The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls by F E Higgins Page A

the night.
He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small Degringoladian timepiece, another ill-gotten gain. He had brought one of his own to the city, but soon enough he had wanted one that showed
Antithican time. At first he had been a little confused with the Degringoladian method of measuring the passing hours, but not any more. In fairness, it was not a complicated system, just
different. His new timepiece was marked like the Kronometer, divided into the four sections of the day: Nox, Lux, Prax and Crex, Nox being the longest. Vincent was right about the time, the hand
was still in Nox, but Lux was approaching.
    The Antithican year, he had discovered, also had its eccentricities, having thirteen months, not twelve. Citrine had explained to him how the thirteen pillars of the Kronometer represented those
months. The Festival of the Lurids came at the end of the tenth month. Gevra, the coldest season, lasted four months and the new year began in Torock, the season of growth. Now they were well into
the eleventh month, with little to look forward to but more snow and Caligo, the thirteenth and coldest month of all. Vincent remembered how he had declared in his cavalier fashion that he could
leave the city at any time. He knew that window of opportunity was fast closing. The barren plain would be snowbound by now. He would be mad to try to cross it.
    Jonah was in a deep sleep, flat out on his back in the niche in the wall where Lady Degringolade’s casket had been. His finger-knitted hands were resting on his chest and his loud snoring
reverberating around the tomb
    Quietly Vincent got up and pulled on his boots. He patted his pockets, checking his supply of black beans and Natron disperser (he had replenished them after the attack in the manor). Other
pockets contained his father’s picklocks, his knife, a coil of rope and a grapnel to replace the one he had left behind on his last escape (his encounter with Constable Weed seemed an age ago
now!). He also had a Brinepurse, containing the special Natron crystals that repelled Superents. Usually the Degringoladians would have dispensed with their Brinepurses after the Ritual of
Appeasement, but after all the hoo-ha at the Tar Pit they weren’t taking any chances and most were still carrying them.
    Vincent crept to the door and opened it, cringing at the scraping sound (Jonah had managed to straighten it a little, but not enough to fully rectify the problem). He froze when Citrine suddenly
sighed and shifted in her bed, but then she settled down again and he slipped out into the cold, snow-covered Komaterion.
    At first Vincent saw no sign of Folly. He was about to use his smitelight when he spotted the yellow glow of her manuslantern up ahead, so, keeping a safe distance between them, he followed as
quietly as he could. He was not yet at ease with the overgrown terrain (he was much more at home on the cobbled streets of urbanity) and was further hindered by the headstones and statues that had
been damaged by the quake and now lay at angles across his path. He stumbled more than once and each time cursed inwardly at the noise he was making. But the bobbing light was still visible moving
rapidly away from him. Folly hadn’t heard him.
    At the Komaterion gates Vincent halted and tried to ascertain where his enigmatic companion might be going. He could see that she had reached the fork in the path, one leg of which led to
Degringolade. Her light took the other, towards the Tar Pit. ‘Well, well,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps she does know more about Axel’s Blivet than she lets on.’
    He started on the same path but was almost immediately startled by a sudden flurry of flickering blue Puca lights. He had learned, through bitter experience, to ignore them. Very soon after his
arrival in Degringolade he had made the mistake one night of following them. They had led him down to the Tar Pit where, disorientated, he had nearly suffocated from the gases. He