The marquis looked at Richard with eyes that had seen too much and gone too far. “Because they killed me,” he said. “Come on, the others can’t be too far ahead.”
Richard looked over the side of the path, across the central well. He could see Door and Hunter, across the well, on the level below. They were looking around—for him, he assumed. He called to them, shouted and waved, but the sound did not carry. The marquis laid a hand upon Richard’s arm. “Look,” he said. He pointed to the level beneath Door and Hunter. Something moved. Richard squinted: he could make out two figures, standing in the shadows. “Croup and Vandemar,” said the marquis. “It’s a trap.”
“What do we do?”
“Run!” said the marquis. “Warn them. I can’t run yet . . . go, damn you!”
And Richard ran. He ran as fast as he could, as hard as he could, down the sloping stone road under the world. He felt a sudden stabbing pain in his chest: a stitch. And he pushed himself on, and still he ran.
He turned a corner, and he saw them all. “Hunter! Door!” he gasped, breathless. “Stop! Watch out!”
Door turned. Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar stepped out from behind a pillar. Mr. Vandemar yanked Door’s hands behind her back and bound them in one movement with a nylon strip. Mr. Croup was holding something long and thin in a brown cloth cover, like the kind Richard’s father had used to carry his fishing poles in. Hunter stood there, her mouth open. Richard shouted, “Hunter. Quickly.”
She nodded, spun around, and kicked out one foot, in a smooth, almost balletic, motion.
Her foot caught Richard squarely in the stomach. He fell to the floor several feet away, winded and breathless and hurt. “Hunter?” he gasped.
“I’m afraid so,” said Hunter, and she turned away. Richard felt sick, and saddened. The betrayal hurt him as much as the blow.
Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar ignored Richard and Hunter entirely. Mr. Vandemar was trussing Door’s arms, while Mr. Croup stood and watched. “Don’t think of us as murderers and cutthroats, miss,” Mr. Croup was saying, conversationally. “Think of us as an escort service.”
Hunter stood beside the rock face, looking at none of them, and Richard lay on the rock floor and writhed and tried, somehow, to suck air back into his lungs. Mr. Croup turned back to Door and smiled, showing many teeth. “You see, Lady Door. We are going to make sure you get safely to your destination.”
Door ignored him. “Hunter,” she called, “what’s happening?” Hunter did not move, nor did she answer.
Mr. Croup beamed, proudly. “Before Hunter agreed to work for you, she agreed to work for our principal. Taking care of you.”
“We told you,” crowed Mr. Vandemar. “We told you one of you was a traitor.” He threw back his head, and howled like a wolf.
“I thought you were talking about the marquis,” said Door.
Mr. Croup scratched his head of orange hair, theatrically. “Talking of the marquis, I wonder where he is. He’s a bit late, isn’t he, Mister Vandemar?”
“Very late indeed, Mister Croup. As late as he possibly could be.”
Mr. Croup coughed sententiously and delivered his punch line. “Then from now on, we’ll have to call him the late marquis de Carabas. I’m afraid he’s ever-so-slightly—“
“Dead as a doornail,” finished Mr. Vandemar. Richard finally managed to get enough air into his lungs to gasp, “You traitorous bitch.”
Hunter glanced at the ground. “No hard feelings,” she whispered.
“The key you obtained from the Black Friars,” said Mr. Croup to Door. “Who has it?”
“I do,” gasped Richard. “You can search me, if you like. Look.” He fumbled in his pockets—noticing something hard and unfamiliar in his back pocket, but there was no time to investigate that now—and he pulled out the front-door key of his old flat. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered over to Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar. “Here.”
Mr. Croup reached over and took the key from him. “Good gracious me,” he said; scarcely glancing at it. “I find myself utterly taken in by his cunning ploy, Mister Vandemar.” He passed the key to Mr. Vandemar, who held it up between finger and thumb, and crushed it like brass foil. “Fooled again, Mister Croup,” he said.
“Hurt him, Mister Vandemar,” said Mr. Croup.
“With pleasure, Mister Croup,” said Mr. Vandemar, and he kicked Richard in the kneecap. Richard fell to the ground, in agony. As if from a long way away, he could hear Mr. Vandemar’s voice; it appeared to be lecturing him. “People think it’s how hard you kick that hurts,” Mr. Vandemar’s voice was saying. “But it’s not how hard you kick. It’s where. I mean, this’s really a very gentle kick . . . “— something slammed into Richard’s left shoulder. His left arm went numb, and a purple-white blossom of pain opened up in his shoulder. It felt like his whole arm was on fire, and freezing, as if someone had jabbed an electrical prod deep into his flesh, and turned up the current as high as it would go. He whimpered. And Mr. Vandemar was saying, ” . . . but it hurts just as much as this—which is much harder . . . ” and the boot rammed into Richard’s side like a cannonball. He could hear himself screaming.