The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors

by F. E. Higgins

  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.’

  CHAPTER 18

  BODY OF EVIDENCE

  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.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE RELUCTANT BURGLAR

  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?’

  Suma shrugged enigmatically. ‘Shall we ask the cards?’

  Jonah nodded. He should have known better than to ask Suma directly for advice.

  He set a small table between them while the card-spreader retrieved a box from under her chair, out of which she took a deck of cards. Suma’s cards were decorated in brown and black, and Jonah had learned not to look at them for too long because the pattern seemed to come to life and confuse his eyes. Suma turned down the light; then Jonah took the dice and tumbled them across the table. Suma noted the number of scores and the symbol – the corvid again – deftly shuffled the cards and spread seven on the tabletop’s soft purple baize in the shape of the winged creature.

  ‘Choose two,’ she said.

  Jonah picked his cards, one from each wing, and placed them face down on the table. Suma turned them over and laid them side by side. ‘We have truth – see the corvid and the scroll – and we have the Carnifex at the gibbet.’

  Jonah leaned forward. ‘Truth is in the noose? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m going to choose another card for you,’ said Suma. ‘It might help, but equally it might just muddy the waters.’ She took a card from the corvid’s head and turned it over. ‘The Maiden,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Miss Citrine,’ said Jonah. ‘It has to be. I am to help her. I know I am.’

  Suma raised an eyebrow. ‘I suspect you did not really need the cards to tell you that.’

  By the time Jonah returned to the penitentiary Citrine had convinced herself that this kind, disfigured Cachelot hunter was her only hope of finding some way out of what had become a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. She thought that he believed her, she could see it in his eyes, but she knew he needed some real proof of her innocence. And that was outside the penitentiary walls.

  As soon as she heard the grille slide across she ran to the door. ‘So, will you help me?’ she asked breathlessly before Jonah had a chance to say a word.

  He nodded and Citrine let out a yelp of excitement. ‘Shh,’ he hissed. ‘Yes, I’ll help. I’ve had my cards spread and they have shown me that it is the right thing to do. Suma said she knew you well.’

  ‘You’ve seen Suma?’ Citrine could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, but, listen to me, you can’t rely on the judge to save your skin. If Edgar can pay off Fessup, he can sure as fish-bones pay off a judge. He wants you well ou
t of the way.’

  Citrine wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘If we can’t trust the DUG or the judge, then who can we trust? Maybe Governor d’Avidus – my father always spoke well of him. Could you go to him and plead my case? Look, take my Trikuklos, it’s in a shed, there’s a key in the wall, I have money, in the house—’

  Jonah looked shocked. ‘Hold your oars, Miss Citrine. I’m no thief. I don’t know if I can.’

  The sound of voices and loud laughter caused them both to look up. Citrine felt cold fear. ‘Who is it, Jonah? What’s all the noise?’

  Jonah craned his head back and looked up the corridor. ‘Aw, catguts. It’s Edgar and Fessup and . . . oh no!’

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s with an officer of the court.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Never anything good,’ Jonah muttered.

  The party of three arrived at the cell, led by Fessup. ‘Open up, lad,’ he ordered.

  Begrudgingly Jonah opened Citrine’s cell door and the officer of the court, a weaselly, greasy-haired man, stepped through it and began to read from a piece of stiff paper. His voice was monotonous, utterly lacking in emotion, but the news he delivered couldn’t have been more shocking.

  ‘Citrine Capodel, you have been tried in your absence in a court of law and found guilty of one count of murder. You are to be taken from this place this evening and hanged by the neck until dead.’

  CHAPTER 20

  THIS EVENING’S ENTERTAINMENT

  ‘Citrine Capodel?’ murmured Vincent, stopping to read one of many hastily pasted-up posters that now competed with festival bunting around Degringolade. ‘Well, well. Looks can be deceiving.’

  ‘You know Citrine Capodel?’ asked Folly, unable to hide her surprise.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Vincent, secretly pleased. ‘Before I met you and got mixed up in all this business.’ He waited for her to react, to say no doubt that she too knew the Capodels, but she said nothing. ‘At 12 Nox, eh? Isn’t that a bit late for a hanging?’

  ‘Not around here,’ Folly said grimly. ‘They’ll throw the body into the Tar Pit just in time for the Ritual of Appeasement.’

  It was already Nox, and Vincent and Folly were on their way to Mercator Square. Having agreed to help Folly steal Kamptulicon’s pendant, Vincent had spent the remainder of the day in the Kryptos being versed by her in the finer points of Lurid repulsion. Now his cloak of many pockets was bulging again; not with the usual spoils, however, but with Lurid deterrents – in particular bags of dried black beans.

  ‘Black beans distract Lurids,’ Folly had explained. ‘You can use other seeds or grain, but black beans are the most effective. They’ve been used for centuries to repel evil spirits. Lurids are compelled to gather them up. Just throw the bag, and as soon as it hits something it will burst and scatter the beans in all directions. There’s a small amount of explosive in the middle. Keeps Lurids busy for ages! Actually, that’s how I got into the shop to rescue you. I used a charge from one of the bags to destroy the lock. And Kamptulicon was in such a hurry to get to you he left the trapdoor open.’

  Very lucky, thought Vincent.

  Now as he walked along he could feel the Natron disperser he had tucked into his belt digging into his side. It resembled a flintlock pistol but with a shorter, fatter barrel. It was simple to operate: you filled a chamber with natron, pointed it in the direction of a Lurid and squeezed the trigger. Natron was an exotic form of salt, he had learned, and was far more effective against Lurids than brine crystals from the Turbid Sea. It caused a more intense burning and kept them at bay for much longer. Folly had used both black beans and Natron when she had rescued him from Kamptulicon.

  Last but not least, she had given him a handful of stunners, the third weapon in her anti-Lurid arsenal. These walnut-sized nuggets could fit in the palm of a hand, yet were powerful enough to fell a grown man. Kamptulicon had been laid out on the cellar floor by a stunner.

  Now, as they approached Mercator Square, Vincent noted that the wailing was much louder than before, and somehow it sounded different. Folly seemed immune to it, but it set his teeth on edge. She entered the square first, but almost immediately Vincent grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to the safety of the alley. ‘Spletivus!’ he oathed. ‘Kamptulicon’s done it – he’s freed them all! What in Aether are we going to do?’

  And, indeed, it did look as if Kamptulicon had been hard at work; Mercator Square was thronging with scores of monstrous wailing Lurids.

  Folly wrested herself out of his grasp. ‘Calm down, they’re not real,’ she said with a hint of a smile. ‘They’re people in costume.’

  Vincent dared to look again and saw that she was right. The Lurid-like forms wandering between the stalls were in fact just Degringoladians dressed in rags, brandishing sticks and what looked like long-handled tridents. The wailing came from under repulsive blood-streaked masks, with huge bloodshot eyes and gawping mouths with broken discoloured teeth.

  ‘It’s all part of the festival,’ explained Folly. ‘Tomorrow morning is the Ritual, but traditionally, the day before, people dress up and parade around the square. It’s a sort of warning to the Lurids that the ritual is close. And of course now there is a hanging for them to go to.’

  Vincent chewed on his lip. This city was really stretching the limits of his tolerance. The sooner he got out of Degringolade the better. He looked down at his metal hand and saw how the yellow streetlights turned its polished surface to gold. He was already proficient at operating the fingers, and Folly’s Antikamnial and soothing balms were very effective pain relievers; in fact, he hardly knew the wound was there. But another part of him, deep inside, ached like a pressed bruise every time he envisaged the mangled hand beneath the metal. And his jaw clenched when he thought of what he would like to do to Leopold Kamptulicon. His time would come.

  Folly was already pushing her way through the noisy crowd to the other side of the marketplace and he had to run to catch up with her, passing Suma Dartson’s wagon on the way. As he took one final look back at the bizarre throng he was certain he saw the curtain at the wagon window twitch. He hurried after Folly down the maze of side streets and alleys that led to Kamptulicon’s shop.

  At the top of Chicanery Lane Folly held up her hand for Vincent to stop. The lamp-shop sign was swaying slightly in the breeze and the mere sight of it turned his stomach. He had not forgotten, and wouldn’t for a very long time, the stench of the Lurid and the taste of its rotting lips. He patted his weapons for reassurance, steeling his nerve for whatever challenges or horrors might lie ahead. But his mouth was dry and he licked his lips nervously. Folly was watching him closely.

  ‘As long as there’s no one in the shop, you pick the lock and we’ll go in,’ whispered Folly. ‘If Kamptulicon’s down in the cellar, we can draw him out. You deal with him – use a stunner – and I’ll attend to the Lurid. I can hold it off long enough for you to get the pendant.’

  ‘What if Kamptulicon’s not wearing it?’

  ‘He will be. It’s his only means of controlling the Lurid; he’s not going to let it out of his sight. Once we have the pendant, the Lurid will be under our control. Well, mine actually, seeing as only I know the Supermundane words.’

  Vincent raised an eyebrow. The plan was simple enough, perhaps too simple, and Folly’s confidence, far from being reassuring, was actually disconcerting. ‘Remind me how, exactly, you know all this.’

  ‘From the book, of course,’ said Folly without hesitation. ‘How do you think?’

  Vincent didn’t know what to think. His thief’s instinct was sending out warning signals loud and clear. It had all seemed very straightforward in the comfort of the warm Kryptos. Picking the lock was simple, and even the prospect of Kamptulicon wasn’t particularly worrying. But the Lurid, that was another matter. He had not had to consider such obstacles before; usually when he was at work the inhabitants were asleep. But this was Degringolade – anything c
ould happen. ‘I’m a thief, not a damned Lurid hunter!’

  Folly shot him an odd look and he realized he had just spoken this last thought aloud. ‘Focus first on what is most important,’ she urged, ‘the pendant. And then if we work together we can both get what we want.’

  They checked that the street was empty and on stealthy feet approached Kamptulicon’s shop. Vincent dropped to a crouching position, Folly did the same, and they crawled along under the low windowsill. Vincent dealt swiftly with the first lock, but was somewhat galled to find that the other two were already open, destroyed when Folly broke in. He knew she was watching his every move and there was no denying he wanted to impress her. He opened the door and slipped through the narrow gap without a sound. Folly crept in behind him, her feet scraping on the floor, and he took a certain amount of pleasure in shooting her a look of disapproval. They moved quickly through the dark interior to huddle behind the counter. Folly folded back the rug to reveal the trapdoor. She pulled at the ring before Vincent could stop her. and to his surprise the trapdoor began to open.

  ‘It’s not locked,’ whispered Folly, and she opened it all the way. ‘Better I go first,’ she mouthed. ‘In case we meet the Lurid. It’s not after me, remember.’

  With a queer mixture of reluctance and relief, Vincent had to agree, and he signalled to her to go down the steps. Folly lit her manuslantern, turning the flame as low as possible, and began to descend.

  Vincent brought up the rear very warily. All the nights he had shimmied up drainpipes and scampered across rooftops and crept around people’s houses, he had never felt fear like this. He could see Folly up ahead in the narrow tunnel. She looked back at him, and the way the light fell on her face gave her the appearance of a sunken-cheeked ghost. She smiled and then she disappeared from sight. There was an ominous silence. Suddenly the tunnel was lit up in white and he heard an anguished cry.