The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (18 page)

Vincent grinned and he pulled from under his capacious cloak two brand-new gas masks, each painted with the Capodel family crest.

Citrine gasped. ‘You stole them from my house!’

Vincent shrugged. ‘Lucky for you I did. But I’m not going anywhere without that stuff on my forehead and the real ambergris.’

‘Not just a pretty face then,’ said Jonah, and gave him a hefty pat on the back.

The large black and white cow looked oddly out of place, tethered as it was to a salt pillar at the edge of the Tar Pit. It lowed softly to the remote moon and kept lifting its
hoofs, as if trying to rid them of the sticky tar that now covered them. Behind the cow scores of black-gowned and gas-masked Degringoladians were streaming on to the shore, waving their
three-pronged forks, flaming torches aloft, and chanting. In front of the confused beast the cankerous Lurids had amassed at the very edge of the lake, shrieking foully at the gathering
denizens.

‘Even if Folly is here,’ said Vincent, scanning the anonymous throng as it descended to the shore, ‘we’ll never find her.’

He was lying on his stomach on the brink of the Tar Pit, a short distance away from the main thoroughfare, flanked on either side by Citrine and Jonah. They were hidden by the marsh weed and
their dark clothing. Before they set off Vincent had smeared his head – and everyone else’s for good measure – with Folly’s oil and put the bottle in his pocket. Jonah had
the ambergris and they all carried whatever Lurid deterrents they had been able to find in the Kryptos. Citrine had suggested that Vincent take the Mangledore.

‘Suma gave it to you for a reason,’ she’d said. ‘It might come in useful.’

‘Bit late for that,’ he had scoffed, and left it on the table, ignoring Citrine’s tutting. Leaving the Trikuklos outside the Komaterion, they had crossed the salt marsh and
joined the masses heading for the Tar Pit.

‘I’ll admit,’ agreed Jonah from his position beside Vincent, ‘this is like looking for a pilchard in a sardine shoal.’ His gas mask barely fitted over his head.

‘That’s not the worst of it,’ said Citrine. ‘The DUG are all over the place.’

Vincent and Jonah groaned. Citrine was right; although they were wearing black gowns like everyone else, the guardsmen were all wearing gas masks visibly stamped with the emblem of the
force.

At that moment the Kronometer rang out the last quarter. Almost at once the crowd stopped their monotonous chanting, leaving the Lurids to fill the night air with their agonized keening.

‘There’s something happening,’ said Citrine. ‘On the podium. The ceremony is starting.’

All three turned their masked faces back to the Tar Pit and looked at the black-bunting bedecked podium that had been erected for the occasion. A man had taken the stage and was about to address
the crowd.

‘Welcome, my good people,’ he began. ‘We are assembled here at this fateful hour of early Lux, while the moon is in her apogee, to offer this creature to the Lurids, to show
them that we understand their pain. It is not often that the moon is in her apogee on the last day of the festival . . .’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Vincent. Like everyone else, the speaker’s identity was concealed by his gown and mask.

‘I think it’s Leucer d’Avidus,’ said Jonah. ‘The governor always leads the ceremony.’

‘Leucer d’Avidus?’ repeated Citrine. She grabbed at Vincent’s sleeve. ‘Did you hear that? He said “assemled”; he left out the
b.
’

Vincent looked confused. ‘So?’

‘Remember the third man, in the study? He said “grumlings” instead of “grumblings”.’

Vincent’s eyes widened. ‘Leucer d’Avidus, the Governor of Degringolade, was the man in Edgar’s study?’

‘Yes,’ hissed Citrine, but before she could say any more another voice, a voice that was a lot closer, and unmistakable, took them all by surprise.

‘Well, well. Who do we have here?’

It was Leopold Kamptulicon.

As one, Vincent, Jonah and Citrine scrambled to their feet. Kamptulicon, his cloak pulled close across his black tunic, was standing over them. Torch flames were dancing across his mask,
reflected in the glass, and his eyes were shining.

‘Hello, Vincent. How’s your hand? I see you’re making the best of it. And what esteemed company you keep. A couple of fugitives, if I’m not mistaken. You must be Citrine
Capodel. And you –’ he looked at Jonah – ‘I’ll hazard that you are the mysterious spear thrower. Not many escape the gallows in Degringolade. But someone’s
missing from your merry band. Ah, yes – Folly.’

‘Where is she?’ demanded Vincent.

‘Why, right here,’ said Kamptulicon. He stepped aside and there was Folly standing behind him. But there was something different about her, something not right. Vincent realized it
first. She wasn’t wearing a gas mask!. But that wasn’t it.

‘Oh my creaking timbers!’ exclaimed Jonah.

‘Folly? Is that you?’ asked Citrine in horror.

‘Spletivus,’ oathed Vincent.

Folly didn’t reply, merely stood motionless at Kamptulicon’s side. In many ways she looked normal; perhaps her hair was a little whiter and her skin a little paler, but her dark blue
eyes were now the dead eyes of a Lurid in a human body.

The stunned trio stood silent, rendered speechless with shock.

‘Why the long faces?’ mocked Kamptulicon. ‘Does she not look happy? After all, she has got what she wanted – to be reunited with her brother. And I can tell you he is
ecstatic to have a body again. Imagine, to have suffered the indignity of swinging from the gallows, to have your flesh pecked from your bones by those lousy corvids, but then to regain a human
form. And so quickly! Why, he was only tossed into the pit a few days ago. The young ones are always the most grateful. Look at the rest of the wretched devils out on the tar. Some of them have
been in there for centuries. Bitter to the core.’

Jonah took a step towards Kamptulicon. ‘Give her back, you . . . you . . .’ Words failed him.

‘Keep away,’ snarled Kamptulicon, ‘or I’ll set her on you. She’ll kill you in the blink of an eye. I am her master now. She’s utterly loyal to me.’

Jonah pulled out the bag of ambergris but Kamptulicon only laughed. ‘Too late. Your ambergris will no longer work. And forget your beanbags and your Natron – all redundant now. Axel
has a body.’

With a roar Jonah rushed forward, lifted Kamptulicon by his furry collar and began to shake him. ‘I’ll kill you!’

‘Stop!’ shouted Citrine, and she grabbed Jonah by the back of his coat. ‘If you kill him, we’ll never get her back.’

With a howl of frustration Jonah dropped Kamptulicon and pushed him away.

‘You’re not as stupid as you look,’ said Kamptulicon, dusting himself down. ‘Enjoy the ceremony, and your freedom, while you can. Fessup has you surrounded. I suggest you
go quietly, for all your sakes.’ He nodded towards the path, where three guardsmen were standing in wait.

‘
Secuteme
,’ he said over his shoulder to Folly, and without even a parting glance she walked stiffly after him towards the Tar Pit.

The guardsmen began to approach, their handcuffs out and at the ready. ‘Come quietly now,’ called one of them. ‘No need for trouble.’

Jonah took Vincent and Citrine, and steered them behind him. ‘Keep calm,’ he hissed. ‘I have a plan.’

The three stood firm and then, when the guardsmen were only an arm’s length away, Jonah shouted out, ‘Now!’

He leaped forward and grabbed two of the guards, one in each hand, sandwiched the third between them and pushed all three to the ground. Then he sat heavily on them, winding them and rendering
them unable to speak. At the same time Vincent stuck out his artificial arm and with a loud rattling three sets of handcuffs flew towards him and attached themselves to his metal hand. Before the
guards realized what was happening they were cuffed together, hands to feet and to each other.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Citrine urgently, searching for the handcuff keys and throwing them into the marsh. ‘We can’t leave Folly like that.’

‘But what can we do? We don’t even have the book.’ Vincent was busy stifling the guardsmen’s protests by tying their cloaks around their heads.

Suddenly Jonah jumped up with a shout, grabbed Vincent and began to rip at his clothes.

‘Have you gone mad? Get off me!’

But Jonah didn’t stop. ‘Where is it?’ he said. ‘Tell me you brought it.’

‘Brought what?’

‘The hand, the Mangledore,’ gasped Jonah, tearing Vincent’s cloak from his shoulders.

‘But I left it behind.’ He was cowering from the onslaught and for a moment he thought Jonah was going to punch him.

‘Wait! I have it,’ said Citrine, and she pulled the macabre appendage out from under her cloak. She looked at Vincent. ‘Suma knows,’ she said simply. ‘I
couldn’t leave it.’

Jonah grabbed it from her and without a word he took a running jump from the brink and landed on the shore below. Citrine and Vincent watched in amazement as the sailor barged through the crowd,
pushing his way right to the edge of the pit. And then he stood there, beside the trembling cow, holding the Mangledore aloft, ignoring the cries of the confused onlookers and the outstretched
hands of the Lurids.

Up on the podium Leucer d’Avidus stopped his speech. ‘How dare you!’ he began. ‘Guards!’ he called. ‘Seize that scoundrel!’ Immediately two Urban
Guardsmen came rushing forward.

‘Hey, Kamptulicon,’ bellowed Jonah.

At the sound of his name, Kamptulicon, who was still making his way down to the shore with Folly, looked towards the commotion. When he saw what Jonah was holding he stopped short. He turned to
Folly. ‘
Contrucida!
’ he commanded. ‘
Confestim, contrucida puer!
’

Folly was instantly animated, as if shot through with a bolt of kekrimpari. She moved rapidly down the slope and on to the shore. The crowd gasped at the sight of her and recoiled from the
invisible aura that surrounded her, sensing something unnatural, something of the Supermundane. Two guardsmen were upon Jonah, but he shook them off in one immense burst of strength and they fell
into the tar. Then he waded out into the boiling broth, oblivious to the clawing, overwrought Lurids, drew back his spear arm and threw the Mangledore with all the force he could muster right out
into the centre of the churning lake.

The Kronometer rang out and on the sixth chime, at the exact moment of the lunar apogee, the hand landed on the black surface.

The effect was instantaneous.

The yowling Lurids fled towards the sinking hand and gathered around it in one revolting congregation of festering decrepitude. The awestruck crowd, making noises of wonderment and paralysed by
disbelief, watched as the Lurids seemed to take one huge breath. The tar retreated from the shore towards the sucking ghouls and swelled into a huge mass some ten feet high. Then, without warning,
the black bubble exploded and spattered the shore and the throng with the foul, stinking brew.

Chaos descended.

Blinded by the tar, people started to shout and run in all directions, dropping their torches. Huge tongues of flame shot up as the tar began to burn. The Lurids’ screaming reached an
ear-splitting pitch. At the podium, Leucer d’Avidus was frantically trying to clear his mask.

Vincent and Citrine, still on the brink of the pit, watched the turmoil.

Citrine was the first to react. ‘Folly,’ she said. ‘Look at Folly.’

Folly had just reached the shore when the Mangledore hit the surface. At the same moment she was stopped in her tracks as if she had come up against an invisible immovable object. Now she was
shuddering violently, in the grip of an extreme mania. She dropped to her knees, her body arched violently and she threw back her head. The howl that came from her mouth was not of this world.

‘Holy codfish,’ muttered Jonah, struggling to escape the knee-high tar. He put his hands to his ears, as did the deranged crowd, as did Vincent and Citrine, as did Kamptulicon, until
at last the scream ended and Folly fell forward on to the bony shingle. And then they all saw a most extraordinary sight.

There emerged from Folly’s body, through her ears, her nose, her mouth, through the very pores in her skin, a sulphurous yellow smoke. And as it drifted upward it condensed into the shape
of a Lurid and flew howling back to the phantom horde that had regrouped on the far side of the lake.

Now the fire was spreading fast, jumping from one pool of tar to another. People were fleeing wildly, dodging the flames, crashing into the salt pillars, scrambling up the slope, clambering over
fallen bodies. Jonah finally staggered from the pit and made his way to where Folly lay inert on the shore. He knelt beside her, protecting her, until Citrine and Vincent appeared.

‘Let’s get the Aether out of here,’ shouted Vincent over the cacophony.

Jonah gathered Folly in his arms and ran, ploughing a path through the crowd, Vincent and Citrine on his heels. At the top of the slope he stopped and set Folly down. Vincent and Citrine took
her between them.

‘Just one last thing,’ said Jonah.

‘No! We don’t have time,’ shouted Vincent above the pandemonium. ‘Kamptulicon’s right behind us.’

And indeed he was, striding towards them, recognizable only by the green lining of his cloak, which itself was barely visible, so splattered was it with tar.

‘Exactly,’ said Jonah. He took his spear from the pouch on his back and held it aloft. Kamptulicon froze at the sight. Jonah released the spear. The Cunningman tried to duck, but he
was too late. The spear hit its mark, tearing through the hem of Kamptulicon’s cloak, its lethal barbs snagging the material. Jonah pulled sharply on the line and the cloak was ripped from
Kamptulicon’s shoulders and flew back to him. He bundled it up and stuffed it under his arm. ‘Now let’s go,’ he said.

And they ran for their lives from the hellish inferno behind them.