Cabal had studied the device only briefly at the time, and had not loaded one of the capsules into the cylinder beforehand. Now he sat cross-legged and, in total darkness, carefully unscrewing the glass from the end of the cylinder. Once it was off, he dropped it into his right pocket for easy recovery later, and opened the parchment tube containing four capsules of fine wound wire. The parchment bent in his hand, and he was rewarded with the sound of the four capsules falling to the floor and rolling off in all directions. He bit back another testy comment, and started patting the floor around him carefully, with his open palm, in an attempt to find one.
‘Try by the tip of your left shoe,’ said a voice in the dark. It said it in Ghoulish.
Cabal started, his head held up, his ears keening. ‘Who are you?’ he meeped slowly.
‘Oh, do not attempt my language,’ said the voice. ‘Your accent is terrible. Speak in German, or English, or Latin, or whatever tongue you prefer, without that awful parody of a pharyngeal stop. I will understand you perfectly, and not be offended by your butchery of my elegant and poetic tongue.’
‘Ghoul speech sounds like somebody vomiting up halibut heads in syrup,’ said Cabal, stung by the attack on his pronunciation. He had worked hard on that pharyngeal stop. As he spoke, he reached out cautiously with his hand and discovered that, indeed, there was one of the lost capsules by the tip of his left shoe.
‘For somebody whose native language is German, you should be very careful about casting aspersions on the artistry of any other tongue.’
‘It is the language of Goethe,’ said Cabal, dropping the capsule into the open end of the cylinder. He recovered the glass sphere from his pocket and began screwing it home.
‘An accident of birth, not an informed choice. Forgive me if I am underwhelmed.’ There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘You are forgetting that it’s a left-hand thread. You will never put the thing together like that.’
Cabal had indeed forgotten that it was a left-hand thread, such had been his concentration on the voice and wherever it was coming from. ‘You don’t mind me using this, then?’ he said, as he finally finished screwing the sphere back into place.
‘Not at all. I know you cannot enjoy being in the dark, unable to see me, when my eyes can see you so very easily. Go ahead, Johannes. Cast a little light on proceedings.’
‘As you wish,’ said Cabal, and gave the lower end of the cylinder a vicious twist. Inside, a piston drove upwards, crushing the tiny cage and its soporific occupant. As the beetle was smashed flat and partially sieved through the mesh of the capsule, captured sunlight was released, refracted through the glass ball, and emitted all around in a yellow glow with an unhealthy green tinge. Cabal held the cold torch aloft and took stock of his surroundings.
The room was perhaps forty feet along its long axis, and thirty feet broad, built from rough brick. Around the walls were marble slabs, and Cabal realised that the room had once served as a mortuary for those of insufficient standing to take a place in the chapels above. At one end of the room there was a ramp broad enough for a coffin to be borne along, upon the shoulders of bearers. By the ramp on either side were deep alcoves at waist height, and in one of these sat a ghoul. Cabal risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the brickwork had been broken through in the far corner. Beyond it doubtless lay a ghoul warren. Something caught his eye, and he walked over slowly to the pile of bricks as the ghoul watched him with mild interest.
Unlike house bricks in the waking world, they were square prisms so had no specific upper or lower sides. ‘Some of these bricks have mortar on four sides,’ said Cabal. ‘They’ve been reused. Why is that? Why has this wall been broken down once, rebuilt – less expertly by the look of the mortar – and then been broken down again? By you, I would guess.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ said the ghoul. It unwound its long betaloned fingers and began counting off points as if it were a professor in a lecture theatre. ‘First, this room used to have food in it.’
‘You mean corpses.’
‘Of course I mean corpses. I’m a ghoul. What did you think I meant? Sausage rolls and fairy cakes? Yes, human corpses. Not only delicious, but good for you too. You should try one some time.’
Cabal watched the ghoul with carefully concealed worry. Ghouls were not necessarily ruthless killers all the time, just most of it. They were strong, resilient and unpleasantly flexible, armed with vicious teeth in their canine jaws and sharp claws upon their powerful fingers. Once they had been human, though, and vestiges of that humanity still showed in many of them. Most had been nothing more than vile cannibals in life, and joined the tomb legions of the ghouls as their appetites overwhelmed their physiologies, altering them in these loathsome ways. They were beasts long before they ever became ghouls, and their chaotic, insane minds had long since fragmented completely. Others, however, had come to this transfiguration voluntarily via decadence and intellectual preference, and held on to much more of their previous life. He had never heard of a ghoul being quite so jocular before, though.
‘They don’t taste like chicken,’ mused the ghoul. ‘I don’t know why people think that. They should try some before spouting such rubbish. Much more like pork.’ The ghoul sighed. ‘But I digress. I was explaining the state of that wall. First, this room had food, corpses if you prefer, in it. So we broke open the wall, took a few bodies and replaced the bricks after we went.’
‘And nobody noticed?’
‘Administration is poor in the Dreamlands,’ said the ghoul. ‘They come down here, think, Wasn’t there a body on that slab? then think perhaps they imagined it, and wander off to write a haiku. We got away with it for years, sneaking in and out as necessary.’
‘Hold hard,’ said Cabal. ‘This city has not been populated in millennia. How could you have been here when it was occupied?’
‘That? Two reasons. Ghouls are effectively immortal, barring accidents and foul play. Thing is, being a ghoul invites accidents and foul play. It all evens out. Second, the ghoul warrens, the great underworld beyond that wall, obey the confines neither of time nor space. I can enter here, and exit in Massachusetts sixty years ago, or on the Moon sixty years hence. Time and place mean a lot less to me than they do to you.’
Cabal was silent for a long moment. ‘You can travel through time.’ His tone was distracted, thoughtful.
The ghoul chuckled, an unpleasant sound. ‘Then one day all the bodies went – living ones up above, and dead ones down here. All gone. The city was abandoned. No, that’s not a good word. Abandoned makes it sound like they had a choice. Depopulated. That’s better. Like deforested. Chopped down where they stood and taken away. Much better. That has a sense of it. Then we knew they would come. The many-legged ones, with the bat faces and no eyes, full of fever and corruption. And people think we’re disgusting.’ The ghoul laughed once, a bark. ‘Then the big thing came and killed the many-legs. Crack! Crack! Crack! Off come their legs! Then, crunch! Crush the skulls so no new little baby many-legs pop out of the dead brains. Have to admire the big thing. Thorough. Methodical. Never stopped until the many legs of the many-legs were dangling from gutters and thrown over rooftops and anywhere at all except on the bodies of the many-legs. Every skull . . . crunch! Good job, big thing! Of course,’ it added, rubbing its chin in a very human gesture, ‘if we go up top it will pull off our legs and crunch our skulls too. So we don’t go up there. That hole was blocked when the many-legs came, unblocked when the many-legs died. Now we peek out – careful and crafty – but the big thing is never about. Haven’t seen it,’ it giggled, as if at a private joke, ‘only hearsay.’
‘What is this “big thing” of yours?’ asked Cabal. He had never had such a lengthy conversation with a ghoul before. Normally they consisted of little more than ‘Get back into your holes, you damned cannibals, before I shoot you,’ and rarely developed into a discourse.
‘Not of mine,’ said the ghoul. ‘Not of mine, oh, no. Of somebody’s, but not mine. They’ve g
one away now, but the big thing will be here for ever. Oh,’ it added conversationally, ‘it will kill all of you. Pull off your legs and break your skulls. Will probably pull off your arms, too. A limb’s a limb to the big thing.’
‘We got in easily enough,’ said Cabal, not sounding quite as confident as he would have preferred.
‘It didn’t know you were there. It was bored, lying down in Artisans’ Square, eating weeds. Very bored. Then you made lots of noise and it came looking for you.’
‘We did not make lots of noise,’ snapped Cabal. Then he thought of Bose’s indignant squeal. ‘Well, not very much.’
‘Made enough. The big thing has little ears, but they are very keen.’
Cabal frowned suspiciously. ‘I thought you said you’d never seen it?’
‘Oh, I haven’t.’ The ghoul smiled innocently, which went about as well as could be expected. ‘Not in person.’
‘Why are telling me all this? Why are you talking to me at all? You could have killed me in the dark. What do you want?’
The ghoul’s smile vanished in unexpected ways, as if its face was made of melting wax. When it spoke, the light, bantering tone was gone. ‘I want you to succeed, Johannes Cabal. It is your destiny. If you fail, more than your puerile Fear Institute will be disappointed.’
‘I don’t believe in destiny,’ said Cabal. ‘We make our own futures.’
‘So we do. But I have seen your future, Johannes Cabal, and if you do not find the Phobic Animus, you will lose more than your life or your soul.’
Cabal’s eyebrows raised. ‘I’m not sure I have anything more than those to lose.’
‘Oh, yes, you do. Believe me, necromancer. You do.’ The ghoul paused and looked up at the ceiling, as if listening. When it looked back at Cabal, it said, ‘Your colleagues – I am sure you don’t think of them as friends – are above us now. The two parties are together and they have entered the temple. They are following your tracks through the dust. Soon they will find the disturbance at the place where you fell through into this room and they will attempt to rescue you.’
‘Attempt?’ said Cabal, slowly.
‘Attempt,’ confirmed the ghoul, ‘because you will already have freed yourself.’ It nodded up the short ramp that ran beside it. ‘The door is not locked. I know you would not wish to be indebted to them for rescuing you.’
‘I’m their guide,’ said Cabal. ‘They would be lost without me. Don’t delude yourself into thinking they would rescue me out of any finer feelings.’
‘Guide?’ The ghoul laughed again, a sound like a choking dog. ‘You think they could not hire a hundred reliable men who know these lands better than you, Johannes Cabal? Your usefulness ran out the day you got them to Hlanith.’
‘That is not so,’ said Cabal, although he was racking his brains for a good reason why it was not so, and having little luck in the process.
The ghoul leaped from its resting-place and bounded past him on all fours in a long, fluid lope, like a great whippet with rubber bones. It reached the hole in the brickwork and vanished through it in a blink. A moment later, it leaned its head and shoulders back out and leered at Cabal.
‘Johannes Cabal. Just remember him in your greatest extreme in the next few hours. Remember him.’
‘Remember who?’ said Cabal, raising the light sphere high.
‘Remember Captain Lochery,’ said the ghoul, and vanished back into the shadowed breach.
Chapter 9
IN WHICH A HERMITAGE IS DISCOVERED AND A GREAT TERROR REVEALED
The others were on the point of standing in the wrong place and falling through into the underground chamber, when Johannes Cabal said, ‘Step back from that pew, please. It is the beginning of a short if entertaining ride into the mysteries of the temple’s cellars.’
They turned to see him, standing in a doorway behind them, beating dust from his clothes. ‘We thought—’ Corde stopped himself.
Bose, however, had no such form of manly internal censor. ‘We thought you’d been got! By it! Or something! Oh, Mr Cabal, we were so worried, I can’t tell you!’
‘I think you just did,’ said Cabal, unsure whether to be amused at their childishness or offended that they thought he couldn’t look after himself. Later, he would realise that he had actually been neither of these things but, instead, pleased. ‘Did you see anything else outside?’
‘No,’ said Holk, straight to the point as always. ‘No wamps, and no sight or sound of whatever killed them. Maybe it lost interest.’
Cabal shook his head. ‘No. Whatever else it is, it is very single-minded. It knows we’re here now,’ he looked pointedly at Bose, who blushed, ‘and it won’t stop looking until it finds us and kills us.’
‘It is curious that it is so precise in the way it kills,’ said Shadrach. ‘Not only dismembering its victims, but always making a point of crushing or piercing the skull to prevent a new wamp infestation occurring. For something possessed of such Herculean power,’ and here he gestured at the pathway of shattered walls through the temple, ‘it shows remarkable precision in some of its acts.’
‘It does,’ agreed Cabal. Seen in that light, however, the dismemberment was a strange embellishment. It seemed vengeful and petty, where the skull-breaking was pragmatic and sensible. Still, conjecture was of little use when based upon such a paucity of data. ‘We should move on. The sooner we can find this mysterious hermit and get clear of the city, the happier I think we shall all be.’ There were a few nods to his words, largely from the mercenaries. Cabal picked up his bag from where it lay beside the treacherous pew, and led the way.
They continued further into the interior. Four more smashed walls later, they found themselves in a great open space. The light from Cabal’s dead-beetle-powered device did not penetrate nearly far enough for them to see the whole place, but the mercenaries lit torches and spread out until the limits of the room, at least, were discovered, although the upper reaches of the vast dome within which they found themselves were lost in gloom. Ranked around were scores, hundreds of pews facing a great lectern that rose from the base of one wall, like the prow of a rakish ship, to stop some fifty feet above the ground.
Cabal considered it for a moment. ‘Either this place has excellent acoustics,’ he said, ‘or the priests of old were very loud.’
‘What?’ called one of the mercenaries from a far wall.
‘Well, that answers that question, anyway,’ said Cabal to Corde. ‘Practical archaeology.’
Elsewhere, there were signs that the dome had been undergoing renovations when the city had been attacked. Great wooden beams and scaffolding lay among heaps of wood chips and shavings. Shadrach was wandering among them, illuminated by a beetle light of his own that he must have bought independently of Cabal, to Cabal’s petty and irrational irritation. Suddenly he paused, and looked around the floor by him, patently confused. ‘Over here!’
They hurried to him rather than ran; he was plainly in no danger. When they reached him, it quickly became apparent what had bemused him so. Scattered among the wooden wreckage were several man-sized wooden dummies, like great marionettes. They were crude and bore no features but for a single eye drilled through the forehead, opening into a brainsized cavity. Cabal peered inside, and then, using a foot long splinter that lay by his feet, probed inside the cavity. It came out with more wood shavings on it. Cabal sniffed them before letting them fall to the floor. ‘Ammonia,’ was all he would say. His brow furrowed, and he shushed Shadrach in an offhand fashion when he tried to speak. Finally, Cabal nodded, and muttered to himself, ‘So that is what it meant.’
‘What was that?’ demanded Shadrach. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I mean nothing just yet, mein Herr,’ said Cabal. ‘But I have suspicions. Here, see.’ By the wood debris there were several clay pots, thick hairy string handles tied at their necks. Cabal took one up and held it out to Shadrach.
Shadrach shied back a little, uncertainly. ‘And what, sir, is that?’<
br />
‘It does exactly what it says on the label.’
Shadrach peered at it. Indeed, under the dark patches that ran down from the stoppered neck he could make out a label. He squinted closely. ‘“Wood preservative”,’ he read slowly. He straightened up and looked at Cabal with undiluted bafflement. ‘Is that important?’
‘Important? To somebody, yes. To us, it is suggestive. Look how many pots there are. There must have been gallons, but now it’s all gone.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you,’ said Shadrach, slowly.
‘I’d recommend that you do. There is little time to waste.’ He put the pot back on the marble floor with a hollow klop, and walked to the temple’s main door. ‘Barred from the inside. Of course it is.’ He shook his head and came back, a rare smile on his face. For all that, it was a predatory sort of expression. ‘There’s ingenuity here. Also a terrible oversight on his part, but an understandable one. Regrettable, but understandable.’
‘Cabal,’ said Corde, ‘none of us know what you’re talking about. Speak sense, man.’
Johannes Cabal: The Fear Institute Page 15
