“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 pinned it to the wall. “This is our wall of those who failed,” sighed the abbot, “to ensure that they are none of them forgotten. That is our burden also: memorial.”

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.”

She turned, and looked. A dark-skinned man wearing a big coat, his black hair tied behind him in a long pony tail, was standing by the door, talking to two golden-skinned twins, a young man and a young woman. The young woman was crying, in the way that grown-ups cry, keeping it inside as much as they can, and hating it when it still pushes out at the edges, making them ugly and funny-looking on the way. Door turned back to the butterflies. “You saw him?” asked her father. She nodded. “He calls himself the marquis de Carabas,” he said. “He’s a fraud and a cheat and possibly even something of a monster. If you’re ever in trouble, go to him. He will protect you, girl. He has to.”

Door looked back at the man. He had a hand on the shoulder of each of the twins and was leading them from the room; but he glanced back over his shoulder, as he left, and he looked straight at her, and smiled an enormous smile; and then he winked at her.

The friars who surrounded them were dark ghosts in the fog. Door raised her voice. “Excuse me, brother,” she called to Brother Sable. “But our friend, who’s gone to get the key. If he fails, what happens to us?”

He took a step toward them, hesitated, and then said, “We escort you away from here, and we let you go.”

“What about Richard?” she asked. Beneath his cowl, she could see him shaking his head, sadly, finally. “I should have brought the marquis,” said Door; and she wondered where he was, and what he was doing.

The marquis de Carabas was being crucified on a large X-shaped wooden construction Mr. Vandemar had knocked together from several old pallets, part of a chair and a wooden gate. He had also used most of a large box of rusting nails.

It had been a very long time since they had crucified anybody.

The marquis de Carabas’s arms and legs, were spread into a wide X shape. Rusty nails went into his hands and feet. He was also roped around the waist. After experiencing terrible pain, he was now, more or less, unconscious. The whole construction dangled in the air, from several ropes, in a room that had once been the hospital staff cafeteria. On the ground below, Mr. Croup had assembled a large mound of sharp objects, ranging from razors and kitchen knives to abandoned scalpels and lancets. There was even a poker, from the furnace room.

“Why don’t you see how he’s doing, Mister Vandemar?” asked Mr. Croup.

Mr. Vandemar reached out his hammer, and prodded the marquis experimentally with it.

The marquis de Carabas was not a good man, and he knew himself well enough to be perfectly certain that he was not a brave man. He had long since decided that the world, Above or Below, was a place that wished to be deceived, and, to this end, he had named himself from a lie in a fairy tale, and created himself—his clothes, his manner, his carriage—as a grand joke.

There was a dull pain at his wrists and his feet, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. There was nothing more to be gained by feigning unconsciousness, and he raised his head, as best he could, and spat a gob of scarlet blood into Mr. Valdemar’s face.

It was a brave thing to do, he thought. And a stupid one. Perhaps they would have let him die quietly, if he had not done that. Now, he had no doubt, they would hurt him more.

And perhaps his death would come the quicker for it.

The open kettle was boiling fiercely. Richard watched the bubbling water, and the thick steam, and wondered what they were going to do with it. His imagination was able to provide any number of answers, most of which would have been unimaginably painful, none of which turned out to be correct.

The boiling water was poured into a pot, to which Brother Fuliginous added three spoons of dried, shredded leaves. The resultant liquid was poured from the pot through a tea strainer, into three china cups. The abbot raised his blind head, sniffed the air, and smiled. “The first part of the Ordeal of the Key,” he said, “is the nice cup of tea. Do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you,” said Richard, warily.

Brother Fuliginous added a little milk to the tea, and passed a cup and saucer to Richard. “Is it poisoned?” he asked.

The abbot looked almost offended: “Good gracious, no.”

Richard sipped the tea, which tasted more or less exactly like tea always tasted. “But this is part of the ordeal?”




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