‘Maybe,’ murmured Citrine doubtfully, taking another Depiction. Every flash of the Klepteffigium was followed by the sounds of small creatures running away.
Vincent left them to their musings and followed Folly back to the hall. Together they climbed the marble staircase, a wide central installation with broad handrails and elaborate spindles. Ivy was carved decoratively into the wood, but if you looked closely enough you could see little impish creatures brazenly staring right back out at you. The carpet that ran up the middle of the stairs – originally a deep green – was held in place by similarly carved stair rods. It disintegrated beneath their feet.
Vincent examined the portraits that accompanied him as he ascended. By the looks of them, the Degringolade family were a dour lot, with deep-furrowed brows and a supercilious expression that had been passed down through the centuries. He brushed his hand across one canvas to remove the dust but drew it back sharply when a splinter from the frame lodged in his palm. He pulled it out and a droplet of blood swelled from the wound. He tied his handkerchief round his hand and stood back to look at the portrait. Two leonine golden eyes stared out at him from a pale face, and the hint of a smile played on the woman’s narrow lips. But there was cruelty in the smile. Vincent knew this had to be Lady Degringolade herself, the outsider in the family. She was sitting on a high-backed throne-like chair and looked for all the world like a regent. She was wearing a necklace and a browpin and her fingers were adorned with large rings. He thought of her dry bones in the Kryptos and could imagine quite vividly how she might have stalked with haughty pride these once sumptuous halls.
Folly had already reached the galleried landing and had walked away out of sight. He toyed with the idea of going after her, but he had his reasons not to, so decided to leave her to her own devices.
Having burgled plenty of large houses in his time, Vincent was familiar with the layout and reckoned that the main bedrooms and dressing rooms would be a good place to start. At the far end of the gallery there was a grand set of panelled double doors. With a degree of caution – his thieving instincts already to the fore – Vincent opened one door, tearing a large cobweb as he did so, and closed it softly behind him. He could tell immediately that the air in this room had not been disturbed for many years.
He pointed his light inside and illuminated an eerie sight.
He was in a bedroom furnished with a large four-poster bed, the dark curtains of which were drawn all around it. In the fireplace a fire was laid but unlit, the logs covered in thick smuts that had fallen down the chimney over the years. Upon closer inspection the rampant decay was evident here too. Moths fluttered up from beneath his feet at every step and jagged holes in the skirting revealed pairs of tiny glistening eyes.
Above the fire was a large painting. At first glance it looked like a still life, complete with fruit and flowers, but as Vincent stared he saw that it was not a representation of life, more of decline and death. The fruit was rotting and crawling with flies, the flowers wilting, the candles burned down and the snuffer lying on the table. Half hidden under a dead leaf was a broken timepiece, and staring out from behind the vase was a leering skull on a plate. This was a vanitas painting, a reminder to the viewer of the transience of life.
Grimacing, Vincent turned away and his smitelight’s beam fell upon a dark archway in the other wall.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed. ‘The dressing room.’ He passed beneath the arch through a short hallway into an ante-room where the air was so heavy he felt it pressing down on his chest. His practised burglar’s eye took in a large dressing table with a central mirror between two smaller ones. The black cloth across the mirrors had rotted away.
Laid out on the dresser top was a set of ivory-handled hairbrushes and an array of perfume bottles and pots. At the edge a pair of slim china hands for holding jewellery stood side by side, but the fingers were ringless and no chains hung from the necklace tree.
He picked up, examined and discarded most of the objects. The perfume bottles were empty, their contents having evaporated over the years, except for one, a brown bottle in the shape of a pear, which still had liquid in it so he took it. He also took an oval silver compact. It could be worth something. He flicked open the lid, releasing a cloud of powder, and a soft sponge fell out and disintegrated. He was surprised to find that the interior of the compact glowed, as if it had its own source of light. He saw his reflection in the mirrored lid, just his eyes and the bridge of his nose, but it was blurry so he snapped the lid shut and dropped it into a pocket.
He took, for the Kryptos, a hand-held mirror to replace the one which had broken. Despite Folly’s apparent disdain for such things, he had seen her glance in the mirror more than once and he knew Citrine liked to adjust her hair. Jonah, with his livid scars, was the only one who was not interested in seeing his reflection
Next Vincent started on the drawers, which one by one crumbled away in his hand. He came across some rectangular velvet-lidded boxes and was delighted to find inside pearls and brooches. In another he found a set of earrings and a matching necklace, and in the third he scooped up a selection of rings.
Satisfied with his haul, though it was relatively meagre for a place such as this, Vincent made ready to go. The disturbed air was becoming unpleasantly gritty in his throat.
With one final sweep of the smitelight he caught sight of an embroidered three-panelled screen. He peeked behind it and was faced with a black cloth on the wall.
‘Another mirror,’ he mused, and pulled away the fragile cloth. The looking glass behind it was large with candle-holders incorporated into either side of the gilded frame. Where he might have expected to see fat-cheeked cherubs (he had come across plenty of ornate mirrors in his career) there were instead more of the impish creatures he had glimpsed on the stairs.
His smitelight was shining directly on the glass, but there was something odd about his reflection. It was as if he wasn’t properly there. He went closer, and tapped across the mirror from one edge to the other.
‘Domne!’ he breathed. ‘I think there is something on the other side.’ He fumbled around the frame for a latch or a button – snapping one of the candle-holders in the process – anything that might prove his theory correct, but it was only when he pressed on one of the hands of a beckoning imp that there was an almost imperceptible click and the mirror opened outwards like a door. Making sure to wedge it open – Vincent knew better than to take the chance that it might close behind him – he pointed his smitelight into the space and stepped through.
His heart stuttered. ‘Spletivus,’ he whispered. His mouth went suddenly dry and an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu swamped him. ‘What in Aether is this?’
CHAPTER 9
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LOOKING GLASS
For a split second Vincent was transported back to Leopold Kamptulicon’s hideous Ergastirion, the secret cellar where he had been trapped and tortured and had ultimately lost the fingers of his right hand. Quickly he pulled himself together, though the shock of the memory had sent an unpleasant thrill through his veins. He breathed deeply and took stock of his surroundings.
He was in a small cavern-like room, unnervingly similar to the Cunningman’s. He recognized with horror the wicked paraphernalia picked out by the beam of his smitelight – the goat skulls, the leathery wings, the peacock feathers, the pickled shapes in the jars – only this time there was more of it. The passage of years had not detracted from its hideous presentation, but made it even more ghastly, and he was not inured to it, not by a long chalk.
He directed his light away from the apothecary bottles, the contents of which were not for healing, and focused instead on the circular table to his right. The rotting folds of the cover hung limply from the edge. In the middle there was a half-burnt candle and next to it a deck of cards, like Citrine’s. Someone had been card-spreading.
Vincent went closer, his nerves jangling, picked up the deck and shuffled the cards. They were a different design
to Citrine’s, and the flavour of the deck was unpleasant; the character cards wore expressions of loathing and malice, and some of the more grotesque images were difficult to stomach. Also on the table were the four accompanying pieces of maerl. Vincent jiggled three in the palm of his hand, then decisively tumbled them across the table as he had seen Citrine do. But he did not know what came next so he just gathered everything up, cards and maerl, and dropped it into a well-preserved leather bag that was lying on a nearby stool.
Vincent began to walk slowly round the curved perimeter of the room. He thought he must be in a tower, for there were no corners. Then something crunched under his foot. It looked as if someone had sprinkled Natron across the floor. The room was cool, but Vincent was sweating. Slowly he lifted his smitelight and shone it into the dark centre. He saw sturdy treen legs, the claw-and-ball feet, the metal plates that bolted them to the floor. The light moved upward, revealing now the ornately carved rigid back and the two round ears on either side.
To many this was just a chair. But to Vincent it was something he had only seen once before and had hoped to never see again.
A Sella Subjunctum.
Folly had told him its name. He had thought of it only as a chair of torture. It was in a chair such as this, at the hands of Leopold Kamptulicon, that he had been restrained and maimed and had feared his life would end. And now here was another one in Degringolade Manor. Unwillingly, yet unable to stop himself, Vincent rounded the chilling seat. He swore under his breath and a wave of nausea washed over him. But no longer was it the sight of the chair that caused such revulsion.
It was the mummified body that was strapped into it.
Brown, wrinkled and desiccated, the body sat strangely upright, staring straight ahead, grinning insanely. It was held tightly at the neck, just as he had been in Kamptulicon’s secret cellar, and its legs were strapped at the ankles. When he had composed himself enough to look closer, he deduced from the tattered clothes that this dried-up leathery figure had once been a woman.
He couldn’t help but imagine this poor wretch’s last hours, for there was no doubt in his mind that she had met her end in this chair. Perhaps at the hands of Lord and Lady Degringolade. Or maybe it was Kamptulicon who had conducted the terror, as he had once tortured Vincent. He dismissed the thought – Kamptulicon was a recent visitor to Degringolade and this must have happened a long time ago.
Vincent took the amulet that hung round the shrivelled neck and the ring from one of the dried-up fingers. It felt loose, but it would not come off easily, and he ended up breaking the finger at the knuckle. Something glittered on the mummy’s brow, and, never one to be squeamish when it came to money, Vincent pulled out a browpin with its dulled precious stone. The brown skin stretched as he did so and the skull came forward and then fell back against the chair with a bang. Vincent jumped and froze, but nothing untoward ensued so he continued to inspect his finding. The underside of the browpin was inscribed ‘Decus et tutanem’, and he made a note to ask Folly the meaning of the words.
He noticed that in the course of retrieving the pin he had managed to smear blood from his wounded hand across the mummy’s forehead. He shuddered, slightly repulsed at his own actions. It was time to leave the macabre scene.
Closing the mirror-door behind him, Vincent stood in the dressing room and listened. He thought he heard the others calling his name. He hurried back to the bedroom. Was it his imagination or had the room become very cold? He licked his lips; there was a strange metallic taste in his mouth. He could feel something vibrating on the air, as if someone was humming. He exhaled through chattering teeth and his breath clouded in front of him. Now his hands were tingling with the chill and he had the feeling he was no longer alone. He shone his smitelight all around the room and then back to the curtained bed. Was there something on the other side of the curtains?
The curtain moved and he saw it, a huge shape, glowing green, the like of which he had never imagined in his life, manifesting itself by the bed.
‘Domne!’ he hissed. He dug his hand into his pocket, brought out a fistful of black beans and flung them directly at the . . . thing. He didn’t know what else to call it. The beans made no difference, merely passing into its mucilaginous folds with a soft swallowing sound. He backed slowly towards the door through which he had first entered the room. He fired the Natron disperser, showering the creature with the repellent salt. He thought it might have flinched, but then it was moving towards him. He let out a roar of terror before fleeing the room.
Tripping and skidding out on to the gallery, Vincent raced towards the stairs. Citrine and Jonah, who were on their way up, called out to him, but at the sight of his pursuer they stopped in their tracks, then turned as one and fled back down. Vincent reached the top of the stairs and looked over his shoulder. The thing was right behind him. He felt it touch his arm and his skin burned through his sleeve.
He opened his mouth to scream, when from out of nowhere Folly came running towards him. ‘Keep your mouth shut!’ she shouted. ‘Protect your face.’
Crushed by a terrible weight on his back, Vincent dropped to his knees and curled up as tightly as possible. He was sure that he was only seconds from death. He was vaguely aware of footsteps to his left, and then a plunging sound, like a stone dropping into soft mud
There was a roar of such magnitude that the ground shook. For a moment he thought it was another earthquake and wondered if the house could possibly stand it. Icy wetness drenched him, and when he dared to open his eyes he saw to his disgust that he was sitting in the middle of a pool of what could only be described as cold slime. He rolled up slowly to a kneeling position. Strings of the green goo stretched between his fingers. Folly was in front of him, holding out a cloth. ‘Wipe your face,’ she said. ‘Before the ghouze gets in your eyes or mouth or up your nose. It’ll make you ill.’
Vincent took the cloth and cleaned his face. Shaking, he got to his feet. ‘What the Hades was that?’
‘That was a Pluribus,’ said Folly grimly.
‘I thought you said you blivved it,’ he gasped, still catching his breath.
‘It must be another one.’
‘Two? In one day?’
‘Exactly,’ said Folly. ‘It’s not a good sign. It’s time to get out of here.’
Together they hurried downstairs. Folly, at Vincent’s side, allowed herself a short burst of laughter. ‘Blivved it,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before.’
Citrine and Jonah were waiting at the bottom, very apologetic about their cowardice, but Folly praised them for their good instincts. ‘You don’t hang around when a Pluribus is on the loose,’ she said. Citrine fussed over Vincent, cleaning off remnants of slime with her pocket handkerchief, and for once he didn’t object. Jonah went to pat him on the back, but stopped in mid-air when he noticed the ghouze.
‘There’s something you should both see,’ Vincent said, and went to the window by the main door. Folly, tuning in to his unusually serious tone, hurried across and peered out. Her face remained expressionless. A single Pluribus, palpitating, like a still-beating heart plucked from the chest, was standing just feet from the glass.
‘We really have to go,’ said Folly firmly. Jonah pulled on her arm and pointed slightly to one side, where there stood a dozen or more of the creatures. Degringolade Manor was surrounded by a horde of shivering Pluriba.
‘So, now can I have a Blivet?’ asked Vincent.
CHAPTER 10
FROM THE DEGRINGOLADE DAILY
Earthquake Rocks Degringolade!
Reported by Hepatic Whitlock
Last night, just before Mid-Nox, in an unusual twist of geological fate, this great city of Degringolade was shaken to its core by an earthquake! It is believed at this time that it originated somewhere on the outskirts of the city and lasted almost thirty seconds. A few minor aftershocks have since been reported, but experts say that the likelihood of another major event is remote. The last recorded earthquake i
n Degringolade took place over two centuries ago. Historically the province of Antithica is not prone to seismic shifts at all.
It has been posited that the recent inferno at the d’Avidus Tar Pit might have brought about the earthquake, but this has been dismissed. Dr Winthrop Rayleigh, on a serendipitous visit to Degringolade from the Antithica Institute of Geology, said, ‘Seismic shifts take place at great depths below the earth. There is no evidence anywhere that a trauma so close to the surface, unless it was a significant force, could bring on an actual earthquake. I am confident that the timing of this event so soon after the fire at the Tar Pit of Degringolade is nothing more than a coincidence.’
There were reports of unusual animal behaviour prior to the quake. People gave accounts of mice, rats and other small creatures running wildly through their houses. The large flock of gulls that nests on the rocks around the lighthouse was seen to be very disturbed and the lighthouse itself is now leaning and has been declared unsafe.
Unfortunately there has also been some structural damage around the city, generally to older brick buildings. Fortunately the funicular railway that runs up to the Governor’s Residence at the summit of Collis Hill came through unscathed, much to Governor d’Avidus’s relief.
It has also been reported, though not confirmed, that the contents of a warehouse at the Capodel Manufactory were destroyed. Edgar Capodel, owner of the Capodel Chemical Company, has assured this newspaper that no chemical containers were damaged in the earthquake and that all such equipment and stocks are kept in secure conditions. Rumours abound that Mr Capodel is developing a food cooling system at the factory, but this is a story that Mr Capodel will neither confirm nor deny.
Chief Guardsman Fessup has warned citizens to be on the lookout for looters and in particular to be alert for any member of the so-called ‘Phenomenals’ gang, who might well seek to take advantage of the chaos in the aftermath of the earthquake to commit their trademark criminal acts.
The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls Page 5