Kultus
KULTUS
Richard Ford
Solaris Books
For Dad.
First published 2011 by Solaris an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-302-1
ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-301-4
Copyright © Richard Ford 2011
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
CHAPTER ONE
He was so very proud of his tower; it was one of the highest in the Spires, and a soaring monument to solitude.
From far below wafted the sounds of the streets, the hustle and bustle of the Manufactory with its pumps and its gears and its engines. The window to his spacious study was kept closed most of the time to guard against the pollution that would ride up on the ether and creep into the sanctity of his domain. He would only open it to vent out the smoke from his calabash pipe, an indulgence he seldom allowed himself. Strangely, he found that the murky stench left by the city’s air was far preferable to the pungent miasma left behind by his spicy Latakian weed.
Earl Beuphalus placed his book down on the wide, dark-oak desk and reclined in his worn leather armchair. He ran a finger and thumb up the bridge of his nose, loosening the wire-rimmed spectacles that sat there, and gently rubbed the spot where they pinched his flesh. Damn his eyes for their reliance on eyeglasses, they were a curse to all vain men. He peeled the fragile metal and glass from his face and flung it down on top of his book.
Stretching, he looked around his wood panelled study, glancing in turn at the paintings that hung on every wall, each depicting a key noble of House Westowe. In the corner was great uncle Hannibal, a well-known raconteur and carouser. It was rumoured the old sot had nearly demolished the Westowe fortune before he died. If it had not been for his brother, Duke Cresto, who took over after Hannibal’s untimely demise, there would be nothing left. Cresto’s image hung on the opposite wall, as far from Hannibal as was possible, and next to Cresto was Earl Beuphalus’s father, Gaius, glaring down, red faced and furious as he had been in life. The artist had managed to capture him perfectly; a little too perfectly for Beuphalus’s taste.
The Earl could only wonder what his own portrait would look like as it hung in this ancient study. Would he appear regal, or merely pompous? It mattered little, as long as they got his raiment correct. Beuphalus was a man who enjoyed smart dress at all times. Even now, reclining in his private study, he wore a green satin suit, bespoke made by the finest tailor on Kraken Street. His brown waistcoat was moleskin, made from real moles, and his silken shirt and cravat had cost more than the rest of his attire put together. At the moment he wore leather slippers, but the shoes that matched his current accoutrements had been specially imported from the colonies, hand-crafted and polished to a mirror sheen. It was important, nay imperative, to Earl Beuphalus that he looked his best at all times, even when, as now, he was in private repose. Well, one never knew when one might have visitors.
Outside, the sky was beginning to darken and the ambient glow of the gaslights on the streets below would soon permeate upwards, penetrating the thick smog that hung over the Manufactory. The view would be tremendous, as it always was. From his lofty tower, Beuphalus would look down onto the gaseous pall, lit from beneath by a myriad of colours. It never ceased to take his breath away.
But that would be some time yet. For now he would have to content himself with his books. Or perhaps one book in particular.
Rising from his armchair he walked towards the tall shelf that took up most of one wall. It stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with tomes both ancient and modern. There was no rhyme or reason to the order these books were stacked, but Beuphalus knew the location of each one instinctually. He could close his eyes and reach out, knowing that his fingers would easily find his copy of The Scatological Scientist, by Castigan, or if he wanted something a little more light hearted he could reach down for The Torturer’s Gambol, by Shrike. But it was not scientific journals or canonised comedies that the Earl was looking for. He wanted something much more forbidding.
With a slender hand, he reached up to the top shelf.
1 comment