The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (15 page)

Jonah, tossing his bag of ambergris up and down lazily in his large hand, watched Folly bid the pair goodbye and push the heavy door to. So that’s where Suma’s Mangledore got to, he
thought to himself. What a queer crew we are. A convicted murderer, a one-armed thief, a landed sea dog and Folly. He didn’t quite know what she was, but he had seen the way she held her
knife, like a weapon.

He continued to watch as she moved around the Kryptos, filling her satchel with an odd assortment of items: a shallow dish, kindling, bottles and pots. Every so often she consulted a small black
book, as if for guidance, but when she began stuffing Vincent’s bloodstained dirty bandages into the bag he could remain silent no longer.

‘What the barnacles are you doing with those?’

Folly didn’t answer.

Jonah wasn’t going to give up. ‘Did that book tell you what those drifting stones are?’

‘I think so,’ she said evasively.

‘Really?’ Jonah was excited. ‘But you said if you had them you could control the Lurid!’

Folly stopped what she was doing. ‘It’s not as simple as that. What I need to do is send it back to the Tar Pit. For that you need bones. You summon a Lurid with a bone, and return
it with a bone.’

‘Plenty of bones at the Tar Pit.’

‘There’s a catch; the bone has to belong to the Lurid itself.’

‘Oh,’ Jonah sounded deflated. ‘That ain’t gonna be so easy.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Folly. ‘And we still don’t know why Kamptulicon freed it in the first place.’ She fastened the satchel and belted her coat. ‘I have to go
somewhere,’ she said tersely.

‘Yes, of course,’ realized Jonah. ‘We have to tell the others about the drifting stones.’ He started for the door, but the expression on her face stopped him. Before he
knew what was happening, Folly flicked the fingers of her right hand at him. He felt a stinging liquid spatter across his face and he was blinded. He staggered backwards, arms flailing, and
overbalanced, hitting his head with a stunning blow on the slate hearth. Dazed and confused, he was vaguely aware of someone kneeling at his side. A ghost, he thought, before realizing the pale
face and shock of white hair belonged to the girl. And, to confound him further, she was tying up his hands and feet.

‘I’m sorry, Jonah,’ she said in a very ghostly voice. ‘I have to go alone. I’ll explain later. Oh, and I need to borrow this.’ She wrested the bag of
ambergris from his hand and then was gone.

As his head cleared and the stinging in his eyes subsided, Jonah surprised himself with a laugh. ‘Well, I’m blutterbunged!’ he said to the emptiness. ‘I didn’t see
that coming.’

Vincent stole a glance at his sombre passenger. She was pretty, with her green eyes, and she was undoubtedly courageous. Soon all of Degringolade would be baying for her blood,
even Edgar, her very own cousin. He couldn’t help thinking that had he been in her shoes he would have pedalated out of the town and never come back. He regretted his earlier rudeness.

Having pushed the Trikuklos across the marsh Vincent was now enjoying piloting it. His metal arm was proving no hindrance. In fact, it was possibly an advantage, enabling him to keep a firm grip
on the handlebars as the machine shook and rattled over the rough terrain.

‘By the way, I do have keys,’ Citrine informed him. ‘You won’t have to break in.’

‘As a wanted criminal, maybe you shouldn’t go through the front door. And cover that hair – you’d be recognized from a mile away. Who’ll be in the house?’
Vincent’s voice bristled with efficiency.

Citrine, startled by his brusqueness, pushed her hair under her hood. ‘Edgar, maybe. Usually he’s at his club until all hours.’

‘Servants?’

‘No. My father always let them have time off for the Ritual of Appeasement. Edgar did the same, which surprised me a little.’ Just then the Kronometer struck three. ‘Nox is
nearly over, not long now before the Ritual.’

‘I’d have thought this ritual would take place at night,’ said Vincent. ‘Somehow midnight seems a better time, or whatever you call it here.’

‘Usually it’s 2 Nox, which is the middle of the night. But every few years the lunar apogee coincides with the Ritual, and then the Ritual takes place at the moment of apogee.
Exactly 6 Lux.’ Citrine shuddered. ‘You know, if it hadn’t been for Jonah, it would be my body offered up for the Lurids.’

Vincent made a face. ‘Uurgh. So who will they offer now?’

‘Most likely a cow, unless they hang another criminal before then.’ She looked at him. ‘You must think Degringolade a cruel place.’

‘When you’re dead, you’re dead.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘At least, that’s what I used to think before I came here.’

Citrine laughed and changed the subject. ‘Tell me about this smitelight. Why is it so important?’

Vincent stared straight ahead, his face an inscrutable mask. ‘My father gave it to me. He won it in a wager. A fellow had invented a safe lock that he said was unbreakable, but my father
broke it. He made me promise never to lose it. I have nothing else to remember him by.’

Citrine made a wry face. ‘I have plenty of things to remember my father by, but they’re all at home.’

Vincent smiled. ‘We’ll soon fix that,’ he said, and pushed harder on the pedalators.

They skirted Mercator Square. It was quiet now, with little sign of the previous evening’s uproar; a mask or two lay on the ground and posters for the hanging fluttered about. ‘The
calm before the storm,’ said Citrine with feeling, and pointed Vincent in the direction of Collis Hill.

Shortly after, they wheeled soundlessly through the door in the wall and into the grounds of the Capodel Townhouse. Vincent parked the Trikuklos in the shadows. Citrine made a brief examination
of the stables.

‘Edgar’s horse and Phaeton are gone,’ she whispered. ‘The house is empty.’

‘I shouldn’t have bothered with this then,’ said Vincent, and he pulled back his cloak to show the Mangledore. ‘It only works on people who are asleep.’

Citrine grimaced. ‘Personally I find Mangledores rather repulsive. But many believe in them. Besides, if Suma gave it to you . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ll keep it.’

He followed her into the house through the scullery door, shrugging off his disappointment at the ease of entry. It wasn’t that the door would have presented a challenge, but Folly’s
gentle mockery had touched a nerve and a part of him wanted to show off his true criminal talents, if not to Folly then at least to Citrine. They entered the dark, warm kitchen and he cheered up a
little. This was his domain, other people’s houses. His skills lay not with Lurids and black beans. Plain honest thieving would do for him every time.

Citrine lit a candle.

‘Spletivus!’ oathed Vincent, before he could help himself. He had not thought that the humble kitchen could testify to a family’s wealth, but even in this dim light he could
see that the Capodel cooking quarters were enormous, with a broad, gleaming stove, a huge array of copper pots and a wealth of culinary devices hanging from walls and ceiling, some of which he had
not known existed, let alone known their purpose.

With mounting excitement he followed Citrine up the servants’ stairs and along a narrow corridor to emerge in the grand entrance hall on the ground floor. The house was truly the most
sumptuous he had ever entered, legally or otherwise, and he couldn’t help stroking the couches and feeling the curtains as he passed, savouring the sinking softness of the deep rugs.

‘Are these all Capodels?’ He was looking at the numerous portraits that hung from the picture rail. Citrine nodded. Vincent had never known any family but his father, and yet in this
array of stern faces Citrine could trace her ancestors back decades if not centuries. It stirred up unfamiliar feelings of envy.

They skipped lightly up the stairs, all the while under the watchful eyes of generations of Capodels, to reach the wide, galleried landing. Staying close to the wall – Vincent
couldn’t resist running his hands across the velvety wallpaper – they made their way to Citrine’s bedroom.

‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared into the room. Vincent stood by the door, but after a few seconds, wholly unused to playing the part of guard, he slipped in too. Citrine was
rummaging in the drawers of her dressing table. She filled a bag with her belongings: the green bag that held her cards, some clothes, jewellery and a purse of money – Vincent knew well the
sound of sequenturies against sequins – and finally an envelope tied with black ribbon.

Downstairs again, Citrine led him to the study. ‘The safe is hidden,’ she began, as she closed the door behind them. ‘Oh, you’ve found it.’

Vincent had indeed found the safe, concealed inside the drinks cabinet. He had removed the false back and was examining the dial on the metal door. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘A Linus
Alternating Lock, excellent for security.’

‘But can you open it?’ Citrine was looking over his shoulder.

Vincent smiled. ‘Of course. I was trained by the best.’ And with a flourish he opened the thick, solid door.

Citrine giggled into her hand. ‘Edgar would be furious to see this. He changes the combination every week to stop me getting in.’

Vincent moved aside and Citrine took his place. She reached in and took the Klepteffigium and a handful of papers, legal documents and two sets of blueprints. Vincent shut the safe again and
Citrine spread the blueprints on the desk.

‘Can you hear that?’ asked Vincent. There was a distinct humming sound in the room.

‘Look behind the black curtain,’ said Citrine with an enigmatic smile.

Vincent saw a curtain to the left of the desk and pulled it back. In the alcove behind it there stood a black cabinet with a soft metallic sheen.

‘Kamptulicon had one of those in his cellar.’

Citrine frowned. ‘I think you’re mistaken. There’s only one in existence. My father invented it.’

‘It certainly looks the same. What does it do?’

‘It’s a Cold Cabinet. It keeps things cold. Father was very excited about it. He discovered a chemical that cooled air. He said it would stop food rotting. He wanted every house in
Degringolade to have one. He was going to make them in the Manufactory, but then, well, he went missing.’

‘Perhaps Edgar made another one and gave it to Kamptulicon.’

‘Edgar in cahoots with that madman? Surely not.’

‘You know that the device Kamptulicon used on my hand had the logo of your company on it?’ said Vincent. ‘The three intertwined
C
s.’

‘Oh,’ said Citrine, and made a little moue. ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Maybe Edgar
is
involved.’

She looked at the two blueprints again. ‘Look, this is my father’s original design for the cabinet.’ She was pointing to the sheet on the left. ‘His initials are in the
corner. But this second one is different. I think maybe Edgar has redesigned it.’

‘Maybe there’s something in this one,’ said Vincent, and closed his hand round the cabinet handle.

‘What’s that awful smell?’ asked Citrine.

‘That stuff Folly put on my head.’

‘No, it’s something else. Wait –’

But it was too late. Vincent had already pulled open the door. He let out an ear-splitting shout of terror.

For there in the cabinet, large as life, was Kamptulicon’s Lurid.

Folly stood a moment at Quadrivium Crossroads to catch her breath. She had run practically the whole way across the salt marsh. Above her the distant moon was perfectly round,
hanging over Degringolade as if by invisible strings. Further down the road the dark outline of the city scored a jagged line across the night sky. A vibrant orange glow was now emanating from
Mercator Square, causing the miscellaneous metals of the surrounding buildings to coruscate, and colouring the burnished steel of the Kronometer. The crowds were already gathering with their
burning brands, preparing for the procession to the Tar Pit. She hadn’t much time; the Ritual was due to start at 6 Lux, less than an hour from now.

At the edge of the Tar Pit Folly pulled on her gas mask and ran nimbly down the slope to the shore. In the middle of the dark lake the frantic Lurids were moving back and forth across the
seething surface. The wind blew their melancholic wailing and moaning to her ears. There was no doubt in Folly’s mind that they knew she was there. As they became more and more agitated so
too did the black broth, bubbling and popping like pus-filled boils in a plague sufferer’s armpit, a discordant accompaniment to the Lurids’ lamentations. Folly thought the way the
surface swelled and subsided was like the rising and falling of a monster’s chest.

Ignoring the menace all around her, she walked quickly between the salt pillars and over the bony detritus on the shore until she found a relatively level spot that suited her needs. It was no
more than a stride from the lake’s edge and she was aware all the time of the long tendrils of tar creeping malevolently towards her.

She placed Kamptulicon’s book on the ground, opened it at a dog-eared page and weighted it down with a rock. Or was it a bone? She didn’t look too closely. She ran her finger back
and forth across the page, her lips moving as she read the words, and then began; first she arranged a small pile of kindling on the ground, in a sort of lattice, and balanced the shallow dish on
top. Next she lit a large clump of moss with a Fulger’s Firestrike and pushed it under the sticks. They caught easily and she burned the tips of her fingers when she dropped the stained and
stale-smelling bandages into the dish. She sprinkled them with helichrysum oil, sesame seeds and ground cumin. Soon the tongues of orange flame that already licked voraciously at the edges of the
dish turned yellow and the bloodied cloth began to give off clouds of strong-smelling steam.

Finally Folly stood by the fire, holding the book in one hand, and began to recite the words on the page.