Neverwhere

He opened a hand, waggled his fingers as he spoke. "They're arms. Hands. Fingers. There's a head that ordered it, that wants you dead, too. Those two don't come cheap." He looked around the cluttered office. "His journal?" said the marquis.

"It's not here," she said. "I told you. I looked."

"I was under the misapprehension that your family was skilled in locating doors, both obvious and otherwise."

She glowered at him. Then she closed her eyes and put her finger and thumb on each side of the bridge of her nose. Meanwhile, the marquis examined the objects on Portico's desk. An inkwell; a chess-piece; a bone die; a gold pocket-watch; several quill-feathers and . . .

Interesting.

It was a small statue of a boar, or a crouching bear, or perhaps a bull. It was hard to tell. It was the size of a large chess-piece, and it had been roughly carved out of black obsidian. It reminded him of something, but of what he could not say. He picked it up casually, turned it over, curled his fingers around it.

Door lowered her hand from her face. She looked puzzled and confused. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"It is here," she said, simply. She began to walk through the study, head turning first to one side and then to the other. The marquis slipped the carving discreetly into an inside pocket.

Door stood before a high cabinet. "There," she said. She reached out a hand: there was a click, and a small panel in the side of the cabinet swung open. Door reached into the darkness and removed something roughly the size and shape of a small ca

"This is it?"

She nodded.

"Well done."

She looked grave. "I don't know how I could have missed it before."

"You were upset," said the marquis. "I was certain it would be here. And I am so rarely wrong. Now . . . " he held the little wooden globe up. The light caught the polished glass and glinted from the brass and copper fittings. It galled him to admit ignorance about anything, but he said it anyway. "How does this work?"

Anaesthesia led Richard into a small park on the south side of the bridge, then down some stone steps, set beside a wall. She relit her candle-in-a-bottle, and then she opened a workman's door and closed it behind them. They went down some steps, with the darkness all around them.

"There's a girl named Door," said Richard. "She's a bit younger than you. Do you know her?"

"The Lady Door. I know who she is."

"So which, um, barony is she part of?"

"No barony. She's of the House of the Arch. Her family used to be very important."

"Used to be? Why did they stop?"

"Somebody killed them."

Yes, he remembered the marquis saying something about that, now. A rat cut across their path. Anaesthesia stopped on the steps and performed a deep curtsey. The rat paused. "Sire," she said, to the rat. "Hi," said Richard. The rat looked at them for a heartbeat, then it darted off down the steps. "So," said Richard. "What is a floating market?"

"It's very big," she said. "But rat-speakers hardly ever need to go to the market. To tell the truth—" She hesitated. "Nah. You'll laugh at me."

"I won't," said Richard, honestly.

"Well," said the thin girl. "I'm a little scared."

"Scared? Of the market?"

They had reached the bottom of the steps. Anaesthesia hesitated and then turned left. "Oh. No. There's a truce in the market. If anyone hurt anyone there, the whole of London Below would be down on them like a ton of sewage."

"So what are you scared of?"

"Getting there. They hold it in a different place every time. It moves around. And to get to the place it'll be tonight . . . " she fingered the quartz beads around her neck, nervously. "We'll have to go through a really nasty neighborhood." She did sound scared.

Richard suppressed the urge to put an arm around her. "And where would that be?" he asked. She turned to him, pushed the hair from her eyes, and told him.

"Knightsbridge," repeated Richard, and he began to chuckle, gently.

The girl turned away. "See?" she said. "I said you'd laugh."

The deep tu

Varney made his home in the deepest of the deep tu

A hand turned up the oil lamp.

Varney had the two-bladed sword in his hand, and he was on his feet almost before his eyes were open. He blinked, stared around him. There was no one there: nothing had disturbed the pile of bunk beds blocking the door. He began to lower the sword.

A voice said, "Psst."

"Hh?" said Varney.

"Surprise," said Mr. Croup, stepping into the light.

Varney took a step back: a mistake. There was a knife at his temple, the point of the blade next to his eye. "Further movements are not recommended," said Mr. Croup, helpfully. "Mister Vandemar might have a little accident with his old toad-sticker. Most accidents do occur in the home. Is that not so, Mister Vandemar?"

"I don't trust statistics," said Mr. Vandemar's blank voice. A gloved hand reached down from behind Varney, crushed his sword, and dropped the twisted thing to the floor.

"How are you, Varney?" asked Mr. Croup. "Well, we trust? Yes? In fine form, fetlock and fettle for the market tonight? Do you know who we are?"

Varney did the nearest thing he could to a nod that didn't actually involve moving any muscles. He knew who Croup and Vandemar were. His eyes were searching the walls. Yes, there: the morning-star: a spiked wooden ball, studded with nails, on a chain, in the far corner of the room . . .

"There is talk that a certain young lady will be auditioning bodyguards this evening. Had you thought of trying out for the task?" Mr. Croup picked at his tombstone teeth. "Enunciate clearly." Varney picked up the morning-star with his mind. It was his Knack. Gentle, now . . . slowly . . . He edged it off the hook and pulled it up toward the top of the tu

Varney mentally positioned the morning-star in the shadows above and behind Mr. Croup's head. He would crush Croup's skull first, then he'd take Vandemar . . .