Chet approached yet another bald-headed Flame on the muddy street. “Excuse me, good Flame, do you know someone named Aureate?”
The Flame paused and eyed him curiously. Chet noticed that though she wore bright, colorful clothing, she had also taken the precaution of wearing knee-high rubber boots to protect herself from the pervasive mud.
“I know of her. Why, what do you want to know?”
“My friends and I are wondering where she’s performing tonight with the Intako Dance Company. We’d like to see them in action,” Chet said. Over the past hour he’d repeated the same question many times. Lacking a phone number and address, they had to find Aureate the hard way.
Fortunately, Plainsdaugheau was an easy city-state to search for a Flame. Chet had seen more Flame in the last hour than in his entire life. At first, he’d found it rather alarming to see Flame openly walking down the street, ducking out of doorways, kissing, talking and riding bicycles like normal people. The Silk District was brimming with them. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—finding one Flame among many had turned out to be its own challenge.
Indeed, the Flame he was questioning shook her head with a shrug. “Sorry,” she said, moving on. Chet sighed, watching her go.
Fenimore whistled at him from the street corner, and Chet slopped over in his muddy shoes. “Come on, Journey found our answer. The Intako Dance Company is apparently performing aboard a luxury passenger ship tonight. They’re launching off Syn Port’s Pier 24 at sunset.”
“Flame at open sea? That doesn’t seem right," Chet said. Fenimore shrugged and Chet could only agree. If this Aureate didn’t care about such things, who was he to judge?
Chet glanced around him as they moved off down the street, admiring the city-state. Now that he was here, Plainsdaugheau was breathtaking in an eclectic, handmade way. Houses stacked up like shipping containers, trimmed with decorative gingerbreading and stained-glass windows. People walked about in similar, gaudy styles. Chet had yet to see a man wearing a suit—instead, they wore bright colored pants or gradient sarongs. Everything seemed home dyed or otherwise modified. And the women! Toplessness seemed normal among women of all ages, even among mothers with half-grown children traipsing behind them.
They met Journey and Knife on the next street corner. “Now that we know where we’re headed, let’s go shopping before we find somewhere to eat,” Journey said with enthusiasm. “We can’t possibly attend a party in these awful clothes.” She’d changed back into Saemion’s clothes and Knife had his outfit from Wetshul, but they both looked rather wilted. Not to mention the smell.
“If it’s a private party, will we be allowed on board?” Chet said.
Knife shrugged. “Aureate’ll get us in.”
Chet thought the Flame would shop for themselves but found himself roped in, too. Journey held up clothing and regarded Chet narrowly. “I think we’ll go with warm colors for you. Oranges and reds with black for contrast. How do you feel about prints, Chet?”
“Uh, what?” Chet slouched, feeling trapped and panicked by the many choices available in the boutique.
“Just let Journey dress you. It’s easier," Knife advised him cheerfully. Knife was naked to the waist with black dress pants and his ever-present boots on. He was back in his favorite bistre-skinned, tall-and-skinny male form. By his relaxed stance, Knife must feel relieved about this.
Journey hit Knife playfully on the shoulder, and they engaged in a brief tussle. Then Journey deliberately turned her back on Knife and pressed a pile of folded clothes into Chet’s hand. “Go try these on, Chet, and see what you think.” As he left for the dressing room, Chet heard her turn to Fenimore and say, “Now for you, how about white and black...”
An hour later, Chet had to admit that Journey knew what she was doing. He’d never been dressed by someone head to toe. He felt stylish. When two young women—with perky, exposed breasts bouncing above their crocheted skirts—stopped to giggle and stare at him behind their hands, his back automatically straightened.
“Miss, miss," he said, nodding his head in their direction. More giggling before they moved off.
“You should have asked them to step around the corner into the alleyway,” Fenimore said from where he leaned against a wall. “I’ll bet they would have let you under those skirts.”
Chet blushed. “You’d do that kind of thing. Not me.”
“Why not? You should take initiative, Chet, and stop being such a pansy.”
Chet brushed imaginary dust off his new jacket. “I will when I’m ready. Don’t push me.”
Syn Port’s Pier 24 was crowded as the sun sank in the poppy-orange sky, spectacular with reflective blues and greens of sunset. It was pretty, but Chet felt his heart sink at the crowd wandering around the wooden pier, though they quickly spotted the luxury passenger ship in question. Chet eyed it curiously. Older members his family had been passengers on such ships and had hosted many a dull slideshow based on their travels. This one seemed compact. It was more like a private yacht than a luxury liner. It was only four decks and two-hundred feet long. At least it was still at port, though the gangplank not out yet. Closed for now.
After employing the same tactic of spreading out and questioning the crowd, someone pointed them to a hand-painted van at the end of the pier. The van was rocking. Maybe the troop was practicing dance moves in there.
Yeah, right, Chet thought, feeling a new kind of cynicism. Different kind of dance.
Knife knocked. A middle-aged man, his thinning hair dyed in orange and green streaks, slid open the door. He was naked to the waist and wearing a long grass skirt, two smaller grass skirts tied around both knees—obviously a costume.
“Yes, good Flame? May I help you?”
“Is Aureate around?”
“Knife!” a voice squealed from inside the van. “‘Scuse me, people, I gotta say hello!”
Chet’s first impression of Aureate was a moving streak in a grass skirt. She was wearing a similar costume as the man and others in the van, some of whom were still entangled together in a half-dressed state. She was bald, of course. Her tits were enormous and bouncy, Chet noticed instantly. Unfortunately, they were covered by another part of the costume: a halter top with woven rhamph fur-feathers.
Aureate ran between Knife and Journey, kissing and hugged them with enthusiasm, chattering away the whole time in some other language that Chet didn’t understand. It was different from the tongue Knife and Journey had spoken before, full of clicks and glottal stops. Knife grinned at her fondly, and Journey replied in a rapid patter of the same tongue.
Aureate turned to Chet and Fenimore and asked a question in the unknown language, gesturing at them. Chet felt his heart stop. All of him just—stopped. Aureate had honey-colored eyes. Yellow eyes like a Magician. But... there are no more Magicians, he thought. What had Othnielia said about Aureate being the oldest living thing on Uos that wasn’t a god? Fenimore, he realized, was standing very still at his side.
Journey held out her hand to Chet and switched languages without missing a beat. “This is Chet Baikson, who’s a student at Semaphore. I met him on the lucid mud dig site. And this is Fenimore LaDaven, who was in the dig site.”
“Got it," Aureate said with a grin.
They switched back to the unknown language, Journey waving her arms in illustration. At one point, she shot Chet a sly look and made big-breast motions with her hands. Aureate smirked and gave him a fleeting, assessing kind of look.
Chet blushed furiously. He could only hope Journey was relaying his enjoyment of her breasts and not his cross-dressing, which she hadn’t been witness to, anyway. Were they deliberately being rude? Chet stepped away from the group and kicked a bottle cap in the gutter.
Why hadn’t anyone told him there was a Flame with yellow eyes? He would have wanted to know! It seemed a terribly important fact. Apart from Othnielia, who else had been talking about Aureate? Oh yes, Journey had wanted to consult with her about the Raptus and why it was acting so strangely. Aureate was an expert—why? Who was she really? No one these days had those classic honey eyes, no one. Something stirred in the back of Chet’s head; some poem or passage wriggled in his mind, half forgotten...
“Oh, Journey, we have an opening in the troop tonight! Venitte broke an ankle," Aureate cried out. Chet found her language switch almost dizzying this time. “Can you fill in?”
“Yes!” Journey clapped her hands together, her whole face radiating delight.
The other members of the Intako Dance Company—now outside the van, watching the Flame with much the same expressions as Chet and Fenimore—seemed less enthusiastic at the prospect of dancing with a stranger without an audition or even a rehearsal. “So you’re Journey, eh? How much do you know about the goncang? How about the tersenyum dan menipu?” said the man with the orange-green hair, arms crossed.
Journey immediately dropped the duffle bag, loosened her fancy new clothing and demonstrated. Even knowing nothing about dance, Chet was impressed. Her body—her whole self—was involved in the movements. She reached out a hand to the man and swung him into action. That’s when the dance became truly intense, both athletic and blatantly sexual. Passersby began gathering around, curious and alive to the possibility of a free show. They actually applauded when Journey and the man finished, arms outstretched dramatically. Even members of the Intako Dance Company applauded. Aureate shamelessly grabbed Knife’s hat—he yelped—and passed it around the audience for change. Meanwhile, Journey conferred with the dancers, speaking the same technical language. Though Chet understood their words, he didn’t really understand what they were saying.
Aureate flipped a coin into the air and put in, “We all do a solo to start the second act. You can skip that part if you like.”
“You kidding? I don’t have anything prepared, but I can do flick-flacks!”
Journey kicked off her shoes and demonstrated. She could even touch her feet to the top of her head. Chet didn’t know how she could pretend like gravity didn’t exist, but it clearly worked. Again, a crowd gathered, and again, Aureate passed around Knife’s hat. By this point the dancers were grinning. Journey was clearly good—or at least good enough—in their eyes, too.
Chet, Fenimore and Knife retreated to the main lounge while Journey went to prep with the rest. The passenger-ship lounge was almost full: about a hundred well-dressed people of every race, size and shape were nattering away, drinking and snacking.
Getting into the spirit of things, Chet volunteered to fetch the first round of drinks. On the way back to the table, all three drinks balanced in his hands, he noticed Fenimore was chatting up a young man sitting at the table behind them. Seeking fresh blood, was he? Chet was so distracted that he didn’t watch where he was going. He tripped over their duffle bag and fell directly onto Knife.
“Abyss!” Knife cried out as the drinks splashed. His whole front was wet. He jumped out of the seat, staring in horror at his soaked shirt, and by proxy, his chest beneath. The crowd around them grew silent and whispered to one another, watching.
“Knife, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Chet cried, upset. He tried to wipe Knife off, but Knife swore and batted his hand away.
“You’ll only make it worse," he said, almost hyperventilating. “I have to get out of this shirt.”
It was the only clean shirt Knife had, Chet realized.“Let’s go out to the deck and I’ll switch shirts with you.”
Without a word, Knife stumbled toward the door. Chet followed, wringing his hands. He glanced back; Fenimore had resumed his conversation—or his softening up—of the young man. Chet frowned, wishing Fenimore would care more. Might as well wish the sun rose at night, Chet thought with a snort. Fenimore didn’t care about anyone, save himself.
There was only one other person on deck. She was smoking a short distance away, a long, fluttery silk scarf around her neck. Knife stripped off the wet shirt and rubbed himself dry with the expensive dinner jacket Journey had insisted upon purchasing. His chest was blistered, Chet was alarmed to see. If Knife weren’t bistre colored, his skin would probably be very red. Chet felt worse by the second. Knife fished a lighter out of his pocket, began running the open flame against his chest, and sank to the deck with a sigh. Chet followed him down, hands outstretched helplessly.
Bereft of direction, Chet glanced around and abruptly realized they were at sea. The ship had set sail already, the sea calm under a clear, windless sky. Other boats, large and small, were sailing on the nearly still waters. Chet understood with a start that the Flame were surrounded—completely and totally surrounded—by a deadly substance. It was as if they had set sail in the center of a bubbling volcano. One little slip over the deck rail and they would—what?
Knife glanced at Chet. “Don’t look so scared, boy. I’m fine. Or I will be.”
“I really am sorry, Knife. I didn’t mean to do that,”
“I know, Chet.” Knife put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
Chet relaxed. Despite the incidentback at the Wetshul hotel, Chet discovered how much he cared about Knife’s opinion of him. The Flame had a crispness about him—a brevity of words and actions—that Chet admired. He felt better knowing that not only was Knife okay, but his opinion of Chet was apparently unchanged by the event.
The smoker finished her cigarette and was heading back into the lounge. Knife glanced up as she passed. “Excuse me, could I bum one of those?” He looked startled as the woman handed him a smoke, but murmured, “Thanks," all the same. Knife lit the cigarette and leaned back against the deck, still running the lighter over his chest.
Chet eyed him. “Knife, could I ask you a question?” Knife waved a feel free gesture. “What do you do for a living? I don’t mean the work you do for Pelin. How do you make money?”
Knife grinned around the cigarette, his teeth and the whites of his eyes almost glowing against his dark skin. “I trade stocks and bonds. When I’m low on petty cash, I trade stocks and bonds for other people. Besides paying my way, it puts me front-and-center of Genis’ business in Allistair. Which comes in very handy in doing my other job—as you say, Pelin’s work.”
“You, um, track marks on Genis’ Exchange?”
“Some of them. Merchants have this bad habit of assuming Flame are still commodities that can be bought and sold. We’re too vulnerable to that sort of thing, always have been. It’s not just Merchants, either. There’s bad behavior all around when it comes to Flame. We’re too easily controlled, you see, physically and otherwise. We have this tendency to be emotionally sensitive and, as they say these days, co-dependent, which leads to all manner of abuse.”
Chet tucked his chin. “I can see the physical part of the problem.” Even he could kill the Flame at any time, he realized with a sinking heart.
“Yeah, but the physical is only the tip.” He took another drag and added, almost as an aside, “My problem is, I’m Flame, too. I get so emotionally involved with my prey that I tend to lose sight of the original purpose in tracking them down. I like my prey a little too much for my own good. Been blindsided and murdered that way more times than I can count. I keep promising to myself it won’t happen again, then it does.”
“What’s it like... to die?”
“Much as you’d imagine.” Knife gave him a sharp look and stubbed out the butt. “It hurts, then I go back to Pelin. Don’t really remember the between times. We’re flesh like everyone else, and it’s the flesh that dictates what’s important and what’s not. I’ll have your shirt, now, thank you for offering, Chet.”
After the clothing switch, they reentered the lounge. The lights had been dimmed and someone was introducing the dance troop. Chet and Knife slunk back to their seats as the music started.
Chet forgot that he was wearing a wet shirt that was a little tight for him. He forgot to breathe, even. The Intako Dance Company was spectacular. From the first moment, the men and women—and Flame, he reminded himself—stole the entire room. Chet gulped, his mouth dry. After a time he thought to look for Journey. Though he spotted Aureate right away—she hadn’t changed from before—he couldn’t see Journey. They were all wearing fancy headdresses, effectively masking the Flame from view, though he doubted that was the headdress’s original purpose. Chet finally leaned over and asked Knife during a slower dance. Knife grinned and pointed out one of the men. He was so similar to the others Chet hadn’t even considered him. Oh.
A musical interlude followed the first performance. Then the solos began. Aureate’s solo was a comedy act centered around her big tits, set to accompanying music played by the live musicians. It was hilarious to watch, especially with her ability to control how large or small they were. She mimicked accidentally deflating a tit, then looked up at the audience, eyes round with exaggerated horror and shock. Chet couldn’t help but be drawn into the grotesque, exaggerated story she told without words; he found himself leaning forward in his seat, giggling like a child. Chet was very sorry when her solo wrapped up. Journey’s solo was far less impressive, but Chet knew that Journey had made it up at the last minute. It was pretty good for all that.
After a dazzling finale, when the lights came up, Chet enthusiastically joined the standing ovation. He hadn’t realized... he hadn’t realized that Flame could be like that, too. They kept surprising him. He wondered whether he’d ever surprised Journey, then felt the smile slide right off his face. Probably not. There was nothing special about him. He was—and would always be—just another guy.
Chet drank alone at the table, still filled to the brim by the performance. Knife was chatting away with some guys at the bar, apparently a gentlemanly discussion about livestock prices and ceros betting. Fenimore had left with his target a few minutes ago, trailing the young man out as if he were an animal—indeed, a predator—tracking blood scent. Chet hadn’t felt as bad about that as he thought he would.
Someone sat down next to him, and Chet jerked awake. It was Aureate, in the same form as before. She was dressed in tight fitting street clothes draped by a loosely-woven crocheted sweater, artfully ripped in all the right places. Aureate’s bald head was bare, and she still had stage makeup clinging to her face.
“Here, give me that," she said, grabbing his drink and slugging it down.
Chet sat back in his seat, curious and slightly alarmed. Aureate seemed larger than life, especially after that performance. Was she always this way? He remembered when she’d snatching Knife’s hat earlier to beg change from the crowd and decided that yes, she probably was. Aureate turned her mesmerizing gaze upon him, and all thoughts fled from his head. Her honey eyes glittered in the dark; a trick of the light, he decided after a breathless second. Not magic. There is no Magician-style magic left in the world.
“So tell me, Chet Baikson, do you like Flame?”
“I didn’t think I did, until I met Journey," he answered truthfully, not sure what she was getting at.
“You seem like a real charmer. Tell me about yourself.”
Chet’s face grew hot. He’d never seen himself as charming—Fenimore matched that description far more than he did. Studious, serious, bookish... he’d answer to any of those adjectives. Why was Aureate trying to flatter him? She seemed to be playing a game with him, but what? He couldn’t play along until he knew the rules. Yet something inside of him—a facet beyond his rational self—sat up and took notice. Whatever it was, it had a ready-made answer for Aureate. Chet surrendered to instinct and smiled.
“What’s to tell? Apart from the past few days, my life has been rather dull.” Moved by the same instinct, he leaned forward and touched her arm; she was very warm indeed. “I’m far more interested about you. Tell me about yourself.”
She giggled. “What, you want the whole Book of Twelve or just the footnotes?”
“Flame, I can read just as fast as you can.”
It was like diving into the depths of the ocean while feeling an astonishing confidence that he could swim. Had he really learned this much in a week? He was very close to her now. She smelled fantastic. Ichor probably went into overtime when sweat was involved. Her lips were close, too.
Chet leaned in and kissed her.
Aureate kissed back, her tongue enthusiastic and highly active. He found himself being pushed back in the chair, her hand raking his hair. When they parted, Chet realized he was panting.
Her eyes were glazed with longing. “That was exactly the right thing to do. Come on. I have a key to a more private space.”