The Artifact of Foex (41 page)

A triumphant cry resonated through the
cavern, breaking through the ringing in Chet’s ears. Rory held the
bag in her hands, leaping away from the fray. Fenimore socked
Journey—her head snapped back as she collapsed—and threw his knife,
stabbing Rory in the back.

She gasped, her face ashen. Chet cried out
her name, his hands flung out, helpless as she fell...

He lost his feet. The lucid-mud river swept
him away.

The sensation of lucid mud was astonishing.
Chet was pulled under. He had a single lungful of air. He’d let the
lucid mud take him, as ordered, but he didn’t have to breathe out
yet. Loopholes, loopholes.

Unbidden, a verse filled his brain:

“Will, I hail thee
Lend me the strength
To see this twisted bough into a house...”

It was the same stanza that had saved him in
the ocean after dumping Aureate’s body. Chet scrunched his face at
the memory. Who had written the line? It hardly mattered. There was
no fighting the urge to sleep. His last breath had been a futile
gesture. The mud had him securely in its swirling grasp; he didn’t
even know which was way up.

“Yea, lend me the strength
To throw open gates to the lost city of
El
Rendering god barrier to splinters
of light...”

The Magician Zang had written it.
No,
he thought wildly, grasping the truth as if it were a
slippery fish in his hands. I
wrote it.
He was the right
Magician after all. With his last ounce of strength, he mumbled
into the mud,

“Will, I hail thee
Lend me the strength
To rise through the lucid mud
And breathe fresh air once more.”

Chet’s feet kicked of their own volition. He
had nothing left in his lungs. He blindly trusted the imperfect,
fragile sense of gravity within his head, heading
up
.
Breaking through the surface of the churning river, Chet gasped
air.

The others were nowhere in sight. Chet must
have been moving down the lucid-mud river with the current. The
shoreline was relatively close, and it looked like the same cave.
The mud wasn’t nearly as turbulent here; he could swim if it let
him. If it didn’t hold him back. The mud was all around him,
sucking him down with surprisingly strength.

“Will, I hail thee
Lend me the strength
To swim to shore
And cease the bloodshed
Of the Raptus upon Mother Earth.”

He swam. As he did so, he considered the
situation. Chet found solid, if muddy, ground and sloshed out of
the river. He took measure of himself: he was slathered in mud,
just like Journey. Blood still dripped down his face. Despite this,
he felt remarkably in control. Aureate had complained that she
didn’t want to kill someone to figure out what made the Raptus
tick, but Chet—the Magician Zang—didn’t need to kill anyone. He
already knew everything he needed to know to defeat Fenimore. This
little bit of blood would be enough for what he had in mind. Chet
smiled and began walking back upriver.

Chet could hear them long before he could see
them. Grunting, repetitive sounds that made his groin tighten even
before his brain realized what was going on. Chet peeked around the
corner, heart contracting.

Rory was crumpled off to one side. He
couldn’t tell whether she was breathing, but he could see blood on
her fawn-colored jacket. The knife was gone, though, probably back
in Fen’s sheath. Fenimore had his back turned to Chet, pants around
his ankles. He was lying directly atop a muddy figure that had to
be Journey. Her legs were parted and Fen was... Chet licked his
muddy lips, tasting dirt and iron-heavy minerals. His cock was
visible as he pumped, and Chet could see every detail at this
angle. Journey was making little noises as Fenimore slapped her
tits with his free hand. He reached up and slapped her face, then
his hand slipped around her neck. Journey grew abruptly silent.

“That’s right, doxy, I can strangle you while
my dick takes you for all you’re worth.”

Chet couldn’t see his face from his vantage
point, but he could hear Fen’s grin. It was the tone of a predator
thoroughly enjoying his prey. Chet closed his eyes, nauseous.
Fenimore was certainly a man of his word. Chet
knew
Fenimore was the Magician Tene, and the knowledge didn’t make
anything better. Just different.

All his life, Chet had thought that if he
could only know
why
he felt this way, things would be
wonderful. Now he knew, yet he was still covered with mud and
blood, two friends dead and another being raped only yards away.
There were no miraculous turnabouts here. Not without direct
intervention anyway.

Well, if direct intervention was what was
needed, Chet would make it happen.

Chet strode forward, angling his approach so
Fenimore couldn’t see him. Fen was again wearing the duffle bag
slung on his back, and both of his hands were occupied with
Journey. Journey seemed to see Chet, though; just a quick glance
before she looked away. Tear marks trailed down her muddy face to
her ears, but at least her expression was alert.

It was the easiest thing in the world. Chet
unzipped the bag, reached in and drew out the Raptus. He gaped,
blinking. The Raptus was glowing green, its doedicu-like spikes
shiny like stained glass, the light gently pulsing. Almost
completely unlocked.

Chet drew back even as Fenimore muttered,
“Hey!” One of his hands patted the bag while he attempted to look
over his shoulder.

Journey’s legs, which had been flung open in
helpless supplication, wrapped around Fen’s torso, her feet locking
together to secure him. She grabbed his wrists. “Oh, Fen, don’t go.
Stay here with me.”

Chet grinned and set down the Raptus a short
distance away, then leaned over Fenimore. “I could fuck you in the
ass, you know,” he whispered. Though he couldn’t bring himself to
hump Fenimore and drive home his point, he did nibble on Fen’s ear
and squeeze a nipple through his shirt.

Distraction, misdirection. Fenimore twisted
to look him in the face even as Chet slipped the curved blade out
of Fen’s sheath and retreated, taking the knife with him. It joined
the Raptus on the ground. Chet had no need of the blade, just as he
didn’t require the Raptus. He never had.

“Chet!” Fenimore said. “But—but I ordered—oh,
Pantheon. I could have sworn you didn’t know...”

“I can’t hold him long, Chet,” Journey called
out, her voice ragged.

“Don’t let go, yet. Can you get him on his
back?”

Journey grunted as she rolled, taking
Fenimore down while simultaneously straddling him. She pinned his
arms at his sides with her knees, apparently squeezing hard.
“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick,” she said. Fenimore was
struggling, helplessly encompassed.

Chet settled at Fenimore’s head so he was
looking at Fen upside down. There was just enough congealing blood
left from his nose to make this work, but it didn’t take much,
really. Just a dab or two.

Fenimore flinched as Chet wrote ancient
letters upon his forehead in blood. “What are you doing?” he
whispered, eyes wide. Fenimore looked like a child now. He’d always
been so deceptive that way.

“Fenimore LaDaven, I lay a geas upon you,
binding you by every name you have ever known. You are restricted
from touching or using the Raptus from this time forward. To you,
the Raptus is a locked door without key or keyhole. Any usage will
mean the instant death of this body or any future body
reincarnation might bring you. In laying this geas upon you, I bind
myself to your soul again, as, indeed, we already seem to be
bound.” Chet cleared his throat and admonished himself to focus.
“In addition to the Raptus, you are henceforth restricted from
holding or using weapons of any sort for the duration of this
lifetime. This includes any object that you might use with the
intent of inflicting physical harm upon another living being.
Again, the usage or even the touch of a weapon will mean your
instant death. This geas is binding from now until the end of Uos.”
Chet cleared his throat and sang the correct hymn in the ancient
Eicha language used by Magicians. He was off key and his voice
wavered, but it was still binding. At least he remembered the
words. His memory had always been good for things like that.

“Wow, Chet,” Journey murmured, staring.

“You can let him up.” Chet sighed and sat
back. Now that Fenimore was no longer a threat, Chet turned to
Rory—except she wasn’t there. The body was gone.

What?
Was Rory still alive? Had she
turned invisible, choosing to die in non-corporeal form?

Fenimore threw Journey off, and she shuddered
as she rose. Chet helped her as best he could, a supportive hand
under her arm. She stumbled away a few feet and vomited onto the
cave floor.

Still bent over, she mumbled, “Chet, find my
pants. He tore my underwear in half, but my pants should be
fine.”

As Chet searched for mud-slathered fabric on
the cave floor, Fenimore regarded him closely. “You think you’re
clever, don’t you?” Chet expected him to look enraged, but Fenimore
had his pleasant face on, again.

“I am myself,” Chet said shortly, locating
Journey’s pants.

“You swam out of the lucid mud, yet my orders
were to let it take you.”

He was trolling for information,
meaning—what? Chet didn’t trust this apparent mood swing. But
Journey, skinning into her pants, gave Chet a puzzled look. “How
did
you do it, Chet?”

“I...” How could he explain?

“Wait, I know. You found a loophole in my
command, Zang.” Fenimore smiled sunnily.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve known since we were bound by the
Raptus. Why else would it choose a little nothing like you?”

Chet frowned at him. “That makes very little
sense. None at all, actually.”

Fenimore remained silent. Journey turned to
Chet, her expression obstinate as Abyss. “Chet, you know something.
You need to tell me what’s going on. Please. Knife and Aureate have
been murdered along with your professor. And your other friend,
that young Shadow Dan—” she turned, apparently to look at Rory, and
froze.

“By all the grace and goodness of the
Pantheon, where did she go?” Fenimore’s pleasant face had slipped
into a more anxious expression. His tone sounded oddly frantic.

“What does it matter to you?” Chet scowled at
him.

“Shadow Dancers can’t become invisible if
they’re badly injured. At least, not on their own,” Journey
explained in a low voice. “I don’t know why not.”

Fenimore was distracted, walking over the
spot where Rory’s body had been. Heartened by his apparent discord,
Chet told Journey about his feverish dreams and his conversation
with Doyen Quor, though he skipped the part about the girls. It was
his private shame, to be shared later or not at all.

She frowned. “Fenimore called you by a
name—Zang. He was one of the more famous Magicians, wasn’t he? He
wrote a ton of stuff, anyway.”

Chet felt his face grow warm. “I
am
Zang. I just didn’t know for certain until I was going under in the
lucid mud.”

“Zang wasn’t famous,” Fen said over his
shoulder. “He was a timid little nothing.”

“What’s it to you, Fenimore?” Journey
said.

“I’m
not
Fenimore LaDaven. I
am—”

“The Magician Tene,” said Chet and Fenimore
at the same time. Chet continued, “No wonder you killed Aureate.
You hated her. You always did. But what I don’t get is why you
killed Professor Tibbets.”

Fen shrugged, nonchalant. “It was an
accident. I was going around the corner with my knife held outwards
from my chest like this,” he demonstrated with his bare fist held
to his chest, staring at the blade on the ground. “The old man ran
into
me
.”

Chet met Journey’s eye. He didn’t know what
she was thinking, but to his mind the evidence matched what
Fenimore was saying. The murder scene
had
looked reckless
and accidental.

Journey turned back to Fen. “But that doesn’t
explain how you knew Chet was the Magician Zang in his past
lives.”

“What’s the information worth to you?” Fen
wandered about the cavern as if aimlessly.

Journey glared at him. “You’ve murdered my
friends, and raped and tortured me. I’m not
negotiating
,
especially if you want some kind of clemency from the law.”

“Then you can stick your head under a water
pump, Flame.”

Chet blinked, taken by a new thought. “You
knew me back in the ambulance. You said something like, ‘Pantheon,
it’s
you
again.’ That’s when you started talking to me
like a person, not a disposable servant. So it
wasn’t
when
we were bound by the Raptus.”

“So smart, Chet? You can guess forever and
still not know the answer,” Fenimore said in a sing-song tone. He
was standing right beside the Raptus and knife. “Except you don’t
have forever, do you?”