The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,161

thrummed with the noise. A cacophony of ghosts, screeching out of the past.

What happened here?

The chamber at the bottom was another cellar, larger than the first. It was damp, freezing and gloomy. The edges of the bricks had been nibbled away by time. Mould grew in black patches. Electric lights had been placed on the floor, against the walls, but they did little more than push back the shadows.

This place was a sanctum.

Evidence of daemonism was everywhere. The centre of the room was dominated by a huge cage, a dodecahedron of rusted bars that stood on an octagonal pedestal. Symbols, similar to those on the doors, had been carved into the pedestal. Metal rods stood at the points of the octagon, one of them bent at an angle. Cables led from the cage to antique machines, as big as cabinets. Sections of panelling had come away from the machines to reveal broken cogs, springs, tiny gears and switches. There were lecterns with rotted books lying open on them. Seats were placed in rows, some tipped over and missing legs. There was a table, a chest, and a shattered chalkboard smudged with the suggestion of words and symbols.

The damage hadn't all been caused by the hand of time. The chalkboard had been broken by force. So had several chairs, and the panelling on one of the machines. There had been conflict here.

It was a reconstruction, Jez realised. Grist had found this place in disarray, and put everything back as best he could. She knew now what he'd brought them to see. The cries surrounded her, battering at her mind. The wails of the daemonists and the savage triumph of the daemons.

'This was where it started,' she said.

Grist put a fresh cigar in his mouth. The flare of the match lit up his face, turning it craggy and sinister. He puffed, drew in the smoke, and blew it out, surveying the room as if it were some grand vista.

'Right you are, ma'am. This is where they came, that day, to perform their secret ritual. Didn't know what they were messin' with, I reckon. Full of 'emselves. Explorers of the unknown. I ain't sure what they thought they were lookin' for—'

'But what they got were the Manes,' said Frey.

Grist regarded him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. 'Well. Seems my little surprise ain't so much of a surprise after all.'

'We dropped in on Professor Kraylock at Bestwark,' said Frey. His tone was dead, void of emotion. 'He filled us in on what your father was up to. He sent you his research, didn't he? Before he was killed.'

Grist took out his cigar and waggled the nub in Frey's direction. 'You're a smart one, Cap'n,' he said, impressed.

Frey looked at Trinica. 'Not that smart.'

Grist stuck the cigar back into place between his teeth. 'Women,' he commisserated. 'Can't live with 'em, can't feed 'em into a meat grinder and feast on their remains.'

Trinica showed no reaction, just gazed at him with eyes black as a shark's. Grist grinned and turned back to Frey. 'Ah, she ain't got anything to say. She's been well paid.'

Jez was finding it hard to follow the conversation. Just being here was like standing in the torrent of a river, trying not to be swept away. The memory of the Manes was everywhere here. She felt herself sliding into a trance, and fought it.

'You found this place through your father's notes?' Trinica asked.

Her head was tipped back and she was studying the ceiling, most of which was lost to darkness.

'Aye,' said Grist. 'Used to be there was a manse here. Belonged to a businessman, name o' Slinth. He was a big name in daemonist circles, back in the old days. This was his sanctum. Used to be some way outside o' town, but Sakkan's grown since then, turned into a city. They knocked the old place down, built a cannin' factory over it. Never knew the cellar was here. My Dad figured it out, though. I bought up the factory, so I could get to what was underneath.'

'Well,' said Frey, looking around at the dank room. 'It was certainly worth it.'

Grist didn't rise to the sarcasm. 'Thought there'd be answers here, but there ain't answers. The books were past savin'. Couldn't read what was on the chalkboards. This place is just a museum.' He coughed his hacking cough. 'Still, I put the land to good use. The warehouses, the hangar. You come in at night when no one's around to spot you.