"Do you drink wine?" it asked.
Richard nodded.
"I had a little wine once," said Door, hesitantly. "My father. He. At dinner. Would let us taste it."
The Angel Islington lifted the bottle: it looked like some kind of decanter. Richard wondered if the bottle was made of glass; it refracted and reflected the candlelight so strangely. Perhaps it was some kind of crystal, or one huge diamond. It even made it seem that the wine inside was glowing, as if it were made of light.
The angel took the top off the crystal and poured an inch of the liquid inside it into a wine glass. It was a white wine, but a wine unlike any Richard had ever seen. It threw light around the caverns1, like sunlight on a swimming pool.
Door and Richard sat around an age-blackened wooden table, on huge wooden chairs, and said nothing. "This wine," said Islington, "is the last bottle of its kind. I was given a dozen bottles by one of your ancestors."
It handed the glass to Door, and began to pour another inch of the glowing wine from the decanter into another glass. It did this reverently2, almost lovingly, like a priest performing a ritual. "It was a welcome gift. This was, oh, thirty, forty thousand years ago. Quite a while ago, at any rate." It passed the wine glass to Richard. "I suppose that you could accuse me of squandering3 something I should treasure," it told them. "But I receive guests so rarely. And the way here is hard."
"The Angelus . . . " murmured Door.
"You traveled here using the Angelus, yes. But that way works only once for each traveler." The angel raised its glass high, staring at the light. "Drink it carefully," it advised them. "It is most potent4." It sat down at the table, between Richard and Door. "When one tastes it," it said, wistfully, "I like to imagine that one is actually tasting the sunlight of bygone days." It held up its glass. "A toast: to former glories."
"Former glories," chorused Richard and Door. And then, a little warily6, they tasted the wine, sipping7 it, not drinking.
"It's amazing," said Door.
"It really is," said Richard. "I thought old wines turned to vinegar when they were exposed to air."
The angel shook its head. "Not this one. It is all a matter of the type of grape and the place it was grown. This kind of grape, alas8, perished when the vineyard vanished beneath the waves."
"It's magical," said Door, sipping the liquid light. "I've never tasted anything like it."
"And you never will again," said Islington. "There is no more wine from Atlantis."
Somewhere inside Richard a small, reasonable voice pointed9 out that there never was an Atlantis, and, thus emboldened10, went on to state that there were no such things as angels, and that furthermore, most of his experiences of the last few days had been impossible. Richard ignored it. He was learning, awkwardly, to trust his instincts, and to realize that the simplest and most likely explanations for what he had seen and experienced recently were the ones that had been offered to him--no matter how unlikely they might seem. He opened his mouth and tasted the wine once more. It made him feel _happy._ It made him think of skies bigger and bluer than any he had ever seen, a golden sun hanging huge in the sky; everything simpler, everything _younger_ than the world he knew.
There was a waterfall to the left of them; clear water ran down the rock and collected in the rock-pool. To the right of them was a door, set between two iron pillars: the door was made of polished flint set in a metal that was almost black.
"You really claim to be an angel?" Richard asked. "I mean, you've actually met God and everything?"
Islington smiled. "I claim nothing, Richard," it said. "But I am an angel."
"You honor us," said Door.
"No. You do me much honor by coming here. Your father was a good man, Door, and a friend to me. I was deeply saddened by his death."
"He said . . . in his journal . . . he said I should come to you. He said I could trust you."
"I only hope that I can be worthy11 of that trust." The angel sipped12 its wine. "London Below is the second city that I have cared for. The first sank beneath the waves, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I know what pain is, and loss. You have my sympathies. What would you like to know?"
Door paused. "My family . . . they were killed by Croup and Vandemar. But--who ordered it? I want . . . I want to know _why_."
The angel nodded. "Many secrets find their way down to me," it said. "Many rumors13, and half-truths, and echoes." Then it turned to Richard. "And you? What do you want, Richard Mayhew?"
Richard shrugged14. "I want my life back. And my apartment. And my job."
"That can happen," said the angel.
"Yeah. Right," said Richard flatly.
"Do you doubt me, Richard Mayhew?" asked the Angel Islington.
Richard looked into its eyes. They were a luminescent gray, eyes as old as the universe, eyes that had seen galaxies16 congeal17 from stardust ten million, million years ago; Richard shook his head. Islington smiled at him, kindly18. "It will not be easy, and you and your companions will face some very real difficulties, both in the task, and in the return. But there could be a way that we can learn: a key to all of our problems."
It got up, and walked over to a small rock shelf, where it picked up a figurine, one of several on the shelf. It was a small black statuette depicting19 some kind of animal, made of volcanic20 glass. The angel handed it to Door. "This will bring you safely through the last stage of your journey back to me," it said. "The rest is up to you."
"What do you want us to do?" asked Richard.
"The Black Friars are custodians21 of a key," it said. "Bring it to me."
"And you can use it to find out who killed my family?" asked Door.
"I hope so," said the angel. Richard finished his glass of wine. He felt it warming him, running through him. He had the strange feeling that if he looked down at his fingers he would be able to see the wine glowing through them. As if he were made of light . . .
"Good luck," whispered the Angel Islington. There was a rushing sound, like a wind soughing across a lost forest, or the beating of mighty22 wings.
Richard and Door were sitting on the floor in a room in the British Museum, staring up at a carved painting of an angel on a cathedral door. The room was dark and empty. The party had been over for a long time. The sky outside was beginning to lighten. Richard stood up, then leaned down, and helped Door up.
"Black Friars?" he asked. Door nodded.
He had crossed Blackfriars Bridge, in the City of London, many times, and he had often passed through Blackfriars station, but he had learned by now not to assume anything. "People."
Richard walked over to the Angelus. He ran a finger down its painted robe. "Do you think he can really do it? Get me my life back?"
"I've never heard of such a thing. But I don't think he would have lied to us. He is an angel."
Door opened her hand, looked at the statue of the Beast. "My father had one of these," she said, sadly. She put it deep in one of the pockets of her brown leather jacket.
"Well," said Richard. "We're not going to get the key back by lollygagging around here, are we?" They walked through the empty museum corridors.
"So what do you know about this key then?" asked Richard.
"Nothing," said Door. They had reached the main doors of the museum. "I've heard of the Black Friars, but I've never actually had anything to do with them." She pressed her fingers against a seriously locked glass door, which swung open at her touch.
"A bunch of monks24 . . . " said Richard, thoughtfully. "I bet if we just tell them it's for an angel, a real one, they'll give us the sacred key, and--and throw in the magic can-opener and the amazing whistling corkscrew, as a surprise bonus." He began to laugh. He wondered if the wine was still affecting him.
"You're in good spirits," said Door.
He nodded, enthusiastically. "I'm going to go home. Everything is going to be normal again. Boring again. Wonderful again." Richard looked at the stone steps that lead up the British Museum, and decided25 that they were made to be danced down by Fred Astaire and Ginger26 Rogers. And seeing that neither of them happened to be available, he began to dance down the steps, doing a Fred Astaire impersonation, while humming something approximately halfway27 between "Puttin' on the Ritz" and "Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails." "Ya-ta-ta-da-da-ta-ta-ya," he sang, soft-shoeing down the steps and up again.
Door stood at the top of the steps, staring at him in horror. Then she began to giggle28, helplessly. He looked up at her and doffed29 his imaginary white silk top hat to her, mimed30 tossing it high in the air, catching31 it, and putting it back on his head.
"Twit," said Door, and smiled at him. In response, Richard grabbed her hand and continued dancing up and down the steps. Door hesitated for a moment, then she, too, began to dance. She danced much better than Richard did. At the bottom of the steps they tumbled, breathless and exhausted32 and giggling33, into each other's arms.
Richard felt his world spin.
He felt her heart beating against his chest. The moment began to transmute34, and he wondered if there was something he should do. He wondered if he should kiss her. He wondered if he wanted to kiss her, and he realized that he truly did not know. He looked into her amazing eyes. Door put her head on one side, and pulled free. She pulled up the collar on her brown leather jacket, pulled it around her: armor and protection.
"Let's go and find our bodyguard35," said Door. And they walked away together, down the sidewalk, toward British Museum Station, stumbling only a little from time to time.
"What," asked Mr. Croup, "do you want?"
"What," asked the marquis de Carabas, a little more rhetorically, "does anyone want?"
"Dead things," suggested Mr. Vandemar. "Extra teeth."
"I thought perhaps we could make a deal," said the marquis.
Mr. Croup began to laugh. It sounded like a piece of blackboard being dragged over the nails of a wall of severed36 fingers. "Oh, Messire Marquis. I think I can confidently state, with no risk of contradiction from any parties here present, that you have taken leave of whatever senses you are reputed to have had. You are," he confided37, "if you will permit the vulgarism, completely off your head."
"Say the word," said Mr. Vandemar, who was now standing38 behind the marquis's chair, "and it'll be off his neck before you can say Jack23 Ketch."
The marquis breathed heavily on his fingernails and polished them on the lapel of his coat. "I have always felt," he said, "that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent39, and empty threats the final sanctuary40 of the terminally inept41."
Mr. Croup glared. "What are you doing here?" he hissed42.
The marquis de Carabas stretched, like a big cat: a lynx, perhaps, or a huge black panther; and at the end of the stretch he was standing up, with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his magnificent coat. "You are," he said, idly and conversationally43, "I understand, Mister Croup, a collector of T'ang dynasty figurines."
"How did you know that?"
"People tell me things. I'm approachable." The marquis's smile was pure, untroubled, guileless: the smile of a man selling you a used Bible.
"Even if I were . . . " began Mr. Croup.
"If you were," said the marquis de Carabas, "you might be interested in this." He took one hand out of his pocket and displayed it to Mr. Croup. Until earlier that evening it had sat in a glass case in the vaults44 of one of London's leading merchant banks. It was listed in certain catalogues as _The Spirit of Autumn (Grave Figure)._ It was roughly eight inches high: a piece of glazed45 pottery47 that had been shaped and painted and fired while Europe was in the Dark Ages, six hundred years before Columbus's first voyage.
Mr. Croup hissed, involuntarily, and reached for it. The marquis pulled it out of reach, cradled it to his chest. "No no," said the marquis. "It's not as simple as that."
"No?" asked Mr. Croup. "But what's to stop us taking it, and leaving pieces of you all over the Underside? We've never dismembered a marquis before."
"Have," said Mr. Vandemar. "In York. In the fourteenth century. In the rain."
"He wasn't a marquis," said Mr. Croup. "He was the earl of Exeter."
"And marquis of Westmorland." Mr. Vandemar looked rather pleased with himself.
Mr. Croup sniffed48. "What's to stop us hacking49 you into as many pieces as we hacked50 the marquis of Westmorland?" he asked.
De Carabas took his other hand out of his pocket. It held a small hammer. He tossed the hammer in the air and caught it by the handle, ending with the hammer poised51 over the china figurine. "Oh, please," he said. "No more silly threats. I think I'd feel better if you were both standing back over there."
Mr. Vandemar shot a look at Mr. Croup, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. There was a tremble in the air, and Mr. Vandemar was standing beside Mr. Croup, who smiled like a skull52. "I have indeed been known to purchase the occasional T'ang piece," he admitted. "Is that for sale?"
"We don't go in so much for buying and selling here in the Underside, Mister Croup. Barter53. Exchange. That's what we look for. But yes, indeed, this desirable little piece is certainly up for grabs."
Mr. Croup pursed his lips. He folded his arms. He unfolded them. He ran one hand through his greasy54 hair. Then, "Name your price," said Mr. Croup. The marquis let himself breathe a deep, relieved, and almost audible sigh. It was possible that he was going to be able to pull this whole grandiose55 ruse5 off, after all. "First, three answers to three questions," he said.
Croup nodded. "Each way. We get three answers too."
"Fair enough," said the marquis. "Secondly56, I get safe conduct out of here. And you agree to give me at least an hour's head start."
Croup nodded violently. "Agreed. Ask your first question." His gaze was fixed57 on the statue.
"First question. Who are you working for?"
"Oh, that's an easy one," said Mr. Croup. "That's a simple answer. We are working for our employer, who wishes to remain nameless."
"Hmph. Why did you kill Door's family?"
"Orders from our employer," said Mr. Croup, his smile becoming more foxy by the moment.
"Why didn't you kill Door, when you had a chance?"
Before Mr. Croup could answer, Mr. Vandemar said, "Got to keep her alive. She's the only one that can open the door."
Mr. Croup glared up at his associate. "That's it," he said. "Tell him everything, why don't you?"
"I wanted a turn," muttered Mr. Vandemar.
"Right," said Mr. Croup. "So you've got three answers, for all the good that will do you. My first question: why are you protecting her?"
"Her father saved my life," said the marquis, honestly. "I never paid off my debt to him. I prefer debts to be in my favor."
"I've got a question," said Mr. Vandemar.
"As have I, Mr. Vandemar. The Upworlder, Richard Mayhew. Why is he traveling with her? Why does she permit it?"
"Sentimentality on her part," said the marquis de Carabas. He wondered, as he said it, if that was the whole truth. He had begun to wonder whether there might, perhaps, be more to the upwortder than met the eye.
"Now me," said Mr. Vandemar. "What number am I thinking of?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What number am I thinking of?" repeated Mr. Vandemar. "It's between one and a lot," he added, helpfully.
"Seven," said the marquis. Mr. Vandemar nodded, impressed. Mr. Croup began, "Where is the--" but the marquis shook his head. "Uh-uh," he said. "Now we're getting greedy."
There was a moment of utter silence, in that dank cellar. Then once more water dripped, and maggots rustled58; and the marquis said, "An hour's head start, remember."
"Of course," said Mr. Croup. The marquis de Carabas tossed the figurine to Mr. Croup, who caught it eagerly, like an addict59 catching a plastic baggie filled with white powder of dubious60 legality. And then, without a backward glance, the marquis left the cellar.
Mr. Croup examined the figurine minutely, turning it over and over in his hands, a Dickensian curator of the Museum of the Damned contemplating61 a prize exhibit. His tongue flicked62 out, from time to time, like a snake's. A perceptible flush appeared on his pallid63 cheeks. "Oh, fine, fine'," he whispered. "T'ang dynasty indeed. Twelve hundred years old, the finest pottery figurines ever made on this earth. This was created by Kai Lung, finest of potters: there is not a twin to it in existence. Examine the color of the glaze46; the sense of proportion; the life . . . " He was smiling now, like a baby; the innocent smile looked lost and confused on the shady terrain64 of Mr. Croup's face. "It adds a little wonder and beauty to the world."
And then he grinned, too widely, and lowered his face to the figurine, and crushed its head in his teeth, chomping65 and chewing wildly, swallowing in lumps. His teeth ground the china to a fine powder, which dusted the lower part of his face.
He gloried in its destruction, throwing himself into it with the strange madness and uncontrolled blood lust66 of a fox in a henhouse. And then, when the statue was nothing but dust, he turned to Mr. Vandemar. He seemed strangely mellow67, almost languid. "How long did we say we'd give him?"
"An hour."
"Mmm. And how long has it been?"
"Six minutes."
Mr. Croup lowered his head. He ran a finger across his chin, licked the powdered clay from his fingertip. "You follow him, Mister Vandemar," said Mr. Croup. "I need a little more time in which to savor68 the occasion."
Hunter could hear them walking down the steps. She was standing in the shadows, with her arms folded, in the same position she had been in when they left her. Richard was humming loudly. Door was giggling helplessly; then she would stop, and tell Richard to be quiet. Then she would start giggling again. They walked past Hunter without noticing her. She stepped out of the shadows, and said, "You have been gone for eight hours." It was a statement of fact, without reproach or curiosity.
Door blinked at her. "It didn't _seem_ that long." Hunter said nothing.
Richard grinned wearily at her. "Don't you want to know what happened? Well, we got ambushed69 by Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar. Unfortunately we didn't have a bodyguard around. Still, I gave them a good run for their money."
Hunter raised a perfect eyebrow70. "I am in awe71 of your pugilistic talents," she said coolly.
Door giggled72. "He's kidding. Actually--they killed us."
"As an expert in the termination of bodily functions," Hunter said, "I must beg to differ. You are neither of you dead. At a guess, you are both very drunk."
Door stuck her tongue out at her bodyguard. "Nonsense. Touched hardly a drop. _That_ much." She held out two fingers to show how tiny an amount "that much" was.
"Just went to a _party,"_ said Richard, "and saw Jessica and saw a real angel and got a little black pig and came back here."
"Just a little drink," continued Door, intently. "Old, old drink. Tiiiiny little drink. Very small. Almost not there." She began to hiccup73. Then she giggled again. A hiccup interrupted her, and she sat down suddenly on the platform. "I think maybe we are a bit smashed," she said, soberly. Then she closed her eyes, and began, solemnly, to snore.
The marquis de Carabas was running through the underways as if all the hounds of Hell had his scent15 and were on his trail. He was splashing through six gray inches of the Tyburn, the hangman's river, kept safe in the darkness in a brick sewer74 beneath Park Lane on its way south to Buckingham Palace. He had been running for seventeen minutes.
Thirty feet below Marble Arch, he paused. The sewer divided into two branches. The marquis de Carabas ran down the left-hand branch.
Several minutes later, Mr. Vandemar walked through the sewer. And when he reached the junction75 he, too, paused for a few moments, sniffing76 the air. And then he, too, walked down the left-hand branch.
Hunter dropped Richard Mayhew's unconscious body into a pile of straw, with a grunt77. He rolled in the straw, said something that sounded like "Forth-ril bjugly mobble wug," and went back to sleep. She put Door down in the straw next to him, more gently. Then she stood beside Door, in the dark stables under the ground, on guard still.
The marquis de Carabas was exhausted. He leaned against the tunnel wall and stared at the steps that went up ahead of him. Then he pulled out the golden pocket-watch and looked at the time. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he had fled the hospital cellar.
"Is it an hour yet?" asked Mr. Vandemar. He was sitting on the steps ahead of the marquis, picking his nails with a knife.
"Not even close," gasped78 the marquis.
"Felt like an hour," said Mr. Vandemar, helpfully.
There was a shiver in the world, and Mr. Croup stood behind the marquis de Carabas. He still had powder on his chin. De Carabas stared at Mr. Croup. He turned back to look at Mr. Vandemar. And then, spontaneously, the marquis de Carabas began to laugh. Mr. Croup smiled. "You find us funny, Messire Marquis, do you not? A source of amusement. Is that not so? With our pretty clothes, and our convoluted79 circumlocutions--"
Mr. Vandemar murmured, "I haven80't got a circumlo . . . "
"--and our little sillinesses of manner and behavior. And perhaps we _are_ funny."
Mr. Croup raised one finger then, and waggled it at de Carabas. "But you must never imagine," he continued, "that just because something is funny, Messire Marquis, it is not also dangerous."
And Mr. Vandemar threw his knife at the marquis, hard and accurately81. It hit him, hilt first, on the temple. His eyes rolled up in his head, and his knees buckled82. "Circumlocution," said Mr. Croup to Mr. Vandemar. "It's a way of speaking around something. A digression. Verbosity83."
Mr. Vandemar picked up the marquis de Carabas by his waistband and dragged him up the stairs, his head bump-bump-bumping on each step as they went, and Mr. Vandemar nodded. "I wondered," he said.
Watching their dreams, now, as they sleep.
Hunter sleeps standing up.
In her dream, Hunter is in the undercity beneath Bangkok. It is partly a maze84, and partly a forest, for the wilderness85 of Thailand has retreated deep beneath the ground, under the airport and the hotels and the streets. The world smells of spice and dried mango, and it also smells, not unpleasantly, of sex. It is humid, and she is sweating. It is dark, broken by phosphorescent patches on the wall, greenish grey fungi86 that give light enough to fool the eye, light enough to walk by.
In her dream Hunter moves silent as a ghost through the wet tunnels, pushing her way through vegetation. She holds a weighted throwing stick in her right hand; a leather shield covers her left forearm.
She smells it, in her dream, acrid87 and animal, and she pauses beside a wall of ruined masonry88, and she waits, part of the shadows, one with the darkness. Hunting, like life, Hunter believes, consists chiefly of waiting. In Hunter's dream, however, she does not wait. Upon her arrival, it comes through the underbrush, a fury of brown and of white, undulating gently, like a wet-furred snake, its red eyes bright and peering through the darkness, its teeth like needles, a carnivore and a killer89. The creature is extinct in the world above. It weighs almost three hundred pounds, and is a little over fifteen feet long, from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail.
As it passes her, she hisses90 like a snake, and, momentarily, old instincts kicking in, it freezes. And then it leaps at her, nothing but hate and sharp teeth. She remembers, then, in her dream, that this had happened before, and that when it had happened, that time in the past, she had pushed the leather arm-shield into its mouth and crushed its skull with the leaden throwing stick taking care not to damage the pelt91. She had given the Great Weasel's pelt to a girl who had caught her eye, and the girl had been appropriately grateful.
But now, in her dream, that is not happening. Instead, the weasel is reaching out a forepaw toward her, and she is dropping her throwing stick and taking its paw. And then and there, in the undercity beneath Bangkok, they are dancing together, m one intricate unending dance: and Hunter is watching them from outside herself, and she is admiring the elaborate movements they make as they move, tail and legs and arms and fingers and eyes and hair all tumbling and twisting powerfully and strangely into the underneath92 and out across forever.
There is a tiny noise in the waking world, a dreaming whimper from the child Door, and Hunter moves from sleeping to waking fluidly and instantly; she is alert once more, and on guard. She forgets her dream entirely93 upon waking.
Door is dreaming of her father.
In her dream, he is showing her how to open things. He picks up an orange, and gestures: in one smooth movement it inverts94, and twists: the orange flesh is on the outside, now, and the skin is in the center, on the inside. _One must always maintain parity,_ her father tells her, peeling off an inside-out orange segment for her. _Parity, symmetry, topology: these will be our subjects for the months to come, Door. But the most important thing for you to understand is this: all things want to open. You must feel that need, and use it._ Her father's hair is brown and thick, as it was a decade before his death, and he has an easy smile, which she remembers but which time had diminished as the years went on.
In her dream, he passes her a padlock. She takes it from him. Her hands are the size and shape of her hands today, although she knows that, in truth, this occurred when she was a tiny child, that she is taking moments and conversations and lessons from over a dozen years and is compressing them into one lesson. _Open it,_ he tells her.
She holds it in her hand, feeling the cold metal, feeling the weight of the lock in her hands. Something is bothering her. There is something she has to know. Door learned to open some time after she learned to walk. She remembers her mother holding her tightly, opening a door from Door's bedroom to the playroom, remembers watching her brother Arch separating linked silver rings, joining them back together.
She tries to open the padlock. She fumbles95 at it with her fingers, and with her mind. Nothing happens. She throws the padlock down onto the floor and begins to cry. Her father reaches down and picks up the padlock, puts it back into her hand. His long finger brushes away a tear from her cheek.
_Remember,_ he tells her, _the padlock wants to open. All you have to do is let it do what it wants._
It sits there in her hand, cold and inert96 and heavy. And then, suddenly, she understands, and, somewhere in her heart, she lets it be what it wants to be. There is a loud click, and the padlock opens. Her father is smiling. _There,_ she says.
_Good girl,_ says her father. _That's all there is to opening. Everything else is just technique._
She realizes what it is that is bothering her. _Father?_ she asks. _Your journal. Who put it away? Who could have hidden it?_ But he is receding97 from her, and already she is forgetting. She calls to him, but he cannot hear her, and although she can hear his voice in the distance, she can no longer make out what he is saying.
In the waking world, Door whimpers softly. Then she rolls over, cradles her arm around her face, snorts once, twice, then sleeps once more, sleeps without dreaming.
_Richard knows it waits for them. Each tunnel he goes down, each turning, each branch he walks, the feeling grows in urgency and weight. He knows it is there, waiting, and the sense of impending98 catastrophe99 increases with every step. He knows that it should have been a relief when he turns the final corner, and sees it standing there, framed in the tunnel, waiting for him. Instead he feels only dread101. In his dream it is the size of the world: there is nothing left in the world but the Beast, its flanks steaming, broken spars and juts102 of old weapons prickling from its hide. There is dried blood on its horns and on its tusks103. It is gross, and vast, and evil. And then it charges._
_He raises his hand (but it isn't_ his _hand) and he throws the spear at the creature._
_He sees its eyes, wet and vicious and gloating, as they float toward him, all in a fraction of a second that becomes a tiny forever. And then it is upon him . . . _
The water was cold, and it hit Richard's face like a slap. His eyes jerked open, and he caught his breath. Hunter was looking down at him. She was holding a large wooden bucket. It was empty. He reached up one hand. His hair was soaked, and his face was wet. He wiped the water from his eyes and shivered with cold.
"You didn't have to do that," said Richard. His mouth tasted like several small animals had been using it as a rest room. He tried to stand, and then he sat down again, suddenly. "Ooh," he explained. "How's your head?" asked Hunter, professionally.
"It's been better," said Richard.
Hunter picked up another wooden bucket, this one filled with water, and hauled it across the stable floor. "I don't know what you drank," she said. "But it must have been potent." Hunter dipped her hand into the bucket and flicked it at Door's face, spraying her with water. Door's eyes flickered104.
"No wonder Atlantis sank," muttered Richard. "If they all felt like this in the morning it was probably a relief. Where are we?"
Hunter flicked another handful of water at Door's face. "In the stables of a friend," she said. Richard looked around. The place did look a little like a stable. He wondered if it were for horses--and if so, what kind of horses would live beneath the ground? There was a device painted on the wall: the letter _S_ (or was it a snake? Richard could not tell) circled by seven stars.
Door reached a tentative hand up to her head and touched it, experimentally, as if she were unsure just what she might find. "Ooh," she said, in a near-whisper. "Temple and Arch. Am I dead?"
"No," said Hunter.
"Pity."
Hunter helped her to a standing position. "Well," said Door, sleepily, "he did warn us it was strong." And then Door woke up completely, very hard, very fast. She grabbed Richard's shoulder, pointed to the device on the wall, the snaky S with the stars surrounding it. She gasped. "Serpentine105," she said to Richard, to Hunter. "That's Serpentine's crest106. Richard, get up! We have to run--before she finds out we're here . . . "
"And do you think," asked a dry voice from the doorway107, "that you could enter Serpentine's house without Serpentine knowing, child?"
Door pushed herself back against the wood of the stable wall. She was trembling. Richard realized, through the pounding in his head, that he had never seen Door so actually and obviously scared before. Serpentine stood in the doorway. She was wearing a white leather corset and high white leather boots, and the remains108 of what looked like it had once, long ago, been a silk-and-lace confection of a white wedding dress, now shredded109 and dirt-stained and torn. She towered above them all: her shock of graying hair brushed the door lintel. Her eyes were sharp, and her mouth was a cruel slash110 in an imperious face. She looked at Door as if she took terror as her due; as if she had become so used to fear that she now expected it, even liked it.
"Calm yourself," said Hunter.
"But she's Serpentine," wailed111 Door. "Of the Seven Sisters."
Serpentine inclined her head, cordially. Then she stepped out of the doorway and walked toward them. Behind her was a thin woman with a severe face and long dark hair, wearing a black dress pinched wasp-thin at the waist. The woman said nothing. Serpentine walked over to Hunter. "Hunter worked for me long ago," said Serpentine. She reached out a white finger and gently stroked Hunter's brown cheek with it, a gesture of affection and possession. And then, "You've kept your looks better than I, Hunter." Hunter looked down. "Her friends are my friends, child," said Serpentine. "You are Door?"
"Yes," said Door, dry-mouthed.
Serpentine turned on Richard. "And what are you?" she asked, unimpressed.
"Richard," said Richard.
"I am Serpentine," she told him, graciously.
"So I gathered," said Richard.
"There is food waiting for all of you," said Serpentine, "should you wish to break your fast."
"Oh God no," whimpered Richard politely. Door said nothing. She was still backed against the wall, still trembling gently, like a leaf in an autumn breeze. The fact that Hunter had clearly brought them here as a safe haven was doing nothing to assuage112 her fear.
"What is there to eat?" asked Hunter.
Serpentine looked at the-wasp-waisted woman in the doorway. "Well?" she asked. The woman smiled the chilliest113 smile Richard had ever seen cross a human face, then she said, "Fried eggs poached eggs pickled eggs curried114 venison pickled onions pickled herrings smoked herrings salted herrings mushroom stew115 salted bacon stuffed cabbage calves-foot jelly--"
Richard opened his. mouth to plead with her to stop, but it was too late. He was suddenly, violently, awfully116 sick.
He wanted someone to hold him, to tell him that everything would be all right, that he'd soon be feeling better; someone to give him an aspirin117 and a glass of water, and show him back to his bed. But nobody did; and his bed was another life away. He washed the sick from his face and hands with water from the bucket. Then he washed out his mouth. Then, swaying gently, he followed the four women to breakfast.
"Pass the calves-foot jelly," said Hunter, with her mouth full. Serpentine's dining room was on what appeared to be the smallest Underground platform that Richard had ever seen. It was about twelve feet long, and much of that space was taken up with a dinner table. A white damask cloth was laid on the table, and a formal silver dinner-service on that. The table was piled high with evil-smelling foodstuffs118. The pickled quails119' eggs, thought Richard, smelled the worst.
His skin felt clammy, and his eyes felt like they had been put in their sockets120 wrong, while his skull gave him the general impression that someone had removed it while he had slept and swapped121 it for another two or three sizes too small. An Underground train went past a few feet from them; the wind of its passage whipped at the table. The noise of its passage went through Richard's head like a hot knife through brains. Richard groaned122.
"Your hero is unable to hold his wine, I see," observed Serpentine, dispassionately.
"He's not my hero," said Door.
"I'm afraid he is. You learn to recognize the type. Something in the eyes, perhaps." She turned to the woman in black, who appeared to be some kind of majordomo. "A restorative for the gentleman." The woman smiled thinly and glided123 away.
Door picked at a mushroom dish. "We are very grateful for all this, Lady Serpentine," she said.
Serpentine sniffed. "Just Serpentine, child. I have no time for silly honorifics and imaginary titles. So. You're Portico's oldest girl."
"Yes."
Serpentine dipped her finger in the briny124 sauce that held what appeared to be several small eels100. She licked her finger, nodded approvingly. "I had little time for your father. All that foolishness about uniting the Underside. Stuff and nonsense. Silly man Just asking for trouble. The last time I saw your father, I told him that if he ever came back here, I'd turn him into a blindworm." She turned to Door. "How is your father, by the way?"
"He's dead," said Door.
Serpentine looked perfectly125 satisfied. "See?" she said. "My point exactly." Door said nothing. Serpentine picked at something that was moving in her gray hair. She examined it closely, crushed it between finger and thumb, and dropped it onto the platform. Then she turned to Hunter, who was demolishing126 a small hill of pickled herrings. "You're Beast-hunting then?" she said. Hunter nodded, her mouth full. "You'll need the spear, of course," said Serpentine.
The wasp-waisted woman was now standing next to Richard, holding a small tray. On the tray was a small glass, containing an aggressively emerald-colored liquid. Richard stared at it, then looked at Door.
"What are you giving him?" asked Door.
"Nothing that will hurt him," said Serpentine, with a frosty smile. "You are guests."
Richard knocked back the green liquid, which tasted of thyme and peppermint127 and winter mornings. He felt it go down and prepared himself to try to keep it from coming back up again. Instead he took a deep breath and realized, with a little surprise, that his head no longer hurt, and that he was starving.
Old Bailey was not, intrinsically, one of those people put in the world to tell jokes. Despite this handicap, he persisted in trying. He loved to tell shaggy-dog stories of inordinate128 length, which would end in a sad pun although, often as not, Old Bailey would be unable to remember it by the time he got there. The only public for Old Bailey's jokes consisted of a small captive audience of birds, who, particularly the rooks, viewed his jokes as deep and philosophical129 parables130 containing profound and penetrating131 insights into what it meant to be human, and who would actually ask him, from time to time, to tell them another of his amusing stories.
"All right, all right, all right," Old Bailey was saying. "Stop me if you've heard this one before. There was a man walked into a bar. No, he wasn't a man. That's the joke. Sorry. He was a horse. A horse . . . no . . . a piece of string. Three pieces of string. Right. Three pieces of string walk into a bar."
A huge old rook croaked132 a question. Old Bailey rubbed his chin, then shrugged. "They just do. It's a joke. They can walk in the joke. He asks for a drink for himself and one for each of his friends. And the barman says, 'We don't serve pieces of string here.' To one of the pieces of string. So. It goes back to its friends and says, 'They don't serve strings133 here' And it's a joke, so the middle one does it too, three of them, you see, then the last one, he ties himself around the middle and he pulls the end of him all out. And he orders a drink." The rook croaked again, sagely134. "Three drinks. Right. And the barman says, 'here, aren't you one of those pieces of string?' And he says, the piece of string, he says, 'No.'I'm a frayed135 knot.' _Afraid not,_ y'see, _a frayed knot._ Pun. Very, very funny."
The starlings made polite noises. The rooks nodded their heads, put their heads on one side. Then the oldest rook cawed at Old Bailey. "Another? I'm not made of hilarity136, y'know. Let me think . . . "
There was a noise from the tent, a deep, pulsing noise, like the beating of a distant heart. Old Bailey hurried into his tent. The noise was coming from an old wooden chest in which Old Bailey kept those things he most prized. He opened the chest. The throbbing137 noise became much louder. The small silver box was sitting on the top of Old Bailey's treasures. He reached down one gnarly hand and picked it up. A red light rhythmically138 pulsed and glowed inside it, like a heartbeat, and shone out through the silver filigree139, and through the cracks and fastenings. "He's in trouble," said Old Bailey.
The oldest rook cawed a question. "No. It's not a joke. It's the marquis," said Old Bailey. "He's in deep trouble."
Richard was halfway through his second plate of breakfast when Serpentine pushed her chair back from the table.
"I think I have had my fill of hospitality," she said. "Child, young man, good day. Hunter . . . " she paused. Then she ran one clawlike finger along the line of Hunter's jaw140. "Hunter, you are always welcome here." She nodded to them, imperiously, and stood Up and walked away, followed by her wasp-waisted butler.
"We should leave now," said Hunter. She stood up from the table, and Door and Richard, more reluctantly, followed her.
They walked along a corridor that was too thin to allow more than one of them to pass at a time. They went up some stone steps. They crossed an iron bridge in the darkness, while Underground trains echoed by beneath them. Then they entered what seemed like an endless network of underground vaults that smelled of damp and decay, of brick and stone and time. "That was your old boss, eh? She seemed nice enough," said Richard to Hunter. Hunter said nothing.
Door, who had been somewhat subdued141, said, "When they want to make children behave themselves in the Underside, they tell them, 'Behave, or Serpentine will take you.' "
"Oh," said Richard. "And you worked for her, Hunter?"
"I worked for all the Seven Sisters."
"I thought that they hadn't spoken to each other for, oh, at least thirty years," said Door.
"Quite possibly. But they were still talking then."
"How old _are_ you?" asked Door. Richard was pleased she had asked; he would never have dared.
"As old as my tongue," said Hunter, primly142, "and a little older than my teeth."
"Anyway," said Richard, in the untroubled tone of voice of one whose hangover had left him and who knew that, somewhere far above them, someone was having a beautiful day, "that was okay. Nice food. And no one was trying to kill us."
"I'm sure that will remedy itself as the day goes on," said Hunter, accurately. "Which way to the Black Friars, my lady?"
Door paused and concentrated. "We'll go the river way," she said. "Over here."
"Is he coming round yet?" asked Mr. Croup.
Mr. Vandemar prodded143 the marquis's prone144 body with one long finger. The breathing was shallow. "Not yet, Mister Croup. I think I broke him."
"You must be more careful with your toys, Mister Vandemar," said Mr. Croup.
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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galaxies
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| 星系( galaxy的名词复数 )； 银河系； 一群（杰出或著名的人物） | |
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congeal
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| v.凝结，凝固 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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addict
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| v.使沉溺；使上瘾；n.沉溺于不良嗜好的人 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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chomping
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| v.切齿，格格地咬牙，咬响牙齿( chomp的现在分词 ) | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hiccup
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| n.打嗝 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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convoluted
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| adj.旋绕的；复杂的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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verbosity
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| n.冗长，赘言 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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85
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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86
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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87
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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88
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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89
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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90
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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91
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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92
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
inverts
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| v.使倒置，使反转( invert的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
fumbles
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| 摸索，笨拙的处理( fumble的名词复数 ) | |
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96
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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97
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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98
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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99
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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100
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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101
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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102
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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103
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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104
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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106
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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107
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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108
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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109
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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111
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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113
chilliest
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| adj.寒冷的，冷得难受的( chilly的最高级 ) | |
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114
curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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115
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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116
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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117
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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118
foodstuffs
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| 食物，食品( foodstuff的名词复数 ) | |
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119
quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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120
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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121
swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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122
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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123
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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124
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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125
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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126
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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127
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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128
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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129
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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130
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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131
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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132
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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133
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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134
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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135
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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137
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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138
rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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139
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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140
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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141
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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143
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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144
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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