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 member 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 lean 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.
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.”