Vandemar?”
“I don’t trust statistics,” said Mr. Vandemar’s blank voice. A gloved hand reached down from behind Varney, crushed his sword, and dropped the twisted thing to the floor.
“How are you, Varney?” asked Mr. Croup. “Well, we trust? Yes? In fine form, fetlock and fettle for the market tonight? Do you know who we are?”
Varney did the nearest thing he could to a nod that didn’t actually involve moving any muscles. He knew who Croup and Vandemar were. His eyes were searching the walls. Yes, there: the morning-star: a spiked wooden ball, studded with nails, on a chain, in the far corner of the room . . .
“There is talk that a certain young lady will be auditioning bodyguards this evening. Had you thought of trying out for the task?” Mr. Croup picked at his tombstone teeth. “Enunciate clearly.”
Varney picked up the morning-star with his mind. It was his Knack. Gentle, now . . . slowly . . . He edged it off the hook and pulled it up toward the top of the tunnel archWith his mouth, he said, “Varney’s the best bravo and guard in the Underside. They say I’m the best since Hunter’s day.”
Varney mentally positioned the morning-star in the shadows above and behind Mr. Croup’s head. He would crush Croup’s skull first, then he’d take Vandemar . . .
The morning-star plunged toward Mr. Croup’s head: Varney flung himself down, away from the knife-blade at his eye. Mr. Croup did not look up. He did not turn. He simply moved his head, obscenely fast, and the morning-star crashed past him, into the floor, where it threw up chips of brick and concrete. Mr. Vandemar picked Varney up with one hand. “Hurt him?” he asked his partner.
Mr. Croup shook his head: not yet . To Varney, he said, “Not bad. So, ‘best bravo and guard,’ we want you to get yourself to the market tonight. We want you to do whatever you have to, to become that certain young lady’s personal bodyguard. Then, when you get the job, one thing you don’t forget. You may guard her from the rest of the world, but when we want her, we take her. Got it?”
Varney ran his tongue over the wreck of his teeth. “Are you bribing me?” he asked.
Mr. Vandemar had picked up the morning-star. He was pulling the chain apart, with his free hand, link by link, and dropping the bits of twisted metal onto the floor. Chink. “No,” said Mr. Vandemar. Chink . “We’re intimidating you.” Chink . “And if you don’t do what Mister Croup says, we’re . . .” chink “. . . hurting you . . .” chink “. . . very badly, before we’re . . .” chink “. . . killing you.”
“Ah,” said Varney. “Then I’m working for you, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are,” said Mr. Croup. “I’m afraid we don’t have any redeeming features.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” said Varney.
“Good,” said Mr. Croup. “Welcome aboard.”
It was a large but elegant mechanism, built of polished walnut and oak, of brass and glass, copper and mirrors and carved and inlaid ivory, of quartz prisms and brass gears and springs and cogs. The whole thing was rather larger than a wide-screen television, although the actual screen itself was no more than six inches across. A magnifying lens placed across it increased the size of the picture. There was a large brass horn coming out of the side—the kind you could find on an antique gramophone. The whole mechanism looked rather like a combined television and video player might look, if it had been invented and built three hundred years ago by Sir Isaac Newton. Which was, more or less, exactly what it was.
“Watch,” said Door. She placed the wooden ball onto a platform. Lights shone through the machine and into the ball. It began to spin around and around.
A patrician face appeared on the small screen, vividly colored. Slightly out of time, a voice came from the horn, crackling in mid-speech. “. . . that two cities should be so near,” said the voice, “and yet in all things so
“I don’t trust statistics,” said Mr. Vandemar’s blank voice. A gloved hand reached down from behind Varney, crushed his sword, and dropped the twisted thing to the floor.
“How are you, Varney?” asked Mr. Croup. “Well, we trust? Yes? In fine form, fetlock and fettle for the market tonight? Do you know who we are?”
Varney did the nearest thing he could to a nod that didn’t actually involve moving any muscles. He knew who Croup and Vandemar were. His eyes were searching the walls. Yes, there: the morning-star: a spiked wooden ball, studded with nails, on a chain, in the far corner of the room . . .
“There is talk that a certain young lady will be auditioning bodyguards this evening. Had you thought of trying out for the task?” Mr. Croup picked at his tombstone teeth. “Enunciate clearly.”
Varney picked up the morning-star with his mind. It was his Knack. Gentle, now . . . slowly . . . He edged it off the hook and pulled it up toward the top of the tunnel archWith his mouth, he said, “Varney’s the best bravo and guard in the Underside. They say I’m the best since Hunter’s day.”
Varney mentally positioned the morning-star in the shadows above and behind Mr. Croup’s head. He would crush Croup’s skull first, then he’d take Vandemar . . .
The morning-star plunged toward Mr. Croup’s head: Varney flung himself down, away from the knife-blade at his eye. Mr. Croup did not look up. He did not turn. He simply moved his head, obscenely fast, and the morning-star crashed past him, into the floor, where it threw up chips of brick and concrete. Mr. Vandemar picked Varney up with one hand. “Hurt him?” he asked his partner.
Mr. Croup shook his head: not yet . To Varney, he said, “Not bad. So, ‘best bravo and guard,’ we want you to get yourself to the market tonight. We want you to do whatever you have to, to become that certain young lady’s personal bodyguard. Then, when you get the job, one thing you don’t forget. You may guard her from the rest of the world, but when we want her, we take her. Got it?”
Varney ran his tongue over the wreck of his teeth. “Are you bribing me?” he asked.
Mr. Vandemar had picked up the morning-star. He was pulling the chain apart, with his free hand, link by link, and dropping the bits of twisted metal onto the floor. Chink. “No,” said Mr. Vandemar. Chink . “We’re intimidating you.” Chink . “And if you don’t do what Mister Croup says, we’re . . .” chink “. . . hurting you . . .” chink “. . . very badly, before we’re . . .” chink “. . . killing you.”
“Ah,” said Varney. “Then I’m working for you, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are,” said Mr. Croup. “I’m afraid we don’t have any redeeming features.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” said Varney.
“Good,” said Mr. Croup. “Welcome aboard.”
It was a large but elegant mechanism, built of polished walnut and oak, of brass and glass, copper and mirrors and carved and inlaid ivory, of quartz prisms and brass gears and springs and cogs. The whole thing was rather larger than a wide-screen television, although the actual screen itself was no more than six inches across. A magnifying lens placed across it increased the size of the picture. There was a large brass horn coming out of the side—the kind you could find on an antique gramophone. The whole mechanism looked rather like a combined television and video player might look, if it had been invented and built three hundred years ago by Sir Isaac Newton. Which was, more or less, exactly what it was.
“Watch,” said Door. She placed the wooden ball onto a platform. Lights shone through the machine and into the ball. It began to spin around and around.
A patrician face appeared on the small screen, vividly colored. Slightly out of time, a voice came from the horn, crackling in mid-speech. “. . . that two cities should be so near,” said the voice, “and yet in all things so
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