Neverwhere

"Enough," called a voice from the bridge.

Hunter took a step back. She stood beside Richard and Door once more. She had not even broken a sweat. The big monk got up from the mud. His lip was bleeding. He bowed low to Hunter, then walked to the foot of the bridge.

"Who are they, Brother Sable?" called the voice.

"The Lady Door, Lord Portico's daughter, of the House of the Arch; Hunter, her bodyguard, and Richard Mayhew, their companion," said Brother Sable, through bruised lips. "She bested me in fair fight, Brother Fuliginous."

"Let them come up," said the voice.

Hunter led the way up the bridge. At the apex of the bridge, another monk was waiting for them: Brother Fuliginous. He was younger and smaller than the first monk they had met, but he was dressed the same way. His skin was a deep, rich brown. There were other black-clad figures, just barely visible, further into the yellow fog. These were the Black Friars, then, Richard realized. The second monk stared at the three of them for a second, and then recited:

"I turn my head, and you may go where you want. I turn it again, you will stay till you rot. I have no face, but I live or die by my crooked teeth—who am I?"

Door took a step forward. She licked her lips and half closed her eyes. "I turn my head . . . " she said, puzzling to herself. "Crooked teeth . . . go where you . . . " Then a smile spread over her face. She stared up at Brother Fuliginous. "A key," she said. "The answer is, you're a key."

"A wise one," acknowledged Brother Fuliginous. "That's two steps taken. One more to take."

A very old man stepped out of the yellow fog and walked cautiously toward them, his gnarled hand holding onto the stone side of the bridge. He stopped when he reached Brother Fuliginous. His eyes were a glaucous blue-white, thick with cataracts. Richard liked him on sight. "How many of them are there?" he asked the younger man, in a deep and reassuring voice.

"Three, Father Abbot."

"And has one of them bested the first gatekeeper?"

"Yes, Father Abbot."

"And did one of them answer the second gatekeeper correctly?"

"Yes, Father Abbot."

There was regret in the old man's voice. "So, one of them is left to face the Ordeal of the Key. Let him or her stand forward now."

Door said, "Oh no."

Hunter said, "Let me take his place. I will face the ordeal."

Brother Fuliginous shook his head. "We ca

When Richard was a small boy he had been taken, as part of a school trip, to a local castle. With his class he had climbed the many steps to the highest point in the castle, a partly ruined tower. They had clustered together at the top, while the teacher pointed out to them the whole of the countryside, spread out below. Even at that age, Richard had not been very good at heights. He had clutched the safety rail, and closed his eyes, and tried not to look down. The teacher had told them that the drop from the top of the old tower to the bottom of the hill it overlooked was three hundred feet; then she told them that a pe

An ordeal.

The pe

"Hang on a sec," he said. "Back up. Mm-mm: ordeal. Someone's got an ordeal waiting for them. Somebody who didn't have a little fight down in the mud, and didn't get to answer the riddle . . . " He was babbling. He could hear himself babbling, and he just didn't care.

"This ordeal of yours," Richard asked the abbot. "How much of an ordeal is it?"

"This way now," said the abbot.

"You don't want him," said Door. "Take one of us."

"Three of you come. There are three tests. Each of you faces one test: that is fair," said the abbot. "If he passes the ordeal, he will return to you."

A light breeze eased the fog. The other dark figures were holding crossbows. Each crossbow was pointed at Richard, or Hunter, or Door. The friars closed ranks, cutting Richard off from Hunter and from Door.

"We're looking for a key—" said Richard to the abbot, in a low voice.

"Yes," said the abbot, placidly.

"It's for an angel," explained Richard.

"Yes," said the abbot. He reached out a hand, found the crook of Brother Fuliginous's arm.

Richard lowered his voice. "Look, you can't say no to an angel, especially a man of the cloth like yourself . . . why don't we just skip the ordeal? You could just hand it over."

The abbot began to walk down the curve of the bridge. There was a door, open at the bottom. Richard followed him. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. "When our order was founded," said the abbot, "we were entrusted with the key. It is one of the holiest, and the most powerful, of all sacred relics. We must pass it on, but only to the one who passes the ordeal and proves worthy."

They walked through winding narrow corridors, Richard leaving a trail of wet mud behind him. "If I fail the ordeal, then we don't get the key, do we?"

"No, my son."

Richard thought about this for a moment. "Could I come back later for a second try?"

Brother Fuliginous coughed. "Not really, my son," said the abbot. "If that should happen, you will in all probability be . . . " he paused, and then said, "beyond caring. But do not fret, perhaps you will be the one to win the key, eh?" There was a ghastly attempt at reassurance in his voice, more terrifying than any attempt to scare him could have been.

"You would kill me?"

The abbot stared ahead with blue-milk eyes. There was a touch of reproof in his voice. "We are holy men," he said. "No, it is the ordeal that kills you."

They walked down a flight of steps, into a low, cryptlike room with oddly decorated walls. "Now," said the abbot. "Smile!"

There was the electric fizz of a camera flash going off, blinding Richard for a moment. When he could see again, Brother Fuliginous was lowering a battered old Polaroid camera and was yanking out the photograph. The friar waited until it had developed, and then he pi

Richard stared at the faces. A few Polaroids; twenty or thirty other photographic snapshots, some sepia prints and daguerreotypes; and, after that, pencil sketches, and watercolors, and miniatures. They went all the way along one wall. The friars had been at this a very long time.

Door shivered. "I'm so stupid," she muttered. "I should have known. Three of us. I should never have come straight here."

Hunter's head was moving from side to side. She had noted the position of each of the friars and each of the crossbows; she had calculated the odds of getting Door over the side of the bridge first unharmed, then with only minor injuries, and lastly with major injury to herself, but only minor injury to Door. She was now recalculating. "And what would you have done differently if you had known?" she asked.

"I wouldn't have brought him here, for a start," said Door. "I'd have found the marquis."

Hunter put her head on one side. "You trust him?" she asked, directly, and Door knew she was talking of de Carabas, not Richard.

"Yes," said Door. "I more or less trust him."

Door had been five years old for just two days. The market was being held in the Gardens at Kew on that day, and her father had taken her with him, as a birthday treat. It was her first market. They were in the butterfly house, surrounded by brightly colored wings, iridescent weightless things that entranced and fascinated her, when her father crouched down beside her. "Door?" he said. "Turn around slowly, and look over there."