Neverwhere(90)

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.”

Door shook her head. “I really don’t think so.”

Richard snorted. “You just don’t like it that I’m figuring everything out for once, instead of following blindly behind you, going where I’m told.”

“That’s not it at all.”

Richard turned to Hunter. “Well, Hunter. Do you know the way to Islington?” Hunter shook her head.

Door sighed. “We should get a move on. Down Street, you say?”

Lamia smiled with plum-colored lips. “Yes, lady.”

By the time the marquis reached the market they were gone.





Neverwhere





FIFTEEN


They walked off the ship, down the long gangplank, and onto the shore, where they went down some steps, through a long, unlit underpass, and up again. Lamia strode confidently ahead of them. She brought them out in a small, cobbled alley. Gaslights burned and sputtered on the walls.

“Third door along,” she said.

They stopped in front of the door. There was a brass plate on it, which said:

THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO HOUSES

And beneath that, in smaller letters:

DOWN STREET. PLEASE KNOCK.

“You get to the street through the house?” asked Richard.

“No,” said Lamia. “The street is in the house.” Richard knocked on the door. Nothing happened. They waited, and they shivered from the early morning cold. Richard knocked again. Finally, he rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a sleepy-looking footman, wearing a powdered, crooked wig and scarlet livery. He looked at the motley rabble on his doorstep with an expression that indicated that they had not been worth getting out of bed for.