Neverwhere(101)

This aye night, this aye night Every night and all Fire and fleet and candlelight And Christ receive thy soul.

The words went around and around, dirgelike, in his head. Fire and fleet and candlelight . . .

At the end of the labyrinth was a sheer granite cliff, and set in the cliff were high wooden double doors. There was an oval mirror hanging on one of the doors. The doors were closed. He touched the wood, and the door opened, silently, to his touch.

Richard went inside.





Neverwhere





SEVENTEEN


Richard followed the path between the burning candles, which led him through the angel’s vault to the Great Hall. He recognized his surroundings: this was where they had drunk Islington’s wine: an octagon of iron pillars supporting the stone roof above them, the huge black stone and metal door, the old wooden table, the candles.

Door was chained up, spread-eagled between two pillars beside the flint and silver door. She stared at him as he came in, her odd-colored pixie eyes wide and scared. The Angel Islington, standing beside her, turned and smiled at Richard as he entered. That was the most chilling thing of all: the gentle compassion, the sweetness of that smile.

“Come in, Richard Mayhew. Come in,” said the Angel Islington. “Dear me. You do look a mess.” There was honest concern in its voice. Richard hesitated. “Please.” The angel gestured, curling a white forefinger, urging him further in. “I think we all know each other. You know the Lady Door, of course, and my associates, Mister Croup, Mister Vandemar.” Richard turned. Croup and Vandemar were standing on each side of him. Mr. Vandemar smiled at him. Mr. Croup did not. “I was hoping you would show up,” continued the angel. It tipped its head on one side, and asked, “By the bye, where is Hunter?”

“She’s dead,” said Richard. He heard Door gasp.

“Oh. The poor dear,” said Islington. It shook its head sadly, obviously regretting the senseless loss of human life, the frailty of all mortals born to suffer and to die.

“Still,” said Mr. Croup chirpily. “Can’t make an omelette without killing a few people.”

Richard ignored them, as best he could. “Door? Are you all right?”

“More or less, thanks. So far.” Her lower lip was swollen, and there was a bruise on her cheek.

“I am afraid,” said Islington, “that Miss Door was proving a little intransigent. I was just discussing having Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar . . . ” It paused. There were obviously some things it found distasteful actually to say.

“Torture her,” suggested Mr. Vandemar, helpfully.

“We are,” said Mr. Croup, “after all, famed across the entirety of creation for our skill in the excrutiatory arts.”

“Good at hurting people,” clarified Mr. Vandemar.

The angel continued, staring intently at Richard as it spoke, as if it had heard neither of them. “But then, Miss Door does not strike me as someone who will easily change her mind.”

“Give us time enough,” said Mr. Croup. “We’d break her.”

“Into little wet pieces,” said Mr. Vandemar.

Islington shook his head and smiled indulgently at this display of enthusiasm. “No time,” it said to Richard, “no time. However, she does strike me as someone who would indeed act to end the pain and suffering of a friend, a fellow mortal, such as yourself, Richard . . . ” Mr. Croup hit Richard in the stomach, then: a vicious rabbit punch to the gut, and Richard doubled up. He felt Mr. Vandemar’s fingers on the back of his neck, pulling him back to a standing position.

“But it’s wrong,” said Door.

Islington looked thoughtful. “Wrong?” it said, puzzled and amused.

Mr. Croup pulled Richard’s head close to his, and smiled his graveyard smile. “He’s traveled so far beyond right and wrong he couldn’t see them with a telescope on a nice clear night,” he confided. “Now Mister Vandemar, if you’ll do the honors?”

Mr. Vandemar took Richard’s left hand in his. He took Richard’s little finger between his huge fingers and bent it back until it broke. Richard cried out.

The angel turned, slowly. It seemed distracted by something. It blinked its pearl gray eyes. “There’s someone else out there. Mister Croup?” There was a dark shimmer where Mr. Croup had been, and he was there no longer.



The marquis de Carabas was flattened against the side of the red granite cliff, staring at the oak doors that led into Islington’s dwelling.

Plans and plots whirled through his head, each scheme fizzling out uselessly as he imagined it. He had thought he would have known what to do when he got to this point, and he was discovering, to his disgust, that he had absolutely no idea. There were no more favors to call in, no levers to press or buttons to push, so he scrutinized the doors and wondered whether they were guarded, whether the angel would know if they were opened. There had to be an obvious solution he was missing, if only he thought hard enough: perhaps something would occur to him. At least, he thought, slightly cheered, he had surprise on his side.