The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (3 page)

‘I see no answers about my father,’ said Citrine. ‘I’m just not good enough, am I?’

Suma touched her lightly on the arm. ‘Citrine, you understand the cards better than most, but there are many ways they can be interpreted. Sometimes, the harder you look for answers, the
more questions you throw up. And, remember, some will believe in them blindly, others will heed only the cards that promise good fortune and the rest, like Edgar, will dismiss them
altogether.’ She looked down at the doom-laden cards before her. ‘Only time will tell how these play out.’

‘Spletivus!’ oathed Vincent in admiration. ‘
That’s
what I call a clock.’

After nearly a day’s walking Vincent was worn out, but his fatigued spirits were invigorated by the sight before him. He stood now in Mercator Square, in the heart of the city of
Degringolade, staring up at the magnificent Kronometer. The tower was constructed from thirteen close-set burnished steel columns and the mechanical workings of the clock were clearly visible
between them; numerous golden interlocking cogs turned haltingly in alternate directions, and a gleaming black pendulum swung back and forth, hissing as it passed through its wide arc, causing
shards of reflected moonlight to shoot off into the night sky.

Inscribed into an angled slab at the base of the tower were the words:

Omnes vulnerant, postuma necat

‘ “All hours wound, the last kills”,’ said a voice, causing Vincent to jump. ‘Cheerful, eh?’

Vincent turned to see a young boy at his side.

‘New to town, are you?’

Vincent nodded, quickly assessing the youth and concluding that he was not a threat. ‘And I am confused by your clock,’ he laughed, pointing at the clock face. ‘The dark tells
me that it is evening, but what in Aether is the time?’

Vincent was right to be confused. The Kronometer’s face was round and numbered as usual, but it was also divided into four parts. Each part had a large letter – N, L, P and C –
and a separate small dial.

‘Nox, Lux, Prax and Crex,’ said the youth helpfully. ‘Night, day, afternoon and evening. In Antithica the light is divided into four segments, Nox being the longest, Crex the
shortest. The segment hand has just touched Crex and the dial hand is on six, so it is 6 Crex.

‘You mean six o’clock?

‘Nanyone says it like that round here. You’ll learn – if you stay, that is.’ The youth touched his hand to his left shoulder and hurried off.

‘Hmm,’ mused Vincent. ‘We’ll see about that.’

Quickly, unnoticed, Vincent slipped in behind one of the columns of the tower. Instantly he was hidden from view, as he liked to be. He began to climb, using the internal
latticework of the structure as rungs, until he was high enough to look down on the marketplace and the surrounding buildings below. He settled in, quite securely, behind the pendulum, disturbing a
flock of corvids as he did so. He blew on his hands, the metal was cold, and contemplated his position, both metaphorically and literally.

You could learn a lot about a place when no one knew you were there.

Casting an eye over the city Vincent could see that it was a place worthy of the Kronometer. The buildings were constructed from a curious combination of stone and metal. The rooftops were
steeply pitched and were made from brazen sheets of riveted metal rather than tiles. The skyline was a ragged silhouette of domes and steeples, pinnacles and cupolas. Grotesques and gargoyles and
dripstones were in abundance under the eaves, and all about decidedly lifelike stone corvids perched in small niches and over windows and doors.

Vincent sniffed. There was a distinct smell in the air, like burning caoutchouc, originating, he decided, from five tall chimneys smoking in the distance. On each chimney were painted three
large intertwined letter
C
s. But what in Aether was that terrible wailing?

Vincent listened as it came and went, a long haunting ‘
Reeeeee
’. Then the wind changed and it faded away altogether, so he looked again to Mercator Square. There were
pedestrians aplenty still, making their way home at the end of the day, and horsemen and, to his delight, more than a few Trikukloi. He knew of this novel mode of transport, a vehicle with three
wheels rather than four legs, steered and powered by a single person, but he hadn’t seen one in actuality. Some said it would soon outdo the horse and cart; others, generally the older
generation, sniffed and said that it was not a natural way to travel. Degringoladians were obviously forward in their thinking.

But there’s something odd about these people, he thought suddenly. The way they walk down the street, with little hesitations, and how they constantly touch the walls.

Intrigued, Vincent climbed down and stood at the base of the tower. The wailing was audible again, though much quieter, and here he could see better what was going on. The passers-by
weren’t actually touching the walls; they were brushing small amber projections with their fingers as they passed. And instead of tipping their hats to acknowledge friends or to say goodbye,
they gestured to each other the way the youth had to him earlier, rapidly tapping their own left shoulder. Then Vincent nearly laughed out loud. Did his eyes deceive him? This place was a
pickpocket’s paradise! These people carried their purses in full view.

And he was right. Everyone, young and old, carried small purses of varying colour and size quite visibly, attached by means of a short string to a button on their jacket or cloak.

Vincent, invigorated by the novel and perplexing nature of the city, forgot his exhaustion and took a walk among the maze of booths and stalls in the square. The stallholders were distracted,
busily clearing away, and he filched fruit and bread freely as he went with a sleight of hand that came from not just practice but an innate talent. Ribbons of bunting hung between the stalls;
black triangular flags painted with ghoulish faces in red bordered with symbols in gold. A leaflet fluttered around his feet and he picked it up.

BE PREPARED, CITIZENS!

ENJOY THE RITUAL OF APPEASEMENT IN SAFETY.

PURCHASE YOUR CRYSTALS AT SALISBURY’S SALARIUM!

LOW PRICES, TOP QUALITY.

Vincent shook his head in disbelief. Crystals? What nonsense was this? He stuffed the leaflet in his pocket and walked on until he found himself at the steps of a black kite
wagon. A large corvid perched on the corner of the angled roof and watched him with unblinking eyes. The doors were open, but the curtain behind was closed. Nearby an old sandwich board
declared:

SUMA DARTSON

YOUR CARDS SPREAD AND READ

(1 SEQUENTURY)

Vincent laughed softly. Somehow it didn’t surprise him to find such a person in Degringolade. His father had had little time for such people, pouring scorn on fortune
tellers and table-knockers.

I earn my living from honest thievery
, he used to say.
I don’t lie to anyone. Those card-spreaders, they look you in the eye, tell you a pack of untruths and still take your
money!

Vincent smiled wryly. What would his father have thought of Degringolade? Above all he had been a practical man. Yes, he would have laughed at the purses on view, but he would not have laughed
at the obvious wealth in the city. Together, father and son, they would have stood in the shadow of the Kronometer and planned an evening’s work. It was the large houses on the hill they
would have targeted, in particular the white mansion Vincent had spotted from on high. Whoever lived there did not lack for money. Vincent flinched as a familiar sharp pain stabbed at his guts. His
father wasn’t here. He would have to plan and thieve on his own. It was something he was still getting used to.

The corvid suddenly took flight, startling him back to the present. Something to the side of the wagon caught his eye. A Trikuklos.

Vincent almost rubbed his hands with delight at the sight of the vehicle and immediately went over to examine it. He pressed one of the tyres with his thumb, and the thick rubber yielded ever so
slightly. Should be quite a comfortable ride, he concluded, having not yet forgotten the distinctly uncomfortable seat he had endured on his way here. He opened the door and ducked his head in
under the hood for a better look. He was thus engaged when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘May I help you?’ asked a quietly sophisticated voice.

Vincent pulled his head out and straightened. A green-eyed girl, perhaps a little older than he, was standing beside him. She was the owner of the machine; that much was obvious from her garb,
namely leather high-cuffed gloves, a hat with ear flaps and a pair of large goggles presently hanging around her neck.

Vincent flashed his smile, the one that always charmed. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Vincent Verdigris.’

The girl looked at him coolly. ‘I am Citrine Capodel,’ she said with that air of confident entitlement Vincent had heard many times before. ‘Now, please excuse me. I must
go.’

‘Your Trikuklos, it’s marvellous,’ he said, stepping back, but not quite enough, so the girl had to brush past him to climb in. He took great pleasure in unsettling her sort.
And in burgling them.

‘Kew,’ she said politely, and then took off, expertly negotiating the narrow aisles between the stalls.

Vincent watched her go. As soon as she was far enough away he shook her purse out of his sleeve. He loosened the strings and looked inside, to find only greyish crystals. He dipped in a finger
and licked it and immediately spat. ‘Uurgh!’

‘Unrefined sea salt,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Bitter as bile.’

Vincent looked up, gurning, still trying to rid his mouth of the taste. An old woman was standing on the steps of the kite wagon.

‘Suma Dartson at your service. Would you like your cards spread, young man?’

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in all that sort of stuff.’

‘New here, are you?’ she asked with a knowing look. ‘I wonder how long before you change your mind. “That sort of stuff” is the lifeblood of
Degringolade.’

‘Is that so?’ Vincent made no attempt to hide his scepticism. He looked boldly at the woman but found it hard to hold her gaze, sensing that she was immune to his smile. ‘So
what’s all this bunting about?’ he asked, strangely compelled to break the silence. ‘Not exactly cheerful, is it?’

‘This week is the Festival of the Lurids,’ replied Suma. ‘The Ritual of Appeasement is only days away. But you have your salt already. And I have something for you too.’
She disappeared inside the wagon.

Festival of the Lurids? It was not a festival Vincent knew. He toyed with the idea of leaving, but Suma was back before he had decided one way or the other.

‘Still here?’ she asked, as if she knew what he had been thinking. She handed down a linen bag.

Vincent looked inside and his face creased up with disgust. ‘A wax hand?’

Suma laughed. ‘Make sure to look after it. I’ll be asking all about it next time. You never know, even a non-believer like yourself might find use for a Supermundane artefact.’
She stepped back into the wagon and pulled the louvred doors closed.

Vincent was rarely at a loss for words, but for a few seconds he stood with his mouth agape. ‘Next time? I suppose a card-spreader should know.’ Tentatively he reached into the bag
and gingerly took out the hand. Modelled on a man’s hand, by the look of it, it smelled strongly of herbs, and was so well sculpted that Vincent had almost thought it was real. A short piece
of wick projected from the middle finger.

Oh, it’s a candle, he realized with a certain amount of relief. Thinking now that it might be useful, or saleable, he dropped it back in the bag and tied it to his belt. Then he took stock
of his surroundings: the shining clock tower, the grinning gargoyles, the eccentric architecture, the fluttering black flags.

This has to be the queerest place I’ve ever been, he decided. But there were rich pickings and the possibility of a Trikuklos to boot! First things first, he had to think business. He
patted his pockets; it was time to offload his spoils. There was bound to be a pawnshop or suchlike somewhere.

As luck would have it, across the square, halfway down Hawkers Road, he saw a familiar sign – a spinning gold coin. Vincent smiled broadly; a caveat emptorium. Every city had one of these
shops, even as odd a place as Degringolade.

So off he went, whistling a tune that owed more to enthusiasm than skill.

‘Hello,’ called out Vincent, pushing open the door. There was no answer. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw that the place was crammed with an
uninspiring collection of secondhand odds and ends, including a deep wicker basket of rather worn-looking gas masks. He picked up a rusty metal artificial arm. It was hollow, designed to fit up to
the elbow and attach with straps and buckles to the shoulder. Vincent attempted to put it on, but it proved to be trickier than it looked.

‘Fully functioning model,’ said an arenaceous voice from behind him. Vincent jumped and tried to disentangle himself from the prosthesis. ‘It’s ingenious,’
continued the voice. ‘Even the finger joints work – they can lock into place, around a cup or perhaps a dagger. And you can detach the fingers if you don’t need them. But you got
your two hands, I see.’

Vincent finally freed himself from the tangle of straps. The speaker came into view and it was hardly a pleasant sight: a carneous man holding a manuslantern which revealed in chiaroscuro his
fleshy, florid face, his cauliflower nose, treble chin and small piggy eyes.

‘Welcome, young sir, to my Caveat Emptorium. Wenceslas Wincheap at your service. Sumthin’ for ever’one, that’s what I say.’