Neverwhere

“What,” asked Mr. Croup, “do you want?”

“What,” asked the marquis de Carabas, a little more rhetorically, “does anyone want?”

“Dead things,” suggested Mr. Vandemar. “Extra teeth.”

“I thought perhaps we could make a deal,” said the marquis.

Mr. Croup began to laugh. It sounded like a piece of blackboard being dragged over the nails of a wall of severed fingers. “Oh, Messire Marquis. I think I can confidently state, with no risk of contradiction from any parties here present, that you have taken leave of whatever senses you are reputed to have had. You are,” he confided, “if you will permit the vulgarism, completely off your head.”

“Say the word,” said Mr. Vandemar, who was now standing behind the marquis’s chair, “and it’ll be off his neck before you can say Jack Ketch.”

The marquis breathed heavily on his fingernails and polished them on the lapel of his coat. “I have always felt,” he said, “that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent, and empty threats the final sanctuary of the terminally inept.”

Mr. Croup glared. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

The marquis de Carabas stretched, like a big cat: a lynx, perhaps, or a huge black panther; and at the end of the stretch he was standing up, with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his magnificent coat. “You are,” he said, idly and conversationally, “I understand, Mister Croup, a collector of T’ang dynasty figurines.”

“How did you know that?”

“People tell me things. I’m approachable.” The marquis’s smile was pure, untroubled, guileless: the smile of a man selling you a used Bible.

“Even if I were . . . ” began Mr. Croup.

“If you were,” said the marquis de Carabas, “you might be interested in this.” He took one hand out of his pocket and displayed it to Mr. Croup. Until earlier that evening it had sat in a glass case in the vaults of one of London’s leading merchant banks. It was listed in certain catalogues as The Spirit of Autumn (Grave Figure). It was roughly eight inches high: a piece of glazed pottery that had been shaped and painted and fired while Europe was in the Dark Ages, six hundred years before Columbus’s first voyage.

Mr. Croup hissed, involuntarily, and reached for it. The marquis pulled it out of reach, cradled it to his chest. “No no,” said the marquis. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“No?” asked Mr. Croup. “But what’s to stop us taking it, and leaving pieces of you all over the Underside? We’ve never dismembered a marquis before.”

“Have,” said Mr. Vandemar. “In York. In the fourteenth century. In the rain.”

“He wasn’t a marquis,” said Mr. Croup. “He was the earl of Exeter.”

“And marquis of Westmorland.” Mr. Vandemar looked rather pleased with himself.

Mr. Croup sniffed. “What’s to stop us hacking you into as many pieces as we hacked the marquis of Westmorland?” he asked.

De Carabas took his other hand out of his pocket. It held a small hammer. He tossed the hammer in the air and caught it by the handle, ending with the hammer poised over the china figurine. “Oh, please,” he said. “No more silly threats. I think I’d feel better if you were both standing back over there.”

Mr. Vandemar shot a look at Mr. Croup, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. There was a tremble in the air, and Mr. Vandemar was standing beside Mr. Croup, who smiled like a skull. “I have indeed been known to purchase the occasional T’ang piece,” he admitted. “Is that for sale?”

“We don’t go in so much for buying and selling here in the Underside, Mister Croup. Barter. Exchange. That’s what we look for. But yes, indeed, this desirable little piece is certainly up for grabs.”

Mr. Croup pursed his lips. He folded his arms. He unfolded them. He ran one hand through his greasy hair. Then, “Name your price,” said Mr. Croup. The marquis let himself breathe a deep, relieved, and almost audible sigh. It was possible that he was going to be able to pull this whole grandiose ruse off, after all. “First, three answers to three questions,” he said.

Croup nodded. “Each way. We get three answers too.”

“Fair enough,” said the marquis. “Secondly, I get safe conduct out of here. And you agree to give me at least an hour’s head start.”

Croup nodded violently. “Agreed. Ask your first question.” His gaze was fixed on the statue.

“First question. Who are you working for?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” said Mr. Croup. “That’s a simple answer. We are working for our employer, who wishes to remain nameless.”

“Hmph. Why did you kill Door’s family?”

“Orders from our employer,” said Mr. Croup, his smile becoming more foxy by the moment.

“Why didn’t you kill Door, when you had a chance?”

Before Mr. Croup could answer, Mr. Vandemar said, “Got to keep her alive. She’s the only one that can open the door.”

Mr. Croup glared up at his associate. “That’s it,” he said. “Tell him everything, why don’t you?”

“I wanted a turn,” muttered Mr. Vandemar.

“Right,” said Mr. Croup. “So you’ve got three answers, for all the good that will do you. My first question: why are you protecting her?”

“Her father saved my life,” said the marquis, honestly. “I never paid off my debt to him. I prefer debts to be in my favor.”

“I’ve got a question,” said Mr. Vandemar.

“As have I, Mr. Vandemar. The Upworlder, Richard Mayhew. Why is he traveling with her? Why does she permit it?”

“Sentimentality on her part,” said the marquis de Carabas. He wondered, as he said it, if that was the whole truth. He had begun to wonder whether there might, perhaps, be more to the upworlder than met the eye.

“Now me,” said Mr. Vandemar. “What number am I thinking of?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What number am I thinking of?” repeated Mr. Vandemar. “It’s between one and a lot,” he added, helpfully.

“Seven,” said the marquis. Mr. Vandemar nodded, impressed. Mr. Croup began, “Where is the—” but the marquis shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Now we’re getting greedy.”