As for Edgar Capodel, that louche fop, all he was interested in was gambling and drinking and being seen to be powerful. Well, there was a difference between having power and merely having its appearance. One day Edgar Capodel would realize that. For now, he was oblivious to the fact that he was a mere puppet whose strings were being pulled by Leucer d’Avidus to gain access to the facilities and chemicals at the Capodel Manufactory.
Leopold Kamptulicon was feeling many things, but mainly frustration. ‘I am a Cunningman!’ he declared to the night. ‘A master of the Supermundane, a manipulator of the hidden realms. Leucer does not pull my strings. But without an Ergastirion I am hindered, restrained in my powers.’
Indeed, that was the very reason he was in this desolate place, seeking out somewhere to set up a new workshop of evilry. He had fled his Ergastirion under the oil shop when Vincent had stumbled across it. For now, Edgar had allowed him to store his paraphernalia in a small unused storeroom at the Capodel Manufactory, but it was far from ideal. But this place would not do either, he decided.
The thwarted Cunningman returned to his black mare and rode off. At the broken archway of the Degringolade gate, an indication that he was almost back on the Great West Road, a thought came into his head. ‘What about Degringolade Manor? Could that not serve as an Ergastirion?’
Excited at the prospect, Kamptulicon pulled on the reins, wheeled his horse round and started up the overgrown driveway to the derelict building, only to give up shortly after. The overgrowth and undergrowth were impenetrable. It must have been fifty years since Lord and Lady Degringolade had passed on. He hadn’t been in the city when they were alive (but he like everyone else had heard the rumours of their eccentricities) and it looked as if no one had gone up to the house for decades.
Suddenly something small and fast dashed out from the long-thorned briars and ran right between the horse’s legs. Startled, she snorted and danced about nervously, nearly unseating Kamptulicon. He managed to calm her, but as she settled he became aware of a strange noise, gathering rapidly in volume, apparently coming from the trees and bushes. It was a growing cacophony of scrabbling and scratching and squealing and hissing. Kamptulicon lifted his lantern and watched in amazement asa horde of four-legged animals of all shapes and sizes burst forth from the undergrowth and raced away like a moving carpet. At the same time above and all about his head he could hear and feel the flapping of scores of pairs of wings. He put his arms up to protect himself and could just see the silhouettes of perhaps a thousand birds in panicked flight. His horse became more and more agitated. Foam flecked her nostrils and the whites of her eyes were visible. He struggled to control her. His lantern swung at such an acute angle that it quenched itself, leaving the Cunningman effectively blind and fighting to stay in the saddle.
The ground began to shake. The mare reared and Kamptulicon was thrown violently to the ground. He heard the beast galloping away and he lay where he fell, winded. The earth’s tremors went right through the soft marrow of his bones. Unable to stand, he clutched at his protective ring and shouted out harshly, over and over again, a virtually unintelligible sequence of words in Quodlatin.
CHAPTER 5
KATATHERION
In the middle of the black lake the Lurids huddled in uneasy anticipation. Above them the moon was now in its perigee phase, nearing the earth, and although men might gaze upon it in wonder and awe the Lurids feared the silvery disc, and its ever-closer presence caused them pain.
But the moon’s increasing proximity was just one reason the Lurids were unsettled. The earthquake had greatly added to their agitation. And it was not only those who dwelt above the shifting ground who had been disturbed, but also those below. Somewhere deep in the subterranean realms of the salt marsh, in a damp and pitch-black cavern, a creature of horrific appearance was shaken and stirred by the earth’s seismic shift.
It was a devilish beast, no doubt about that. It could be likened to a dog, if a dog had scaly skin.. It had jaws like a dog and it opened these jaws in a huge yawn, drawing its lips back from its yellow fangs and exposing its darkly red shining throat. When its mouth closed and the teeth came together, four fangs remained visible, sliding down beside each other so tightly not even a flea’s leg would have fitted in between.
The creature stretched like a cat waking after a long slumber, its claws scoring the ground deeply and its broad rump pushing upward. It stood up to its full height on four thick-thighed bristly legs. It was ill-tempered; it was hungry for sustenance; it wanted to be free.
Slowly, stiffly, it left the cavern and began its journey towards the surface.
CHAPTER 6
THE PROPHECY
Folly, still pondering her close encounter with the gelatinous Superent, was negotiating her way between the graves and monuments in the Komaterion when the earthquake struck. The squat, grey Kryptos was already in sight when she became aware that something was up, alerted by the scores of rabbits fleeing their burrows and bounding away, paying her no heed at all.
At the onset of the tremor Folly crouched low and steadied herself against a tree. This was not something she had experienced before and it took a great deal of self-control to quell the fear that surged in her veins. She was glad to be in the relative safety of the Komaterion rather than on the narrow marsh path where she could so easily have been tossed into the surrounding sucking mud pools. Though it might not have been such a bad thing if she had; to be covered in salty marsh mud was marginally better than the slimy Supermundane residue that coated her at present.
After a long thirty seconds, when terra firma really was terra firma again, with her heart pummelling her ribs, Folly ran to the shelter of the Kryptos porch. From the outside the tomb looked unscathed by the geological assault, but the door was stiff. She suspected that it had shifted slightly on its hinges. Once inside she leaned against it to close it and finally allowed herself to relax, glad to breathe in the smell of what she considered home – the lingering aroma of slumgullion – and to hear the hum of the tar-powered Cold Cabinet (which Jonah had lugged from the Capodel Townhouse).
Folly glanced at the clock on the mantel – a delightful Ansonia swinger clock with a dainty cherub-like figure (purloined by Vincent, of course) – and realized that she hadn’t heard the Kronometer ring in the hour. Perhaps the grumbling earth had drowned out its chimes. The others had promised to be back by Mid-Nox. She was annoyed that they were late, but part of her was glad to have the place to herself. Vincent wasn’t the only one who valued his solitude.
Keen to clean herself up, Folly struck a firestrike and lit the wall lamps. With a certain degree of trepidation she looked around the chamber. One of the flagstones had split, over by the casket plinth they used as a table. Somewhat macabrely, Lady Degringolade’s own casket had been shaken from its niche in the wall and now lay on its side on the floor. The lid had broken into four pieces and her disarticulated skeleton spewed forth in a confusion of bones.
Folly knelt to replace the bones in the casket and saw out of the corner of her eye that a piece of stone had been dislodged from the wall behind her pillow. She tutted. That was where she kept Kamptulicon’s stolen Omnia Intum, in the cavity behind the stone. The small book was still there; she took it and put it in her pocket. Now that her hiding place was no longer secure, she would have to find somewhere better. The other three didn’t know where she kept it, and that was how it should be. A Cunningman’s handbook was a volume that deserved respect. Within its pages were centuries-old secrets, incantations and rituals of the Supermundane. She was certain that Kamptulicon would come looking for it before too long, and the fewer people who knew its hiding place the better. Unfortunately, the Kryptos was not designed to conceal secrets.
Still sticky with the Superent’s goo, Folly put a large pot over the fire to heat some water. The door scraped open and Vincent, Citrine and Jonah came hurrying in.
‘Sorry we’re late . . .’ began Citrine, and then she put her hand to her mouth
in shock. ‘What in Aether happened to you?’
Folly did indeed cut a rather bedraggled figure. ‘I was attacked,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘but the other one came off worse, believe me. I just need a wash.’
‘Domne, so you felt it here too,’ said Jonah, stepping into the chamber, carefully avoiding the crack in the floor.
‘You clean yourself up,’ said Citrine, taking the slumgullion pot from the Cold Cabinet. ‘I’ll sort some food. Did you know the Kronometer’s stopped?’
Folly looked at her sharply. ‘Stopped?’
‘Yes, the quake . . .’ started Citrine, but Folly talked over her:
‘Should ere this pendulum of blackened brass,
No longer swing its graceful pass,
Beware the risen Degringolade
For blood will smear their sharpened blade!’
‘Oh goodness, the prophecy! I had forgotten all about that,’ said Citrine.
‘Prophecy?’ Vincent looked astonished at Folly’s spontaneous performance.
‘It’s associated with the Kronometer,’ said Folly.
‘Yes,’ said Citrine. ‘Everyone knows it here, but I haven’t heard mention of it for years.’
Vincent laughed. ‘A Degringolade will rise from the dead?’ He pointed to Lady Degringolade’s fallen casket and the bones within. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that.’
Folly went to the trunk in the corner and pulled out some clean clothes. Jonah righted the coffin, replaced the lid as well as he could, like a badly fitting jigsaw, and shoved it up against the wall. He contemplated lifting it back into the niche. He knew he could, but he thought perhaps the cavity would make a good sleeping place for him. He couldn’t get used to the floor and, though nothing would match the gentle swing of a hammock on a ship, the niche would surely be preferable.
Vincent was still in a state of exhilaration after his latest narrow escape. Luck was definitely on his side tonight. Not only had he escaped Leucer’s bullet – admittedly the earthquake had played a part in that – but with remarkable serendipity he had entered Mercator Square just as Citrine and Jonah were taking off in the Trikuklos. What a shock he had given them when he had jumped out from behind a stall and asked for a ride. He was starting to think that being in a city as riven with superstition as Degringolade might not be such a bad thing. Certainly he had done well thieving. There was something about the atmosphere of Degringolade too, not just the wailing Lurids and the oily stink from the Tar Pit, that made him feel he could take chances he wouldn’t normally. Jonah had called him foolish; he preferred to think of himself as daring and courageous.
He noticed, with a small sound of dismay, that the wall mirror was shattered. ‘What happened here? Did you look in the mirror, Folly?’ He enjoyed teasing the serious girl.
Folly, combing goo from her hair, was in no mood for levity. She gave him a withering look. ‘Very funny. We’re not all so concerned with our looks.’
Citrine shot an anxious look at Jonah, but he was busy investigating the damage and hadn’t heard. She tried to catch Vincent’s eye, but he was too wrapped up in laughing at his own joke.
It was no secret that he liked to look at himself, and Folly had scolded him more than once about his habit of leaving the mirror exposed. ‘You know it’s bad luck to leave mirrors uncovered at night,’ she had said. ‘You’re just inviting Superents to come through.’
Vincent scoffed. Although he had become more accepting of the Degringoladians’ superstitious way of life, and now agreed that Superents really did exist, he found this particular taboo tedious. Citrine, sensing Folly’s irritation, tried to defuse the growing tension. ‘So what exactly attacked you? A Lurid?
Folly shook her head. ‘No, not a Lurid, something else. My father came home once covered with this muck. It’s called “ghouze” and it’s poisonous to eat. He told me the creature’s name, but I can’t remember it. I’m sure I saw a picture of it in the book.’
Folly ran her fingers through her damp blonde hair one last time, then took out Kamptulicon’s book and flicked towards the end. Here there were many pages devoted wholly to creatures of the Supermundane, a gruesome litany of Superents.
‘My word, but it’s like Homer’s catalogue of ships,’ commented Citrine, and spent a few sombre seconds reminiscing about her schoolroom days. Folly pointed to an ink drawing of what could only be described as a shapeless blob. ‘It was this one.’
‘It doesn’t look like it was ever a person. I always thought Superents were the shades of dead people.’
‘Lurids are,’ said Folly, ‘but there are plenty of other Superents that were never human. This is a Pluribus. Listen.’ She proceeded to read from the book:
‘“Green in colour, a Pluribus (plural Pluriba) is composed of ghouze, a semi-liquefied Supermundane substance, created from invisible atmospheric particles called minuscules (thought to be the fifth state after solids, liquids, gases and plasma), which are attracted to each other whenever there is a disturbance of significance in the Supermundane world. Pluriba exist overground and are generally thought to be a harbinger of disaster or a malevolent event.”’
Vincent snorted, annoyed that he hadn’t yet had a chance to tell his story. ‘Are you sure about that? I mean, this is Quodlatin after all. It could mean anything.’
Folly ignored the jibe, which referred to the time she had mistranslated the deceptive language. ‘It’s not all in Quodlatin. Some of it is quite straightforward. It’s the secret stuff, the rituals and mysteries, that can be confusing.’
‘I wonder if it’s all connected to Kamptulicon summoning the Lurid,’ mused Citrine aloud, stirring the slumgullion. Folly continued to look through the book and Jonah was still on his hands and knees by the plinth. Vincent took out the bottles of wine from his pockets and set them down rather loudly on the table. ‘Rather more appetizing than your ghoul goo,’ he said.
Citrine was impressed. ‘They look very good.’ She noted the labels. ‘I’ve seen ones like them in my father’s cellar.’
‘Only the best for Leucer d’Avidus.’
Folly closed the book. ‘Leucer? Don’t tell me you’ve been in the Governor’s Residence.’
‘No, at the wine merchant’s, Salmanazar’s. I’ve just had the narrowest escape ever.’
Jonah raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Another one?’
‘Leucer and the merchant came in. I had to fight them off.’
‘You mean they saw you?’ Folly sounded increasingly incredulous.
‘I escaped just as the quake struck.’ This wasn’t exactly how it had happened, but Vincent was not going to allow Folly to spoil his moment of glory.
‘He’s not the only one to have had a narrow escape,’ said Citrine. Unlike Vincent, her face reddened as she told Folly about the near miss with the Urban Guardsman.
Now Folly looked aghast. ‘Are you sure you weren’t followed? If the Urgs find us here, we’re in big trouble. And you, Vincent, you’re just reckless. You keep telling us how skilled you are, but next time you might not be so lucky. Nine lives ’n’ all that.’
‘Oh, crunk,’ said Vincent rather rudely. ‘I know what I’m doing. And you all benefit from the fruits of my little escapades: lanterns, food, drink. Who put you in charge anyway?’
‘We are grateful for the things you bring back,’ Citrine said quickly, and diplomatically, seeing the look on Folly’s face, ‘but we’re a team now – that’s all Folly’s trying to say.’
‘Some team! You’re ganging up on me.’
‘Well, what do you expect when you say you like to work alone,’ said Folly, barely able to keep her temper.
‘I don’t have to stay here. I can leave any time.’
‘Well, why don’t you?’
‘Fish-guts!’ interrupted Jonah opportunely. ‘I think these are hinges.’
He had taken up one half of the broken flagstone and was kneeling over the gap. The others crowded around him. He lifted the second piece and they all saw qu
ite plainly what lay beneath: a smooth, hinged stone slab, covered in years of dust and dirt. Folly rubbed the flat of her hand over the exposed surface and uncovered what looked like a recessed iron ring. She tried to prise it out, but it was stuck. Vincent flicked a switch on the wrist of his artificial hand and held it flat over the ring, which began to rise, drawn towards his hand by the powerful magnetic force. He smiled triumphantly, gripped the ring and pulled. But to no avail. He knew his limits and stepped back to allow the sailor to take over. Almost effortlessly Jonah pulled up the slab, raising a cloud of dust. All four leaned over the opening and peered into the darkness below.
‘A secret passageway!’ said Citrine, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Imagine, if the quake hadn’t cracked the flagstone – we would never have found it.’
‘Well,’ said Folly, forgetting her irritation, her face for once suffused with astonishment, ‘we have. And I say let’s investigate.’
CHAPTER 7
SUBTERRANEAN PEREGRINATIONS
Folly went first, swinging her legs over the edge of the hole and lowering herself down.
‘It’s not a long drop,’ she called up. ‘Hand me my light.’
Vincent passed down the lantern and Folly held it out in front of her. ‘I’m in a tunnel,’ she said. Her echoing voice was eerily distorted.
Vincent followed eagerly, his shining smitelight picking out Folly’s figure ahead of him. Jonah waited for Citrine, who was collecting her Klepteffigium, and allowed her to go before him. He had a little trouble squeezing through the space, but was relieved to find that it was slightly wider than he had feared.
The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls Page 3