“As soon as you are ready,” said the abbot.
The friars had washed and repaired his clothes and returned them to him. Brother Fuliginous led him through the abbey, up a vertiginous series of ladders and steps, up into the bell tower. There was a heavy wooden trapdoor in the top of the tower. Brother Fuliginous unlocked it, and the two men pushed through it and found themselves in a narrow tunnel, thickly cobwebbed, with metal rungs set in the side of one wall. They climbed the rungs, going up for what seemed like thousands of feet, and came out on a dusty Underground station platform.
NIGHTINGALE LANE
said the old signs on the wall. Brother Fuliginous wished Richard well and told him to wait there and he would be collected, and then he clambered down the side of the wall, and he was gone.
Richard sat on the platform for twenty minutes. He wondered what kind of station this was: it seemed neither abandoned, like British Museum, nor real, like Blackfriars: instead it was a ghost-station, an imaginary place, forgotten and strange. He wondered why the marquis had not said good-bye. When Richard had asked Door, she had said that she didn’t know, but that maybe good-byes were something else, like comforting people, at which the marquis wasn’t much good. Then she told him that she had something in her eye, and she gave him a paper with his instructions on, and she went away.
Something waved from the darkness of the tunnel: something white. It was a handkerchief on a stick. “Hello?” called Richard.
The feather-wrapped roundness of Old Bailey stepped out of the gloom, looking self-conscious and ill at ease. He was waving Richard’s handkerchief, and he was sweating. “It’s me little flag,” he said, pointing to the handkerchief.
“I’m glad it’s come in useful.”
Old Bailey grinned uneasily. “Right. Just wanted to say. Something I got for you. Here you go.” He thrust a hand into a coat pocket and pulled out a long black feather with a blue-purple-green sheen to it; red thread had been wound around the quill end of the feather.
“Um. Well, thanks,” said Richard, unsure of what he ought to do with it.
“It’s a feather,” explained Old Bailey. “And a good one. Memento. Souvenir. Keepsake. And it’s free. A gift. Me to you. Bit of a thank-you.”
“Yes. Well. Very kind of you.”
Richard put it in his pocket. A warm wind blew through the tunnel: a train was coming. “This’ll be your train now,” said Old Bailey. “I don’t take trains, me. Give me a good roof any day.” He shook Richard’s hand, and fled.
The train pulled in at the station, its headlights were turned off, and there was nobody standing in the driver’s compartment in the front. It came to a full stop: all the carriages were dark, and no doors opened. Richard knocked on the door in front of him, hoping that it was the correct one. The door gaped open, flooding the imaginary station with warm yellow light. Two small, elderly gentlemen holding long, copper-colored bugles stepped off the train and onto the platform. Richard recognized them: Dagvard and Halvard, from Earl’s Court; although he could no longer recall, if he had ever known, which gentleman was which. They put their bugles to their lips and performed a ragged, but sincere, fanfare. Richard got onto the train, and they walked in behind him.
The earl was sitting at the end of the carriage, petting the enormous Irish wolfhound. The jester— Tooley, thought Richard, that was his name—stood beside him. Other than that, and the two men-at-arms, the carriage was deserted. “Who is it?” asked the earl.
“It’s him, sire,” said his jester. “Richard Mayhew. The one who killed the Beast.”
“The Warrior?” The Earl scratched his red-gray beard thoughtfully. “Bring him here.”
Richard walked down to the earl’s chair. The earl eyed him up and down pensively and gave no indication that he remembered ever meeting Richard before. “Thought you’d be taller,” said the earl, at length.
“Sorry.”
“Well, better get on with it.” The old man stood up and addressed the empty car. “Good evening. Here to honor young Mayflower. What was it the bard said?” And then he recited, in a rhythmic alliterative boom, “Crimson the cuts in the carcass, Fast falls the foe, Dauntless devout defender, Bravest of boys . . . Not really a boy anymore, though, is he, Tooley?”
“Not particularly, Your Grace.”
The earl reached out his hand. “Give me your sword, boy.”
Richard put his hand to his belt and pulled out the knife that Hunter had given him. “Will this do?” he asked.
“Yes-yes,” said the old man, taking the knife from him.
“Kneel,” said Tooley, in a stage whisper, pointing to the train floor. Richard went down on one knee; the earl tapped him gently on each shoulder with the knife. “Arise,” he bellowed, “Sir Richard of Maybury. With this knife I do give to you the freedom of the Underside. May you be allowed to walk freely, without let or hindrance . . . and so on and so forth . . . et cetera . . . blah blah blah,” he trailed of vaguely.
“Thanks,” said Richard. “It’s Mayhew, actually.” But the train was coming to a stop.
“This is where you get off,” said the earl. He gave Richard his knife—Hunter’s knife—once more, patted him on the back, and pointed toward the door.
The place that Richard got off was not an Underground station. It was above ground, and it reminded Richard a little of St. Pancras Station—there was something similarly oversized and mock-Gothic about the architecture. But there was also a wrongness that somehow marked it as part of London Below. The light was that strange, strained gray one only sees shortly before dawn and for a few moments after sunset, the times when the world washes out into gloom, and color and distance become impossible to judge.
There was a man sitting on a wooden bench, watching him; and Richard approached him, cautiously, unable to tell, in the gloaming, who the man was, whether it was someone he had met before. Richard was still holding Hunter’s knife—his knife— and now he gripped the hilt more tightly, for reassurance. The man looked up as Richard approached, and he sprang to his feet. He tugged at his forelock, something Richard had previously only seen done on television adaptations of classic novels. He looked both comical and unpleasant. Richard recognized the man as the Lord Rat-speaker.
“Well-well. Yes-yes,” said the rat-speaker, agitatedly, beginning in mid-sentence, “Just to say, the girl Anaesthesia. No hard feelings. The rats are your friends, still. And the rat-speakers. You come to us. We’ll do you all right.”