The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls (16 page)

Folly sensed a certain hesitation in the Puca’s voice. ‘Then show me the way out. Am I in one of the tunnels under the marsh?’

‘Yes. But what will you give us in exchange?’ The Puca’s tone had changed and Folly was reminded of how Axel had switched with such ease between playfulness and menace.

‘Give you? What do you mean? Not my Blivet!’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

The Puca came right up to her and began to whisper into her ear.

Folly walked quickly and carefully over the rocky ground, head slightly dipped on account of the low roof, her hand resting on her Blivet, drawing comfort from the familiar
object. She was still shaken from her encounter with the Puca. She looked over her shoulder more than once, worried that they might be following her or, worse, had played a trick on her and had not
shown her the way out but instead a way into danger. Wasn’t that what they usually did, she asked herself, lead people into peril? Her fears were countered somewhat by the fact that they had
at least given her a light, a knot of reeds soaked in some sort of liquid that was burning brightly. The ‘chief’ Puca said that it would last an hour or so, by which time she should be
safe. And they had sworn solemnly to keep their side of the bargain, if she kept hers.

But she would think about that when the time came . . .

On and on she stumbled, damp and stinking of the marsh and feeling rather wretched. She wondered how Vincent had fared. Better, she hoped, than she had. He should be at the Caveat Emptorium by
now, waiting with Citrine. And what of Jonah? She shook her head.

‘Domna, let him be OK,’ she muttered. ‘Please.’

Vincent stood, a shadow in a doorway, across the street from the entrance to the governor’s funicular railway. The barred gate was closed and could only be opened from the other side. Just
beyond it there was a control room and the moving shadow at the window suggested a lone guard within.

Vincent knew that he could not wait much longer. For whatever reason, Folly had not come. He hoped she was all right, but in the same way that she had expressed confidence in his talent for
self-preservation, he too felt that she was well able to look after herself.

He was calm. It felt good to have real purpose again. All this sneaking about taking food and blankets, it was hardly challenging. And he was particularly pleased that his target was Leucer
d’Avidus. If anyone deserved to be robbed, surely it was the Governor of Degringolade? He was practically asking for it. The circumstances were not ideal, to have to go up in the funicular
carriage to reach the house, but when he looked at the other option, a sheer rock face now covered with snow, he knew that even he, with all his climbing experience and grapnel, would not be able
to make it. He took a deep breath. Time to put the plan into action.

It was a simple plan. The best often are.

Vincent crossed the road quickly and crouched down against the wall beside the gate. He unscrewed his hand, flicked the magnetic switch and set it down on the pavement. Then, using a large
pebble of impedimentium, he started the hand moving, just as he had been practising. It moved slowly but without a sound and was barely visible. It crawled easily between the vertical bars of the
gate and up to the control-room. There Vincent brought it to a halt and, using the impedimentium in a sequence of deft movements, caused the hand to ‘knock’ on the control-room door.
Seconds later it opened, and the guard looked out and then down.

‘Domne!’ he exclaimed when he saw what was at his feet. ‘What’s this?’ He picked up the hand. He turned it over and saw that something was gripped under one furled
finger. It was a small corked apothecary’s phial. There was a label curled round it and he read aloud: ‘Sniff me.’

To Vincent’s immense relief, the guard pulled the cork out and, as people are so often wont to do, blindly obeyed an instruction for no other reason than it was there. He sniffed
tentatively and promptly collapsed just as Citrine had done when she had smelled Lady Degringolade’s narkos potion.

After that Vincent worked quickly. He picked the gate lock with his treen picks, ran in, reattached the hand, collected the bottle and pressed the large red button that indicated to the guard at
the top of the hill that someone was coming up. Then he pulled back the operating lever in the control room before running out to jump into the carriage as, with a loud clank, it began to climb the
steep hill.

Vincent stood just inside the carriage door looking up to the platform above, where the other guard would be waiting. When he had travelled about halfway, at the darkest point, where the lights
from below were as dim as the lights from above, he climbed on to the roof of the carriage. He lay flat and covered himself with his cloak. The metal was very cold and when it touched his skin he
shivered. It reminded him rather too much of the Lurid’s touch.

The carriage came to a halt abutting the platform at the top of the line. Vincent heard footsteps, the sound of the safety gate opening and a nervous and surprised voice: ‘Governor
d’Avidus, you’re back early . . .’

There was a moment of silence broken by a snort of disgust. ‘Domne! There’s no one in there, again! I suppose that fool down below thinks this is funny, getting me out of me warm
office on a night like this for no reason.’

He turned away and Vincent jumped down and shoved the fellow in the back so he stumbled. Then, before the guard could regain his feet, Vincent sat on his chest and rammed the bottle of narkos
under his nose. A second later the guard was out like a snuffed candle.

Vincent went straight to the exit gate. It was locked, but that was no obstacle, and within seconds he had it open. Cautiously he peered out into the fine mist. The ground sloped up then
flattened out and he could see the Governor’s Residence close by, no more than twenty yards from the terminus. He could just make out the guards at their posts by the gates. He had no
intention of trying to get past them when all he had to do was scale the ten-foot wall. Besides, knocking out two guards was enough for the time being. No point in using up the narkos unless
absolutely necessary.

Keeping low and enveloped in his cloak, Vincent went up the slope to take advantage of the cover of the tall pine trees that flanked the residence. He skirted the perimeter until he was well
away from the guards and then lobbed the grapnel over the top and walked easily up the wall. He flung over the thick blanket he had taken to protect him from the jagged glass and climbed on to the
wide top. There he surveyed the lie of the land. Even all the way up here, at the very peak of Collis Hill, he could still hear clearly the wailing of the Lurids. He wondered if you ever did get
used to it.

Next he turned his attention to the large house in the grounds. It was certainly a striking property, in the metal and stone style that was peculiar to Degringolade. The broad cobbled drive that
led from the gates to the main entrance was lit by lanterns hooked to poles at regular intervals. There were lights on in some of the many windows, but no other sign of life. Vincent moved along
the wall, keeping low until, when he was out of the lights’ reach, he dropped down on to the lawn.

Vincent knew exactly how he was going to get in: from the roof. People didn’t expect that, and he had spotted a way from the eyrie. The building was excessively ornate, providing hand and
footholds in abundance. He gloved his metal hand to muffle any noise and scaled the west tower easily, pulling himself from gargoyle to stone corvid to grotesque and up on to a flying buttress that
led directly to the roof.

Once on the roof he took out a metal bar with a curved end and began to lever up the lead from around a chimney. Then, as if merely opening a can of sardines, he turned the bar and effectively
rolled open the roof.

Seconds later, he was in.

Vincent had done this many times before and crawled confidently along in the attic eaves, a thin wall being the only thing that separated him from the servants’ quarters on the other side.
Most probably they were unoccupied; it was too early in the evening for the servants to have retired. They would be either in the kitchens or, at least the more senior staff, in the Degringolade
Playhouse being entertained by Professor Soanso.

Vincent found his way almost instinctively to the landing. Taking stock for a moment, he pulled a piece of folded newspaper from his pocket and shone the smitelight on it. It was a short article
from the
Degringolade Daily.
A small Depiction showed three men wheeling what looked like a metal safe towards the gate of the funicular railway. The article, by Hepatic Whitlock,
read:

Vincent had laughed when he had read the piece. It was almost a direct challenge to him, and he never could resist a challenge. ‘What was it Leucer called me? A stone in
his shoe. Well, I shall give him such a blister he won’t walk until Torock or Gevra!’

Decisively he descended the stairs, resisting the urge on each level to explore the many rooms, trying to focus on the job in hand. He was certain the Blivet would be in the new safe, and
chances were it was in the study.

From somewhere far away he could hear the sound of kitchen machinations, but the ground floor was deserted. He looked into the drawing room, and the smoking room, another drawing room, and a
meeting room before creeping along a short corridor that he suspected led to the study.

He was right. Gently Vincent closed the door behind him and stood silently observing the room. It was no different to what he had expected: shelved walls packed with books, dark curtains drawn
across the window, and a large desk upon which stood a pair of brass lamps, one at either front corner. The desk was tidy, with an inkwell, a large blotter and some neatly stacked papers. There
were two fireplaces, one brushed and cleaned with an empty basket, the other a glowing dome of coals. A large deep chair was positioned to one side, mirroring another.

Vincent continued to sweep the light around the room, but there was no sign of a safe.

‘I suppose that would have been just too easy,’ he murmured. He remembered how in the Capodel Townhouse Edgar had concealed the safe as a drinks cabinet. Leucer could well have done
something similar. But the safe he had seen in the Depiction was larger than the Capodels’. He examined the walls carefully, counting the panels, looking for inconsistencies, knocking gently.
But it all felt solid.

‘Hmm,’ he mused, thinking and looking hard. His eye fell on the second fireplace, in particular the polished back plate. It had a standard design in relief, a simple log fire, which
Vincent thought odd. He would have thought someone like Leucer d’Avidus would have gone for something more ornate. There were three words across the top of the plate:

The same words as those on his browpin – obviously a common saying here. Now, what was it Folly had said: ‘An ornament and a safeguard’. He rocked on his heels
and kept staring at it. Then he laughed. Of course! Leucer had fitted the safe in the fireplace. He pulled out the plate and there it was.

The Dual-Key Bartram QuadraLock might have been the best in its class, but it was no match for Vincent Verdigris. The thick metal door swung open slowly and Vincent felt again the familiar
thrill that ran through his very marrow every time he succeeded where he knew others would have failed. His mind was filled with a swiftly moving panorama of memories of his father. He saw again
the look of intense concentration on his face as he picked locks, the smile that meant success, he heard the laughter they had shared after chases and a hundred narrow escapes. And he was
completely taken by surprise when he found himself suddenly wishing that Folly and Citrine and Jonah had been here to share this moment.

The moment of truth.

He knelt forward and shone the smitelight directly into the safe. What would he find? Money, most likely, perhaps some jewellery, documents that might be useful,
but would there be a
Blivet
?

Yes.

Vincent reached in and grasped the gleaming triple-tined platinum weapon that lay on the middle shelf. It was pleasingly cold to the touch, a little heavier than he had expected and sent a
tingle down his spine. He gripped it firmly and jabbed the air with it and allowed himself a little laugh.

‘Hello, Vincent,’ said a man’s voice behind him. ‘I believe you’ve been – how do you say it? – rumbled!’

Except he said ‘rummled’.

In the Degringolade Playhouse Citrine, along with the hundreds-strong audience, was utterly engrossed in Professor Soanso’s kekrimpari demonstration. It was proving to
be, as Edgar had promised in his introduction, an evening of delight, awe and consternation. As the professor’s machine whirred and spun and sparked and crackled, in tandem did the audience
gasp and cry out and clap and laugh.

Citrine knew her father would have loved to have seen something like this. In fact, it was so delightfully enthralling that she had to keep reminding herself she was actually there to watch out
for Leucer and Edgar. When she did glance up at their box she could just make out the blurred figures of the loathsome pair – Edgar had rejoined Leucer – her spectacles really were very
thick. Luckily they appeared equally fascinated with the display and were both leaning forward with their elbows on the balustrade to get a closer look.