fashioned
from straw (the sort of thing a child might make) to silver pendants and bottles of rare oil and even coins punched and tied together like a necklace. And the value of the offerings also ranged
from one end of the spectrum to the other; the donors knew that no one would dare to steal them for fear of dreadful Supermundane repercussions.
‘Gifts to the Supermundane, to appease the entities. Everyone is upset. The business down at the Tar Pit was bad enough, then the earthquake and now the Kronometer stopping. This is the
Degringoladian way of coping,’ explained Citrine.
‘I ain’t never seen nanything like that before.’
Citrine resisted the urge to point out the multiple negatives in Jonah’s declaration and concentrated on passing through the marketplace as quickly as possible. It was Prax, and she had
thought that by now Mercator Square would be deserted, but in actuality it was quite alive with people and, more alarmingly, Urgs. They stood in groups, easily identified by their headgear, eyeing
the passers-by and watching the traffic.
‘You know,’ said Jonah thoughtfully, trying to make himself as small as possible inside the vehicle. ‘I’m not sure how long we can keep using this Trikuklos. The Urgs
know we have one, and yours does stick out like a swordfish in a school of sardines.’
Citrine knew he was right. Generally people rode about on horseback or in carriages, and although Trikukloi were becoming more and more common, they were still an object of curiosity and
attracted unwanted attention. And, given the fact that the other Trikukloi were single-seaters, Citrine’s, being double and longer and wider, stood out even more.
Jonah continued. ‘Vincent said that the Urgs have been ordered to stop and search all Trikuklos drivers, hoping to find us.’
Citrine pressed harder on the pedals, turned out of the square and shortly afterwards stopped down the dead-end alley beside Claude Caballoux’s horsemeat shop. Together she and Jonah
hurried across the road and Citrine pushed open the door of the Caveat Emptorium to the tuneless accompaniment of the shop bell. When Jonah stepped inside, his huge bulk blocked almost completely
the dull early-evening light.
‘Would it surprise you to know,’ Citrine whispered, ‘I have never been in this shop?’
Jonah was not surprised. Wenceslas Wincheap’s Caveat Emptorium, indeed any such establishment of barter, was not the typical haunt of a family such as the Capodels.
Citrine couldn’t help but feel excited at this new experience. The last year in the Capodel Townhouse with Edgar had been very difficult. He had kept her on a short lead, isolated her from
her friends and saddled her with a strict governess. She would never have thought that it would take a charge of murder to escape him. Of course, the prospect of the noose still hung over her head
like the sword of Damocles, and she felt wretched about poor Florian, but there was no denying she was enjoying her new-found freedom, despite the complications that came with it.
‘I’ve been here once or twice,’ said Jonah. ‘There’s good fishing down near the lighthouse – but you must watch out for those gulls, vicious they are –
and Wenceslas always has a supply of fish hooks and bait buckets.’
Their eyes had barely adjusted to the poor light when a voice boomed out from somewhere further back in the shop. ‘Well, well! I believes I could get meself a few hundred sequenturies if I
turned youse in!’
The rotund figure of Wenceslas Wincheap manifested itself from the shadows and stepped into the light of his own manuslantern, which he helpfully held above his head. Citrine and Jonah stood
aside as he squeezed past them and locked the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Citrine, who had paled at the sound of the turning key. ‘It ain’t to keep you in, more to keep unwelcome visitors out. Now I can give you
me full attention. Suma said I was to look out fer
from straw (the sort of thing a child might make) to silver pendants and bottles of rare oil and even coins punched and tied together like a necklace. And the value of the offerings also ranged
from one end of the spectrum to the other; the donors knew that no one would dare to steal them for fear of dreadful Supermundane repercussions.
‘Gifts to the Supermundane, to appease the entities. Everyone is upset. The business down at the Tar Pit was bad enough, then the earthquake and now the Kronometer stopping. This is the
Degringoladian way of coping,’ explained Citrine.
‘I ain’t never seen nanything like that before.’
Citrine resisted the urge to point out the multiple negatives in Jonah’s declaration and concentrated on passing through the marketplace as quickly as possible. It was Prax, and she had
thought that by now Mercator Square would be deserted, but in actuality it was quite alive with people and, more alarmingly, Urgs. They stood in groups, easily identified by their headgear, eyeing
the passers-by and watching the traffic.
‘You know,’ said Jonah thoughtfully, trying to make himself as small as possible inside the vehicle. ‘I’m not sure how long we can keep using this Trikuklos. The Urgs
know we have one, and yours does stick out like a swordfish in a school of sardines.’
Citrine knew he was right. Generally people rode about on horseback or in carriages, and although Trikukloi were becoming more and more common, they were still an object of curiosity and
attracted unwanted attention. And, given the fact that the other Trikukloi were single-seaters, Citrine’s, being double and longer and wider, stood out even more.
Jonah continued. ‘Vincent said that the Urgs have been ordered to stop and search all Trikuklos drivers, hoping to find us.’
Citrine pressed harder on the pedals, turned out of the square and shortly afterwards stopped down the dead-end alley beside Claude Caballoux’s horsemeat shop. Together she and Jonah
hurried across the road and Citrine pushed open the door of the Caveat Emptorium to the tuneless accompaniment of the shop bell. When Jonah stepped inside, his huge bulk blocked almost completely
the dull early-evening light.
‘Would it surprise you to know,’ Citrine whispered, ‘I have never been in this shop?’
Jonah was not surprised. Wenceslas Wincheap’s Caveat Emptorium, indeed any such establishment of barter, was not the typical haunt of a family such as the Capodels.
Citrine couldn’t help but feel excited at this new experience. The last year in the Capodel Townhouse with Edgar had been very difficult. He had kept her on a short lead, isolated her from
her friends and saddled her with a strict governess. She would never have thought that it would take a charge of murder to escape him. Of course, the prospect of the noose still hung over her head
like the sword of Damocles, and she felt wretched about poor Florian, but there was no denying she was enjoying her new-found freedom, despite the complications that came with it.
‘I’ve been here once or twice,’ said Jonah. ‘There’s good fishing down near the lighthouse – but you must watch out for those gulls, vicious they are –
and Wenceslas always has a supply of fish hooks and bait buckets.’
Their eyes had barely adjusted to the poor light when a voice boomed out from somewhere further back in the shop. ‘Well, well! I believes I could get meself a few hundred sequenturies if I
turned youse in!’
The rotund figure of Wenceslas Wincheap manifested itself from the shadows and stepped into the light of his own manuslantern, which he helpfully held above his head. Citrine and Jonah stood
aside as he squeezed past them and locked the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Citrine, who had paled at the sound of the turning key. ‘It ain’t to keep you in, more to keep unwelcome visitors out. Now I can give you
me full attention. Suma said I was to look out fer
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