‘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.’
CHAPTER 16
ON THE TRAIL
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.
CHAPTER 17
THE LANTERN BEARERS
‘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 Flum
en 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.
He was heartened, however, by the thought of the mansions on the hill. He would pay one or two a visit before he left Degringolade. He remembered too the green-eyed girl’s Trikuklos. What a fine prize that would be. And then he would get the Aether out of this place.
Resolutely he strode on, but the path was increasingly difficult to negotiate, and it wasn’t long before he was beginning to feel uneasy. Surely he should be able to see the city lights by now. Once the edge of the path gave way and he sank ankle deep into the marshy verge. ‘This’ll do my boots no good at all!’ he lamented as he pulled his feet out of the sucking mud – they were a particularly fine pair he had stolen prior to his arrival in Degringolade. Back on firmer ground, he checked the compass but the needle was spinning wildly, refusing to settle. His heart sank. How long had he been going the wrong way? To compound his unease, the ever-present howling was increasing in volume and to Vincent, alone out on the dark, inhospitable marsh, the noise seemed rather more menacing than when he had first heard it from his perch in the Kronometer. So, when a cluster of blue lights appeared up ahead in the mist, he hailed the mysterious lantern bearers with some relief.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you going?’ They must have heard for the lights steadied in one place, though no one replied. ‘Should I follow?’ he wondered. The lights moved on and he found the decision was made for him. ‘Wait for me!’
He stumbled towards the lights, but they were always ahead of him. When he slowed, they slowed, and when he speeded up, so too did the lights. ‘They’re teasing me,’ he laughed suddenly. He felt quite light-headed. The tarry smell that had accosted his nose and throat ever since he had arrived in Degringolade was stronger here. He lunged for a light that danced just feet away, lost his footing and began to half roll, half slide downhill, coming to an abrupt and painful halt against some sort of rock. Winded, he lay for a moment before turning on to his stomach and reaching for his manuslantern, which was lying nearby. But when he held it up his stomach twisted with terror. He was lying not on rough gravel, but on a shingle of blackened bones. Human bones.
Panicking and desperate to get away from the smell and the agonized wailing, Vincent scrambled to his feet. Racked by a fit of coughing he began gasping for air. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fill his lungs. Then a gap opened up in the mist and instantly he knew where he had come. He was nowhere near Degringolade; he was on the shore of the Tar Pit. And there, out on its dark bubbling surface, he saw the source of the howling, the horde of swaying Lurids that bayed ceaselessly at the diminishing moon. A sob of fear caught in his throat. There were hundreds of them!
The Lurids sensed his presence and raced towards the shore. Vincent staggered backwards, his limbs heavy and difficult to move, the sticky tar pulling at his boots, and his disbelieving eyes were mesmerized by the ululating mob. His head was spinning, his lungs were contracting and his own moans of terror mingled with those of the advancing Lurids. In an instant of clarity he remembered his gas mask. But it was too late. If he could just get up the slope, away from the noxious lake. But now he was surrounded by tall shapes. People? No, pillars of some sort. He stumbled on, straight into the path of a dark shadow with huge eyes and a long snout. A Degringoladian devil!
Vincent tried to call out, but his voice failed him. He could only croak as he sank to his knees on the sharp bones. The devil creature leaned down and he could see the abject terror on his own face reflected in its glassy eyes. He could hear its heavy breathing, like frothing water. He tried to lift his arms to defend himself, but they wouldn’t work.
‘Stop fighting me, you fool,’ said a muffled voice, ‘and put on your mask.’
Vincent stood in front of the Kryptos fire warming his hands. His lungs still burned slightly when he inhaled but gradually his breathing was improving. Another dose of Antikamnial had taken the edge off his throbbing hand, but nothing could take away the crippling feeling of foolishness.
‘You’re lucky I came looking for you,’ said Folly lightly. ‘You wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Did you not think to put on your gas mask? And even luckier you could still walk. I couldn’t have dragged you back here.’
‘I was doing OK until the compass stopped working,’ he said defensively.
‘Compasses don’t work near the Tar Pit. The whole place is full of impedimentium, a magnetic ore; it affects the needle.’
‘If it hadn’t been for those blue lanterns then.’
‘Corpse candles, they’re called. The Puca spirits carry them to lead you astray, just for the fun of it. You should never follow them.’
‘Puca?’ began Vincent, but when he saw the expression on Folly’s face he didn’t dare to challenge her. Besides, he really wasn’t so sure of himself right now. Maybe there was something to all this superstition after all.
Folly continued coolly. ‘Anyway, I have something for you.’ She held out a tangled mass of metal and leather.
‘A present?’ Vincent was noticeably taken aback, but his initial look of confusion was quickly replaced by one of recognition and he managed a laugh. ‘The artificial arm from the Caveat Emptorium.’
‘I saw it and thought of you,’ said Folly with the hint of a smile. ‘It might make things a little easier. I’ll help you put it on.’
Vincent forgot his irritation and pushed up his sleeve. Carefully he placed his mutilated arm into the conical metal shape and down into the glove-like hand. His surviving fingers fitted easily into the thumb and forefinger and he decided not to detach them for the time being. Folly helped him with the web of straps and buckles. ‘It might take a bit of getting used to. Wenceslas said that it had some special tricks.’
Vincent turned the hand this way and that. It was surprisingly light and flexible. The surface was rusty and dull, though nothing a good polish wouldn’t improve, and the joints creaked a little, but the leather straps were soft and worn. There were three inset sliding switches and a small dial on the underside of the wrist. He pushed one of the switches forward but nothing happened.
‘This is marvellous,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll be able to hold things again.’ He reached for a knife on the table, but before he was near enough to grasp it, the knife slid rapidly towards him and attached itself to one of the metal fingers. ‘It’s magnetic! I think it was that switch
.’ Vincent slid the switch back to its original position and instantly the knife clattered to the ground. ‘Spletivus! This could be better than a real hand!’
He looked over at Folly, his eyes shining. This was the best he had felt since it had all happened. ‘Thanks for saving me, again,’ he said. ‘You know, to be honest, after what I saw out there on the Tar Pit, I’m starting to believe you . . . about the Lurids.’
Folly laughed. ‘Starting? Better late than never, I suppose.’
‘It could have been the gases, you know, making me see things,’ he retorted. Then he softened his tone and smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking, maybe we can help each other.’
‘We? I thought there was no “we”.’
‘Yes, I know what I said earlier. I wasn’t thinking straight – all those potions you gave me. But if you help me to get my smitelight back I’ll help you.’
Folly seemed to find the offer amusing. ‘But you don’t know what I want to do.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure,’ said Vincent chirpily, feeling a little more like his old self.
‘It’s in your interest, actually. I have to send the Lurid back to the Tar Pit.’
Vincent couldn’t help but look surprised. ‘Have to? Who says? And, anyway, how is what you do to that stinker in my interest?’
‘Because that “stinker” is coming after you.’
Vincent laughed, still flexing his metal hand. ‘You’re joking.’
But Folly was deadly serious. ‘Listen. Kamptulicon has taken advantage of the lunar apogee to free a Lurid. That paste he made binds you to the Lurid, and he wants it to take over your body.’
Vincent grimaced, recalling the Lurid’s cold kiss. ‘What sort of maniac is this Kamptulicon? Why does he want a Lurid?’
Folly made a gesture of incomprehension with her hands. ‘Nany honourable reason, you can be sure,’ she said grimly. ‘But, as for dealing with the Lurid, I might just have something to help us.’ There was an unmistakable twinkle in her eye as she dug into her pocket and pulled out a small black book.