Neverwhere(89)

And then, when it seemed that the wind would become so strong that it would blow the world away and blow the stars away and send the people tumbling through the air like so many desiccated autumn leaves—

Just then—

—it was over, and the leaves, and the papers, and the plastic shopping bags, tumbled to the earth, and the road, and the water.

High on the remnant of the London Wall, the silence that followed the wind was, in its way, as loud as the wind had been. It was broken by a cough; a horrid, wet coughing. This was followed by the sound of someone awkwardly rolling over; and then the sound of someone being sick.

The marquis de Carabas vomited sewer water over the side of the London Wall, staining the gray stones with brown foulness. It took a long time to purge the water from his body. And then he said, in a hoarse voice that was little more than a grinding whisper, “I think my throat’s been cut. Have you anything to bind it with?”

Old Bailey fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a grubby length of cloth. He passed it to the marquis, who wrapped it around his throat a few times and then tied it tight. Old Bailey found himself reminded, incongruously, of the high-wrapped Beau Brummel collars of the Regency dandies. “Anything to drink?” croaked the marquis.

Old Bailey pulled out his hip-flask and unscrewed the top, and passed it to the marquis, who swigged back a mouthful, then winced with pain, and coughed weakly. The black rat, who had watched all this with interest, now began to climb down the fragment of wall and away. It would tell the Golden: all favors had been repaid, all debts were done.

The marquis gave Old Bailey back his hip-flask. Old Bailey put it away. “How are ye feeling?” he asked.

“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.