The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors Page 12

  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 Cs.’

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE THIRD MAN

  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.

  ‘Luride, adeste mihi, soror sanguine, perfidelis, sponte.’

  And there she remained, an eerie figure swathed in swirling smoke, keenly observed by the stinking, baleful ghostly horde watching and waiting. One and all.

  The Lurid in the cabinet shocked Vincent to the core. He leaped back like a scalded cat and it was Citrine who darted forward and slammed the door shut. She leaned up against it, bracing her feet on the parquet floor in front of her.

  ‘Domna!’ exclaimed Vincent, and he whipped out his Natron disperser. ‘I’ll count to three, then you open the door and I’ll shoot it when it comes out. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3!’

  Citrine wrenched open the door and jumped aside. Vincent planted himself directly in front of the cabinet, the disperser in one hand, a beanbag in the other. ‘Come on out, you dirty stinker,’ he cried. ‘And I’ll blast you to Plouton!’

  But the Lurid in all its wretched decay remained exactly where it was, rigid and unseeing in the cabinet, and to all appearances as dead as it had ever been.

  ‘Hah!’ cried Vincent, and squeezed the disperser trigger, releasing a shower of Natron crystals, but at exactly the same moment Citrine ducked in front of him and shut the door again. The Natron sounded like rain against the metal.

  ‘Wha
t in Aether are you doing?’ hissed Vincent hotly.

  ‘Maybe it can’t come out,’ said Citrine, brushing the crystals from her clothes. ‘Without Kamptulicon telling it.’

  ‘Well then, it’s a sitting duck. I’ll shoot it anyway.’

  ‘But did you see how it looked? I mean it’s young, not an old man like I thought it would be.’

  ‘So? Don’t tell me you feel sorry for it!’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Then open the cabinet. I just want rid of it.’

  ‘But that’s just it. We don’t actually know how to get rid of it. The weapons only distract it,’ Citrine argued. ‘At least when it’s in the cabinet it can’t do us any harm.’ Vincent was about to disagree again but Citrine put her finger to her lips and turned her head to the door. Vincent heard it too: voices and footsteps.

  They spoke at the same time: ‘Edgar!’

  Hurriedly Citrine ducked into the alcove, squeezing into the gap between the wall and the side of the cabinet and dragging Vincent after her. The voices grew louder, the footsteps heavier. She looked up in horror. ‘The curtain,’ she hissed urgently. ‘It’s still open.’

  Thinking quickly, Vincent slid the switch on his artificial arm, pointed at the curtain rings and moved his arm across the air. The metal curtain rings, by force of the magnet, slid simultaneously with his arm until the curtain was fully drawn. Citrine gave Vincent a nod of admiring approval. Then they shuffled into the space behind the cabinet and stood stock still, side by side, their noses only inches away from the oily coils that snaked back and forth across the rear of the machine. It was just tall enough to hide them if they bent their knees slightly. Seconds later the study door opened and they heard the ingress of at least two people.

  ‘I can smell it already,’ said a voice.

  ‘Edgar!’ mouthed Citrine to Vincent.

  ‘Hmm,’ mused a second, ‘I’m surprised. Usually the cabinet contains the smell.’

  ‘It’s Kamptulicon,’ Vincent whispered back. Then, before she could react, the curtain was drawn back with a flourish.

  ‘Are you sure this is safe?’

  ‘Completely,’ replied Kamptulicon. ‘I alone have the means to control it. The cold paralyses the Lurid and will keep it immobile until I find that blasted boy and finish the process. He’s not a Degringoladian, I believe, but an outsider.’

  ‘There are plenty of urchins on the street who wouldn’t be missed,’ laughed a third, deeper voice. Citrine and Vincent exchanged glances – who was this?

  ‘Don’t I know, sir!’ said Kamptulicon. ‘But the Lurid is bound to the boy so I have to use him. There are exceptions, as you know, but they’re complicated. Besides, he knows too much now.’

  ‘Won’t the stuff on his head lead the Lurid to him? You said that’s how you found him in Mercator Square.’ This was Edgar.

  ‘Yes, and if it hadn’t been for your cousin and all that business at the gallows—’

  ‘I couldn’t help that! Mayhew Fessup and the DUG are on to her.’

  A ‘tsk’ of irritation silenced them both. ‘This is no time for your petty grumblings,’ said the third voice. ‘I’ve got to be at the Ritual soon. Oh, and the Degringolade Daily will be printing this tomorrow.’ There was the sound of rustling paper and murmurs of approval. ‘As for your cousin, I’ll wager she is with the boy; find one, find the other.’

  ‘That is exactly what I intend to do,’ said Kamptulicon. ‘Now, stand back.’

  Vincent touched his forehead where Kamptulicon had smeared the binding paste and he was troubled. What if the Lurid could still detect it underneath Folly’s oil? He only had her word that it would put the Lurid off his scent. Could he really trust her? Other, more worrying questions were starting to surface, but right now he had to ignore them.

  Citrine seemed to sense his anxiety and squeezed his hand to comfort him. A sharp hiss and a rush of cold air around their feet told them that the cabinet door had been opened. There was a clicking noise and the humming became even louder. The smell of tar was strong, but not as strong as the smell of Lurid.

  ‘On my word!’ breathed Edgar.

  ‘Well, well, Leopold! It’s not often I say this, but I’m impressed.’

  ‘Kew, indeed, but now, if you please, hold your tongues,’ said Kamptulicon. There was a brief moment of silence and then the madman’s voice rang out loud and clear. ‘Luride, amok!’

  Citrine squeezed Vincent’s hand so hard his knuckles cracked. Sweat oozed from his forehead and swelled into beads. But then someone let out a cry of alarm.

  ‘I thought you controlled it!’ hissed Edgar in a panic. ‘Where’s it going?’

  ‘It must be the boy’s scent – it’s picked it up.’ Kamptulicon could not hide his excitement.

  ‘Then he is close by!’ said the third man. ‘Follow it, you fool!’

  Vincent felt sick. Folly’s liquid hadn’t worked. Maybe this was what she’d wanted. He swallowed hard and steeled himself for what was surely now inevitable. He felt Citrine nudge him. She was holding a bag of black beans. He reached awkwardly into his cloak for the Natron disperser, his heart hammering like a blacksmith on an anvil. Would he be able to reload before the Lurid got to him? He couldn’t escape it stuck behind here . . .

  ‘Adeste mihi!’ shouted Kamptulicon. There was the sound of skidding footsteps, a door slamming and then silence.

  CHAPTER 26

  BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

  The Lurid arrived first. Folly’s heart quickened when she saw it hovering on the brink of the Tar Pit. Then it descended the slope, moving in that way peculiar to a Supermundane entity, and came rapidly towards her, weaving warily between the salt pillars. She felt for the bag of ambergris in her pocket, then placed her other hand on the hilt of the shining weapon on her belt. Now the Lurid was right by her. She stared directly into its eyes. It gave no sign that it had seen her but brushed past and went straight to the fire. It circled it, sniffing the air. Folly forced herself to look closely at it and she was washed over by an almost unbearable feeling of sadness. It was human-like, but no longer human.

  Then in her peripheral vision she saw Kamptulicon. He was panting audibly and pulling on his gas mask as he ran awkwardly down the slope. He came crunching across the shore and drew up between her and the snuffling Lurid.

  ‘You!’ he said in angry surprise, his voice distorted by the mask’s filter. A short but recognizable strip of bandage was hanging over the edge of the dish.

  ‘I see,’ he snarled. ‘Very clever, very clever indeed. You used Vincent’s blood to draw the Lurid here. I should have known; a girl who carries black beans and Natron as a matter of course is hardly your average Vulgar.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ said Folly coolly. Her heart was thumping so hard she thought he would surely see her body pulsating to its beat. Surreptitiously she kept her hand on the ambergris. Kamptulicon held out the pendant and ordered the Lurid to come to him. And, although it obeyed, Folly could see that it was reluctant to leave the fire, as if torn between two forces. Kamptulicon looked around suspiciously. ‘So, is your metal-handed friend hiding behind a pillar, about to take me by surprise?’

  ‘I came alone.’

  ‘Then tell me where he is and I’ll spare you. I don’t have time for your puerile games.’

  ‘No. Give me the Lurid.’

  Kamptulicon’s eyes widened behind the large lenses of the gas mask and he snorted with derision.

  ‘You can’t stop me from taking it. I have the drifting stones,’ said Folly. ‘And I have more than you.’

  Kamptulicon’s face darkened as he struggled to contain his ire. Sarcasm dripped like treacle from his words. ‘I commend you on your translation of Quodlatin. You have my book, I take it. But where, pray, did you get your drifting stones?’ He took a step closer.

  Folly planted her feet solidly on the shore. ‘Stay back, I’m warning you, or I’ll turn the Lurid on you.’

  Kampt
ulicon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender but he kept coming. ‘Don’t be stupid, just give me the stones,’ he wheedled. ‘It’s dangerous. You’re meddling with things you don’t understand.’

  ‘I told you to stay where you were.’ In one swift movement Folly whipped out Jonah’s bag. ‘O Luride!’ she called. ‘Contrucida impuratus!’

  Kamptulicon froze but the Lurid ignored her.

  ‘O Luride!’ repeated Folly, louder, a hint of desperation in her voice. But the Lurid paid her not one iota of heed. Its allegiance was clear: Leopold Kamptulicon.

  Kamptulicon took immediate advantage of Folly’s confusion. He grabbed her arm, forced her to her knees and tore the bag from her grasp. He opened it and sniffed it and poured out a shower of small stones on to the ground. ‘You’ve been tricked, you fool,’ he sneered. He threw the bag away and twisted Folly’s arm further up behind her back. Then he felt the pockets of her coat and took her beanbags and Natron and, with a cry of delight, retrieved his book. ‘Who are you working with? What would you possibly want with a Lurid?’

  Folly cried out with pain but shook her head in defiance. Kamptulicon merely increased the pressure on her arm, forcing her face down into the sharp shingle.

  ‘I can make you tell me,’ he said simply. ‘Vincent can attest to that.’

  The gurning Lurid was hovering nearby, waiting for instructions from its true master. Folly looked at it and her eyes filled with tears. And she couldn’t help herself; she whispered something. Kamptulicon saw her tears and heard what she said and visibly started, as if he had touched a kekrimpari generator.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘You called it by name. You know the Lurid?’

  Folly shook her head. ‘No,’ she moaned, but the quaver in her voice belied her denial.

  Kamptulicon cackled ecstatically beneath his gas mask. ‘Have you just admitted there is a blood connection between you and the Lurid? Oh, my dear, how kind of you to sacrifice yourself in Vincent’s place.’