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 formed 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.
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.