In addition to all this upset, the Kronometer in Mercator Square has stopped working. It is thought that this is the first time the clock has stopped in its two-hundred-year existence. It was last wound thirteen days ago, in line with the lunar cycle. The clock was commissioned and donated to the city by Lord Barnaby Degringolade, a many times great-grandfather of Lord Cornelius Degringolade, the last inhabitant of Degringolade Manor, whose death, along with that of his wife, Lady Scarletta, in mysterious circumstances over fifty years ago, brought the Degringolade bloodline to an end.
The Kronometer’s stopping reminds us all of the prophecy engraved on the clock’s pendulum:
Should ere this pendulum of blackened brass,
No longer swing its graceful pass,
Beware the risen Degringolade
For blood will smear their sharpened blade!
It goes without saying that the city’s engineers are working all hours in an effort to restart the Kronometer. They report that their efforts are hampered by the numerous tokens offered to the Supermundane already affixed to the thirteen pillars by concerned Degringoladians since the fire. Governor d’Avidus has stated that although he understands the reason for the tokens, and how important it is to placate Supermundane entities in times of upset, he would beseech the citizens to desist from hanging any more until the Kronometer is repaired.
CHAPTER 11
A MEETING OF MINDS
Leucer d’Avidus, the serving Governor of Degringolade, grunted and dropped the creased newspaper on the floor beside him. He settled again in the leather wingback chair by the fire in Edgar Capodel’s study.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ he said, shooting a dark and meaningful look at Leopold Kamptulicon, who was standing at the hearth.
The Cunningman took the bait. ‘What! You think the earthquake is my fault?’
‘Who’s to say that your failure at the Tar Pit didn’t have something to do with it? Geologists and seismologists, or whatever they are called, aren’t known for their expertise in the Supermundane.’
Kamptulicon was not in a good mood. He was still recovering from his own experience of the earthquake. He had had to walk a half-mile to catch up with his horse, and his ongoing ever-present resentments were closer than usual to the surface.
‘Domne, Leucer, no one could have predicted what happened at the Tar Pit. That girl and her thieving friend wrecked it all. I risked my life for you, and for what?’
Leucer snorted. ‘If anyone was at risk at the Tar Pit, I believe it was I, dear fellow. You, as I recall, weren’t even there until it was almost over. Let me think . . . oh yes, you were trying to capture those domnable Phenomenals. And you failed at that too.’
Kamptulicon was on the verge of an apoplectic fit. ‘It was Fessup’s guards who let them go –’
Leucer waved his hand dismissively. ‘Excuses, excuses. I suppose you blame them for the loss of your Omnia Intum as well.’
Kamptulicon made a sharp sound of vexation. He pointed his finger at Leucer and his ring sparkled in the firelight. ‘I might not have my book, but I have other tricks up my sleeve.’
Leucer laughed. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Just warning you, I’m not your lackey.’
‘Well, that is debatable.’
The door opened and Edgar came in carrying a tray of drinks. The feuding pair broke off. Kamptulicon’s brows were knitted angrily but Leucer, a natural politician, pasted a benign smile on his face. Nevertheless, the hostility in the room was palpable.
Edgar tutted. ‘Gentlemen, please, enough of these quarrels. What is it between you two?’
Edgar had gleaned quite early on that if either of them had his way Kamptulicon and Leucer would each never see the other again. For the time being, however, they were just about able to put aside their differences and maintain a show of civilityas long as necessity demanded it.
‘I see you are surviving without your servants,’ said Leucer, picking casually at the knees of his trousers.
‘Oh yes,’ said Edgar breezily. ‘I hardly miss them – always skulking about and eavesdropping.’
‘You can’t be too careful, I suppose, but it’s hardly fitting for a man of your status to have no servants. That in itself might arouse suspicion.’
‘A girl comes in for a couple of hours every day and does what needs to be done. I eat at the Bonchance Club at night. Excellent food, as you know.’
Edgar offered round the drinks – vintage crystal-clear chilled Grainwine – leaned his walking stick against the wall (the stick was an affectation if truth be told; his leg had healed well after the incident with the Trikuklos at the gallows, but he rather liked playing the invalid, and the ladies rather liked it too) and propped an elbow on the mantelpiece to warm himself by the fire.
Outside, the sleet that had been slapping wetly against the window was turning to snow; Gevra was harsh in Antithica province, and the approaching thirteenth month the harshest. Over the coming weeks Degringolade’s steel rooftops and copper domes would be concealed under a thick white counterpane. Edgar swirled his drink in the glass and slicked back a stray lock of hair that was brushing his forehead. The firelight overemphasized his dark good looks to the extent that he almost became a caricature of himself. He tsked and gestured at the newspaper on the floor. ‘You see, Leucer, that the Degringolade Daily got the news about the warehouse? I didn’t speak to them. No doubt Hepatic Whitlock persuaded one of my loyal workers to.’
‘What state are they in, my order of special Cold Cabinets?’
‘Damaged by the earthquake, though not beyond repair. It will take time. I only have a few workers on the job, the ones I can trust.’
Leucer smiled broadly. ‘Imagine it! With the help of those cabinets I, and you of course, will have a workforce that never tires, answers back or makes unreasonable demands. An industrialist’s dream.’ He shrugged. ‘So, for now, I can wait. Besides, it would be prudent to let the dust settle over that Tar Pit incident first. It’s still the talk of the taverns. Everyone is in a state of hysteria about Lurids and Superents and Domne knows what. What the people want more than anything is the capture of these brass-necked toerags.’ He frowned and sloshed a mouthful of Grainwine noisily between his teeth. ‘And the sooner the better. I didn’t become governor to deal with common vandals. I have far more important matters to attend to. Professor Soanso will be here in a couple of days.’
‘Who?’ Kamptulicon was only half listening, still ruminating on his own problems.
Edgar, who had been regularly checking the time and peering out between the parted curtains, looked up at the mention of the professor. ‘Arkwright Soanso,’ he said. ‘Surely you have heard of him? The famous scientist who discovered kekrimpari. Hubert was always talking about it – he said it could be another source of energy at the manufactory.’
‘It’s all part of the greater plan,’ explained Leucer impatiently. ‘I reckon this kekrimpari could be used with the Lurids, when we have them. Professor Soanso is doing a demonstration at the Degringolade Playhouse. Everyone will be there.’
‘Speaking of plans,’ said Edgar, ‘if we want to catch the Phenomenals, we have to draw them out, on our terms. Get one, the others will follow. We’ve enough on them now to throw them all in the penitentiary and toss the key.’ A loud clatter at the door made them all jump. ‘And speaking of keys, my visitor has arrived.’
Edgar left the room and returned shortly with a man of dubious-looking appearance (and, it was quickly established, character). He was short and sinewy, with big dirty hands and one of those faces that are most often described as ‘shifty’. The black grime under his fingernails and the faint odour of metal that hung about him caused Leucer to grimace and sniff. The man smiled crookedly, revealing an odd assortment of teeth. He doffed his cap defiantly rather than deferentially and spoke stridently with a strong Degringoladian accent, admittedly that of the lower classes.
‘Gud evun, gennerlmen, Quinque Boughton
at yore servus.’
He pronounced his name with a hard q, in the classical way, and the gh was like an f, so he actually said ‘Kinky Bofton’.
‘I bin tolled yews are having trubble with a certain young Vincent Verdigris.’
Leucer looked at the man through narrowed eyes. ‘And what if we are?’
Quinque moved his own eyebrows rapidly, a habit that lent an air of conspiracy to whatever he said. ‘Some years ago I wus travellin’, as yer do, when I came across a group of fellers deep in the Antithican Peaks. A contest was underway, and the challenge wus to open a lock that was deemed unbreakable. I watched ’em come and fail and go, but then, when the day was nearly done and the lock near declared impossible, this feller stepped out of the crowd and within moments he had it picked and the safe door open. There wus a boy with him, and all the while he was begging his father to give him a go. To cut a long story short –’ Quinque’s attentive audience looked somewhat relieved at this – ‘the man’s name was Linus Verdigris.’
‘Verdigris?’ Kamptulicon’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. ‘Vincent’s father!’
Leucer too was now listening intently, turning his gold ring round and round on his finger, setting aside his revulsion and scepticism.
Edgar had folded his arms and was looking particularly smug. ‘It struck me that young Vincent might be just like his father, unable to resist a challenge.’
Leucer was already one step ahead of him. ‘Then a challenge he shall have.’
CHAPTER 12
THE AWAKENING
Nox blanketed Degringolade greedily, spreading itself across the city, no corner or alley or doorway out of its tenebrous reach. Degringoladians, having worked all day and dined on horsemeat pie and supped glasses of ale and read the paper and dozed by the fire, roused themselves from their chairs and made their weary way to bed. Some stopped a moment on the stair to listen, pondering on the unusually loud wailing of the Lurids.
It was indeed loud. Down at the Tar Pit everything was very much awake.
The nebulous Lurids were flocked together in a shimmering crowd right in the middle of the unhallowed lake. They were all facing the same direction and howling in unison at the tops of their ghostly voices. A disturbance had started up under the inky surface. The tar rose but stayed intact, and whatever was beneath it travelled steadily towards the shore. The Lurids’ moaning reached fever pitch as there emerged from under the tarry cloak a creature of great size and breadth. By means of four huge legs it dragged itself out of the lake and stood on the shore, dripping tar and bones and whatever other detritus it had brought with it from the stinking depths. It spat and coughed and sneezed and lay down, exhausted, on the charred and bony shingle.
Katatherion was free.
CHAPTER 13
TRISKAIDEKAPHOBIA
AUTHOR’S NOTE
‘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.
CHAPTER 14
WHEN IN ROME . . .
‘Ow!’ Vincent yelped and squirmed in his seat. Citrine, standing over him, grimaced and apologized. ‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘Look.’ She held up the mirror from the manor so he could see her handiwork. Vincent looked at his reflection, specifically at the browpin that now pierced the soft flesh above his right eye.
‘Where did you say you found this? In the dressing room? It might be one of Lady Degringolade’s, you know.’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ he said lightly. But highly unlikely, he thought, with a surreptitious glance at the casket of bones. What Citrine didn’t know was that he had pulled it from a mummy’s brow. In fact, in his retelling of his discoveries in the manor, he had also omitted to mention the room behind the mirror. It wasn’t that he was deliberately keeping it from them, but every time he started to say something about the dried-up body and the secret room he broke out in a sweat and felt nauseous. So he had glossed over it and tried to put it out of his mind. His brow was throbbing, despite the fact that Citrine had numbed the area first with some ice from the Cold Cabinet wrapped in a cloth.
‘Well, whoever owned it, they had excellent taste,’ said Citrine. She had polished the stone and the silver pin until it shone, and secretly Vincent was very pleased with his new look.
‘So, do you know,’ he asked Folly, ‘what the inscription means?’
‘“Decus et tutanem”? Yes, I do. “An ornament and a safeguard”. Sums up the purpose of a browpin, really. Fairly common in these parts.’
Jonah had watched the whole procedure with a wry smile. ‘You’re the last fellow I thought would do that. You laugh at Degringoladian superstition and now you’re wearing a browpin.’ He fingered his own earlobe and the protective earring he wore. Sailors favoured earrings over other jewellery.
‘When in Degringolade . . .’ said Citrine.
Vincent shrugged. ‘I like it,’ he said.. That much was true. He did like things that sparkled. But what he didn’t say was how, ever since the Pluribus attack and the sight of such evilry in the manor, he was beginning to feel the need for such superstitious crutches. ‘And who knows, maybe it will bring me luck.’
Folly examined the stone. ‘Hmm, a sapphire. I don’t know about luck, but it should afford you some protection.’
‘From what?’
‘From anything or any person who wishes you harm. It turns the evil against them.’
‘That’ll do. Though a Blivet would be even more useful.’ Vincent handed back the mirror. ‘Here, Citrine, I’ve got something for you.’ He gave her the brown perfume bottle and she smiled.
‘Why, kew, Vincent! I wonder how it has kept its smell.’ She squeezed the bulb and inhaled the mist of scent.
And promptly fell to the floor in a swoon.
Jonah came to her side immediately and lifted her head, and Vincent fanned her with a copy of the Degringolade Daily.
Folly took the brown bottle and gave it a very cautious sniff at arm’s length. She quickly replaced the lid and Vincent took it back.‘This isn’t perfume. This is narkos, a knockout potion. Domna, we’re lucky the bottle didn’t break. We’d all be asleep.’
‘Will she be all right?’ asked Jonah.
Folly nodded. ‘She didn’t inhale much. Give her twenty minutes. Your Lady Degringolade had a strange taste in scent.’
After the grand decay of Degringolade Manor, the Kryptos seemed even smaller than ever. The snow had not quite settled on the marsh, on account of the salt, but the ground was hard and the watery pools were thick and slushy. The temperature in the Kryptos had dropped and the days the four companions had spent huddled around the fire, eating and drinking, seemed like weeks. Their physical appetites might have been satisfied, but mentally they were not at ease. The cracked slab was a constant reminder of what had happened in Degringolade Manor, and the malevolent host of Pluriba was very much at the forefront of their minds.
Vincent was sitting on his bedroll rubbing unguent into his scar. It was still swollen, but not such an angry red now, and he was gradually getting used to its appearance. Citrine, fully recovered from her brush with narkos earlier in the week, was examining the metal hand that Vincent had unscrewed from the arm piece. ‘Is this the magnetic switch?’ she asked.
Vincent nodded and there was a soft click as Citrine flicked it. Just then Folly offered her a bowl of slumgullion, so she passed the hand back to Vincent. He reached for it but she jerked it away from him. He tutted. He hadn’t been feeling quite right since the visit to the manor and he wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘Citrine,’ he said, ‘just give me my hand.’ He reached for it again, again she jerked it away and this time she dropped it and it began to walk away on its fingers.
The two of them stared at it dumbstruck. ‘It’s not me,’ she said quickly. ‘It did it all by itself.’
Now the others were looking. �
��Vincent, what did you do with that impedimentium you took from the tunnel?’ asked Folly suddenly.
‘It’s still in my pocket,’ he said slowly, transfixed by the walking hand. In a flash he realized what she was getting at. ‘Switch off the magnetism,’ he ordered.
Citrine grabbed the hand as it passed her feet and flicked the switch. Instantly the hand came to a stop. Excitedly, Vincent took it and set it in front of him, arranging the five fingers like the legs of some sort of crawling creature. He dug into one of his many pockets and took out a pebble of the copper-coloured rock. He flicked the switch again and held out the pebble in the direction of the hand, as if taking aim. To everyone’s astonishment, the hand began to walk slowly on its finger-legs away from him.
Jonah was the most affected. His mouth hung open for some seconds before he spoke. ‘Well, by the seven seas, I never thought I’d see anything like that. It looks alive.’
The hand continued across the floor. Vincent moved the pebble and it changed direction. He did this a few times, sending it back and forth, right and left, before scooping it up, laughing. ‘The impedimentium seems to work against the magnetic force. With a bit of practice, who knows how useful this little trick could be!’
Folly raised an eyebrow. ‘Against a Pluribus?’
‘I thought you said they were rare,’ chipped in Jonah.
‘They are. And when they do appear, it’s usually alone. They’re not like Phenomenals, who gather in groups.’
‘So, nany for years, and then a whole load of Pluribuses all come at once. Strikes me as odd, don’t you think?’
‘Pluriba,’ corrected Citrine without thinking, and then immediately flushed and apologized for her bad manners. But Jonah didn’t care.
The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls Page 6
