The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls (9 page)

‘And maybe they won’t. As long as they’re about, every time we cross the salt marsh we could be in danger. Nany of us should leave the Kryptos without as many deterrents as
possible, Natron and black beans at the very least. Jonah, perhaps we can adapt your spear—’

‘Huh! Black beans and Natron were useless against the one I met,’ interrupted Vincent. ‘We need another Blivet.’ He was returning to what was becoming a familiar theme.
‘I would be happy to carry one.’

Citrine nodded. ‘Yes! At least then we could have one between two.’

‘Wenceslas might well have something like that,’ suggested Jonah.

‘Or Axel,’ said Vincent quietly. ‘He was hanged here in Degringolade. Presumably he had it when he was arrested.’

Citrine shook her head at Vincent. ‘Reminding Folly of her brother’s crimes . . . it’s hurtful.’

Folly shrugged. ‘He wasn’t always bad,’ she said. ‘He chose his own path. And you’re right. He probably did have his Blivet on him. But that doesn’t really
help us.’

‘We could ask him about it.’

Instantly all heads turned towards Vincent. Citrine’s eyes widened. ‘You mean, summon him?’

Now they all looked at Folly. Her mouth was set in a straight line, her blue eyes giving nothing away.

‘Don’t we need a bone?’ asked Citrine nervously.

‘I thought the Mangledore contained the only remaining bones of Axel, and I chucked that into the Tar Pit.’ Jonah was not in any way pleased at the prospect of more
Lurid-raising.

‘Well, that’s a . . . shame.’ Citrine was barely able to hide her own relief.

Jonah yawned loudly and stretched. ‘Pluriba or no, it’s late. I’m off to bed.’

That seemed to put paid to any more conversation about Axel and his Blivet and the others followed Jonah’s lead. Vincent, from his own bed, watched through slitted eyes as Folly tended the
fire before settling herself under her blankets with the book. It was rarely out of her sight. He sensed, as he had done these last few nights, that for some reason she was waiting for everyone to
go to sleep.

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. He used to love that time between wakefulness and sleep. His father had told him many years ago of the Hypnagogue and the Hypnopomp; the first
led you into slumber and the second led you out. He had thought they were characters in a fairy tale, but now, as he immersed himself more and more in the life and lore of Degringolade, he wondered
if perhaps they really did exist. He could feel himself drifting off and remembered how this adventure had started: how he had been left at the border of Antithica province and had his first sight
of Degringolade’s adamantine roofs glittering in the morning sun. Now it was the snow that glittered.

A face came floating in front of his eyes, a woman’s face, and he shook his head to make it go away. But the vision remained. He had seen the face before, in recent dreams, and he knew
those golden eyes, but think as he might he just couldn’t place who it was. He tried to look closer, but now he was too far gone towards sleep, his muscles paralysed. She was saying something
but he couldn’t hear, he could only see the white edge of her teeth on her lower lip as she shaped a
v
with her mouth.

Vincent wasn’t sure what woke him. Perhaps a log shifting on the fire, or maybe the ever-present howling of the Lurids expressing indignation at their plight. It
wasn’t the Kronometer’s bell, which remained silent, or the clanking of the funicular railway. More likely it was his scar, which was throbbing, and he debated taking another slug of
Antikamnial. He sighed. He was trying to cut down on it. Folly had warned him against taking too much. It wasn’t that it was harmful per se, but it did have side effects and could become
addictive, which led to a whole other set of problems. Vincent was confident that he could do without it, but he also knew that it would take the edge off the pain.

He looked to where Folly slept. Her voluble sleep-mutterings had disturbed him more than once these last few nights. But she lay in a dark unmoving shape under her blankets, blankets he had
stolen for the Kryptos.

Light and heat came from the dying fire, but he was bemused by a chill breeze that washed over him and he was instantly filled with suspicion. He sat up quickly, fully awake and alert. Now he
knew what had disturbed his sleep: the sound of the Kryptos door closing. He glanced again at Folly and this time he could see what he had missed before. She was not under the heaped-up blankets;
the bed was empty.

What was she up to? All those warnings about the dangers of the salt marsh and here she was going off on her own in the middle of the night. At least he thought it was the middle of the night.
He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small Degringoladian timepiece, another ill-gotten gain. He had brought one of his own to the city, but soon enough he had wanted one that showed
Antithican time. At first he had been a little confused with the Degringoladian method of measuring the passing hours, but not any more. In fairness, it was not a complicated system, just
different. His new timepiece was marked like the Kronometer, divided into the four sections of the day: Nox, Lux, Prax and Crex, Nox being the longest. Vincent was right about the time, the hand
was still in Nox, but Lux was approaching.

The Antithican year, he had discovered, also had its eccentricities, having thirteen months, not twelve. Citrine had explained to him how the thirteen pillars of the Kronometer represented those
months. The Festival of the Lurids came at the end of the tenth month. Gevra, the coldest season, lasted four months and the new year began in Torock, the season of growth. Now they were well into
the eleventh month, with little to look forward to but more snow and Caligo, the thirteenth and coldest month of all. Vincent remembered how he had declared in his cavalier fashion that he could
leave the city at any time. He knew that window of opportunity was fast closing. The barren plain would be snowbound by now. He would be mad to try to cross it.

Jonah was in a deep sleep, flat out on his back in the niche in the wall where Lady Degringolade’s casket had been. His finger-knitted hands were resting on his chest and his loud snoring
reverberating around the tomb

Quietly Vincent got up and pulled on his boots. He patted his pockets, checking his supply of black beans and Natron disperser (he had replenished them after the attack in the manor). Other
pockets contained his father’s picklocks, his knife, a coil of rope and a grapnel to replace the one he had left behind on his last escape (his encounter with Constable Weed seemed an age ago
now!). He also had a Brinepurse, containing the special Natron crystals that repelled Superents. Usually the Degringoladians would have dispensed with their Brinepurses after the Ritual of
Appeasement, but after all the hoo-ha at the Tar Pit they weren’t taking any chances and most were still carrying them.

Vincent crept to the door and opened it, cringing at the scraping sound (Jonah had managed to straighten it a little, but not enough to fully rectify the problem). He froze when Citrine suddenly
sighed and shifted in her bed, but then she settled down again and he slipped out into the cold, snow-covered Komaterion.

At first Vincent saw no sign of Folly. He was about to use his smitelight when he spotted the yellow glow of her manuslantern up ahead, so, keeping a safe distance between them, he followed as
quietly as he could. He was not yet at ease with the overgrown terrain (he was much more at home on the cobbled streets of urbanity) and was further hindered by the headstones and statues that had
been damaged by the quake and now lay at angles across his path. He stumbled more than once and each time cursed inwardly at the noise he was making. But the bobbing light was still visible moving
rapidly away from him. Folly hadn’t heard him.

At the Komaterion gates Vincent halted and tried to ascertain where his enigmatic companion might be going. He could see that she had reached the fork in the path, one leg of which led to
Degringolade. Her light took the other, towards the Tar Pit. ‘Well, well,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps she does know more about Axel’s Blivet than she lets on.’

He started on the same path but was almost immediately startled by a sudden flurry of flickering blue Puca lights. He had learned, through bitter experience, to ignore them. Very soon after his
arrival in Degringolade he had made the mistake one night of following them. They had led him down to the Tar Pit where, disorientated, he had nearly suffocated from the gases. He would have died
if Folly had not come to his rescue.

Vincent was annoyed with himself when he realized that he had allowed the Puca lights to distract him again and that Folly’s manuslantern was no longer visible. Without her to guide him,
he was now in the dark. The moon was merely a smiling sliver at this stage in its cycle and the stars shed poor light on the treacherous marsh. He dug in his pocket for his own light, but before he
knew what was happening something solid pushed hard against the flat of his back and he staggered forward on to his knees. An area of the soggy ground in front of him lit up and when he raised his
head he recognized the cut of Folly’s black leather coat and her heavy-soled boots.

‘Hey!’ he protested. ‘No need for all that.’

‘I thought it was you,’ she said coolly. ‘Why are you following me?’ She held out a hand and helped him up. He brushed down his cloak, trying to think of an excuse, then
thought, Why bother?

‘I could ask you a few questions too. Where are you going? And why are you on your own? What about the Pluriba?’

‘I have my Blivet,’ she said simply. ‘And that is why I came alone. You don’t have a good enough weapon. Or the experience.’

The last comment rankled but Vincent held his tongue. He was beginning to understand how to win Folly round and it wasn’t with temper outbursts. ‘Are you going to see
Axel?’

Folly didn’t answer.

‘You told me that once a Lurid has been returned to its resting place it can’t be summoned or embodied again. Was that a lie?’

Folly’s expression was as impenetrable as ever. ‘I told you what I thought was true at the time.’

‘And now?’

‘As usual in this game, things aren’t as simple as I thought. It’s all to do with the blood connection. Axel is my brother, which means there are some things I can make his
Lurid do that others can’t. But tonight I just want to invoke him, to talk to him. It might not come to anything. Are you sure you want to see him again?’

‘Can he leave the pit?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘I know it’ll do nany good trying to stop you. But be prepared . . . for anything.’

Vincent couldn’t tell whether or not she was pleased to have him along. ‘You mean more Pluriba?’

‘Who knows?’

Folly took off at a brisk pace and Vincent fell into step at her side. ‘So you do have one.’

‘One what?’

‘A bone from Axel. You need one to summon him.’

‘I’m not summoning him; I told you, I’m invoking him. There’s a difference. And I don’t need a bone for that, just a simple incantation and a few drops of my own
blood.’

They had reached the edge of the Tar Pit now and Folly stopped and took a deep breath. One good thing had come of the fire: the poisonous gases had been burned off. For now the atmosphere was
breathable, though hardly pleasant, without a gas mask.

Vincent, who hadn’t been to the Tar Pit since the Ritual of Appeasement and the raging inferno that had taken hold of the lake and shore, whistled softly. ‘Domne, what a
mess!’

The ground was black with ash. The salt pillars stood like charred tree trunks. The tar itself was rapidly thickening with the change in the weather. It still bubbled and popped like a black
porridge, but the oily skin that stretched across its surface was less giving. Here and there plumes of smoke swirled upward and drifted to join the mist over the lake. The ubiquitous Lurids,
however, were as reliable as ever; out on the centre of the tar they huddled in a luminous mass droning monotonously.

‘They don’t come over these days,’ said Folly. ‘It’s as if they are scared.’

Vincent found it hard to believe that these wailing Superents could be scared. ‘Of us?’

Folly shook her head grimly. ‘Not us, but someone, something.’

She stood with her feet firmly planted on the blackened shore.

‘My brother the murderer,’ she said to herself, still trying to believe it, to make sense of it. She sucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as if trying to rid it of a sour
taste, then, for the moment oblivious to Vincent’s presence, prepared for the invocation.

She lit a small fire and scattered sesame seeds and a pinch of saffron on the flames. She jabbed at the tip of her finger with one of the sharp tines of the Blivet and allowed three drops of
blood, almost black in the dim light, to drip on to the aromatic smoking herbs. When it was ready, she took a deep breath. It had taken her many nights to pluck up the courage to do this. She
opened the Omnia Intum and flicked to a marked page headed ‘Ad Lurides Invocandos’. Beside her Vincent shifted his feet, they were getting hot, and the sound reminded Folly that she was
not alone. ‘Perhaps you should stand back a little,’ she suggested, and he retreated behind a pillar.

‘
Luride, adeste mihi, soror sanguine, perfidelis, sponte, nunc
.’

The last of the words floated out over the Tar Pit and Folly and Vincent waited. The effect was swift. The vociferous Lurids increased their howling and became more agitated. One of the ghouls
separated itself from the crowd and began to glide across the boiling surface towards the shore. When it was only a few feet away, Vincent shivered. Beads of sweat oozed out of his forehead and he
was washed over by faint nausea. He didn’t know if it was the smell or the mere propinquity of the Lurid, or both. He remembered vividly, despite his efforts to banish the memory, the feel of
the Lurid’s lips on his own when it had attempted to assume his body.