The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

‘Whose are they?’ asked Steerpike. They were climbing stone stairs. The wall on their right was draped with hideous papers that were peeling off and showed rotting surfaces of chill plaster behind. A mingling of many weird colours enlivened this nether surface, dark patches of which had a submarine and incredible beauty. In another dryer area, where a great sail of paper hung away from the wall, the plaster had cracked into a network of intricate fissures varying in depth and resembling a bird’s-eye view, or map of some fabulous delta. A thousand imaginary journeys might be made along the banks of these rivers of an unexplored world.

Steerpike repeated his question, ‘Whose are they?’ he said.

‘Whose what?’ said Flay, stopping on the stairs and turning round. ‘Still here are you? Still following me?’

‘You suggested that I should,’ said Steerpike.

‘Ch! Ch!’ said Flay, ‘what d’you want, Swelter’s boy?’

‘Nauseating Swelter,’ said Steerpike between his teeth but with one eye on Mr Flay, ‘vile Swelter.’

There was a pause during which Steerpike tapped the iron banisters with his thumb-nail.

‘Name?’ said Mr Flay.

‘My name?’ asked Steerpike.

‘Your name, yes, your name, I know what my name is.’ Mr Flay put a knuckly hand on the banisters preparatory to mounting the stairs again, but waited, frowning over his shoulder, for the reply.

‘Steerpike sir,’ said the boy.

‘Queerpike, eh? eh?’ said Flay.

‘No, Steerpike.’

‘What?’

‘Steerpike. Steerpike.’

‘What for?’ said Flay.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What for, eh? Two Squeertikes, two of you. Twice over. What for? One’s enough for a Swelter’s boy.’

The youth felt it would be useless to clear up the problem of his name. He concentrated his dark eyes on the gawky figure above him for a few moments and shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly. Then he spoke again, showing no sign of irritation.

‘Whose cats were those, sir? May I ask?’

‘Cats?’ said Flay, ‘who said cats?’

‘The white cats,’ said Steerpike. ‘All the white cats in the Cat room. Who do they belong to?’

Mr Flay held up a finger. ‘My Lady’s,’ he said. His hard voice seemed a part of this cold narrow stairway of stone and iron. ‘They belong to my Lady. Lady’s white cats they are. Swelter’s boy. All hers.’

Steerpike pricked his ears up, ‘Where does she live?’ he said. ‘Are we close to where she lives?’

For answer Mr Flay shot his head forward out of his collar and croaked, ‘Silence! you kitchen thing. Hold your tongue you greasy fork. Talk too much,’ and he straddled up the stairs, passing two landings in his ascent, and then at the third he turned sharply to his left and entered an octagonal apartment where full-length portraits in huge dusty gold frames stared from seven of the eight walls. Steerpike followed him in.

Mr Flay had been longer away from his lordship than he had intended or thought right and it was on his mind that the earl might be needing him. Directly he entered the octagonal room he approached one of the portraits at the far end and pushing the suspended frame a little to one side, revealed a small round hole in the panelling the size of a farthing. He placed his eye to this hole and Steerpike watched the wrinkles of his parchment-coloured skin gather below the protruding bone at the base of the skull, for Mr Flay both had to stoop and then to raise his head in order to apply his eye at the necessary angle. What Mr Flay saw was what he had expected to see.

From his vantage point he was able to get a clear view of three doors in a corridor, the central one belonging to the chamber of her ladyship, the seventy-sixth Countess of Groan. It was stained black and had painted upon it an enormous white cat. The wall of the landing was covered with pictures of birds and there were three engravings of cacti in bloom. This door was shut, but as Mr Flay watched the doors on either side were being constantly opened and closed and figures moved quickly in and out or up and down the landing, or conversed with many gesticulations or stood with their chins in the curled palms of their hands as though in profound meditation.

‘Here,’ said Flay without turning round.

Steerpike was immediately at Flay’s elbow. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Cat door’s hers,’ said Flay removing his eye, and then, stretching his arms out he spread his long fingers to their tips and yawned cavernously.