They stood at a goat-hide gate. The Switchpoint, for that’s what Ell called it, made a kissing face at them. All around them well-kept lawns wound down to the lapping Barleybroom, full of gentle little paths and sedate violets nodding pleasantly. A sundial spun its shadow slowly around clusters of yellow peonies. Not at all what you might expect from a place called Pandemonium, really, especially the birdbaths and commemorative benches. It looked much more like Hanscom Park in Omaha than the outskirts of a Fairy City.
The Switchpoint still pursed its lips at them. A sparrow landed on one of its oversize ears and flew away again, as though the brass burned its feet. Ell insisted that this was the way in.
“What shall I ask?” said September, shuffling her feet.
“Well, where do you want to go?” Ell stretched his long neck, uncoiling it and yawning, then coiling it up again.
“I expect to wherever the Marquess lives.”
“That’s the Briary.”
“But then … thieves work at night, mostly, and I ought to start acting like a thief if I mean to steal something. So we ought to wait until nightfall, you know. It’s easier to be sneaky in the dark.”
“September, queen among thieves, you will never get into Pandemonium this way. You must have a Purpose. You must have Business Here. Loiterers, Lackadaisicals, and other Menaces might do well in other cities, but they are allergic to Pandemonium, and it is allergic to them. If you do not have Business Here, you must at least pretend you do with a very firm expression, or else learn to eat violets and converse with sundials.”
“We could go to the Municipal Library, see your … grandfather.” September was still deeply unsure about Ell’s theory on his parentage.
A-Through-L blushed, going all orange in the face. “I … I’m not ready!” he cried suddenly. “I haven’t had a brushup on my studies! I haven’t had my horns waxed or my credentials calligraphed or anything! Tomorrow, we can go tomorrow or maybe next week!”
“Oh, Ell, don’t worry,” September sighed. “I think you look fine as you are! And you’re quite the smartest beast I’ve ever known.”
“But how many beasts have you known?”
“Well, there’s you … and the Leopard and the wairwulf. I’m only twelve! I think three is a very respectable number.”
“Not what you’d call a statistical sampling, though. But it’s no matter. Today we ride on the rails of your quest, not mine. I’m not ready. I’m just not.” A-Through-L’s eyes turned pleading. Tears welled up, bright turquoise, glittering.
“Oh! It’s all right, Ell! Don’t cry!” September stroked his leathery knee. She turned to the Switchpoint and took a deep breath, speaking as loudly and sternly as she could.
“Listen, Mr. Brass-Ears! I should like to find a place that is cool and shady, somewhat near the Briary, but not too near, where we can rest and laugh and see something wonderful of Pandemonium while we wait for the sun to set.”
“And lemon ices,” whispered Ell.
“And where they serve lemon ices,” finished September firmly.
The Switchpoint exhaled with a long, high whistle, its cheeks deflating like spent balloons. Its eyes opened and its ears fluttered. All the hands of the post flexed, made fists, and relaxed again.
“Papers,” the Switchpoint said in a faint, airy voice. Its eyes were hard brass balls, glinting with judgment.
September fished the little green book that Betsy Basilstalk had given her out of the inner pocket of the smoking jacket. The jacket was deeply pleased to have kept it safe for her. She held it up so the cherubic little face could examine it. It clucked imperiously.
“Ravished, eh? Haven’t seen one of you in a while.” The Switchpoint looked dubiously at A-Through-L, who scratched at the grass with one enormous claw.
“He’s my … companion. My Wyvern,” said September hurriedly. She hoped he would not be too offended at being called hers.
“Do you have a Deed for him?”
The Wyverary drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable. “True servitude,” he said gently, “can only be voluntary. Surely, you know that. Surely, you once chose to stand here and frown at those who wish only to enter the city. Surely, you once did something else—sold gloves or frightened children at festivals—and chose this instead.”
The Switchpoint squinted up at him. “Were a soldier, we were,” it grumbled.
The great goat-hair gate drew back like a theatre curtain. Four of the hands at the base of the Switchpoint post began to work furiously, so fast the fingers blurred so that September could not even see them moving. Slowly, a deep scarlet scrap began to spread out from the post, weaving itself as it went, a little brass thumb sliding back and forth like a shuttle. It flowed on, raw, shimmering silk, under September’s shadowless feet and through the gate, stopping there, as if to beckon them onward.
September took a step forward. The hands blurred into industry again, and the scarlet path wove swiftly on into Pandemonium.
“It’s all right,” said Ell confidentially as they passed through the gate. “I know you didn’t mean it, about my being yours.” The great beast flicked his red tail. “But I can be. And you can be mine! And what lovely games we shall have!”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” sighed A-Through-L happily as September gaped. “Queen Mallow built it this way, years and years ago.”