‘No!’
Vincent raced forward, a beanbag ready in his raised hand, and skidded around the corner into the chamber. But there was no need for his haste. Folly was standing alone by the cold fireplace, her arms hanging limply by her sides. A large lamp on the table was the source of the light.
‘Kamptulicon’s gone,’ she said incredulously. ‘He’s taken everything and gone. I’ll never get him now.’
Him? wondered Vincent. Does she mean the Lurid or Kamptulicon?
CHAPTER 21
A CLOSE SHAVE
‘Murderer! Murderer!’
Citrine covered her ears to block out the shouting. She was huddled up in a metal cage on the back of the gallows cart rattling towards Quadrivium Crossroads. At Mercator Square they had been joined by a crowd of chanting ghouls with blood-streaked faces, brandishing sticks and tridents. They were following still, battering at the sides of the cage, the metal bars ringing out under the assault. She felt something landing on her, something soft and wet: a rotten tomato. She wiped it away and fought back tears.
‘I’m innocent,’ she cried out at the jeering crowd, but they only laughed louder and the onslaught continued. The driver seemed to take great delight in travelling at a snail’s pace to ensure that the mob could keep up the tirade of abuse. Then the cart turned sharply, throwing Citrine sideways, and when she righted herself she was greeted with the sight she had been dreading: the unforgiving gallows at Quadrivium Crossroads. And right before it, feet splayed, hands on hips and eyes peering out from behind his black mask, stood the Carnifex, the anonymous hangman of Degringolade. Lined up on the gallows crossbeam she saw the jagged silhouette of a flock of corvids, jostling for position, croaking harshly.
There must be two score there, thought Citrine. Waiting to pick me clean!
Things had moved quickly once the officer of the court had announced that Citrine was to be hanged. As Jonah looked on helplessly she had been taken away and placed in solitary confinement in a holding cell for those condemned to death. She had struggled all the way, demanding to know how this had happened, how she could have been convicted without a chance to defend herself, but the guards’ expressions were impenetrable. She could only assume that Edgar’s purse strings were longer than she had thought.
As Nox fell she was taken to the penitentiary courtyard and pushed roughly into the gallows wagon. There was straw on the floor of the cage and stains of a most repulsive nature. She sat with her back against the bars to steady herself and drew her knees up to her chin. She felt as if, in a matter of moments, she had been catapulted from one life to another.
Now, as the wagon rolled along, she took in the familiar sights of the city for the last time, and its beauty was tempered by the ghoulish bunting for the Festival of the Lurids. She thought of Suma Dartson. The cards had said that something would be stolen from her. ‘Fool that I am,’ she murmured, ‘I thought it was my Brinepurse, but it was my life.’
The faraway moon was still high above Collis Hill and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the unmistakable silhouette of the Capodel Townhouse. Could it really be true that she had once lived there? It seemed an age ago now. Was she really to die without knowing what had happened to her father? Oh, Edgar, she thought. What wickedness you have committed in your quest for silver.
Now, staring at the seven steps that led to the hanging platform, it took all her strength not to break down. The baying crowd was gathering behind the rope, their bloody masks and menacing weapons presenting a vile spectacle. Had they too gone mad like the Lurids as the moon retreated?
The driver flung open the cage and reached in. Citrine clung to the bars but he pulled her so hard that she thought her arms would come away from her shoulders. At last she had to let go and he dragged her out. Edgar was waiting at the bottom of the steps with Dr Ruislip, Mayhew Fessup and two jailers from the penitentiary.
‘Goodbye, dear cousin,’ said Edgar solemnly. He choked on a sob, or was it a laugh? Citrine could not tell.
The jailers pushed her up the steps before she could respond and passed her over to the muscle-bound Carnifex. He fixed the noose around her neck. ‘Any last words?’ he asked gruffly, holding the hood in his hand.
Citrine looked at Edgar. The mob quietened; they wanted to hear her deny her crimes, as those about to hang invariably did.
‘Edgar,’ she beseeched hoarsely, ‘why are you doing this to me? Think of Hubert. He would not want this. Whatever it is you have done, I forgive you. I can help you. Please.’
Edgar, his pale face shining in the moonlight, shook his head slightly. He looked as if he was about to speak but then he turned away.
‘You coward,’ screamed Citrine, finally losing her tenuous grip on self-control.
‘Enough,’ said the Carnifex, and he tightened the noose around her neck. ‘It’s too late for that sort of talk.’
Citrine felt the roughness of the thick rope scratching against her skin. The Carnifex pulled the hood over her head. It smelled of dirt and sweat and, though she had not thought it possible, fear. In the absence of sight her hearing took over; she could identify every single sound: a cat walking along a nearby rooftop, the beating of an owl’s wings as it crossed the night sky, the scratching of the corvids’ talons above her head. And Edgar and his conspirators shuffling their guilty feet in the dirt in front of the platform.
The Carnifex clasped the lever with both hands. The crowd drew a collective breath of anticipation. Citrine heard a creak as he pulled the lever back slowly. Hope was gone. She screamed, a great cheer went up, and the ground fell away from under her feet.
But, instead of the neck-breaking jerk she was expecting, there was a rapid hissing noise, a falling sensation and then she landed in a crumpled heap on the ground beneath the platform. Almost immediately there was another sound, a sort of swooshing and rattling, and it was a sound that Citrine knew.
The Trikuklos.
There began a great commotion: shouting, scuffling in the dirt, thuds, angry cries, feet running in all directions. A small ray of hope dared to flicker in her shrunken heart. The hood was pulled from her head and to her utter amazement she found herself staring into Jonah’s scarred face. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.
‘Run!’ he said. ‘To the Trikuklos!’
And together they scrambled out from under the platform, leaped into the miraculous vehicle of salvation and pedalated away.
Vincent looked around Kamptulicon’s secret cellar and saw with astonishment that the shelves that had once been so full were practically empty. The table that had been groaning under the weight of the madman’s paraphernalia was cleared, apart from a few empty bottles and jars. His heart felt like a piece of lead in his chest. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that he left my smitelight.’
His gaze fell on the torture chair and his stomach lurched. He would have liked to see Kamptulicon sitting in it. As he walked around the room, searching for anything might be useful, out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Folly take something from the table and put it under her coat.
‘What did you find?’
Folly shook her head. ‘Just a pot of balm. Could be useful.’ She looked bitterly disappointed and Vincent began to think that this Lurid hunt was more important to her than he had realized. In the corner where he had tried to hide from Kamptulicon he stumbled on something in the darkness. ‘My Mangledore!’ he exclaimed. And indeed there it was, on the floor between the tea chests. ‘It must have fallen off my belt.’
‘You have a Mangledore?’ Folly said from the chamber doorway.
‘Surprised, eh? Suma Dartson gave it to me. Lucky I found it. Now I don’t have to rely on my wit and talent alone.’
‘Funny,’ said Folly, equally sarcastically. ‘In my business I need all the help I can get.’
‘What business is that?’
But Folly had already left.
When Vincent emerged into the shop Folly was waiting for him at the door.
‘Might as well take some tar while we’re here,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to coming away empty-handed.’
Folly exploded. ‘Domna! It’s not my fault Kamptulicon’s gone!’
Vincent took a step back, surprised at her outburst. ‘I’m not blaming you,’ he began hotly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
Vincent took down two cans of d’Avidus of Degringolade Tar Deluxe. ‘Look, I know how you feel,’ he said in an attempt at mollification. ‘Do you think Kamptulicon’s left Degringolade entirely?’
Folly shook her head and visibly composed herself. ‘I doubt it. He still needs you if he’s to have that Lurid under his thumb. The pendant will only keep it enslaved for a short while without a body.’
‘So what happens if I just hide so it can’t find me?’
‘Well, if you manage to evade the Lurid for long enough, then no one can control it and it becomes completely free to roam as it pleases.’
‘Let’s do that then,’ said Vincent. ‘Just keep out of its way and let it go.’
‘No,’ said Folly sharply. ‘Lurids are evil, evil creatures. I must . . . It must be returned to the Tar Pit.’ She opened the door. ‘Let’s get back to the Kryptos. We need a new plan.’
Quickly, wordlessly, they retraced their steps to Mercator Square, each contemplating in their own way the missed opportunity. The square was almost empty now; the masked people from earlier had gone and only a few stragglers remained.
‘Perhaps if a stone is hollow then it might drift,’ suggested Vincent to lighten the mood. He had been mulling over the riddle all day but was no closer to solving it.
‘Or maybe I just translated it wrong.’ Folly seemed distracted. She had her nose in the air. ‘Can you smell that?’
Vincent sniffed. ‘I smell tar. And something else.’
‘Lurid!’ they said simultaneously.
‘Run,’ urged Vincent, dropping the cans of tar. But Folly stayed where she was and Vincent had taken no more than three steps before Leopold Kamptulicon stepped out from behind a stall and grabbed him by the arm.
CHAPTER 22
THE LURID’S KISS
‘Now, boy, let’s finish what we started,’ snarled Kamptulicon, pinioning Vincent’s arms behind his back. Vincent struggled valiantly but to no avail; Kamptulicon had his forearm across his throat and was choking him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the madman was holding the pendant. The grey stone was swinging violently on the end of the chain.
‘Luride, tipsum monstrate,’ called out Kamptulicon harshly, and the Lurid, until now concealed behind the nearby stall, showed itself. It had changed since Vincent had last seen it, becoming a more monstrous manifestation than before, and its ravaged face was a mask of unexpurgated evil.
‘Assumate puer!’
The Lurid swept forward and once again Vincent found himself staring into the creature’s dead eyes. His nostrils were under assault from its gut-wrenching stench and his very heart was crushed by the weight of its evil intent. The Lurid loomed over him, its face contorting with rage, and Vincent, in his immobilized state, was utterly helpless. He heard an angry shout and Folly came rushing at full pelt towards them. She was holding something, a three-pronged silver weapon he hadn’t seen before.
‘Folly, I . . . !’ he gasped, but Kamptulicon tightened his grip, crushing his throat, and he couldn’t speak.
Folly raised the weapon above her head and made as if to stab at the Lurid but then, inexplicably, she too seemed rendered useless. Her arm dropped and she stood staring at the Lurid as if entranced by it.
Spletivus! Throw a beanbag, a stunner, spray the Natron! Vincent willed her silently, horribly aware that his very consciousness was slipping away.
A moment later, as if Vincent’s desperate thoughts were a sharp stick prodding her, Folly came to life again and launched herself at Kamptulicon from behind. She clung to his shoulders, strangling him with his own cloak. At the same time she grabbed at the chain and tried to wrench it from his neck. Kamptulicon ran backwards, still holding Vincent, and slammed into the stall. Folly took the full impact of the collision, released her hold and fell to the ground.
‘Assumate puer, extemplum!’ screeched Kamptulicon.
Vincent was now fully in the Lurid’s embrace. He could only stare into its black eyes, searching for the human he knew was once in there. From somewhere close by Folly began to scream.
After a wild, bone-jarring ride through the backstreets of Degringolade, Jonah, who had proved to be a skilled if reckless pilot, finally brought the Trikuklos to a standstill on the outskirts of Mercator Square. Citrine, who had been holding on for dear life, turned to her saviour and flung her arms around him.
‘Oh, Jonah,’ she cried. ‘You saved me!’ She hugged him until he began to complain mildly that he was being half squeezed to death.
‘We’re not quite out of the water yet,’ Jonah continued nautically. ‘You’ve escaped the gallows but Edgar will still be looking for you; so will Fessup and the entire DUG. You’re a convicted murderer now, and I’m guilty of helping you. It’ll be both our necks in the noose if they catch us.’
‘Not if I can prove my innocence,’ exclaimed Citrine, her old determination resurfacing. ‘But we can’t risk going back to the Capodel Townhouse now, that’s for certain. We’ll have to find somewhere else to stay for tonight.’
‘I think we should get as far away from Degringolade as we can,’ said Jonah, covering the pedalators with his broad feet. The three wheels began to turn again and he guided the vehicle up the street towards the marketplace. He looked at Citrine with a big grin. ‘I’ve always wanted to drive one of these,’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d get the chance. And I’m still getting my sea legs!’
‘You’re doing tremendously well,’ enthused Citrine, finally starting to calm down and very happy to be a passenger for once; she was still shaking from her near-death experience. ‘But exactly how did you save me? I couldn’t see a thing with that hood on my head. How did you get past all those horrible masked people, and the DUG?’
‘Cowardly mob,’ said Jonah sternly, flushing with embarrassment at Citrine’s compliment. ‘Hiding behind their masks. But they don’t scare me! I just pedalated at them, head on like a ship into a wave. They ran for their lives.’ He laughed. ‘As for your cousin Edgar, I rode right over his leg.’
‘What about the noose?’
Now Jonah flushed with pride. He reached behind him and brought round what looked like a spear attached to a long line of rope.
‘My Cachelot spear. Best shot in the seven seas, they used to tell me. Well, I ain’t lost the touch. I aimed at the rope and it went clean through it. It was chancy, but, by the barnacles, it worked!’
‘It certainly did,’ said Citrine. She wrinkled her nose. ‘That smell, like rotten fish, is it the spear?’
Now Jonah looked a little uncomfortable. ‘It’s my trousers. They’re my lucky ones, you see, the ones I was wearing when I was in the Cachelot. I reckon as they brung me good fortune then so I wore ’em tonight. Us sailors are a superstitious bunch.’
Citrine laughed. ‘Who cares about a . . .’ she began, but at that moment Jonah pedalated straight into a commotion of the most horrifying nature: Vincent and Folly’s mortal struggle against Kamptulicon and the Lurid.
‘Domna!’ exclaimed Citrine. ‘That boy’s being attacked, by one of those masked people!’
Jonah, spurred on perhaps by his earlier victory, grabbed his spear and jumped from the still-moving vehicle, leaving Citrine to slide across the seat and pull on the brake lever to bring the machine to a halt.
‘Stop!’ cried Jonah, waving his hands and running towards the fracas. ‘Stop, you filthy landlubber!’
He wasn’t sure which victim to help first: the floppy-haired boy held down by the masked tatter-clothed assailant, or the blond boy who was struggling wildly in the arms of a shrieking lunatic. When the lunatic saw
Jonah, he snarled at him like a dog.
‘Begone,’ he cried furiously, ‘or you will forfeit your life!’
Jonah hesitated. At such close range he could see this was no ordinary confrontation. He looked at the pair on the ground and realized with a start that what he had taken for a mask was in actuality a real face. As he dithered, the repulsive attacker suddenly released the boy, stood up and started menacingly towards Jonah himself.
‘Fish-guts,’ muttered Jonah. He stood his ground, brandishing his spear, and stared into the abominable face. In that instant he knew exactly what he was dealing with, though he would not have thought it possible.
‘Stay back, you . . . you . . . mucky Lurid!’
He took aim and was about to release his spear when, to his sheer amazement, the Lurid stopped and stood back as he had instructed. It looked all about itself in apparent confusion. The other man, his face a picture of absolute fury, let go of his struggling victim and strode towards Jonah and the Lurid, shouting, ‘Assumate puer! Assumate puer!’
Folly – whom Jonah had mistaken for a boy – now no longer at Kamptulicon’s mercy, wasted no time. She dragged Vincent away from danger and helped him to his feet. At that moment, to compound the confusion, a loud screeching of brakes signalled the arrival of Citrine in the Trikuklos. She drew alongside the trio and threw open the door.
‘Get in,’ she called. ‘Hurry!’
Vincent, Jonah and Folly clambered in and, before Kamptulicon’s disbelieving eyes, they drove away.
‘Subside!’ Kamptulicon shouted at the Lurid, and started running after the Trikuklos. But he had hardly gone more than a few yards when he realized that the Lurid had disobeyed his order to remain behind and was also trying to follow the fleeing foursome. He whirled on the spot and thrust the pendant practically into the Lurid’s rotten face. ‘Subside!’ he screeched maniacally.