The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls (2 page)

So, perhaps he hummed to himself a split second longer as he picked at the wine-cellar lock with the treen tools he had inherited from his father, but that was about the long and the short of
it.

Once inside he locked the door again as he always did; it warned him if someone was coming, gave him extra time to hide or escape, and occasionally deterred someone from investigating an
unexplained noise because of the very fact that the door was secure. He tapped his smitelight against his leg and instantly it revealed his surroundings. He would be eternally grateful to Jonah for
retrieving the small device from Kamptulicon. A precious gift from his father, the ingenious light continued to serve him well.

He went quickly to the racks where row upon row of fine wines in dusty bottles lay waiting for him. Red and white and rosé, sweet, dry, sparkling and fortified, they were all there.
Folly’s rabbit slumgullion benefited greatly from the addition of a full-bodied red, and Jonah’s fish stews (using stolen fish, of course) were given an extra dimension from a splash of
a light white. He himself had tried his hand at horsemeat pie with a glug of port and it had gone down very well indeed.

Absentmindedly Vincent rubbed his sleeve on the metal prosthetic attached to his right arm. It was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship, made from a strong yet light metal. The removable fingers
had jointed knuckles and responded readily to the flexing of his remaining digits within. The magnetic dial on the wrist had already proved its usefulness and he was quite certain that the hand had
other tricks he had not yet discovered. He regretted the loss of his three fingers – of course he did – but he was getting used to it. Today he had attached all five false fingers and
the hand resembled a metal glove. Oddly enough, the more he wore it, the less he was inclined to remove it. He had not been wearing it a full lunar cycle yet, but it was becoming an integral part
of him. At night when he couldn’t sleep he liked to imagine who had owned the artificial hand before him – a great inventor, perhaps, or maybe it was part of an Autandron, one of those
moving metal men of which he had heard rumours. He made a mental note to ask Wenceslas Wincheap next time he was at the Caveat Emptorium.

Right now though, the still-healing wound was throbbing. He had done as Folly told him, soaking the raw flesh in salted water, smearing on a thick layer of soothing unguent and drinking the
Antikamnial regularly. It was strong stuff, and the throbbing was a sign that its painkilling properties were wearing off.

Hungry and feeling more acutely the need for pain relief, Vincent turned to his task. He wanted to get back to the Kryptos before the Kronometer struck Mid-Nox. Quickly he chose two bottles of
wine, a red and a white – both, by the look of the fussy labels, of a very high quality – standing on a small tasting table at the end of the rack. He dropped them into the deepest
pockets of his cloak and was about to leave when the sound of voices and a key in the door stopped him in his tracks. Whoever was on the other side was fumbling, giving Vincent valuable seconds to
slip out of sight between the wine rack and the wall. He flattened himself against the cold stone, destroying cobwebs and sending spiders running. Vincent was unworried by the visitor, doubtless
the merchant coming down for a bottle.

The door opened. ‘The Lurids are quiet tonight,’ said the first man to enter.

‘Hmm,’ replied a second voice, also male. ‘Not a good sign.’

‘This way, this way,’ said the first man, rather excitedly, closing the door. ‘I left them out for you. The tasters report it to be the best yet from that year.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ came the reply. ‘The thought of just a sip of it has me all a-tremble!’

Except he didn’t say ‘tremble’, he said ‘tremmel’, which caused Vincent to groan inwardly. He would know that speech impediment anywhere: Governor Leucer
d’Avidus.

Vincent frowned. This was an unexpected turn. He, Folly, Jonah and Citrine knew that Leucer d’Avidus was inextricably linked with Leopold Kamptulicon and the Lurid and the fiasco down at
the Tar Pit, and any man who claimed acquaintance with both Kamptulicon and Edgar Capodel could not be trusted at all.

Through the small gaps in the rack Vincent watched the merchant approach the tasting table. This simple action elicited a second silent groan as his fear was realized.

‘There were two,’ the merchant was saying. ‘A white and a red. I left them here.’

Leucer was beginning to get impatient, as evidenced by his tapping foot and its echo around the damp cellar. ‘Perhaps they have been stolen.’

The merchant started. ‘You mean by that Vincent fellow? But how? I have installed new locks all over the place.’

‘He and his little band of cronies are not called the Phenomenals for nothing,’ replied Leucer thoughtfully. ‘I hardly need to remind you, the particular skill of a Phenomenal
is to come and go as it pleases without being seen. The Urban Guardsmen have not caught them yet and there have been no sightings. There is speculation that they have left the city, but we know
that the boy, Vincent, is still here. He is like a sharp stone in my shoe.’

Vincent smiled. He was quite happy to be a stone in Leucer’s expensive shoes. He watched as Leucer turned up his own manuslantern and stared hard at the floor. ‘Who has access to
this cellar?’

‘Nanyone except me. It stores my most expensive wines.’

‘Well, unless you have feet of different sizes, I suggest that someone other than you has been down here.’ Leucer pointed to the floor and both men stared hard at the sets of small
and big footprints in the dust. Vincent dug his nails, metal fingers and all, into his palms in irritation at his own carelessness. The light in the cellar was poor, deliberately so to protect the
wine, and he had not bothered to conceal his tracks.

‘I see nany prints leaving,’ observed Leucer slyly.

‘You mean the thief
might still be here
?’ whispered the merchant. ‘Shouldn’t we call the guardsmen? There’s a reward!’

Vincent made a face. Last he heard, the reward was one thousand sequenturies. A fair amount, a compliment to his lock-picking in fact, but he had no intention of lining anyone’s pockets.
He watched with mounting unease as Leucer drew a long-barrelled pistol. The governor advanced along the racks, gesturing to the merchant to stand guard at the door.

Silently, smoothly and reluctantly, Vincent drew his own weapon, a treen dagger carved from Gaboon ebony. His heart was heavy. ‘Only amateurs steal with violence,’ his father used to
say. ‘A real thief comes and goes like a shadow. There is no need for anyone to be hurt.’

Vincent sized up his opponents. He could see from the merchant’s quivering lip and shaking hands that he had no stomach for a fight. The governor, however, was another matter.

‘Come out, boy,’ called Leucer. ‘I know you’re in there.’

Vincent steadied his breathing and tightened his grip around his knife. ‘Sorry, Father,’ he said silently, ‘but this is the way it has to be.’ The cellar was windowless,
there was only one way out and Leucer stood between him and it.

Light glinted off the shining barrel of Leucer’s pistol as he advanced, but Vincent still had the element of surprise. He took a deep breath, issued a mighty roar and rushed head down at
the oncoming enemy.

But before either could strike a blow or fire a shot, there was the most tremendous rumble and the cellar shook violently from side to side. The ground shuddered like the stiffened legs of a
donkey being pulled where it didn’t want to go. Vincent was amazed to see a ripple cross the floor, like a wave in a pool. Everything seemed to be moving.

Over the deep roaring there came the higher-pitched noise of glass breaking. Wine bottles, shaken from the racks, were crashing one after another to the hard stone floor, shattering on impact,
showering Vincent and Leucer and the merchant with their aromatic contents. Corks were popping at random and shooting around the cellar. Vincent thought this was what it must be like to be under
fire from a hundred pistols.

It was impossible to stay upright and all three fell to the ground. Vincent found himself lying only feet away from Leucer, staring straight into the man’s eyes. Leucer was holding on to
the wine rack with one hand and brandishing the pistol in the other.

‘Got you now, you scullion!’ roared the governor. He took aim as well as he could under the unsteady circumstances and Vincent could see his finger starting to squeeze the trigger.
Desperately he tried to get to his feet. Then, unbelievably, a jagged-edged chasm opened up in the floor between them. The force of the fracture sent Leucer rolling helplessly in one direction and
Vincent in the other.

As quickly as it had started, the rumbling stopped and the ground settled.

Clouds of dust swirled around the room. Panting and coughing, Vincent got to his feet. Leucer was on one knee across the chasm, searching the sticky, glass-smithereened floor around him for his
weapon. He snarled at Vincent as his hand closed over the pistol.

‘So long, guv,’ said Vincent with a grin and a wink. Then, as Leucer aimed the pistol at his head, he bounded over the prostrate merchant and made good his escape through the
doorway, the ringing report of pistol fire in his wake.

Citrine reached up to scratch her head and uttered a small sound of irritation. Whatever was in the hair dye was causing her head to itch. She pulled her hood forward again,
just brushing her silver browpin with its onyx stone. It gave her a little comfort. Few Degringoladians went without some sort of protective talisman: bejewelled browpins or large-stoned rings were
favoured by the rich, men and women alike; earrings or less ostentatious pendants were worn by others.

She looked up again at the dark building a hundred yards or so down the street: the Capodel Townhouse, the finest house in the city. She used to stand on the balcony and count the beams of the
lighthouse until her father returned from the manufactory. Her heart hardened at the memory. That was before Cousin Edgar had so cruelly betrayed her and forced her out of her home. Now two burly
guards stood stolidly on the other side of imposing wrought-iron gates.

‘Looks like nanyone’s home,’ said Jonah beside her.

‘Edgar’s probably at the Bonchance Club.’

‘You know Vincent can get in, take anything you want. By the multitudes of mackerel in the seven seas, his thieving skills have not let us down yet.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Citrine, thinking of the collection of browpins, among other things, that she had left behind in her old bedroom. She hadn’t quite got the measure of Vincent
Verdigris yet. Yes, he provided well for them all; food and drink and a whole raft of practical items that were lacking in Folly’s now rather crowded tomb-home, and he loved to tell tales,
tall tales, but she couldn’t help feeling that the outward bravado was a mask, that there was more below the surface.

Folly, however, was a different kettle of fish. She was a listener, not a talker. She nodded at Vincent’s stories, but withheld her own. Citrine suspected she had plenty to rival his.
Vincent wouldn’t like that. He was the sort of fellow who couldn’t resist a challenge, no matter how uncertain the outcome.

‘We should get on to Suma’s,’ urged Jonah, interrupting her thoughts. He was growing anxious. The Degringolade Urban Guardsmen (DUG for short but more often referred to as
Urgs) were extra vigilant these days, all on the lookout for the Phenomenals, and of the quartet he was undoubtedly the most recognizable.

‘I just wish I knew what Edgar is up to,’ said Citrine quietly.

Jonah looked at her sideways.
And whether or not your father really is dead.

It was snowing again as they hurried away. Citrine was slightly ahead of Jonah and reached the street where they had parked the Trikuklos first. It was not an easy conveyance
to conceal, but Jonah had reached up and quenched the nearby lights to that end. She was only feet away when a figure stepped out from behind it. She slowed, recognizing the silhouette of the cap
of a member of the DUG.

‘Is this your vehicle?’

Jonah, lagging behind, heard the voice and backed off. ‘Codtails, an Urg!’ he muttered, making the word an expression of disgust.

Citrine swallowed hard and wiped melting snow from her face, suddenly aware of a burning sensation spreading across her cheeks.

‘Someone has vandalized the street lights down here. Dangerous times. You’ve heard of those Phenomenals?’

Citrine nodded earnestly. ‘I don’t want to come across one of their lot!’

The guardsman held up his standard-issue manuslantern to look at her more closely. ‘Hang about, lass, what’s that on your face?’

Citrine saw then that her hand was streaked with black. Her cheeks were now stinging painfully.
Domna! The dye!

The Urg’s expression changed slowly, as if he was wrestling with a tricky mathematical problem. ‘Your hair, it’s changing colour!’ he said dully.

Citrine looked down at her hair, to her horror now streaked with red.

The Urg took a step towards her and his face lit up. He had worked it out. ‘Domne! You’re the red-haired Phenomenal!
You’re Citrine Capodel
.’

He put his whistle to his mouth, but before he could blow it Jonah loomed large and rushed him, knocking him to the ground. Then he dragged Citrine into the Trikuklos and was already pedalating
away even as she struggled to pull the door to.

‘They already believe you’re a murderer,’ said Jonah grimly. ‘Adding assault of an Urg to your record won’t make much difference.’ Then, seeing the distressed
look on her face, he added, ‘He’ll be fine. I saw him get up in the mirror.’

The pair fell silent and did not speak again until they reached Mercator Square. Jonah manoeuvred the vehicle between the stalls, finally stopping at the side of a black kite wagon set back from
the main thoroughfare. A large corvid on the roof eyed them intelligently. ‘Let’s not be too long,’ warned Jonah, ‘or Folly’ll be complaining.’