The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls (13 page)

Vincent took the stairs two at a time and followed the footprints along the hall to the bedroom and trailed them all the way to the shattered mirror. Seven years’ bad luck for someone, he
thought.

He looked through the opening in the wall and saw that there was a light burning within. He could smell something nasty, like a damp animal, and a low growl emanated from the darkness. He
hesitated and his fear threatened to overcome him. This was becoming one of those dreams that was almost too real.

‘Hurry, Vincent,’ came the voice again from the other side of the wall. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Vincent swallowed and stepped over the broken glass into the Ergastirion. The woman rose from the chair, and with the light behind her she was like a glowing silhouette. Beside her there was a
dog. It rose to its feet with a horrible scraping sound on the floor and stood beside its mistress. Its head was almost as high as her shoulder. It had not hair or fur, but scales, and Vincent
counted six clawed toes on each foot. Its eyes were red with narrow black slits in the centre.

‘Spletivus!’ he breathed, for he saw now that this was no dog but a hellish ugly beast panting and slobbering.

‘Who are you?’ he asked the woman. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Vincent, I’m surprised! Surely you take the trouble to know from whom you steal?’

And he realized that he did know. That he had known all along. ‘You’re Lady Degringolade,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes. And you have something that belongs to me. Where are my cards?’

‘I took them,’ said Vincent, ‘but I can return them.’

‘You will, or you’ll feel Katatherion’s bite.’ At the mention of its name, the creature beside her lunged forward and growled right in Vincent’s face. He stepped
back rapidly. He could feel its spittle on his cheeks. Thinking quickly, he held out the compact. ‘Have this. I took it too.’

Lady Degringolade put up a pale hand. ‘No. Keep it. Then you will know when to come.’

‘Oh . . . and what about the cards? Shall I bring them here?’

‘I will let you know.’ Then, with a terrible swift grace, Lady Degringolade stepped forward and pushed him up against the wall and pinned him there with just one hand. Her face came
down towards his and he saw nothing in her eyes but dark evilry. He reached frantically into his cloak and brought out a handful of beans. She laughed and struck his arm and the beans flew
away.

‘Black beans? Natron? I had thought my emancipator would be more intelligent than that. Someone who has escaped a Lurids’ embrace twice. But you are a Vulgar.’

He stammered, ‘Your e-emancipator?’

Lady Degringolade stared at him, her eyes full of disdain. ‘You smeared me with your blood and broke the crystal ring and rolled the maerl, did you not?’

Vincent thought hard. Yes, he had bloodied her and rolled the maerl, but the crystal ring? What crystal ring?

Lady Degringolade didn’t wait for him to answer.

‘If you tell anyone of this, of my existence, I will kill you. But before I kill you I will strap you into this chair and I will haul before you any you hold dear and kill them one by one
and feed them to Katatherion as you watch.’

Vincent nodded, rendered dumb with terror, and backed towards the opening in the wall. This was no dream.
This was a nightmare.

‘Say nothing of this. Go back to your friends and sleep.’

Vincent woke with a violent hypnopompic jerk. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He lay awake, eyes open, staring into the darkness, waiting for his heart to settle into a
normal rhythm. He could hear in the others’ breathing the steady rhythm of sleep.

‘Domne, that was too real! I’ve got to cut down on the Antikamnial.’

There was something in his clenched fist. The compact. He slipped it back into the torn pocket. He rose and checked the hinged flagstone, satisfied himself that it was shut tightly, and returned
to bed with a tisane to help him sleep. His mind whirled as he sipped it, thinking of tomorrow night and the plan to get the Blivet, until finally, the mug drained, he felt the guiding hand of the
Hypnagogue lead him to a mercifully dreamless slumber.

Mercator Square was alive once more with an animated throng of garrulous Degringoladians. But the atmosphere was very different to the Festival of the Lurids, when Citrine had
been carted through the baying mob and had come so close to hanging by the neck. Then, as was traditional for the festival, the crowd had been dressed as vile Lurids and brandished weapons, and
leered with blood-streaked mouths. Now they sported much brighter apparel, as befitted an evening at the theatre.

The Degringolade Playhouse was on the east side of Mercator Square. It was a tall building with a broad frontage and a rather magnificent copper dome, now under a layer of snow. Above the
playhouse’s newly polished double doors a huge banner proclaimed:

Tonight

For one night only

Professor Arkwright Soanso presents

‘A Demonstration of Modern Science’

It seemed that the entire populace had decided to cast aside their troubles and had come out in anticipation of an evening of entertainment. The governor’s offer of free entry was
doubtless an incentive, as were the deliciously temptatious food stalls. The air was filled with the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts and baking potatoes and steaming horse pie and beer. The cold
was no deterrent – Degringoladians knew what to expect from an Antithican Gevra. The ladies wore thick cloaks and furry ear-warmers and dug their hands into velvet muffs; the men sported
heavy coats with broad mantels and close-fitting hats made from the fur of the Sylvan beluae. All were in a festive mood and the only evidence of the recent disquiet was the unusual abundance of
glittering browpins and earrings, rings, pendants and talismans. Not forgetting, of course, the overt display of Brinepurses.

The Kronometer’s token-adorned thirteen pillars jangled like wind chimes. The clock was still not working, despite the best efforts of the city’s engineers and horologists, but there
was no danger of the audience being late for the show. As 8 Nox neared, an announcement was made via a loudhailer, encouraging the jocund crowd to take their seats.

From inside Suma’s wagon, Vincent, Folly and Citrine watched closely. They had an excellent vantage point and could see quite clearly the entrance to the building. They had left the now
near-invisible Trikuklos in the alley beside the horsemeat shop. Then, one by one, so as not to draw any attention to themselves, each had made his or her way to Suma’s wagon and slipped in,
unnoticed by the distracted crowd.

As was often the case, Suma had not been surprised at her visitors’ arrival. She expressed great pleasure at meeting Folly at last, and welcomed Vincent heartily. ‘And where is
Jonah?’ she asked.

A good question. Jonah, self-conscious at the best of times about his scars and his size, could not be persuaded to come out when the city was going to be so busy.

‘I would be no more use to you than a rusty whale spear,’ he had explained to Citrine. ‘And if I come the chances are I’ll be seen and you’ll all be landed in the
drink. Let me stay here. I’ll fix up the crossroads chamber to my liking and keep the slumgullion warm. As they used to say in my business, “May your crooked hooks fall straight into
the cod’s mouth.” ’

‘He thought he would be a hindrance,’ said Citrine. She still felt guilty about the day she had dragged him into her troubles. He could never return to his job in the penitentiary
now. And, for all her promises, she had not yet paid him and he had saved her life!

‘He’s probably right,’ said Suma. ‘Now, how can I help you with your plan?’

‘Well, while Vincent and Folly are at the Governor’s Residence, I am going into the playhouse, to keep an eye on Leucer – and to see what this kekrimpari is all about, because
my father said it was so very important. But for that I need a disguise.’

She then presented Suma with a basket of assorted bits and pieces all donated by Wenceslas Wincheap. Suma shook her head in wonder. ‘I don’t know where Wenceslas gets this
stuff,’ she muttered, and set to the task with gusto.

By the time Suma had finished, Citrine was barely recognizable to those who knew her, let alone to those whose only knowledge of her appearance was the image of the russet-haired, green-eyed
girl on Fessup’s ‘wanted’ posters. Although her hair was dyed black again, Suma was taking no chances and had tucked it all under a grey wig. She had caked Citrine’s face in
thick theatrical make-up by which she changed the shape of her jaw, and sculpted deep creases in her forehead and cheeks. Her eyebrows were now like two grey caterpillars crawling towards each
other. With several drops of a herbal tincture, she caused the whites of her eyes to turn bloodshot and yellow in hue. Citrine blinked rapidly at the initial sharp sting, but after a few seconds
the pain subsided and her eyelids merely felt a little scratchy. The colour of her irises remained the same, but overall they were now so rheumy and repulsive Suma said she doubted anyone would
want to look at them for any length of time. But just to be sure, she handed her a pair of thick-lensed spectacles. The look was completed with a dirty cloak and ragged fingerless gloves.

‘What do you think?’ she asked the other two nervously.

Vincent nodded in admiration, and Folly, usually so hard to read, was obviously impressed. ‘Suma’s right – I doubt anyone will bother you for fear of what they might
catch.’

‘You’d better hurry before they close the doors,’ prompted Suma.

‘Keep your fingers crossed for me.’

‘I can do better than that,’ said Vincent. ‘Have this.’ He handed Citrine a small silver acorn. ‘It’s a good-luck charm.’

‘Kew,’ she said gratefully, and left.

‘Wenceslas gave it to me,’ said Vincent to Folly’s raised eyebrow as together they watched Citrine from the wagon window. With her pronounced limp and hunched back she really
did look like an old woman. Vincent would not have thought that Citrine, with her privileged background, would be so good at this. She had just entered the playhouse when a large Troika drew up in
the street and two men stepped out.

‘Well, that looks like Leucer and Edgar,’ said Folly. Professor Soanso had arrived earlier to prepare.

‘Now we know he’s definitely in there,’ said Vincent, ‘we should go.’

‘I’m surprised we haven’t seen Kamptulicon yet.’

‘That pantaloon’ll be in there somewhere, don’t you worry,’ said Suma. ‘Are you ready?’

Vincent and Folly exchanged glances, nodded and stepped out of the wagon. The ubiquitous corvid perched on the ridge of the roof watched them as they slipped away between the stalls.

At the edge of the square Folly grabbed Vincent’s arm and held him back. ‘Look who it is.’

A tall man was walking purposefully towards the playhouse and with each step his fluttering cloak flapped open to reveal the green lining.

‘Domne, it’s Kamptulicon,’ whispered Vincent. ‘Wait until he goes in.’

But he didn’t go in, just strode on by.

‘Why isn’t he at the demonstration?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Folly, ‘but I think we should see where he’s going.’

Skilfully they tailed Kamptulicon, matching his pace at a safe distance.

‘Maybe he’ll lead us to his new hideout,’ suggested Vincent, ‘wherever that might be. I mean, he must have another Ergastirion by now.’

They slowed and watched as the Cunningman stopped outside the Caveat Emptorium, but he only glanced briefly in the window, and then hurried on to the horse rest-post at the end of the street.
Shortly afterwards he came riding forth on a black mare, its hoofs ringing out their rhythmical tattoo on the cobble.

‘We can’t keep up on foot,’ said Vincent.

Folly thought quickly. ‘I’ll take the Trikuklos and see where he goes. You go on to the Governor’s Residence as planned. If I can, I will catch up and meet you at the
funicular. If I’m not there in time, just go ahead without me.’

Vincent couldn’t help flashing his trademark smile. ‘So you do think I can do it on my own!’

‘Never doubted it.’ She winked.

Inside the playhouse it was standing room only. Edgar and Leucer sat in comfort in the box nearest the stage. Edgar leaned forward and watched Citrine elbow her way through the
crowd to take up a position in the centre aisle at the top of the steps.

‘Domne,’ said Edgar. ‘Even that old crone wants to know about kekrimpari.’

Leucer was busy acknowledging his admirers, regally waving his hand at the men below who doffed their hats at him and the ladies who nodded their heads towards him. Some called up their
congratulations. ‘A splendid idea, Governor, just what we need in these upsetting times.’

‘Hear! Hear!’ came a chorus of grateful voices.

Although Edgar would have preferred to spend his evening at the gaming table in the Bonchance Club, he could not deny that he was rather intrigued by this kekrimpari business. Uncle Hubert had
mentioned it more than once before his ‘unfortunate disappearance’ (as Edgar liked to refer to it), saying how it could be used for making chemicals in the manufactory. At the time
Edgar hadn’t paid much attention, but now that Leucer had taken an interest it behoved him to do so as well. In fact, Leucer had insisted that he come, and Edgar, being rather entangled with
the esteemed governor, could not afford to upset him. Leucer d’Avidus knew just a little too much about the skeletons in Edgar Capodel’s closet and, if he wished, could put him in a
very difficult position.

To put it more bluntly, Edgar was scared of Leucer. He took comfort from the fact that as long as he provided the governor with what he wanted – money and free use of the Capodel Chemicals
manufactory – he could enjoy the advantages of being closely associated with a man of such power and influence. Degringoladians admired their charismatic leader, and Edgar, always one for an
easy life, enjoyed basking in Leucer’s reflected glory.