease a doedicu, which Chet knew even though he’d never seen one of the enormous, hump-backed animals outside a zoo.
“She, she!” he said hastily. The blade did not retreat. “Um, Knife said you were a rake and a scoundrel, and a, a libertine, and a liar, and a cheater, and not to trust anything you said!”
Fenimore lowered the blade with a snort. “She would say that,” he murmured. “It’s true, you know.”
Chet dared to breathe. He looked
at the driver’s seat, but no one had even glanced back. They were still smoking and talking, the radio belting out a contemporary song with lots of silly “do-wap do-wap" harmonies. While the attack had seemed all-encompassing to Chet, he realized belatedly that Fenimore had kept his voice down. Chet reached up and touched his throat. His hand came away with a thin trail of blood. Fenimore had cut him. This was real. The man was a killer. Well, of course he is. The century he came from was a bloody one, even within one of the most cultured civilizations on Uos. Even now Fenimore’s eyes took in his surroundings, darting this way and that, as if... as if he were a prisoner.
Fenimore’s free hand instinctively tried to scratch at the IV needle the nurse had taped to his forearm. He jerked in surprise, then eyeballed it. “What slow torture on Uos or the God Plain is this?”
Answer his questions about this century, Knife had said. Chet licked his lips. “It’s a needle designed to put liquid into your body," he began.
“I know that, you slit-eyed, red haired bastard. Are you poisoning me with poppy vapors? You fail. I do not feel... weakened.” Fenimore’s roving eyes had now caught sight of passing traffic out the windows. “Where are the ceroses for those carriages? Are they... they’re holy contraptions, aren’t they? I’m surrounded by holy contraptions. Is this the God Plain? Are you the servant of some god?”
Chet found himself bristling at both the racial epithets and Fenimore’s assumption that he was a mere servant. Just about everyone in Wetshul was flaxen. His race was no longer so despised and poor as they had once been. Well... it made sense, too, given the time period in question. Fenimore was from a Tache high court, for Pantheon’s sake. He’d assume almost every other race was beneath him, except perhaps the bistre-colored people of the Jantrael Straight.
Chet decided it was time to assert himself. “We’re in Wetshul. You fell into lucid mud, Fenimore LaDaven. Don’t you remember?”
“I...” Fenimore gulped, suddenly less fierce. “It’s a blur. I remember rain, and a fight. I was being... hounded down. My servant betrayed me; he was following me in a stolen carriage. He couldn’t shoot me because of the dark and wet powder. But I don’t remember why.”
“The lucid mud is just dust now. I’m a, a scholar, a student with a Literati university. We were digging for artifacts and found you.”
Fenimore grunted and eyed Chet with rather more curiosity than before. Then his expression grew horrified, as if Chet had sprouted a second head. “Oh, Pantheon. You again. I thought... but no.”
“What?” Chet blinked, totally lost.
Fenimore’s expression grew reserved, almost pleasant. “So, you are a student up the mountain at Semaphore this time around?”
This time what? Chet nodded, grateful Fenimore was making sense—if only a little bit—and that there were some cultural commonalities between them. Belatedly, he realized they’d both been speaking in the Tache language. He hadn’t noticed when his life had been threatened. “It’s been a long time since you were enveloped by lucid mud.”
“How long?” Fenimore seemed to hold his breath, his whole being focused on Chet.
“Three-hundred years.”
Fenimore sank back in the gurney, letting it take his whole weight. “...Oh.”
“Rather a lot has changed since your time.”
“My time?” Fenimore gave him a wild eyed look. “My time? Pantheon. Everyone’s dead or they’ve forgotten, haven’t they? Except... except Knife. Reincarnating bastard.” He shook his head, his sensuous lips turning up at the corner. “Where is Knife, anyway?”
“Back at the dig site," Chet took a deep breath and was about to go on when Fenimore sat bolt upright.
“Where is the—oh, Pantheon.” Fenimore clawed at the IV and clumsily withdrew the needle. He clearly didn’t care about blood, his expression grim, eyes filled with intent will.
Chet hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Hey! What’s going on?” The nurse twisted around to see them.
Now she noticed something amiss. Chet ignored her, focusing on Fenimore. The man was frantically clawing at the closed windows like a trapped animal, but he couldn’t escape, not unless he figured out the window or door latches. Chet’s smugness faded as Fenimore drew back his knife pommel and shattered the glass of the nearest window.
Chet yelped, arms raised to protect against flying glass. Fenimore began grimly punching away the remaining shards with the pommel. The techs and nurse were yelling and cursing. Chet suddenly realized that Fenimore was about to climb through the small window with its remaining glass shards poking out like teeth.
“No, not that way,” Chet cried out.
He scrambled to the backdoor and pulled on the latch. The door swung outwards, then slammed shut again as the ambulance came to a screeching halt, catching Chet’s fingers. He swore and cradled his hand. Fenimore pushed through the hanging door like a panicked animal, not even looking for traffic. Chet followed reluctantly.
It was rush hour in Wetshul, and they were blocks away from downtown.
Oh, shit.
They were surrounded by vehicles of every description, stopping for the light. At least, they had been stopped for the light. Drivers were inching forward and leaning on their horns to clear the traffic snarl of two men in the street. Chet scrambled over to grab Fenimore—who seemed to be frozen with shock—but his hands met air. Fenimore had lightly jumped onto the hood of a car. Chet watched, horrified, as Fenimore raced up the curved frame to the top. The metal buckled under Fenimore’s weight. Apparently reacting to the sinking feeling, Fenimore leapt from the top of the car to another. Then another. He left dents—even holes in convertibles—wherever he landed. Drivers came boiling out of their vehicles, yelling and swearing, fists shaking. Behind Chet, the nurse and medical techs were arguing loudly with one another. One was complaining that he didn’t have a tranquilizer gun, for Pantheon’s sake.
“Fenimore, what are you doing?” Chet said, zipping around the stalled traffic to follow him.
“It’s just like wrangling a herd of doedicus,” Fenimore replied in a cheerful tone, “only without the spiked tails!”
Chet stifled hysterical laughter. He could see the connection: the stylish, curved tops of the cars certainly did look like the hump-backed creatures that had once roamed most of rural Uos. Fenimore, apparently spotting the sidewalk, took a running leap. Pedestrians—mostly men wearing suits and carrying briefcases—dove out of his way. Fenimore didn’t stop but began plowing through the crowded sidewalk like a, well, like the razor-sharp blade he still held in hand.
Chet raced after Fenimore, as if sucked into the void left in his wake. He was the only one. Most people ran—or careened, or waddled—out of the armed man’s way. Fenimore seemed like a wild-eyed madman with his reams of puffy hair and old fashioned clothes. He was a wild-eyed madman. Fenimore even took to yelling at the top of his lungs, brandishing his weapon to clear the path in front of him. The crazy act—if it was an act—didn’t account for his sheer speed. After a time, Chet stopped trying to offer calming words or apologies in Fenimore’s wake. He simply put his head down and ran, determined to keep up.
They broke through the crowd at the edge of the Shining Futures District, with its industrial warehouses and gritty, potholed streets. Rush-hour traffic thinned and died as Fenimore sprinted on. Chet gulped for air like a fish, a stitch at his side. He’d thought he was in shape. Apparently not.
“Fenimore! Fen!” he called futilely, gasping for breath as he finally gave up the chase, bending over his knees.
To Chet’s surprise, Fenimore slowed, then stopped. He strutted back to where Chet was crumpled over. Fenimore wasn’t even breathing hard.
“You’re a moist little cream puff, aren’t you? What has become of men these days? You’re more fit for an embroidery circle of dotardly ladies.”
Chet shot him a horrified look but couldn’t reply, beset by the need to breathe. His hand was throbbing: no broken fingers, but his knuckle
was starting to swell. Wonderful, just what I need, he thought. Digging would be so much fun now. The sky overhead had thickened with bruised-looking clouds, the air hotter and more humid than ever. At least the street was quiet.
Chet leaned against a large van parked against the curb. Then he jerked back; the van was gently rocking. It had been moving before, he realized, but he hadn’t noticed until he’d touched it. Blue and nondescript, it blended into the dour industrial surroundings. Except that it was bouncing up and down on its shocks. Chet realized with a start that it was a prostitution van, one of the mobile brothels.
Fenimore blinked. He walked around the van, then pressed his face against the windows, covered by sheer curtains from the inside. Though he couldn’t have seen much, he grinned. It was a saucy, knowing grin.
“Ah, yes. Things have not changed too much in these distant times. I wonder what her rates are.”
Chet felt his face growing hot. “Come on, let’s keep going?” Why had his words twisted into a question? He really was a cream puff compared to Fenimore, who was lean, whip sinewy and filled with the vitality of ancient men. Or did he just exhibit more testosterone? Chet didn’t know and abruptly didn’t care.
Fenimore ignored him. He sheathed his knife and hummed tunelessly under his breath, face pressed against the window far longer than Chet felt comfortable with. In fact, Chet felt humiliated, lingering here like this, so near the undeniable intercourse taking place only feet away. The look in Fenimore’s eye was willful and lusty, as if he were imagining exactly what he wanted to do to the prostitute within.
Turning away from the window, Fenimore glanced at Chet, about to make some comment. Then Fenimore studied him more closely. “Ah, your virginal cheeks betray you, my flaxen cherry pie. You are like a girl before her wedding night.”
Chet jerked away from him, angry and confused. Fenimore’s racial taunting, hard as it was to take, was nothing compared to this—baiting. Hadn’t Knife warned him? Hadn’t...
Chet was brought short by Fenimore’s hands on his lapels. What was Fenimore doing?
The Artifact of Foex Page 4
