Vincent continued to sweep the light around the room, but there was no sign of a safe.
‘I suppose that would have been just too easy,’ he murmured. He remembered how in the Capodel Townhouse Edgar had concealed the safe as a drinks cabinet. Leucer could well have done something similar. But the safe he had seen in the Depiction was larger than the Capodels’. He examined the walls carefully, counting the panels, looking for inconsistencies, knocking gently. But it all felt solid.
‘Hmm,’ he mused, thinking and looking hard. His eye fell on the second fireplace, in particular the polished back plate. It had a standard design in relief, a simple log fire, which Vincent thought odd. He would have thought someone like Leucer d’Avidus would have gone for something more ornate. There were three words across the top of the plate:
‘Decus et Tutanem’
The same words as those on his browpin – obviously a common saying here. Now, what was it Folly had said: ‘An ornament and a safeguard’. He rocked on his heels and kept staring at it. Then he laughed. Of course! Leucer had fitted the safe in the fireplace. He pulled out the plate and there it was.
The Dual-Key Bartram QuadraLock might have been the best in its class, but it was no match for Vincent Verdigris. The thick metal door swung open slowly and Vincent felt again the familiar thrill that ran through his very marrow every time he succeeded where he knew others would have failed. His mind was filled with a swiftly moving panorama of memories of his father. He saw again the look of intense concentration on his face as he picked locks, the smile that meant success, he heard the laughter they had shared after chases and a hundred narrow escapes. And he was completely taken by surprise when he found himself suddenly wishing that Folly and Citrine and Jonah had been here to share this moment.
The moment of truth.
He knelt forward and shone the smitelight directly into the safe. What would he find? Money, most likely, perhaps some jewellery, documents that might be useful, but would there be a Blivet?
Yes.
Vincent reached in and grasped the gleaming triple-tined platinum weapon that lay on the middle shelf. It was pleasingly cold to the touch, a little heavier than he had expected and sent a tingle down his spine. He gripped it firmly and jabbed the air with it and allowed himself a little laugh.
‘Hello, Vincent,’ said a man’s voice behind him. ‘I believe you’ve been – how do you say it? – rumbled!’
Except he said ‘rummled’.
CHAPTER 27
KEKRIMPARI
In the Degringolade Playhouse Citrine, along with the hundreds-strong audience, was utterly engrossed in Professor Soanso’s kekrimpari demonstration. It was proving to be, as Edgar had promised in his introduction, an evening of delight, awe and consternation. As the professor’s machine whirred and spun and sparked and crackled, in tandem did the audience gasp and cry out and clap and laugh.
Citrine knew her father would have loved to have seen something like this. In fact, it was so delightfully enthralling that she had to keep reminding herself she was actually there to watch out for Leucer and Edgar. When she did glance up at their box she could just make out the blurred figures of the loathsome pair – Edgar had rejoined Leucer – her spectacles really were very thick. Luckily they appeared equally fascinated with the display and were both leaning forward with their elbows on the balustrade to get a closer look.
Professor Soanso had begun with a simple demonstration of the Kekrimpari Generator. It was a most peculiar machine, an intriguing incorporation of levers and switches and glass cylinders and shining metal and looping wires. After a few basic tricks – showers of sparks and brilliant lightning bolts – the professor had called for volunteers. One man came up onstage and pulled a handle that caused his hair to stand on end, prompting the raucous laughter of the audience. Another fellow had allowed the professor to attach clips to his thumbs and then he jerked about as if in a fit. He declared afterwards that he was in no way hurt, but felt invigorated and thrilled to his marrow!
‘Ah, yes,’ Professor Soanso had explained, ‘kekrimpari is not only a source of energy, but also a potential cure for the many afflictions of modern life. Imagine how it could alleviate lethargy and sadness and mental distress.’
Then he had shown them yet another use: a candle-shaped object with what he called a ‘kekrimpari wick’ enclosed in a sealed jar. ‘See,’ he said, ‘when the candle is shot through with kekrimpari, the wick lights up but does not burn away.’ Indeed, the wick gave off a steady pale yellow glow. ‘Imagine how this light could illuminate your homes and places of work. It is clean, it does not smell . . .’
Professor Soanso’s enthusiasm was contagious and as the evening wore on the air of excitement in the playhouse was at feverish pitch. The show reached its peak with a particularly spectacular display of purple light arcing across the stage, causing the hair of everyone there to stand on end. Citrine joined in the thunderous applause.
Then Professor Soanso, having whipped the audience into a near frenzy, radically changed the mood. He turned down the lights, the orchestra in the pit began to play a sombre tune, almost funereal, and he spoke quietly. ‘Now, my friends, it is time to be serious. I have saved one final powerful illustration for the end. Do not be surprised if you leave tonight having forgotten all you have seen until now and remember only what comes next.’
He beckoned towards the side of the stage and his assistant came on wheeling a trolley covered by a white cloth. He positioned it beside the Kekrimpari Generator. The professor removed the cloth respectfully and, to an accompanying gasp from the crowd, revealed a body laid out on the trolley. It was a man, fully clothed in black tie and coat-tails and white gloves. But there was something odd about the face and it took Citrine a few moments to realize that it was masked. Her own mouth gaped as the reality of what she was about to see dawned on her. Quickly she looked up at the box and was doubly shocked to see that neither Edgar nor Leucer was there. She admonished herself for not keeping a better eye on them and half rose, but then Professor Soanso spoke.
‘Mr Capodel, if you please.’
Citrine hesitated. She felt the all-too-familiar fear rising as she watched Edgar stride across the stage to join the professor in the spotlight. Perhaps Leucer was with him, waiting in the wings. She couldn’t be sure though, and she started to plan her exit.
‘Before we proceed,’ said Edgar, with a degree of sincerity that immediately made Citrine deeply suspicious, ‘let me assure you all that my dear uncle Hubert would not have objected to being a part of this. In life he stated to me and to Dr Chilebreth Ruislip that he viewed his body as a temporary vessel for his spirit – and what a spirit it was! He told me more than once that if his empty vessel could be put to good use after his death, then so be it. He stated further in his will, for all to see, that his greatest wish was to advance science.’
The audience, not quite sure what to make of Edgar’s assurance, began to whisper among themselves. Citrine, torn between staying and going, knew that something very bad was about to pass. Edgar continued.
‘If there are any among you of weak and feeble disposition, with heart murmurs or raised bloods, then I urge you to leave now. I have given permission to Professor Soanso to do as he scientifically pleases with my uncle’s body, because I believe we are about to witness a miracle.’
Uncle’s body? ‘Domna,’ breathed Citrine. ‘What in Aether has Edgar done?’
‘Dear citizens,’ said the professor, ‘please, I beg of you, stay calm. This is a great moment in science. You are about to be party to something that nanyone else has seen in this province, nay this hemisphere! Here before you is the body of Hubert Capodel, taken from his resting place in the Capodel Kryptos. You will see, for your own comfort, that the face has been covered. Mr Capodel was found in the Tar Pit and his appearance had been greatly altered.’
Citrine could not believe what she was hearing. Doubt struck her like a blow. Was she wrong about her father? Was this why the
Capodel Kryptos was empty, became Edgar had removed his body for the professor? She took off her glasses and craned her neck to see if it really was her father, but from up here and with the mask, how could she possibly tell? But she knew it wasn’t beyond the bounds of Edgar’s cruelty.
While Citrine’s mind filled with horror, Professor Soanso calmly attached a number of discs connected to long copper wires to the body’s head. Then he pressed a button, flicked a switch and pulled hard on a lever. A belt began to spin and a humming noise started up, growing louder and louder. Suddenly there was a tremendous crackling, arcs of blue light played about the masked head, and the body, up until then stiff and still, actually moved. The arms rose, the legs jiggled and the head turned and appeared to try to lift. A terrible wail seemed to come from the invigorated corpse and there was a sickening smell of burning.
‘No!’ shouted Citrine before she could help herself. ‘No, what are you doing? Have you no respect?’
All at once she could feel a thousand eyes on her and she realized what she had done. Edgar ran to the edge of the stage. ‘It’s the old lady,’ he shouted. ‘The old lady there!’
The spotlight picked Citrine out and she was momentarily blinded by its light. Then, seeing the Urgs coming for her, she sprang into action and began to clamber over the seats and the audience, who were greatly surprised at her agility, and elbowed her way through the standing crowd, racing up the stairs to the foyer. She ran to the double doors and shoved them open to the shock of the attendants, who had not seen an old lady move so fast before. Finally on the street, she stood for a moment looking all around. Where should she go? A corvid squawked above her head. Suma, I’ll go to Suma.
She took off across the square, skidded round a stall and ran straight into the arms of a pair of waiting Urgs.
‘Let me go!’ she shouted, and struggled so much that her wig fell off.
Someone handed it to her and a heartbreakingly familiar voice said, ‘Hello, cousin. Did you enjoy the show?’
CHAPTER 28
MORE SUBTERRANEAN PEREGRINATIONS . . .
Folly started. Was that a shout she’d heard? She took out her Blivet, held it aloft in readiness and hastened on along the tunnel. She could definitely hear something now, terrible sounds, yelling and moaning. She slowed at a corner and flattened herself against the wall. The air was filled with a sickly sweet smell, like a heavy perfume. Cautiously she moved forward to look round the bend. The sight that met her eyes would have been comical were it not for the very obvious distress of the person making all the noise.
‘Jonah?’ she said in disbelief. But there was no mistaking it: Jonah Scrimshander, the erstwhile Brute, was thrashing about on the ground, apparently fighting off and at the mercy of an invisible enemy. At the sound of her voice the stricken mariner looked up imploringly and Folly was shocked to see that his face and hands were covered in blood. His eyes were wild with fear and he was grunting from the effort of his own defence.
‘Bliv them, Folly,’ he cried. ‘Bliv them!’
Folly rushed forward. ‘Bliv what? There’s nanyone there.’
‘The glasses,’ he gasped, jerking his head weakly in the direction of where they lay just out of his reach. ‘Use the glasses.’ And then his eyes closed and his head fell against the rocky ground.
Folly grabbed the glasses from where they had fallen. She put them on and immediately saw that he was surrounded by creatures of the most vile appearance and intent, possibly the worst she had ever encountered in her life as a Supermundane hunter. She knew what they were straight away, from the teeth and the smell, from the clawed hands and the sinewy bodies.
‘Noctivagrantes!’ she said incredulously. ‘Sweet Domna, save us.’
But then she saw something else, barely more than an outline, just beyond the affray, on the fringe of the shadows: a woman, watching the battle. Her mouth was slightly open, her lips glistened and her eyes shone with cruel delight. Beside her, straining at a thick leash, was a great snarling beast.
Folly’s only thought was for Jonah. She launched herself into the melee, blivving indiscriminately with one hand and thrusting the blazing torch into the throng with the other. It seemed the only way to go about the attack, there were so many. And all the time she could feel the woman’s eyes upon her and hear the growling of the beast.
As each Noctivagrant felt the piercing tines of the Blivet, it jerked violently and shuddered before turning on its attacker. The wounded Superents opened their fang-filled mouths in silent snarls of rage, but before they could inflict their bite on her, they disintegrated before her bespectacled eyes. Others, seeing the shining Blivet, now dripping with their companions’ ghouze, fled down the tunnel and disappeared into the darkness.
Panting, legs akimbo, Blivet poised, Folly stood, preparing herself now for the beast’s attack, anticipating the pain of its fangs tearing her skin, puncturing her limbs. For surely that was its intention?
But the woman and the beast were gone.
A groan alerted her to Jonah’s revival and she hurried to help him into a sitting position against the tunnel wall. He seemed a little dazed, but after a sniff of sal volatile he revived somewhat. Folly dabbed at his lesser wounds and wrapped the deeper ones in bandages from her satchel.
‘Where did you come from?’ he asked. ‘This is the east tunnel.’
‘Is it? To be honest I wasn’t sure where I was at all. Let’s get back to the crossroads chamber. We’ll be safer there.’
Together, Jonah half-supported by Folly, they made their way fearfully back to safety. Folly looked over her shoulder at short intervals, all the time expecting another unforeseen attack. Once in the chamber, both feeling great relief, Folly tended properly to Jonah’s wounds and dosed him with Antikamnial.
‘I think if it wasn’t for these glasses you might well be dead,’ she said, cleaning a deep cut on his arm. ‘It would seem that the lenses, whatever they are made of, can detect otherwise invisible Superents. We have a lot to thank Wenceslas Wincheap for. Pluriba, Noctivagrantes – what else is coming for us?’
‘And mainly since we went to Degringolade Manor,’ observed Jonah, his strength returning.
Folly paused in her administrations. ‘Did you see that woman?’
Jonah looked puzzled. ‘Woman? I only saw those things and their teeth!’
‘I must have imagined it,’ said Folly with a shake of her head. ‘Weren’t you going to wait for me in the tunnel?’
‘You took so long, I thought perhaps I could find another way out. And what about you?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story. Do you think you can keep going?’
Jonah detected a rare note of weariness in her voice, as if she was heavily burdened. He nodded and stood up. ‘Through the woods?’
‘No, I know another way, safer and quicker.’
Jonah managed a smile. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘I find it makes life more interesting,’ she replied, and set off down the west tunnel.
They had been going for a good half-hour when Jonah asked, ‘Are you sure this is the right way? I mean, isn’t this going away from Degringolade?’
‘I have it on good authority that it curves back on itself,’ said Folly, who was ahead of Jonah by virtue of the limited space.
Jonah sighed and they tramped on. ‘Shouldn’t we be somewhere by now?’ he began just as they turned a corner and came again to a solid wall. This time there was no sign of a trapdoor anywhere.
‘Aw, fish-guts, we’re stuck.’
‘They were telling the truth!’ exclaimed Folly. ‘I will admit I was beginning to think we were on a wild-goose chase.’
‘They? Who’s they?’ asked Jonah, tetchy from his wounds.
But Folly wasn’t listening. Muttering to herself, she proceeded to explore the surface of the rock with her fingertips, starting at the bottom and working her way methodically all over. About halfway up she stopped and smiled, pushed firmly and, to Jonah’
s accompanying snort of disbelief, the rock slid smoothly inwards and across.
‘How in the seven seas did you know about that?’ he asked.
Folly tapped her nose. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Let’s get out of here.
They went through the gap and the stone slid back into place leaving no trace of its purpose. Now the passage had become so small they had to crawl. It sloped steeply upward and Jonah was surprised and greatly relieved when he felt a cold breeze and smelled the familiar smell of tar. Together they crawled up to the surface and emerged on to a rocky terrain. Spray and spume blew into their faces.
‘Domne,’ declared Jonah, smiling and licking his lips, ‘I love the taste of the sea.’
For they stood now the two of them on the shore of the Flumen where its dark waters met the briny Turbid Sea. And opposite, on a small island, the lighthouse leaned alarmingly into the wind.
CHAPTER 29
THE STRAW THAT BROKE THE CAMEL’S BACK
Vincent was groggy. His head felt as if it was full of the thick wet mud on the banks of the Flumen. He was intensely cold, right down to the bone, and a breeze was whirling around his head and numbing his ears. Every so often a bright light flashed and hurt his eyes and then it was gone and the darkness returned.
He lay quietly – he was curled up on his side – in the gloom for a short while before trying to sit up, but the world swayed violently so he stopped moving. His hands were tied and his feet were bound. He sighed heavily. This was not a feeling unknown to him.
He was perplexed by the intermittent light, but perceived in its fleeting illumination that he was in a small metal cage suspended by a chain. Every time he moved the cage lurched sickeningly and there was the sound of clanking links.
‘Spletivus,’ he muttered, ‘this is far from good.’