De Carabas reached across the table and took the sandwich bag with the envelope in it from the young man’s fingers. He slipped it into one of the pockets sewn inside his shirt.
And then he walked away, thinking about a man holding a crook.
The Marquis de Carabas wore a blanket as a substitute for his coat. He wore it swathed about him like Hell’s own poncho. It did not make him happy. He wished he had his coat. Fine feathers do not make fine birds, whispered a voice at the back of his mind, something someone had said to him when he was a boy: he suspected that it was his brother’s voice, and he did his best to forget it had ever spoken.
A crook: the man who had taken his coat from the Sewer people had been carrying a crook.
He pondered.
The Marquis de Carabas liked being who he was, and when he took risks he liked them to be calculated risks, and he was someone who double- and triple-checked his calculations.
He checked his calculations for the fourth time.
The Marquis de Carabas did not trust people. It was bad for business and it could set an unfortunate precedent. He did not trust his friends or his occasional lovers, and he certainly never trusted his employers. He reserved the entirety of his trust for the Marquis de Carabas, an imposing figure in an imposing coat, able to outtalk, outthink, and outplan anybody.
There were only two sorts of people who carried crooks: bishops and shepherds.
In Bishopsgate, the crooks were decorative, nonfunctional, purely symbolic. And the bishops had no need of coats. They had robes, after all, nice, white, bishopy robes.
The Marquis was not scared of the bishops. He knew that the Sewer Folk were not scared of bishops. The inhabitants of Shepherd’s Bush were another matter entirely. Even in his coat, and at the best of times, at the peak of health and with a small army at his beck and call, the Marquis would not have wanted to encounter the shepherds.
He toyed with the idea of visiting Bishopsgate, of spending a pleasant handful of days establishing that his coat was not there.
And then he sighed, dramatically, and went to the Guide’s Pen, and looked for a bonded guide who might be persuaded take him to Shepherd’s Bush.
His guide was quite remarkably short, with fair hair cut close. The Marquis had first thought she was in her teens, until, after traveling with her for half a day, he had decided she was in her twenties. He had talked to half a dozen guides, before he found her. Her name was Knibbs, and she had seemed confident, and he needed confidence. He told her the two places he was going, as they walked out of the Guide’s Pen.
“So where do you want to go first, then?” she asked. “Shepherd’s Bush, or Raven’s Court?”
“The visit to Raven’s Court is a formality: it is merely to deliver a letter. To someone named Drusilla.”
“A love letter?”
“I believe so. Why do you ask?”
“I have heard that the fair Drusilla is most wickedly beautiful, and she has the unfortunate habit of reshaping those who displease her into birds of prey. You must love her very much, to be writing letters to her.”
“I am afraid I have never encountered the young lady,” said the Marquis. “The letter is not from me. And it doesn’t matter which we visit first.”
“You know,” said Knibbs, thoughtfully, “just in case something dreadfully unfortunate happens to you when you get to the shepherds, we should probably do Raven’s Court first. So the fair Drusilla gets her letter. I’m not saying that something horrible will happen to you, mind. Just that it’s better to be safe than, y’know, dead.”
The Marquis de Carabas looked down at his blanketed shape. He was uncertain. Had he been wearing his coat, he knew, he would not have been uncertain: he would have known exactly what to do. He looked at the girl and he mustered the most convincing grin he could. “Raven’s Court it is, then,” he said.
Knibbs had nodded, and set off on the path, and the Marquis had followed her.
The paths of London Below are not the paths of London Above: they rely to no little extent on things like belief and opinion and tradition as much as they rely upon the realities of maps.
De Carabas and Knibbs were two tiny figures walking through a high, vaulted tunnel carved from old, white stone. Their footsteps echoed.
“You’re de Carabas, aren’t you?” said Knibbs. “You’re famous. You know how to get places. What exactly do you need a guide for?”
“Two heads are better than one,” he told her. “So are two sets of eyes.”
“You used to have a posh coat, didn’t you?” she said.
“I did. Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
He said nothing. Then he said, “I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to Shepherd’s Bush first.”
“Fair enough,” said his guide. “Easy to take you one place as another. I’ll wait for you outside the shepherds’ trading post, mind.”
“Very wise, girl.”
“My name’s Knibbs,” she said. “Not girl. Do you want to know why I become a guide? It’s an interesting story.”
“Not particularly,” said the Marquis de Carabas. He was not feeling particularly talkative, and the guide was being well recompensed for her trouble. “Why don’t we try to move in silence?”
Knibbs nodded and said nothing as they reached the end of the tunnel, nothing as they clambered down some metal rungs set in the side of a wall. It was not until they had reached the banks of the Mortlake, the vast underground Lake of the Dead, and she was lighting a candle on the shore to summon the boatman, that she spoke again.
Knibbs said, “The thing about being a proper guide is that you’re bonded. So people know you won’t steer them wrong.”
The Marquis only grunted. He was wondering what to tell the shepherds at the trading post, trying out alternate routes through possibility and through probability. He had nothing that the shepherds would want, that was the trouble.
“You lead them wrong, you’ll never work as a guide again,” said Knibbs, cheerfully. “That’s why we’re bonded.”
“I know,” said the Marquis. She was a most irritating guide, he thought. Two heads were only better than one if the other head kept its mouth shut and did not start telling him things he already knew.
“I got bonded,” she said, “in Bond Street.” She tapped the little chain around her wrist.
“I don’t see the ferryman,” said the Marquis.
“He’ll be here soon enough. You keep an eye out for him in that direction, and halloo when you sees him. I’ll keep looking over here. One way or another, we’ll spot him.”
They stared out over the dark water of the Tyburn. Knibbs began to talk again. “Before I was a guide, when I was just little, my people trained me up for this. They said it was the only way that honor could ever be satisfied.”
The Marquis turned to face her. She held the candle in front of her, at eye level. Everything is off, here, thought the Marquis, and he realized he should have been listening to her from the beginning. Everything is wrong. He said, “Who are your people, Knibbs? Where do you come from?”
“Somewhere you ain’t welcome anymore,” said the girl. “I was born and bred to give my fealty and loyalty to the Elephant and the Castle.”
Something hard struck him on the back of the head then, hit him like a hammerblow, and lightning pulsed in the darkness of his mind as he crumpled to the floor.
The Marquis de Carabas could not move his arms. They were, he realized, tied behind him. He was lying on his side.
He had been unconscious. If the people who did this to him thought him unconscious still, then he would do nothing to disabuse them of the idea, he decided. He let his eyes slit open the merest crack, to sneak a glance at the world.
A deep, grinding voice said, “Oh, don’t be silly, de Carabas. I don’t believe you’re still out. I’ve got big ears. I can hear your heart beat. Open your eyes properly, you weasel. Face me like a man.”
The Marquis recognized the v
oice and hoped he was mistaken. He opened his eyes. He was staring at legs, human legs with bare feet. The toes were squat and pushed together. The legs and feet were the color of teak. He knew those legs. He had not been mistaken.
His mind bifurcated: a small part of it berated him for his inattention and his foolishness. Knibbs had told him, by the Temple and the Arch: he just had not listened to her. But even as he raged at his own foolishness, the rest of his mind took over, forced a smile, and said, “Why, this is indeed an honor. You really didn’t have to arrange to meet me like this. Why the merest inkling that your prominence might have had even the teeniest desire to see me would have—”
“Sent you scurrying off in the other direction as fast as your spindly little legs could carry you,” said the person with the teak-colored legs. He reached over with his trunk, which was long and flexible, and a greenish blue color, and which hung to his ankles, and he pushed the Marquis onto his back.
The Marquis began rubbing his bound wrists slowly against the concrete beneath them, while he said, “Not at all. Quite the opposite. Words cannot actually describe how much pleasure I take in your pachydermic presence. Might I suggest that you untie me and allow me to greet you, man to … man to elephant?”
“I don’t think so, given all the trouble I’ve been through to make this happen,” said other. He had the head of a greenish grey elephant. His tusks were sharp and stained reddish brown at the tips. “You know, I swore when I found out what you had done that I would make you scream and beg for mercy. And I swore I’d say no, to giving you mercy, when you begged for it.”
“You could say yes, instead,” said the Marquis.
“I couldn’t say yes. Hospitality abused,” said the Elephant. “I never forget.”
The Marquis had been commissioned to bring Victoria the Elephant’s diary, when he and the world had been much younger. The Elephant ran his fiefdom arrogantly, sometimes viciously and with no tenderness or humor, and the Marquis had thought that the Elephant was stupid. He had even believed that there was no way that the Elephant would correctly identify his role in the disappearance of the diary. It had been a long time ago, though, when the Marquis was young and foolish.
“This whole spending years training up a guide to betray me just on the off chance I’d come along and hire her,” said the Marquis. “Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction?”
“Not if you know me,” said the Elephant. “If you know me, it’s pretty mild. I did lots of other things to find you too.”
The Marquis tried to sit up. The Elephant pushed him back to the floor with one bare foot. “Beg for mercy,” said the Elephant.
That one was easy. “Mercy!” said the Marquis. “I beg! I plead! Show me mercy—the finest of all gifts. It befits you, mighty Elephant, as lord of your own demesne, to be merciful to one who is not even fit to wipe the dust from your excellent toes …”
“Did you know?” said the Elephant, “that everything you say sounds sarcastic?”
“I didn’t. I apologize. I meant every single word of it.”
“Scream,” said the Elephant.
The Marquis de Carabas screamed very loudly and very long. It is hard to scream when your throat has been recently cut, but he screamed as hard and piteously as he could.
“You even scream sarcastically,” said the Elephant.
There was a large black cast-iron pipe jutting out from the wall. A wheel in the side of the pipe allowed whatever came out of the pipe to be turned on and turned off. The Elephant hauled on it with powerful arms, and a trickle of dark sludge came out, followed by a spurt of water.
“Drainage overflow,” said the Elephant. “Now. Thing is, I do my homework. You keep your life well hidden, de Carabas. You have done all these years, since you and I first crossed paths. No point in even trying anything as long as you had your life elsewhere. I’ve had people all over London Below: people you’ve eaten with, people you’ve slept with or laughed with or wound up naked in the clock tower of Big Ben with, but there was never any point in taking it further, not as long as your life was still carefully tucked out of harm’s way. Until last week, when the word under the street was that your life was out of its box. And that was when I put the word out, that I’d give the freedom of the Castle to the first person to let me see …”
“… See me scream for mercy,” said de Carabas. “You said.”
“You interrupted me,” said the Elephant, mildly. “I was going to say, I was going to give the freedom of the Castle to the first person to let me see your dead body.”
He pulled the wheel the rest of the way and the spurt of water became a gush.
“I ought to warn you. There is,” said de Carabas, “a curse on the hand of anyone who kills me.”
“I’ll take the curse,” said the Elephant. “Although you’re probably making it up. You’ll like the next bit. The room fills with water, and then you drown. Then I let the water out, and I come in, and I laugh a lot.” He made a trumpeting noise that might, de Carabas reflected, have been a laugh, if you were an elephant.
The Elephant stepped out of de Carabas’s line of sight.
The Marquis heard a door bang. He was lying in a puddle. He writhed and wriggled, then got to his feet. He looked down: there was a metal cuff around his ankle, which was chained to a metal pole in the center of the room.
He wished he were wearing his coat: there were blades in his coat; there were picklocks; there were buttons that were nowhere nearly as innocent and buttonlike as they appeared to be. He rubbed the rope that bound his wrists against the metal pole, hoping to make it fray, feeling the skin of his wrists and palms rubbing off even as the rope absorbed the water and tightened about him. The water level continued to rise: already it was up to his waist.
De Carabas looked about the circular chamber. All he had to do was free himself from the bonds that tied his wrists—obviously by loosening the pole to which he was bound—and then he would open the cuff around his ankle, turn off the water, get out of the room, avoid a revenge-driven Elephant and any of his assorted thugs, and get away.
He tugged on the pole. It didn’t move. He tugged on it harder. It didn’t move some more.
He slumped against the pole, and he thought about death, a true, final death, and he thought about his coat.
A voice whispered in his ear. It said, “Quiet!”
Something tugged at his wrists, and his bonds fell away. It was only as life came back into his wrists he realized how tightly he had been bound. He turned around.
He said, “What?”
The face that met his was as familiar as his own. The smile was devastating, the eyes were guileless and adventuresome.
“Ankle,” said the man, with a new smile that was even more devastating than the previous one.
The Marquis de Carabas was not devastated. He raised his leg, and the man reached down, did something with a piece of wire, and removed the leg cuff.
“I heard you were having a spot of bother,” said the man. His skin was as dark as the Marquis’ own. He was less than an inch taller than de Carabas, but he held himself as if he were easily taller than anyone he was ever likely to meet.
“No. No bother. I’m fine,” said the Marquis.
“You aren’t. I just rescued you.”
De Carabas ignored this. “Where’s the Elephant?”
“On the other side of that door, with a number of the people working for him. The doors lock automatically when the hall is filled with water. He needed to be certain that he wouldn’t be trapped in here with you. It was what I was counting on.”
“Counting on?”
“Of course. I’d been following them for several hours. Ever since I heard that you’d gone off with one of the Elephant’s plants. I thought, bad move, I thought. He’ll be needing a hand with that.”
“You heard … ?”
“Look,” said the man who looked a little like the Marquis de Carabas, only he was taller, and perhaps some people—not the M
arquis, obviously—might have thought him just a hair better-looking, “you don’t think I was going to let anything happen to my little brother, did you?”
They were up to their waists in water. “I was fine,” said de Carabas. “I had it all under control.”
The man walked over to the far end of the room. He knelt down, fumbled in the water, then, from his backpack, he produced something that looked like a short crowbar. He pushed one end of it beneath the surface of the water. “Get ready,” he said. “I think this should be our quickest way out of here.”
The Marquis was still flexing his pins-and-needles cramping fingers, trying to rub life back into them. “What is it?” he said, trying to sound unimpressed.
The man said, “There we go,” and pulled up a large square of metal. “It’s the drain.” De Carabas did not have a chance to protest, as his brother picked him up and dropped him down a hole in the floor.
Probably, thought de Carabas, there are rides like this at funfairs. He could imagine them. Upworlders might pay good money to take this ride if they were certain they would survive it.
He crashed through pipes, swept along by the flow of water, always heading down and deeper. He was not certain he was going to survive it, and he was not having fun.
The Marquis’ body was bruised and battered as he rode the water down the pipe. He tumbled out, facedown, onto a large metal grate, which seemed scarcely able to hold his weight. He crawled off the grate onto the rock floor beside it, and he shivered.
There was an unlikely sort of a noise, and it was immediately followed by his brother, who shot out of the pipe and landed on his feet, as if he’d been practicing. He smiled. “Fun, eh?”
“Not really,” said the Marquis de Carabas. And then he had to ask. “Were you just going ‘Whee!’?”
“Of course! Weren’t you?” asked his brother.
De Carabas got to his feet, unsteadily. He said only, “What are you calling yourself these days?”
“Still the same. I don’t change.”
“It’s not your real name, Peregrine,” said de Carabas.
“It’ll do. It marks my territory and my intentions. You’re still calling yourself a Marquis, then?” said Peregrine.
Rogues Page 70
