The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls (7 page)

To many this was just a chair. But to Vincent it was something he had only seen once before and had hoped to never see again.

A Sella Subjunctum.

Folly had told him its name. He had thought of it only as a chair of torture. It was in a chair such as this, at the hands of Leopold Kamptulicon, that he had been restrained and maimed and had
feared his life would end. And now here was another one in Degringolade Manor. Unwillingly, yet unable to stop himself, Vincent rounded the chilling seat. He swore under his breath and a wave of
nausea washed over him. But no longer was it the sight of the chair that caused such revulsion.

It was the mummified body that was strapped into it.

Brown, wrinkled and desiccated, the body sat strangely upright, staring straight ahead, grinning insanely. It was held tightly at the neck, just as he had been in Kamptulicon’s secret
cellar, and its legs were strapped at the ankles. When he had composed himself enough to look closer, he deduced from the tattered clothes that this dried-up leathery figure had once been a
woman.

He couldn’t help but imagine this poor wretch’s last hours, for there was no doubt in his mind that she had met her end in this chair. Perhaps at the hands of Lord and Lady
Degringolade. Or maybe it was Kamptulicon who had conducted the terror, as he had once tortured Vincent. He dismissed the thought – Kamptulicon was a recent visitor to Degringolade and this
must have happened a long time ago.

Vincent took the amulet that hung round the shrivelled neck and the ring from one of the dried-up fingers. It felt loose, but it would not come off easily, and he ended up breaking the finger at
the knuckle. Something glittered on the mummy’s brow, and, never one to be squeamish when it came to money, Vincent pulled out a browpin with its dulled precious stone. The brown skin
stretched as he did so and the skull came forward and then fell back against the chair with a bang. Vincent jumped and froze, but nothing untoward ensued so he continued to inspect his finding. The
underside of the browpin was inscribed ‘Decus et tutanem’, and he made a note to ask Folly the meaning of the words.

He noticed that in the course of retrieving the pin he had managed to smear blood from his wounded hand across the mummy’s forehead. He shuddered, slightly repulsed at his own actions. It
was time to leave the macabre scene.

Closing the mirror-door behind him, Vincent stood in the dressing room and listened. He thought he heard the others calling his name. He hurried back to the bedroom. Was it his imagination or
had the room become very cold? He licked his lips; there was a strange metallic taste in his mouth. He could feel something vibrating on the air, as if someone was humming. He exhaled through
chattering teeth and his breath clouded in front of him. Now his hands were tingling with the chill and he had the feeling he was no longer alone. He shone his smitelight all around the room and
then back to the curtained bed. Was there something on the other side of the curtains?

The curtain moved and he saw it, a huge shape, glowing green, the like of which he had never imagined in his life, manifesting itself by the bed.

‘Domne!’ he hissed. He dug his hand into his pocket, brought out a fistful of black beans and flung them directly at the . . . thing. He didn’t know what else to call it. The
beans made no difference, merely passing into its mucilaginous folds with a soft swallowing sound. He backed slowly towards the door through which he had first entered the room. He fired the Natron
disperser, showering the creature with the repellent salt. He thought it might have flinched, but then it was moving towards him. He let out a roar of terror before fleeing the room.

Tripping and skidding out on to the gallery, Vincent raced towards the stairs. Citrine and Jonah, who were on their way up, called out to him, but at the sight of his pursuer they stopped in
their tracks, then turned as one and fled back down. Vincent reached the top of the stairs and looked over his shoulder. The thing was right behind him. He felt it touch his arm and his skin burned
through his sleeve.

He opened his mouth to scream, when from out of nowhere Folly came running towards him. ‘Keep your mouth shut!’ she shouted. ‘Protect your face.’

Crushed by a terrible weight on his back, Vincent dropped to his knees and curled up as tightly as possible. He was sure that he was only seconds from death. He was vaguely aware of footsteps to
his left, and then a plunging sound, like a stone dropping into soft mud

There was a roar of such magnitude that the ground shook. For a moment he thought it was another earthquake and wondered if the house could possibly stand it. Icy wetness drenched him, and when
he dared to open his eyes he saw to his disgust that he was sitting in the middle of a pool of what could only be described as cold slime. He rolled up slowly to a kneeling position. Strings of the
green goo stretched between his fingers. Folly was in front of him, holding out a cloth. ‘Wipe your face,’ she said. ‘Before the ghouze gets in your eyes or mouth or up your nose.
It’ll make you ill.’

Vincent took the cloth and cleaned his face. Shaking, he got to his feet. ‘What the Hades was that?’

‘
That
was a Pluribus,’ said Folly grimly.

‘I thought you said you blivved it,’ he gasped, still catching his breath.

‘It must be another one.’

‘Two? In one day?’

‘Exactly,’ said Folly. ‘It’s not a good sign. It’s time to get out of here.’

Together they hurried downstairs. Folly, at Vincent’s side, allowed herself a short burst of laughter. ‘Blivved it,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard it called that
before.’

Citrine and Jonah were waiting at the bottom, very apologetic about their cowardice, but Folly praised them for their good instincts. ‘You don’t hang around when a Pluribus is on the
loose,’ she said. Citrine fussed over Vincent, cleaning off remnants of slime with her pocket handkerchief, and for once he didn’t object. Jonah went to pat him on the back, but stopped
in mid-air when he noticed the ghouze.

‘There’s something you should both see,’ Vincent said, and went to the window by the main door. Folly, tuning in to his unusually serious tone, hurried across and peered out.
Her face remained expressionless. A single Pluribus, palpitating, like a still-beating heart plucked from the chest, was standing just feet from the glass.

‘We really have to go,’ said Folly firmly. Jonah pulled on her arm and pointed slightly to one side, where there stood a dozen or more of the creatures. Degringolade Manor was
surrounded by a horde of shivering Pluriba.

‘So, now can I have a Blivet?’ asked Vincent.

Earthquake Rocks Degringolade!

Reported by Hepatic Whitlock

Last night, just before Mid-Nox, in an unusual twist of geological fate, this great city of Degringolade was shaken to its core by an earthquake! It is believed at this time that it
originated somewhere on the outskirts of the city and lasted almost thirty seconds. A few minor aftershocks have since been reported, but experts say that the likelihood of another major event is
remote. The last recorded earthquake in Degringolade took place over two centuries ago. Historically the province of Antithica is not prone to seismic shifts at all.

It has been posited that the recent inferno at the d’Avidus Tar Pit might have brought about the earthquake, but this has been dismissed. Dr Winthrop Rayleigh, on a serendipitous
visit to Degringolade from the Antithica Institute of Geology, said, ‘Seismic shifts take place at great depths below the earth. There is no evidence anywhere that a trauma so close to the
surface, unless it was a significant force, could bring on an actual earthquake. I am confident that the timing of this event so soon after the fire at the Tar Pit of Degringolade is nothing more
than a coincidence.’

There were reports of unusual animal behaviour prior to the quake. People gave accounts of mice, rats and other small creatures running wildly through their houses. The large flock of
gulls that nests on the rocks around the lighthouse was seen to be very disturbed and the lighthouse itself is now leaning and has been declared unsafe.

Unfortunately there has also been some structural damage around the city, generally to older brick buildings. Fortunately the funicular railway that runs up to the Governor’s
Residence at the summit of Collis Hill came through unscathed, much to Governor d’Avidus’s relief.

It has also been reported, though not confirmed, that the contents of a warehouse at the Capodel Manufactory were destroyed. Edgar Capodel, owner of the Capodel Chemical Company, has
assured this newspaper that no chemical containers were damaged in the earthquake and that all such equipment and stocks are kept in secure conditions. Rumours abound that Mr Capodel is
developing a food cooling system at the factory, but this is a story that Mr Capodel will neither confirm nor deny.

Chief Guardsman Fessup has warned citizens to be on the lookout for looters and in particular to be alert for any member of the so-called ‘Phenomenals’ gang, who might well
seek to take advantage of the chaos in the aftermath of the earthquake to commit their trademark criminal acts.

In addition to all this upset, the Kronometer in Mercator Square has stopped working. It is thought that this is the first time the clock has stopped in its two-hundred-year existence. It
was last wound thirteen days ago, in line with the lunar cycle. The clock was commissioned and donated to the city by Lord Barnaby Degringolade, a many times great-grandfather of Lord Cornelius
Degringolade, the last inhabitant of Degringolade Manor, whose death, along with that of his wife, Lady Scarletta, in mysterious circumstances over fifty years ago, brought the Degringolade
bloodline to an end.

The Kronometer’s stopping reminds us all of the prophecy engraved on the clock’s pendulum:

Should ere this pendulum of blackened brass,

No longer swing its graceful pass,

Beware the risen Degringolade

For blood will smear their sharpened blade!

It goes without saying that the city’s engineers are working all hours in an effort to restart the Kronometer. They report that their efforts are hampered by the
numerous tokens offered to the Supermundane already affixed to the thirteen pillars by concerned Degringoladians since the fire. Governor d’Avidus has stated that although he understands
the reason for the tokens, and how important it is to placate Supermundane entities in times of upset, he would beseech the citizens to desist from hanging any more until the Kronometer is
repaired.

Leucer d’Avidus, the serving Governor of Degringolade, grunted and dropped the creased newspaper on the floor beside him. He settled again in the leather wingback chair
by the fire in Edgar Capodel’s study.

‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ he said, shooting a dark and meaningful look at Leopold Kamptulicon, who was standing at the hearth.

The Cunningman took the bait. ‘What! You think the earthquake is my fault?’

‘Who’s to say that your failure at the Tar Pit didn’t have something to do with it? Geologists and seismologists, or whatever they are called, aren’t known for their
expertise in the Supermundane.’

Kamptulicon was not in a good mood. He was still recovering from his own experience of the earthquake. He had had to walk a half-mile to catch up with his horse, and his ongoing ever-present
resentments were closer than usual to the surface.

‘Domne, Leucer, no one could have predicted what happened at the Tar Pit. That girl and her thieving friend wrecked it all. I risked my life for you, and for what?’

Leucer snorted. ‘If anyone was at risk at the Tar Pit, I believe it was I, dear fellow. You, as I recall, weren’t even there until it was almost over. Let me think . . . oh yes, you
were trying to capture those domnable Phenomenals. And you failed at that too.’

Kamptulicon was on the verge of an apoplectic fit. ‘It was Fessup’s guards who let them go –’

Leucer waved his hand dismissively. ‘Excuses, excuses. I suppose you blame them for the loss of your Omnia Intum as well.’

Kamptulicon made a sharp sound of vexation. He pointed his finger at Leucer and his ring sparkled in the firelight. ‘I might not have my book, but I have other tricks up my
sleeve.’

Leucer laughed. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Just warning you, I’m not your lackey.’

‘Well, that is debatable.’

The door opened and Edgar came in carrying a tray of drinks. The feuding pair broke off. Kamptulicon’s brows were knitted angrily but Leucer, a natural politician, pasted a benign smile on
his face. Nevertheless, the hostility in the room was palpable.

Edgar tutted. ‘Gentlemen, please, enough of these quarrels. What is it between you two?’

Edgar had gleaned quite early on that if either of them had his way Kamptulicon and Leucer would each never see the other again. For the time being, however, they were just about able to put
aside their differences and maintain a show of civilityas long as necessity demanded it.

‘I see you are surviving without your servants,’ said Leucer, picking casually at the knees of his trousers.

‘Oh yes,’ said Edgar breezily. ‘I hardly miss them – always skulking about and eavesdropping.’

‘You can’t be too careful, I suppose, but it’s hardly fitting for a man of your status to have no servants. That in itself might arouse suspicion.’

‘A girl comes in for a couple of hours every day and does what needs to be done. I eat at the Bonchance Club at night. Excellent food, as you know.’

Edgar offered round the drinks – vintage crystal-clear chilled Grainwine – leaned his walking stick against the wall (the stick was an affectation if truth be told; his leg had
healed well after the incident with the Trikuklos at the gallows, but he rather liked playing the invalid, and the ladies rather liked it too) and propped an elbow on the mantelpiece to warm
himself by the fire.