“I’ve felt better.” The marquis sat up, shivering. His nose was running, and his eyes flickered about: he was staring at the world as if he had never seen it before.
“What did you have to go and get yourself killed for, anyway, that’s what I want to know,” asked Old Bailey.
“Information,” whispered the marquis. “People tell you so much more when they know you’re just about to be dead. And then they talk around you, when you are.”
“Then you found out what you wanted to know?”
The marquis fingered the wounds in his arms and his legs, “Oh yes. Most of it. I have more than an inkling of what this affair is actually about.” Then he closed his eyes once more, and wrapped his arms about himself, and swayed, slowly, back and forth.
“What’s it like then?” asked Old Bailey. “Being dead?”
The marquis sighed. And then he twisted his lips up into a smile, and with a glitter of his old self, he replied, “Live long enough, Old Bailey, and you can find out for yourself.”
Old Bailey looked disappointed. “Bastard. After all I done to bring you back from that dread bourne from which there is no returning. Well usually no returning.”
The marquis de Carabas looked up at him. His eyes were very white in the moonlight. And he whispered, “What’s it like being dead? It’s very cold, my friend. Very dark, and very cold.”
Door held up the chain. The silver key hung from it, red and orange in the light of Hammersmith’s brazier. She smiled. “Fine work, Hammersmith.”
“Thank you, lady.”
She hung the chain around her neck and hid the key away inside her layers of clothes. “What would you like in return?”
The smith looked abashed. “I hardly want to presume upon your good nature . . . ” he mumbled.
Door made her “get on with it” face. He bent down and produced a black box from beneath a pile of metalworking tools. It was made of dark wood, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, and was the size of a large dictionary. He turned it over and over in his hands. “It’s a puzzle-box,” he explained. “I took it in return for some smithing a handful of years back. I can’t get it to open, though I’ve tried so hard.”
Door took the box and ran her fingers over the smooth surface. “I’m not surprised you haven’t been able to open it. The mechanism’s all jammed. It’s completely fused shut.”
Hammersmith looked glum. “So I’ll never find out what’s in it.”
Door made an amused face. Her fingers explored the surface of the box. A rod slid-out of the side of the box. She half-pushed the rod back into the box, then twisted. There was a clunk from deep inside it, and a door opened in the side. “Here,” said Door.
“My lady,” said Hammersmith. He took the box from her and pulled the door open all the way. There was a drawer inside the box, which he pulled open. The small toad, in the drawer, croaked and looked about itself with copper eyes, incuriously. Hammersmith’s face fell. “I was hoping it would be diamonds and pearls,” he said.
Door reached out a hand and stroked the toad’s head. “He’s got pretty eyes,” she said. “Keep him, Hammersmith. He’ll bring you luck. And thank you again. I know I can rely on your discretion.”
“You can rely on me, lady,” said Hammersmith, earnestly.
They sat together on the top of the London Wall, not speaking. Old Bailey slowly lowered the baby carriage wheels to the ground below them. “Where’s the market?” asked the marquis.
Old Bailey pointed to the gunship. “Over there.”
“Door and the others. They’ll be expecting me.”
“You aren’t in any condition to go anywhere.” The marquis coughed, painfully. It sounded, to Old Bailey, like there was still plenty of sewer in his lungs. “I’ve made a long enough journey today,” de Carabas whispered. “A little farther won’t hurt.” He examined his hands, flexed the fingers slowly, as if to see whether or not they would do as he wished. And then he twisted his body around, and began, awkwardly, to climb down the side of the wall. But before he did so, he said, hoarsely and perhaps a little sadly, “It would seem, Old Bailey, that I owe you a favor.”
When Richard returned with the curries, Door ran to him and threw her arms around him. She hugged him tightly, and even patted his bottom, before seizing the paper bag from him and pulling it open with enthusiasm. She took a container of vegetable curry and began, happily, to eat.
“Thanks,” said Door, with her mouth full. “Any sign of the marquis yet?”
“None,” said Hunter.
“Croup and Vandemar?”
“No.”
“Yummy curry. This is really good.”
“Got the chain all right?” asked Richard. Door pulled the chain up from around her neck, enough to show it was there, and she let it fall again, the weight of the key pulling it back down.
“Door,” said Richard, “this is Lamia. She’s a guide. She says she can take us anywhere in the Underside.”
“Anywhere?” Door munched a papadum.
“Anywhere,” said Lamia.
Door put her head on one side. “Do you know where the Angel Islington is?”
Lamia blinked, slowly, long lashes covering and revealing her foxglove-colored eyes. “Islington?” she said. “You can’t go there . . . “
“Do you know?”
“Down Street,” said Lamia. “The end of Down Street. But it’s not safe.”
Hunter had been watching this conversation, arms folded and unimpressed. Now she said, “We don’t need a guide.”
“Well,” said Richard, “I think we do. The marquis isn’t around anywhere. We know it’s going to be a dangerous journey. We have to get the . . . the thing I got . . . to the Angel. And then he’ll tell Door about her family, and he’ll tell me how to get home.”
Lamia looked up at Hunter with delight. “And he can give you brains,” she said, cheerfully, “and me a heart.”
Door wiped the last of the curry from her bowl with her fingers, and licked them. “We’ll be fine, just the three of us, Richard. We cannot afford a guide.”
Lamia bridled. “I’ll take my payment from him, not you.”
“And what payment would your kind demand?” asked Hunter.
“That,” said Lamia with a sweet smile, “is for me to know and him to wonder.”