The Curse of Salamander Street (22 page)

‘Because Julius Shrume is dead and Lady Tanville was attacked by a hell-hound,’ Barghast said.

‘And am I responsible for both?’ he replied coldly, looking at Bragg. ‘Do you take me for the hound?’

‘Your excuse is not one that can be easily proved,’ Raphah said.

‘So choice, coming from a thief,’ Ergott said coarsely, and he
began to move away from them. ‘And how will you explain the demise of Mister Bragg – self-inflicted wounds? I will have my account to give.’

‘I trust the magistrate will not take too much notice of a man obsessed by magic and whose habit of smoking, shall we say,
clouds
his understanding. Then we shall see,’ said Barghast as he searched the pockets of Bragg’s coat.

Within them were many things: balls of string, empty shells of various snails, a large monocular spectacle and the dried tip of a woman’s finger. In one pocket was a silk ribbon and attached to that a thick brass key. Sundry papers and bills of sale lined the other pockets, and nothing to incriminate Ergott or indeed Bragg could be found. As he was finishing his search, Barghast had almost given up when his finger struck upon a small piece of metal. He picked it carefully from the lining of Bragg’s coat and pulled it into the light.

At first glance it looked nothing more than a large button cut with three rectangular holes. It was only when Barghast put it to his mouth and blew sharply that it made a distinctive high-pitched sound just at the reach of human discernment.

Ergott appeared to grow more and more uncomfortable. He itched his neck and twitched his face as he fumbled with the wand in his pocket. He muttered to himself and rubbed his chin.

‘A wolf whistle,’ Barghast said as he put the metal to his lips again. ‘What was the rhyme?’ he asked and then went on. ‘Once to call from mountain range, twice the wolf to man will change, thrice will change him back again, once more for luck and see him then – is that how it should go, Mister Ergott?’

‘I have no idea, Barghast. Silly children’s riddle and of no meaning. Why Bragg should carry a wolf whistle is beyond me. Perhaps he had a desire to see if there were any such beast left in the country?’ He stuttered uncomfortably and panted like a
dog. ‘Now that I have found a light I will take it and be gone, I have been without sleep and need to rest before the journey.’

‘I play games,’ Barghast said. ‘It’s been a long time and in a different land that I last saw one of these. Used to call a man-wolf from the hills by its master.’

‘Master?’ Lady Tanville asked, never having heard of such a creature.

‘There is a belief that when a man or woman is charmed by a magician they can be turned into a creature of their desire by the playing of an instrument. In the case of the wolf it is always a silver whistle. These are highly collectable and very rare. To blow it in the presence of a man-wolf would render it transformed immediately. This is something to keep should we need to find the beast.’

‘Then I wish you luck,’ Ergott said. ‘I am a dowser and not a magician. My art is a science and as I have said I search for that which is lost – not that which wets against the trees and chases sheep. So if I can be excused?’

‘We will walk with you so that the assassin does not strike again,’ Barghast said.

Raphah knelt upon the floor and, putting his hand upon Bragg’s head, closed his eyes and stilled himself. In that moment all were silent. No one dared ask what he had done. All knew that he had sealed Bragg’s passing.

‘One more thing,’ Barghast asked of Ergott. ‘Your uncle is Lord Finesterre, I believe?’

‘What of it?’ Ergott snapped.

‘He sent you on this quest to search for two lost children?’

‘That he did. What concern is it of yours?’ Ergott asked.

‘Your uncle and I share a common acquaintance,’ Barghast replied.

‘And who would that be?’

‘Obadiah Demurral.’

Ergott did not reply. He stood and stared, the shadows flickering upon his face, his brow twitching with every heartbeat. Slowly and carefully he licked his lips and swallowed hard, trying to bring a smile to his face.

‘Really?’ asked Ergott. ‘Then upon my return I shall seek him out and give him your favour.’

No one saw the figure of the man who looked down from a high balcony cut by long-dead hands into the rocks above. He watched intently as they left the cavern, taking the light with them. Once they had gone, he took a silver bowl from the leather sack that was strung around his neck and scooped water from a nearby pool of lime-water. The man crouched in the darkness and struck a flint against a burnt rag and then lit the lamp by his feet. Long shadows flickered against the high walls as he took a small knife from his pocket, cut the tip of his finger and dripped seven drops of blood into the bowl. With the blade of the knife he stirred the water and watched as it turned to solid ice. As the liquid froze a vision appeared in the ice. The man watched as Raphah and Barghast walked through the cave. It was as if a floating eye followed their every move.

‘Never shall they be from my sight,’ he muttered angrily as he looked upon the vision that danced in the ice. ‘From the day I first saw him I knew he was the key to the world. Seven drops of blood will fill the Chalice around his neck and bring down the kingdom of heaven.’

I
N the upper warehouse of the factory, thick ice had frosted the windows. It patterned the brittle glass, causing the moonlight to cast crystal shadows upon the wooden floor. By the window, wrapped in rags, was Kate. She was imprisoned in a large cage that had once been the home of Galphus’s chickens, now long since gone. Outside the cage, on a tall stool and set upon china plate, was the pyx. Inside the pyx was fresh
Gaudium.
In the hour that she had been imprisoned she had heard the comings and goings of the factory below. The light of the London skies had faded to afternoon grey and soon had left the room dressed in a fading blue. From within her prison, Kate looked out towards the door. It was at least fifty yards away across the warehouse. Scattered throughout the warehouse were various large wooden boxes, many of them empty, some containing old shoes and shards of leather.

The only thing that mattered now to Kate was the small silver pyx sitting tantalisingly upon the plate, two arm’s lengths from where she now sat. At first she hadn’t thought of it. The French beetle had followed her from Galphus’s laboratory up the stairs; it had smiled a melancholy smile and had then vanished into the
floorboards. Galphus’s nose had shrunk to its normal size and the thrashing pain in her guts had subsided. The candles that lit the warehouse did seem to shimmer differently from any she had seen, but apart from that all seemed normal. But with the passing of every second from then on, the desire to hold the pyx had begun to grow and grow.

At first, she thought the feeling was just a desire to quench the burning thirst that cloyed her tongue to her mouth. But as the moments passed, the desire grew. It became like the burning sun scorching the ground. It fixed in her mind alongside the memory of her father and the reccurring face of Obadiah Demurral that grinned at her. Her thoughts of Obadiah had always been the same. She had known him since she was a young child and had never felt comfortable in his presence. It had been his ranting that had made her believe that if there were a creator, then he had forgotten that the world existed. From what she could read in Demurral’s holy book, this great power
loved
her. But in her life there was no evidence of this. Her mother had died; her father had turned to smuggling and drink. Until her meeting with Raphah she had only believed in what she saw. Now she wasn’t so sure. Over the days since Raphah had gone she had begun to speak to Riathamus.

She had no idea of what to say or how to say it. How does one address the creator? She asked herself again and again. Within an hour she had decided just to speak and hope he was listening.

Now as she looked through the bars of the chicken shack, she spoke to him again. She had learnt a prayer as a child and in her jumbled mind a few of the lines stuck out like a rugged outcrop.

‘Give us bread, give us bread,’ she kept on saying, the words flowing like a mantra.

The vision of Demurral came and went again and again. The
urge to hold the pyx grew stronger with each word she spoke. In the barren room, devoid of any beauty, the silver pyx shone brightly. Kate knew she coveted it, had to have it, had to take it from the chair and possess it forever. It became everything in her world. All her thoughts became focused upon it as her eyes examined its every inch. She tried to count the impressions around the rim. Followed the Corinthian swirls on its side and guessed and re-guessed its height. But she knew that what was important was not the pyx but what lay inside.

As the
Gaudium
was sieved from her body, it left a dull but gnawing ache. It was as if she was being dried like a fig and that her very essence was evaporating. Her skin felt as if it were becoming crisp, her lips were dry and bruised. She tried to form the words to speak. All that came from her was a harsh cawing, as if she had become a dying rooster calling its last dawn. Kate tremored with each cackle of dry breath, not from the cold without but from the icy grip within. She looked to her hands: they were thinning before her eyes and the veins stood from her flesh.

The factory churned beneath her feet. From the floors below she could hear the thud and thump of the felt hammers. They smoothed the leather and beat in time with the turning world. It was as if they had become attuned with a deeper rhythm which continued relentlessly like the ticking of a clock, never sleeping, always going on.

Plugging her ears with the tips of her fingers, she sat upon the wooden box that had become chair and bed. She tried to keep out the noise from below and fill her head with sublime thoughts. This failed. She could see nothing within but Demurral. He sat upon a horse, making his way across the moors – relentlessly getting nearer, coming to take her home.

There was a sudden hissing that sounded like a thousand mocking tongues. Through muddied eyes, Kate was sure that
she could see a snake in the corner of the cage. She looked through the gloom and could make out its dark head as it bobbed back and forth, silver-eyed. It remained in the growing dark that the candles could not keep at bay. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

Kate looked again, unsure that the vision had completely disappeared. Hovering two feet from the dirty wooden floor was the snake’s head. It stared, half-gone, through one eye. All the time it fragmented, slowly disappearing, bit by bit, until all that was left was the spitting tongue. It silently flickered in the gloom, the light from a nearby candle reflecting off the moist tip. There was a snap in the air, and from the blackness came the death-white fangs of the creature as it lurched towards her. Kate screamed. The snake grew to the size of a dog’s head, reappearing from the blackness. It bit again and again about her head, fangs sinking into her flesh. Then it was gone.

She held her face in her hands to feel for the blood. Her skin was dry and crisp, with no sign of any attack. And then her head began to buzz. At first it was like a distant ache. It was as if a wasp were alive inside her head. It was as if the creature had crept in whilst she was asleep and now made its home within her head.

Kate screamed again. She shook her head from side to side, remembering the time as a child when her dog had bitten the brittle paper of a wasps’ nest that hung in her father’s barn. It had taken an hour for the dog to die. Now the wasp was contained in her head, and she banged her skull against the bars of the cage. It would call for others to come and take residence within and she would be powerless. They would share her head and she would have to listen to them talking, whispering about her as they searched the world for flower-dew.

The far door rattled and shook as it was pushed quickly open. A solitary Druggle dragged in a boy, his head covered in
a flour sack and tied about the neck. The boy walked slowly, led like a dog across the warehouse towards the cage.

‘Friend for you,’ the Druggle said. He tugged the rope that held the boy fast, then he turned the key and opened the cage door and in one movement had thrown the boy inside. ‘Take off his bindings and his mask. Here,’ he said as he handed Kate a small knife with a silver blade and bone handle, ‘use this.’

With that he locked the door, placed the key on a table by the wall and left by the way he had come.

The boy didn’t speak. He held his head down as if he didn’t know which way the world had turned. Kate took the knife and cut the bindings and then sliced the knot that held the sack to his head. The boy shook it from him, showering the floor in a fine rain of white powder.

‘Thomas?’ Kate asked, unsure if he was real or another delirium.

‘Kate …’ he said thinking that something had changed within her.

‘Galphus said you were dead. I went to your funeral – then he said it was Smutt.’

‘Smutt?’ answered Thomas. ‘Dead?’

‘I saw you dead, put flowers on the grave.’

‘And Jacob?’ Thomas asked.

‘Gone …’ Kate sagged as she thought of him leaving, not knowing if she had been tricked or if he had deserted them.

‘Galphus told me. Said he had sold me to indenture until I was a man. He has them all on indenture, never pays, then they all die.’

‘We need to escape. He’ll come back for us and do the same,’ Kate said.

‘What’s that?’ Thomas asked, his eyes taken towards the stool and the silver pot that sat unnaturally upon it.

‘It’s mine,’ Kate said warily. ‘Remedy … A linctus … For
me.’ She held the knife in her hand, the words of Galphus repeating constantly in her head. ‘I need it, but he won’t let me take it. Left it there to laugh at me.’

‘You’ll be fine, Kate. We’ll get from this place. If Demurral couldn’t keep us locked in his tower, then we can escape this place.’

‘Demurral,’ she said nervously. ‘He’s coming for us. I see him when I close my eyes. On horseback. Coming slowly, mile by mile. Nearer by the day. He’ll finish what he started. I have to have the silver pot, Thomas, and have it now,’ she pleaded.

‘Give me the knife and I’ll force the lock,’ Thomas said.

‘We’ll never get from the building and then he won’t let me have the linctus,’ Kate moaned. ‘Let’s wait, see what happens. I know another way. Sleep on it, Thomas. I’m tired, don’t want to run.’

‘What’s wrong, Kate? We can’t stay here.’

‘Wait until the morrow and then we’ll be gone. Just let me rest until the middle night – we’ll try then. Galphus will be sleeping and the Druggles busy.’

Thomas slumped himself into the corner of the cage and looked at Kate. He knew she was stubborn. It would be pointless to argue. He would wait. Sleep first and then escape. If she wanted to stay, she could. But if Galphus could kill Smutt then he would have no hesitation in killing them, Thomas thought as he settled down.

Kate didn’t speak. There was no sign of welcome in her heart. It was if Thomas didn’t matter. All she could think of was the pyx of
Gaudium
that eluded her. She wrapped the knife in her coat, a thought crossing her mind as to why the Druggle didn’t ask for its return. It was then, as Galphus’s voice spoke in her head, that she realised. It was for her to kill Thomas. Kill him and it will be yours, the voice said, changing to sound like the cry of the wasp.

Kate waited. She counted the seconds in her head and kept her eyes closed for fear of what she would see. Demurral appeared to her. He was smiling, hooded and radiant. Opening one eye, she looked to Thomas. It appeared he slept, his head lolled to his chest as he groaned with sleep-talk.

Kill Thomas and the
Gaudium
will be yours, Galphus said in her mind. She tried not to listen. The pain in her stomach grew to a fever. It spun her guts, knotting them ever tighter as her hands shook. The
Gaudium
began to radiate upon the stool. The pyx glowed and shone brightly. It sung sweetly like the call of a blackbird that only she cold hear. She knew it wanted her to be close by and would only be complete when it was held in her hand.

‘It would be worth his life,’ a voice said.

Kate looked around her. She could see no one.

‘Galphus is right in what he said,’ the voice spoke again.

Kate looked up. There, hanging from the beam above the cage, was a large spider. It smiled at her and spoke again. ‘Just take the knife and it will soon be over,’ it said cheerfully. It spun its web and then descended upon a silver thread that glistened in the moonlight. ‘I will watch you, tell him how well you’ve done. Quickly girl, get it done.’

Kate stood to her feet and looked at the spider. ‘He’s my friend, my brother,’ she said.

‘I ate all my sisters,’ the spider said. ‘Hard at first, then it gets better.’

‘But we said …’

‘Words, girl. Think of yourself, what you want.’ The spider dropped towards her.

Kate couldn’t take her eyes from the creature. It was black and gold with red-tipped feet and the size of a bird. Upon it crawled a multitude of other tiny spiders, all the same in size and colour. They dangled from it so it looked like a Christmas
bauble. The spider came closer until it rested upon her shoulder. Kate didn’t move as it spun a web about her face. It felt as if this was what should be done.

‘Here,’ said the spider as it suddenly nipped her neck. ‘Take this from me it will give you strength.’

Kate could feel the bite. It pinched her quickly. She lifted a hand to knock the spider from her, but it had gone. She pulled the threads of sticky web from her face and watched as they dissolved upon her fingers like strands of angel hair. Then she looked to Thomas. He slept bitterly. His breath was laboured, as if he was running. His hand twitched to fight all around him.

Kate moved closer and closer, knife in hand. She steadied herself, her eyes looking from Thomas to the pyx and back again. She bit her lip, hoping he would forgive her for what she would do. She thought his life was worth less than the
Gaudi
um
– all she had to do was what Galphus had said, kill Thomas and it would be hers. From all around in the dark shadows came a multitude of voices: her mother, Kitty who had drowned on the long rocks, the hanged man they had watched as he swung from the gibbet … Their spirits panted heavily, mumbling the same words:
‘Do it …Do it … Do it …’