The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (10 page)

‘Yes, put me before the judge,’ shouted Citrine through the grille, ‘and see how your lies stand up in court.’

She turned and leaned her back against the door. This couldn’t be happening to her, a Capodel! Her world had been turned upside down twice in under a year, but this time her very life was
in danger. She had to do something, but what? She paced restlessly for hours, her mind racing, before finally lying on the lumpy bed and drifting off into a disturbed sleep.

She woke to the sound of the grille sliding back. There was a tray on the shelf. ‘Something to keep you going, Miss Citrine,’ called a gruff voice.

Taken aback at the unexpected kindness, Citrine roused herself and went to the door. The jailer from earlier was standing outside. He cast a broad shadow on the wall, such was the width of his
shoulders, and the collar of his grey uniform sat high about his ears. His dark hair was long with a slight wave, and he held his head in such a way as to cause it to fall over his eyes. Something
glinted from under his hair when he moved his head, a gold earring with a protective green zircon stone in the centre.

‘Kew,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you happen to know what hour it is?’

‘Just after two bells, miss.’

‘Two bells?’

‘Oh, sorry, Miss Citrine, old habits die hard. It’s early Lux. I used to work on a whaling ship, see. I was the youngest feller on board, but I was a crack shot with a whale
spear.’

Citrine could hear both pride and regret in his voice, and something else, something familiar. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Jonah Scrimshander.’

Citrine made a small exclamation. ‘Jonah! The fellow I ran over with my Trikuklos!’

She heard a sharp intake of breath and Jonah came a little closer. ‘That was you? But the
Degringolade Daily
says you murdered someone.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

There was a short pause before Jonah answered. ‘Lookin’ at you, and hearin’ you, I find it hard to believe that you would do such a thing. You gave me a sequentury. Not many
rich folk’d do that. There’s people in this city would have run me over a second time for sport.’

‘Jonah, believe me, it’s all a terrible mistake. They are talking about sending me to the gallows!’

‘They string ’em up for a lot less,’ he said grimly, and not at all helpfully.

‘But, Jonah, I am innocent! I would pay you whatever you asked if you got me out of this wretched place.’ Now she wished again that she had given him more than a sequentury.

Jonah laughed. ‘Everyone’s innocent in here. Aether knows I hates to see injustice, if that’s what this is, but I have to think of meself. If I help you, it would be the end
for me if anyone found out. I have no other way to earn a living. Nanyone wants to see the likes of me out on the street.’

He came forward and removed his hat, pushed back his hair and turned down his collar. He held up his manuslantern and for the first time showed Citrine his face. She stifled a gasp and recoiled
involuntarily. Jonah was dreadfully scarred; long, red, raised weals stretched the full length of each cheek. And on the backs of his hands similar scars caused his callused fingers to claw.

Citrine saw his look of distress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t expect . . .’

‘It’s all right.’ He retreated, raising his collar again. ‘Now you see why I prefer to work in a place like this, out of sight of normal folk.’

‘What happened to you? Were you in a fire or a chemical accident?’

‘If you must know, Miss Citrine, I was swallered by a Cachelot.’

Citrine looked bemused. ‘Swallered . . . swallowed, by a Cachelot?’

‘A sort of whale, the largest creature in the ocean, but rare as turkey teeth. There’s barely a sailor alive who can claim to have seen one in his lifetime. And the day I saw a
Cachelot is a day that has been etched into my very skin. I thought my eyes were lyin’ to me. It was of enormous proportions. Its flukes alone were almost the length of the ship. Fifty spears
I buried in its hide, but still its aquatic gyrations were causing huge waves that threatened at any moment to sink us. As I watched, it looked me straight in the eye and instantly I felt its
distress and I was ashamed. What right had I, a mere dwarf beside this monster, to wrest it from its briny home? In that singular moment I knew I could not kill one of Nature’s creatures ever
again.

‘But then the Cachelot’s thrashing fluke hit the side of the ship with such force that I was flung overboard and down towards the boiling sea. I braced myself for the cold water but
I landed on what could have been firm ground. “By the barnacles,” I cried, “I am in the behemoth’s mouth!” ’

Citrine’s eyes widened. ‘No! It cannot be true!’

‘By a hundred whale’s teeth it is,’ said Jonah, warming to his subject, and he crossed his heart with his gnarled hand. ‘And before I could right myself I was sucked down
the creature’s throat into a dark cavern of foul-smelling slime. A searing heat spread over my skin; ’twas the liquid poison in its belly that was burning my flesh.’

‘So your scars are from the digestive juices of a Cachelot?’ exclaimed Citrine.

Jonah nodded. ‘That they are, and by Poseidon the beast was in a rage, lurching from side to side, trying to rid itself of the spears. It was dark as Nox in there, and the air, what little
there was, was rancid. My lungs were fit to burst. I knew I had only a brief time to escape.’

‘But what in Aether could you possibly do?’ asked Citrine.

‘There’s an old whaling saying:

“
In the belly of the whale, this trick won’t fail, Tickle its tum and up you’ll come.
”

‘And that is what I did. I began to rake the walls of this living prison with my hands, over and over, until there was one powerful lurch and I was expelled violently from its mouth back
into the sea. I was half dead on the waves, but thank St Nicholas and St Peter, the feller in the crow’s nest spotted me. I was hauled aboard. They thought I would die, for I looked like a
creature returned from the grave, and still do, but I survived. But I am no longer welcome on board a whaler, nor any ship for that matter, for I am considered unlucky. But in truth I have no wish
to harvest the sea’s bounty again.’ He let out a wry laugh. ‘So, what do you say? Am I the luckiest fellow alive or the unluckiest?’

‘Oh, the luckiest, beyond all doubt!’ exclaimed Citrine. ‘Would that I could have some of your luck when I stand before the judge!’ She clenched her fists. ‘How
long must I wait to have my chance to speak the truth?’

Jonah looked doubtful and Citrine thought he was about to say something, but then they both heard footsteps. ‘It’s Mr Capodel again,’ said Jonah, looking down the corridor.
‘And there’s someone with him.’

When Jonah opened the door Citrine saw Edgar and a stranger, a man. She guessed from the way he beheld her, with detached curiosity, that he was a physician of some sort. He smiled benignly.

‘Hello, Citrine. I am Dr Ruislip. I have come to assess you. How are you?’

‘How do you think? Look at where I am.’

‘Showing aggression and sarcastic humours . . .’ murmured Dr Ruislip, and wrote in his notebook.

‘All I wish is to be free,’ said Citrine, ‘and to clear my name.’

‘Still in denial,’ murmured the doctor, scribbling away.

Edgar spoke. ‘Dr Ruislip tells me that if you accept that you are mad, then you will not be hanged, merely incarcerated in the lunatic asylum, where you will undergo suitable treatment to
subdue your violent tendencies. If you make sufficient progress, you will be freed, in perhaps ten years or so.’

‘Ten years! Never!’ shouted Citrine.

Edgar actually looked upset. ‘Citrine, for pity’s sake, do you think I want to watch you swing?’

‘Oh, spare me your crocodile tears,’ hissed Citrine. ‘It is you should be swinging, you . . . you Janus-faced liar.’

‘Come along, Mr Capodel, ‘said Dr Ruislip. ‘Your cousin is clearly beyond help. Perhaps the hangman’s halter is the kindest thing after all.’

Jonah opened the door to allow the men to leave, and Edgar grimaced. ‘By God,’ he said loudly, ‘you’re so ugly you should be in travelling show! At least you won’t
need a costume for the festival.’ He walked away laughing loudly at his own joke.

Citrine looked imploringly at Jonah. ‘Will you at least consider what I asked? I have proof.’

Jonah raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s not much, just a fingernail, but it proves that Edgar was at Florian’s office.’

Jonah sucked his teeth. ‘Let me think on things, Miss Citrine. Eat up your food, such as it is, worser ’n ship’s biscuit. I promise I’ll be back later.’

‘I’ll still be here,’ said Citrine in a very small voice. ‘I hope.’

Leopold Kamptulicon raised his arms and brought his fists down on the table in incandescent rage. He swept one arm across the surface, scattering its miscellaneous contents.
Shards of glass and broken pottery flew around the room.

‘The filthy little wretch! He’s stolen my book!’ He paced up and down the length of the table, debris crunching underfoot, remonstrating with himself. ‘And curses on his
rescuer! Only seconds more and the Lurid would have assumed his body. Now I have nanything to show for all my effort.’

Kamptulicon gritted his teeth. It physically pained him to remember how his moment of glory had been wrenched so violently from his grasp. The force of the explosion had knocked him right off
his feet and he still had a ringing in his ears. ‘And it’s no ordinary person who rescued him,’ he bemoaned, kicking at black pellets with the pointed toe of his shoe. ‘This
is most definitely not the work of a Vulgar.’

It was imperative that he get the book back. But he would have to tread carefully. Considering what the boy and his blonde accomplice had done here, the chances were they would recognize the
book for what it was and know its power. A little calmer now, he went over to the cabinet against the wall and, holding up the pendant with one hand, opened the door with the other.

‘
Amok!
’ he commanded.

The door opened with a hiss and the Lurid slunk out, its face contorting into one grotesque expression after another. Its smell was not as strong as before, but to Kamptulicon it was not a
repulsive odour and he could breathe it in with impunity. He walked around the strange manifestation, observing it from every angle. It was like a three-dimensional shadow of a man. The
Lurid’s dead eyes fixed on him and it opened its mouth to emit a strangely strangled sound. Kamptulicon covered his ears. ‘Domne, wretched creature, desist from that
caterwauling!’

He put his hand out and touched it and it was so cold it burned. It was still tangibly solid, but time was not on his side. If he was to deliver what he had promised, then he had to find that
boy. A sly smile crossed his face. Surely he deserved some credit for getting this far? To have deciphered the book, and summoned a Lurid and kept it under his control was a hugely impressive
achievement in itself. He was so close to his goal he was not going to let anything stop him now. And foresight had given them the means.

Kamptulicon flipped open his thumb ring and held it out to the Lurid. The green paste, the essence of Vincent, glistened within. ‘
Queste
,’ he ordered.

Wordlessly the gurning ghoul performed something approximating a sniffing action. Then, like a dog on the trail of a scent, it crossed the debris-strewn floor to the door and slipped right
through it. Kamptulicon, being merely human, exited the room in a more conventional manner and followed the Lurid quickly up the tunnel to the stairs.

‘Folly?’

Vincent’s voice echoed around the Kryptos and a cursory glance told him that he was alone. He threw off the blanket and stretched, and proceeded to make himself a weak tisane from a used
bag and eat a piece of bread he found on the table. Then he explored the Kryptos thoroughly. There was little to see: Folly’s bedroll, his own makeshift bed, some crockery. He went to the
trunk and in a matter of seconds he had sprung the lock and lifted the lid. There were clothes on top – trousers and shirts – and he helped himself to one of each. He also found a
compass and a roll of maps, including one of Antithica province and a smaller detailed map of Degringolade. He spread the latter on the table and took a few moments to peruse it. The Flumen River
was clearly marked in blue, skirting the city before flowing out to the Turbid Sea.

With his left index finger he traced a path out of Degringolade along the Great West Road to a wide area marked Palus Salus – the salt marsh, he guessed – in the middle of which was
the symbol for a Komaterion. Further across, a dark patch indicated the Tar Pit. Folly was making it out to be harder than it was, he thought; all he had to do was follow the path across the marsh
and it would lead him back to the city. In a decisive mood, refreshed from sleep and frustrated at having wasted so much time already, he quickly packed up his belongings, including the map and
compass, and took a spare manuslantern. ‘Goodbye, Folly, whoever you are,’ he murmured on the threshold of the Kryptos. ‘And thanks for everything.’

He stepped out into semi-darkness and a thick swirling mist. The warm Kryptos suddenly seemed very inviting, but the sight of his bandaged hand steeled his resolve. He set off, whistling to keep
himself cheerful, and spent a few hundred yards relishing thoughts of how he might exact his revenge on Kamptulicon, each more grisly than the last. Suddenly he remembered the heel of his boot and
stopped to check it. He was not surprised to find that the book was gone. Kamptulicon must have taken that too. Oh, how he would have loved to give the sadistic maggot a taste of his own
medicine.

But, if he was completely honest with himself, Vincent knew that all he really wanted was to retrieve his smitelight and go on his way. He was a thief and a picklock with a badly injured hand;
Kamptulicon was quite obviously a lunatic with an equally mad and stinking friend. At least
he
couldn’t sneak up on him; his smell would always give him away! Yes, he would exact his
revenge, but he could wait.