The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (5 page)

The man was speaking now and Folly strained to hear what he was saying. His voice was rising and falling with deep emotion. A feeling of cold dread came over Folly.

‘
Ades Luride, confestim, ere ossis
,’ he called out with finality.

Suddenly from the centre of the writhing horde of fiends a single Lurid emerged. It moved quickly towards the shore and as it approached it changed, becoming less nebulous and increasingly
opaque, like cooling fat. It reached the edge of the pit and hesitated. Then, to Folly’s horror and disbelief, it actually stepped off the tar and stood on the shore directly in front of the
man. Quickly she pulled her head in and pressed up against the pillar, her mouth dry with fear.

‘
Sequere
,’ said the man clearly. And the Lurid followed.

Folly held her breath as the pair, one alive, one mostly dead, passed within feet of her hiding place. She covered her mask filters with her hands because they weren’t sufficient to stop
the stench. Nauseated, she watched as they climbed the bank, the man ungracefully, the Lurid stepping lightly behind him with eerie ease. It was no longer ghostly in appearance, being more solid
now than transparent and dressed in filthy rags. As soon as they were out of sight Folly dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out a Depiction. She unfolded the stiff paper and looked closely at
the faded brown image. Despite the creases, there was no doubting that this was the man she had just seen; it was Leopold Kamptulicon.

‘Domna!’ she breathed. ‘He’s just freed a Lurid!’

And behind her the pit surged and bubbled in a chorus of approval.

Citrine piloted her Trikuklos through the streets of Degringolade with a degree of recklessness that was most uncharacteristic. Her face was creased into an anxious frown and
she was deep in thought. ‘Blast and bother it! What terrible, terrible cards! I almost wish I hadn’t gone.’

A sudden cry and a violent jarring caused her to brake sharply and look in her mirror. There was a body lying in the gutter beside the Trikuklos.

‘Domna!’ She jumped down and ran over to the unmoving figure. Oblivious to the mud and detritus on the road she knelt down beside him. ‘Are you all right?’

The fellow groaned and then sat up. ‘I think so,’ he replied. Citrine helped him to his feet, though he seemed more than capable of doing so himself. Once he was upright she was
quite taken aback at his height and breadth. He was very much taller than she was and his shoulders were disarmingly broad. Even his own clothes seemed to strain at the seams. He wore a
double-breasted dark pea coat with large turned-up lapels and, to Citrine’s surprise, the white toggles that fastened it appeared to be made from the teeth of an animal – evidently a
very large animal.

On his head he wore a hat that came low down the back of his neck and covered his ears. She could just see the glint of a gold earring through his black hair. His face was in shadow under the
deep brim. He began to brush the dirt from his clothes with his large weather-beaten hands, and exposed a jagged tear in his trousers.

‘I am so dreadfully sorry,’ apologized Citrine, taking a step back. ‘It’s entirely my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’ve had such a wretched
spread of cards, you understand . . . but, good gracious! Listen to me go on; that’s not your fault, of course. Are you injured in any way? I know an excellent physician, Dr
Farquhar—’

‘No real damage done,’ said the fellow, backing off. He spoke slowly, rolling his
r
s, and Citrine now saw that he was not that much older than she. He picked up what looked
like a long leather cylinder with a strap, akin to a bowman’s quiver, and shrugged it back on his shoulder. ‘All my timbers are in order.’

‘Your timbers?’

‘I mean, I am not hurt.’

‘You must allow me to take you home,’ she suggested. ‘It’s the least I can do. I have a Trikuklos.’

He looked at her vehicle and shook his head. ‘There’s no need, miss. Worse things happen at sea.’

Citrine was a little disconcerted at the lad’s apparent lack of concern for his well-being. ‘Oh dear, then, please, for my own peace of mind, let me give you a sequentury, as
compensation for your clothes. Your trousers are torn, after all.’

‘All right, kew very much,’ he said after a brief pause, and, head bowed, he allowed Citrine to press a coin into his calloused palm.

‘And here’s your Brinepurse,’ said Citrine, stooping to pick it up from where it had fallen. He reached back to take it and hurried off, covering the ground quickly with long
strides.

‘At least tell me your name,’ she called after him.

‘They call me Jonah Scrimshander.’

‘I’m Citrine,’ she began, but he was already gone. She climbed into the Trikuklos, still a little shaky from the encounter, and realized with dismay that her own Brinepurse was
gone. The string had been cut. She looked down the empty street, but then remembered the other boy, the one outside Suma Dartson’s wagon and how he had brushed against her. She had thought it
odd at the time and now she knew why.

‘Why, the cheek of the boy! Pretending to be interested in my Trikuklos to steal from me.’ She tutted. ‘So, the cards were right.’ She hoped that was the worst of it.

Still mulling over the cards and the collision, Citrine pushed down hard on the pedalators and coasted silently up to the imposing white boundary wall of the Capodel Townhouse.
It was one of the largest residences in Degringolade and stood out from the other houses on the hill just as the Kronometer stood out in Mercator Square. She hoped fervently that Edgar was still
away. He strongly disapproved of her interest in the cards. As far as he was concerned, card-spreading was not the sort of skill a young lady of her standing should wish to acquire. Rich, educated
people did not engage in such practices; they paid others to do it for them. If Edgar found out that she had been to visit Suma there was no telling what he might do. He had once threatened to lock
her in her room. It was bad enough being confined to the house, without that as well.

Citrine slipped inside and crept up the servants’ stairs to the main hall. It was a large open space with a galleried landing three-quarters of the way around it. The walls were hung with
portraits of many generations of Capodels. Citrine looked up at the one of her mother. She did not remember her, she had died when Citrine was a baby, but she had inherited her vibrantly coloured
hair and green eyes. Beside it was the most recent portrait, completed just before her father disappeared, of the three of them: Father, Citrine and Edgar. Edgar had the hint of a smile on his
face; Citrine knew well that the artist had taken liberties with his sneer.

Citrine worried sometimes that she might be growing immune to the wealth and luxury that surrounded her, taking it for granted. She thought of the sequentury she had given Jonah, the victim of
her own carelessness, and felt guilty that she hadn’t offered more. She resolved to make it up to him if she ever saw him again. Then she caught sight of a royal-blue caped coat draped over
the arm of one of the trio of French upholstered couches that were arranged around the fountain in the centre of the hall. Her frown was replaced with a smile of delight.

‘Florian’s here!’ She hurried down one of the broad corridors towards the drawing room but, hearing raised voices, she drew up short.

The door into the drawing room was ajar and she could see two men inside. Florian Quince, a bespectacled older man, and her cousin Edgar, exquisitely dressed as usual, with a drink in hand (also
as usual). Whatever she thought of his character, Citrine could not deny that Edgar was a handsome chap, with a square jaw, narrow nose and elegant brow. His dark hair was always in place and his
eyes were an unusually attractive hazel. But there was an ever-present thin-lipped sneer on his face. Edgar had many admirers among the young girls of Degringolade – undoubtedly his wealth
added to his attractiveness – but Citrine knew that he was too selfish to pay attention to any of them for long. Apart from himself, Edgar’s greatest love was for money.

Edgar was talking stridently, in fact disrespectfully, to Florian. ‘Listen here, Quince, you’re just the company solicitor. I own Capodel Chemicals now and I run the
Manufactory.’

‘True,’ continued Florian evenly, ‘but there are rumours in the city that you are gambling heavily, associating with undesirables and drinking. Your uncle would not have
approved.’

Citrine saw Edgar’s familiar shrug. ‘Rumours! They prove nanything. I have a dozen friends who would say they aren’t true. Besides, my private life is nothing to do with the
business,’ he said. ‘And I’ll thank you not to come round here and start an argument you can’t win. Your time would be better spent sorting out Uncle Hubert’s will and
handing over my share. Just declare him officially dead and let me claim my rightful inheritance at last.’

Florian smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, I wondered when you would come to that.’

So did I, thought Citrine from her hiding place. It’s all you’ve been talking about for the last month.

‘Edgar,’ said Florian, ‘you recall when you promised your uncle to give up gambling and drinking?’

Edgar stopped mid-sip. ‘Yes, what of it?’

‘Well, I have proof, Depictions in fact, that you were inebriated at the card table in the Bonchance Club only last week.’

Edgar’s face darkened. ‘Depictions? You mean images of me captured by one of those newfangled machines? Citrine has one. What’s it called again?’

‘A Klepteffigium.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Have you two been spying on me?’

‘Not I, but a reputable source. And I have been told that all is not well at the Manufactory.’

Edgar snorted. ‘Oh, so you believe the word of a disloyal worker and a couple of Depictions over me? I am the rightful heir to the Capodel fortune, including the Manufactory, and I shall
do with it as I wish.’

‘You forget the condition.’

Edgar stiffened. ‘What condition?’

‘The condition in Hubert’s will that if you gamble, or drink to excess, you will forfeit your inheritance rights for five years. Citrine, naturally, will still inherit her
share.’

Edgar paled, visibly shocked.

‘Now, as you have reminded me so often, Hubert has been gone the requisite number of days to be declared legally dead. I will submit the papers to the Degringolade Office of Records
tomorrow, and then we can meet to read the will.’

‘About time.’ Edgar took a large draught of his drink and it seemed to calm him somewhat, but Citrine could see that his hand was shaking. He shot a menacing look at Florian.
‘Hubert never said that condition was in the will. Domne! You sly old devil. You drew up the will. Did you tell him to do this?’

Florian tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘Hubert knew his own mind. Of course, I will have to appoint someone to replace you at the Manufactory.’

Edgar’s mouth dropped open. ‘No! You can’t!’

Florian smiled. ‘I can and I will. It’s only for five years, Edgar. After that we can review the situation. Citrine’s money will be put in trust until she is older, but you
will both have a very generous allowance and you may still live in the Capodel Townhouse.’

‘Get out!’ shouted Edgar. ‘Get out!’

Citrine was not surprised at the ferocity of his anger. When Hubert had disappeared Edgar had taken over the reins at the Capodel Manufactory with embarrassing zeal, revelling in finally having
complete control. Now it was all slipping away from him. No wonder he was so upset.

She hid behind a pillar and saw Florian come out. Moments later she heard the front door close. Then Edgar emerged, his mouth set in a straight line, his jaw taut, clenching and unclenching his
fists. He stomped past and Citrine followed him quietly to the hall. He had on his coat and hat.

‘Are you feeling all right, cousin?’ she asked innocently.

Startled, Edgar whirled around. When he saw who it was he shot her a look of contempt. ‘Spread your precious cards if you wish to know how I am,’ he said nastily. ‘I have an
appointment to keep.’ And he left, slamming the door behind him.

Citrine drew back the curtain and watched as he climbed into his scarlet Phaeton and clattered out of the gates. She was suddenly gripped by a feeling of doom. She had met her thief. There were
still two cards left.

Edgar, what are you up to now? she wondered.

Outside the Caveat Emptorium, pondering the encounter with Leopold Kamptulicon, Vincent crossed the road and took shelter in the doorway of Claude Caballoux’s Horsemeat
Shop. He fished in one of his many pockets for his smitelight, tapped it smartly against his leg and instantly it glowed brightly. In this glow – the same glow that had blinded the man almost
a week ago – he examined the gas mask he had managed to conceal under his coat despite Wenceslas’s close observation. Vincent fully intended to pay a visit to the Tar Pit and to see
these ‘Lurids’ for himself. He was quite sure they could not be anything other than an illusion created by the unusual properties of the tar, or a trick of the light played on the
superstitious and gullible citizens of Degringolade. But the smell of tar was real enough.

It’s like a pig’s head, thought Vincent, turning the mask over in his hand. Indeed, the porcine resemblance was quite striking. He pulled it down over his head and it enclosed his
entire face. A wide glass lens covered the eyes, and from the centre projected a long ‘nose’ at the end of which was an oval filter. There was also a filter on each cheek. The whole
contraption was kept in place with a strap that split around the ears and came together again at the base of the skull. Vincent saw that it did not fasten with a buckle, but instead each end of the
strap was covered in a wad of rough material. When the two ends were laid on top of each other they formed a tight bond and had to be ripped apart with a degree of force. It was not a method of
fastening that he had come across before. Using the fastener he attached the mask to his belt, alongside the pouch that held his treen picklocks. He tapped the smitelight again to extinguish it. It
was without doubt the most useful thing he owned, and a tangible reminder of his father, who had given it to him.