The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (8 page)

‘Come out, boy, come out! I know you’re there! Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.’

Vincent knew he had no choice but to show himself. He sheathed his treen dagger, tucked the truncheon under his coat and stood up. ‘Mr Kamptulicon, sir,’ he began, ‘I
didn’t mean any harm.’

Kamptulicon wasn’t one for excuses. Barely had he acknowledged Vincent with a nod of his head than he flicked out the fingers of his right hand. Instantly Vincent felt a burning liquid
spatter across his face. Frantically he tried to wipe it away, but when he managed to stop blinking he realized that he couldn’t see. Blinded, he was now at Kamptulicon’s mercy. His
legs were kicked from under him, he crashed to the floor and then there was nothing.

Vincent opened his eyes. Everything was blurred; he could only see shapes, nothing distinct, and it didn’t help that there was a bright light shining on his face. He
lunged forward but was immediately pulled up sharply and painfully by a strap around his neck. He realized then that he was in the torture chair, held fast by the ankles and wrists. The contents of
his pockets had been emptied into a pile on the floor, smitelight and treen included.

The light moved aside, his sight cleared and Kamptulicon came into view. The other man, even uglier close up, stood behind him. Vincent knew he was in grave danger. What would his father do? He
appealed again, more humbly, to his captor.

‘Mr Kamptulicon, sir, forgive a foolish boy his curiosity. Please, may I go free?’

‘Free? Who is there on this earth who can say that he is truly free?’ Kamptulicon cocked his head to one side, an insincere smile drawn across his face. ‘Now tell me, what is
your name?’

‘Vincent.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Vincent reluctantly.

‘Good. I need some things from you.’ Kamptulicon reached forward and yanked out a handful of Vincent’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ Vincent felt as if his head was on fire.

‘Patience,’ said Kamptulicon. He dropped the hair into a black stone mortar. Next, with a pair of scissors, he snipped off the fingernails of his prisoner’s right hand,
practically down to the quick, and Vincent heard them dropping lightly into the mortar. Never had he felt so totally helpless.

‘Nearly finished,’ said Kamptulicon, and thrust a mortar under Vincent’s chin. ‘Spit,’ he ordered.

Vincent’s mouth was dry but he managed a small amount of spitde. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘Have you got what you need?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Kamptulicon with disarming politeness. He put the mortar on the table and spent the next few minutes grinding away at the ingredients. He stopped to add a
little water, some green powder and seven drops of cajaput oil (Vincent counted them out), and then continued pounding until it was a smooth waxy paste. He flicked open the top of his large thumb
ring and, scooping the paste on to a narrow blade, transferred it into the hollow of the ring. Then he cleaned out the bowl with his finger and smeared the remainder across Vincent’s
forehead. It stung sharply and Vincent writhed painfully until it subsided.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, struggling futilely against his bonds.

‘Just a little concoction to help things along,’ said Kamptulicon. ‘Now, what is this?’ He was holding up the smitelight.

‘It’s nothing important.’ Vincent didn’t see the blow coming. It left his head spinning. ‘It’s a light. Tap it.’ Kamptulicon did as was suggested, but
on Vincent’s head, causing him to see more stars.

‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen anything like it. Where did you get it?’

‘I don’t remember,’ muttered Vincent warily.

‘Hmm,’ mused his captor. He held up Vincent’s pouch of treen. ‘Gaboon ebony, very nice. The tools of a thief. So, who sent you?’

‘No one sent me, I swear. I came of my own accord.’

‘You were going to steal from me. I don’t like thieves.’

Vincent had a terrible feeling that time was running out. He forced himself to speak calmly despite the gut-wrenching turmoil inside. ‘I have caused no damage. Please let me go.’

Kamptulicon ignored his plea. ‘I have some tools of my own. Would you like to see them?’ He didn’t wait for Vincent’s reply but reached down and took the metal cylinder
from the pile at his feet.

‘What’s that?’ asked Vincent.

‘It doesn’t have a name yet; it’s a recent invention, but it has many uses.’

Something in Kamptulicon’s eyes frightened Vincent to the core. His heart was racing, fuelled by the panic that was rising inside him.

‘You see,’ said Kamptulicon, slowly unscrewing the lid, ‘I think you need to learn a lesson.’ A white mist was leaking out from underneath the loosened lid, causing the
air around Vincent to cool noticeably. He shuddered. What possible harm could a cold metal cylinder cause?

He was about to find out.

In one coordinated move Kamptulicon removed the lid fully, grabbed Vincent by the right wrist and shoved his hand into the cylinder. For a split second Vincent felt nothing, and then an acute
burning pain.

He screamed.

After a few agonizing moments Kamptulicon pulled the cylinder away and replaced the lid. But the pain didn’t subside, it worsened.

‘What . . . in . . . Aether . . . was . . . that?’ Vincent managed to ask in between gasps. The pain was still intensifying, but Kamptulicon had moved on. He put down the cylinder
and pulled a pendant on a long chain from around his neck and held it aloft. The putrefying man, who until now had stood motionless, stirred. Kamptulicon cried out,

‘
Assumate puer!
’

Vincent now understood the literal meaning of the word ‘petrified’. He was for all intents and purposes turned to stone, such was the fear that gripped him. The monstrous man
advanced towards him. He was appalling to behold, with his ravaged skin and his masticating mouth and his dull eyes. He looked as if he had succumbed to some terrible wasting disease. Closer and
closer he came, and Vincent felt as if his heart was being squeezed to a pulp by a great fist of terror inside his ribs.

The stinking monster leaned forward, and its breath was so cold it burned. Vincent recoiled as far as he could, pressing against the hard upright back of the chair. He tried to turn his head
away from the monster, but the strap around his neck started to choke him. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. And then the dreadful face swooped down to fix its foul lips over
Vincent’s in a repulsive kiss.

Somehow Vincent knew that it was a kiss of death. The monster’s eyes held no pity, just pure evil. He shivered violently. He wanted to close his eyes, to block out the sight, but he was
unable. The stench was overwhelming. His stomach was heaving.

I am to die, he thought, alone here in this vile underground chamber, like a rat in a trap, at the hands of two madmen . . .’

At that instant there was a tremendous boom and the room lit up with a dazzling light. Something hard, pellets of some sort, showered down on him, like a thousand pins pricking at his exposed
skin. He heard slashing noises and his hands were free, then his feet and head. Someone was trying to drag him from the chair, but he resisted, afraid that it was the monster, until he heard a
voice in his ear:

‘Run, run! We’ve got to go!’

A third person, cloaked darkly, was now in the chamber. Vincent stopped struggling and got to his feet. In a second or two he glanced around and saw Kamptulicon lying spreadeagled on the floor.
And beside him the monster was kneeling and raking his hands across the flagstones, frenziedly gathering up the black pellets that lay scattered.

‘Hurry!’ insisted an urgent voice from within the darkness of the hood. Vincent, dazed and confused, just managed to scoop up his treen pouch before allowing himself to be led away
past Kamptulicon’s inert body and along the tunnel, up the stairs and finally outside into the cool night air.

When Citrine opened her eyes, she was immediately aware of two things. One, she was in a very dark place and, two, she was lying on her back on a hard bed that was most
certainly not hers. Her head was pounding and she was finding it difficult to gather her thoughts.

She sat up and leaned against the nearest wall. Its cold dampness penetrated her clothes.

Where in Aether’s name am I? she wondered, for this was no room in the Capodel Townhouse. ‘And what
is
that smell?’ It was a mixture of musty fungus and other nasty
aromas she preferred not to identify. A drop of water splashed on to her hand. She looked up. Above her head there was a barred window. Cautiously she stood on the bed. She was just tall enough to
see the grey buildings outside, and behind them the unmistakable silhouette of the Kronometer against the night sky. It was comforting to know that she was still in Degringolade. But where was she?
How long had she been asleep?

On the floor beside the bed was a newspaper, the
Degringolade Daily
. She squinted to read it in the poor light. According to the date she had been here at least a day. The headline was
like a punch in the stomach.

Young Heiress Brutally Murders Family Solicitor for Money

More Mystery and Tragedy for the Capodel Family

Reported by Hepatic Whitlock

Citrine Capodel, daughter of missing businessman Hubert Capodel, has been charged with the murder of local solicitor Florian Quince. Evidence at the scene of Mr Quince’s
murder points undeniably to young Miss Capodel’s guilt. Chief Guardsman Mayhew Fessup made the following statement:

‘The use of Digital Dermal Configuration Diagnosis has established that it was indeed Citrine’s very own hand of evil that wielded the Fatal Knife that brought about the death of Mr
Quince. Her DermaCons were found clear as day in the blood on the handle of the murder weapon.’

For the more scientifically minded readers among you, ‘Digital Dermal Configuration Diagnosis’ is a method whereby the unique patterns made by a person’s fingertips – or
DermaCons, as they are known – found at the scene of a crime are set in ink and compared to the patterns on the fingertips of the suspect. If the two match then guilt is proven beyond doubt.
Scientists believe that no two sets of DermaCons are the same (though some maintain that identical twins might be a possible exception).

Governor d’Avidus praised CG Fessup for the speed with which Citrine Capodel was arrested. ‘Good investigation is a mixture of science and gut feeling,’ said Mr d’Avidus,
‘and Mayhew Fessup employs both liberally.’

Of course, this all begs the question, just what would drive a young heiress to such extraordinary lengths . . . ?

Aghast, Citrine read the article a second time, hardly able to take in what it was saying. Her DermaCons found on the murder weapon? She examined her fingertips, looking
closely at the whorls and the lines and arcs. They were stained black, from the ink, she realized, but what was that under her nails? Was it blood?

Worriedly, Citrine crossed the small room to the door. It was metal, grey and cool to the touch, with round-headed rivets running up and down its surface. At eye level there was a small flap
that dropped down to form a shelf on her side of the door. The hole it left was covered by sliding grille on the outer side. It wasn’t fully closed and Citrine managed to poke her index
finger into the gap and push it to one side. She looked out on to an empty, gloomy corridor. Candles sputtered along the walls. She could see more doors, the same as hers, opposite and up and down
the corridor, but it was only when she heard the cursing and swearing and shouting from behind them that she understood the true nature of her situation.

‘Domna, Edgar!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you done to me?’

Citrine was in the Degringolade Penitentiary.

‘Triskaidekaphobia’ is the fear of the number thirteen. Degringoladians, being so superstitious, always consider it an unlucky number. So,
in keeping with Degringoladian tradition, there is no chapter thirteen in this book.

Vincent lifted his head. His stirring brain was flooded with a confusion of memories: the chair, Leopold Kamptulicon’s grinning face, the stench of the monster . . .

‘Good, you’re awake at last,’ said a voice close by.

His vision cleared and the figure kneeling beside him came into focus. He saw a shock of cropped blonde hair, so blonde it was almost white, and eyes of the darkest blue.

‘Oh,’ said Vincent. ‘You’re a girl.’

‘My name is Folly Harpelaine. Who are you?’

‘I’m Vincent.’ He struggled into a sitting position. His right arm didn’t seem to be working properly, and when he looked at it he saw that it was bandaged. ‘How
long have I been asleep?’

‘A night and a day. It’s night again. Here.’ Folly held out a tin cup. ‘Drink. Antikamnial, for the pain.’

Cautiously Vincent sipped the cloudy water. The steamy aroma seemed to clear his head. He held up his bandaged arm; it was like a lead weight. He regarded it quizzically. ‘What
happened?’

‘Don’t you remember what Kamptulicon did to you?’

Vincent thought hard. ‘He had some sort of icy metal cylinder. Spletivus, but it was cold! And it burned.’

‘I think he froze your hand.’

Vincent managed a laugh. ‘Froze my hand? Is that all?’ He took his arm out of the sling and examined the bandages.

‘Well, it could have been worse. You still have your thumb and forefinger.’

Vincent looked up sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m sorry, Vincent,’ said Folly matter-of-factly. ‘There was nothing I could do. Whatever that cylinder was, it froze your hand so badly that three of your fingers
practically broke off. You must have had your thumb and forefinger tucked under – that’s the only reason I can think they survived.’