Neverwhere

"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.

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.

"Can I help you?" said the footman. Richard had been told to fuck off and die with more warmth and good humor.

"Down Street," said Lamia, imperiously.

"This way," sighed the footman. "If you'll wipe your feet."

They walked through an impressive lobby. Then they waited while the footman lit each of the candles on a candelabra. They went down some impressive, richly carpeted stairs. They went down a flight of less impressive, less richly carpeted stairs. They went down a flight of entirely unimpressive stairs carpeted in a threadbare brown sacking, and, finally, they went down a flight of drab wooden stairs with no carpet on them at all.

At the bottom of those stairs was an antique service elevator, with a sign on it. The sign said:

OUT OF ORDER