The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (11 page)

He was heartened, however, by the thought of the mansions on the hill. He would pay one or two a visit before he left Degringolade. He remembered too the green-eyed girl’s Trikuklos. What
a fine prize that would be. And then he would get the Aether out of this place.

Resolutely he strode on, but the path was increasingly difficult to negotiate, and it wasn’t long before he was beginning to feel uneasy. Surely he should be able to see the city lights by
now. Once the edge of the path gave way and he sank ankle deep into the marshy verge. ‘This’ll do my boots no good at all!’ he lamented as he pulled his feet out of the sucking
mud – they were a particularly fine pair he had stolen prior to his arrival in Degringolade. Back on firmer ground, he checked the compass but the needle was spinning wildly, refusing to
settle. His heart sank. How long had he been going the wrong way? To compound his unease, the ever-present howling was increasing in volume and to Vincent, alone out on the dark, inhospitable
marsh, the noise seemed rather more menacing than when he had first heard it from his perch in the Kronometer. So, when a cluster of blue lights appeared up ahead in the mist, he hailed the
mysterious lantern bearers with some relief.

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you going?’ They must have heard for the lights steadied in one place, though no one replied. ‘Should I follow?’ he wondered.
The lights moved on and he found the decision was made for him. ‘Wait for me!’

He stumbled towards the lights, but they were always ahead of him. When he slowed, they slowed, and when he speeded up, so too did the lights. ‘They’re teasing me,’ he laughed
suddenly. He felt quite light-headed. The tarry smell that had accosted his nose and throat ever since he had arrived in Degringolade was stronger here. He lunged for a light that danced just feet
away, lost his footing and began to half roll, half slide downhill, coming to an abrupt and painful halt against some sort of rock. Winded, he lay for a moment before turning on to his stomach and
reaching for his manuslantern, which was lying nearby. But when he held it up his stomach twisted with terror. He was lying not on rough gravel, but on a shingle of blackened bones.
Human
bones.

Panicking and desperate to get away from the smell and the agonized wailing, Vincent scrambled to his feet. Racked by a fit of coughing he began gasping for air. But no matter how hard he tried,
he couldn’t fill his lungs. Then a gap opened up in the mist and instantly he knew where he had come. He was nowhere near Degringolade; he was on the shore of the Tar Pit. And there, out on
its dark bubbling surface, he saw the source of the howling, the horde of swaying Lurids that bayed ceaselessly at the diminishing moon. A sob of fear caught in his throat. There were hundreds of
them!

The Lurids sensed his presence and raced towards the shore. Vincent staggered backwards, his limbs heavy and difficult to move, the sticky tar pulling at his boots, and his disbelieving eyes
were mesmerized by the ululating mob. His head was spinning, his lungs were contracting and his own moans of terror mingled with those of the advancing Lurids. In an instant of clarity he
remembered his gas mask. But it was too late. If he could just get up the slope, away from the noxious lake. But now he was surrounded by tall shapes. People? No, pillars of some sort. He stumbled
on, straight into the path of a dark shadow with huge eyes and a long snout. A Degringoladian devil!

Vincent tried to call out, but his voice failed him. He could only croak as he sank to his knees on the sharp bones. The devil creature leaned down and he could see the abject terror on his own
face reflected in its glassy eyes. He could hear its heavy breathing, like frothing water. He tried to lift his arms to defend himself, but they wouldn’t work.

‘Stop fighting me, you fool,’ said a muffled voice, ‘and put on your mask.’

Vincent stood in front of the Kryptos fire warming his hands. His lungs still burned slightly when he inhaled but gradually his breathing was improving. Another dose of
Antikamnial had taken the edge off his throbbing hand, but nothing could take away the crippling feeling of foolishness.

‘You’re lucky I came looking for you,’ said Folly lightly. ‘You wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Did you not think to put on your gas mask? And even luckier you
could still walk. I couldn’t have dragged you back here.’

‘I was doing OK until the compass stopped working,’ he said defensively.

‘Compasses don’t work near the Tar Pit. The whole place is full of impedimentium, a magnetic ore; it affects the needle.’

‘If it hadn’t been for those blue lanterns then.’

‘Corpse candles, they’re called. The Puca spirits carry them to lead you astray, just for the fun of it. You should never follow them.’

‘Puca?’ began Vincent, but when he saw the expression on Folly’s face he didn’t dare to challenge her. Besides, he really wasn’t so sure of himself right now. Maybe
there was something to all this superstition after all.

Folly continued coolly. ‘Anyway, I have something for you.’ She held out a tangled mass of metal and leather.

‘A present?’ Vincent was noticeably taken aback, but his initial look of confusion was quickly replaced by one of recognition and he managed a laugh. ‘The artificial arm from
the Caveat Emptorium.’

‘I saw it and thought of you,’ said Folly with the hint of a smile. ‘It might make things a little easier. I’ll help you put it on.’

Vincent forgot his irritation and pushed up his sleeve. Carefully he placed his mutilated arm into the conical metal shape and down into the glove-like hand. His surviving fingers fitted easily
into the thumb and forefinger and he decided not to detach them for the time being. Folly helped him with the web of straps and buckles. ‘It might take a bit of getting used to. Wenceslas
said that it had some special tricks.’

Vincent turned the hand this way and that. It was surprisingly light and flexible. The surface was rusty and dull, though nothing a good polish wouldn’t improve, and the joints creaked a
little, but the leather straps were soft and worn. There were three inset sliding switches and a small dial on the underside of the wrist. He pushed one of the switches forward but nothing
happened.

‘This is marvellous,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll be able to hold things again.’ He reached for a knife on the table, but before he was near enough to grasp it, the
knife slid rapidly towards him and attached itself to one of the metal fingers. ‘It’s magnetic! I think it was that switch.’ Vincent slid the switch back to its original position
and instantly the knife clattered to the ground. ‘Spletivus! This could be better than a real hand!’

He looked over at Folly, his eyes shining. This was the best he had felt since it had all happened. ‘Thanks for saving me, again,’ he said. ‘You know, to be honest, after what
I saw out there on the Tar Pit, I’m starting to believe you . . . about the Lurids.’

Folly laughed. ‘Starting? Better late than never, I suppose.’

‘It could have been the gases, you know, making me see things,’ he retorted. Then he softened his tone and smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking, maybe we can help each
other.’

‘We? I thought there was no “we”.’

‘Yes, I know what I said earlier. I wasn’t thinking straight – all those potions you gave me. But if you help me to get my smitelight back I’ll help you.’

Folly seemed to find the offer amusing. ‘But you don’t know what I want to do.’

‘Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure,’ said Vincent chirpily, feeling a little more like his old self.

‘It’s in your interest, actually. I have to send the Lurid back to the Tar Pit.’

Vincent couldn’t help but look surprised. ‘Have to? Who says? And, anyway, how is what you do to that stinker in my interest?’

‘Because that “stinker” is coming after you.’

Vincent laughed, still flexing his metal hand. ‘You’re joking.’

But Folly was deadly serious. ‘Listen. Kamptulicon has taken advantage of the lunar apogee to free a Lurid. That paste he made binds you to the Lurid, and he wants it to take over your
body.’

Vincent grimaced, recalling the Lurid’s cold kiss. ‘What sort of maniac is this Kamptulicon? Why does he want a Lurid?’

Folly made a gesture of incomprehension with her hands. ‘Nany honourable reason, you can be sure,’ she said grimly. ‘But, as for dealing with the Lurid, I might just have
something to help us.’ There was an unmistakable twinkle in her eye as she dug into her pocket and pulled out a small black book.

Vincent’s mouth fell open.

‘A fair swap for my compass and map, don’t you think?’ Folly grinned. ‘I found it when you were asleep. Presumably it’s Kamptulicon’s, and one more reason
he’ll be looking for you.’

‘It’s only a book,’ said Vincent rather pettily. He was annoyed, and not just because he had been robbed. He was beginning to think that in Folly he might have met his
match.

‘A book that could be very useful for us, if I can interpret it.’

‘Oh, don’t you know Latin?’ asked Vincent in mock surprise. Then he muttered under his breath: ‘You seem to know everything else.’

‘It’s not Latin, it’s Quodlatin.’

‘Sounds like the same thing to me.’

‘If only!’ Folly laughed. ‘Quodlatin is a
Lingua Fallax
, a language of deceit, full of riddles and double meanings. I know a little but not nearly enough. It takes
years to learn it properly.’

As she spoke she was turning the delightfully crackly pages almost reverentially. The paper was so thin that there were nearly a thousand pages, some of them still uncut. The margins were
annotated in minuscule characters in ink and pencil. She pointed to an ink drawing of a man. He held a pendant in his hand and a repulsive creature cowered before him.

‘Kamptulicon had a pendant,’ recalled Vincent. ‘But it was dull, not a jewel.’

‘I know,’ said Folly. ‘The pendant controls the Lurid – I’m sure of it.’ She read the words below the picture.’
Calx Flutans Maris.
I think, but
I’m not completely sure, that it means, “Drifting stone of the sea”. If I can get one of these stones, then I can control the Lurid—’

‘But stones don’t drift.’

‘It’s Quodlatin. It could mean lots of things.’

‘OK, so if we don’t know what it is, then how are we going to find it?’ There was no mistaking what Vincent thought of the idea.

‘Easy. Kamptulicon has one. You’re a thief; you can steal it.’

‘Who told you that? I never said.’

Folly snorted. ‘Come off it, Vincent. Ordinary people don’t have secret compartments in their boots, or ten pockets in their cloaks.’

A smile played around Vincent’s lips. ‘Fifteen pockets, in fact, can be confusing, and to be precise I’m a picklock. They called me the “Pilfering Picklock” in the
last place. What about you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a hunter, like my father,’ replied Folly without hesitation, almost as if rehearsed.

Explains the rabbits, I suppose, thought Vincent. He looked at his metal hand. ‘But you’re right. I suppose I could give it a try.’

‘Good,’ said Folly bluntly. ‘Your life depends on it.’

Edgar sat stiffly in the Troika, a glass of Grainwine in his hand, trying not to drink it all in one gulp. There was an air of expectation in the aphotic carriage.

‘Dr Ruislip has seen her, sir,’ said Edgar to his concealed companion, ‘and she cannot be persuaded; she wants to go before the judge. I think that she knows more than she is
letting on. She could make trouble in the courtroom if the public hears what she has to say.’

‘Then we will have to make sure they don’t. Don’t fret, Edgar – I didn’t get to where I am without making friends in high places. I know a judge who will listen to
what I have to say.’

‘Excellent, sir. But what about the . . . er . . . body?’

‘All in hand. Now, our business is concluded. We will meet again when all of this unpleasantness is over.’

Edgar knew that this was his cue to leave. He drained his glass and jumped out of the Troika, climbed into his own less luxurious Phaeton and drove away.

As Jonah walked away from Citrine’s cell he was greatly troubled. He felt in his pocket for the sequentury that she had given him at their first encounter. Who would have
thought that events would turn out like this? He did want to help her, but how could he be sure he would be doing the right thing?

Jonah might not have been a Degringoladian by birth, but as a sailor he was no stranger to superstition. He had embraced the ways of his adoptive city like a native, and as he hurried away from
the penitentiary he too avoided the cracks and brushed the touchstones. He entered Mercator Square and made his way to Suma Dartson’s black wagon. He put one foot on the step, causing the
wagon to shake slightly, and knocked gently on the door with his large knuckles.

‘Is that you, Jonah Scrimshander?’ Suma’s head appeared out of the window. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ Seconds later the door opened and she beckoned him inside.

‘Is it really a surprise?’

Suma tapped the side of her nose with a conspiratorial grin and pulled the door shut.

Jonah’s size was such that he filled the narrow doorway, but the interior of the wagon was surprisingly spacious. He looked at the carved cachelot teeth on the shelf and felt a mixture of
pride and shame. Suma noticed. ‘You mustn’t feel guilty, Jonah. What’s past is past. Those teeth are a reminder to you that you have changed. And there is no denying the artistry
in your engraving.’

Jonah flushed. ‘Where’s the Mangledore?’

‘I gave it away to someone who had need of it. Now, is there something worrying you?’

‘A prisoner in the penitentiary has asked me for help.’

‘The Capodel girl?’

Once Jonah would have been amazed, but now such prescience was what he had come to expect from the wily old woman. ‘Do you think she is innocent?’