Le Behan squelched mournfully away in his dead fish, and I made my armoured fist disappear. No one noticed. No alarms. No one was paying us any attention at all. The television people were still waiting for someone important to show up. Security in the outer lobby was seriously rubbish. I’d have to have a word with someone about that later.
Molly and I wandered around the outer lobby, looking the place over. The old walls looked solid enough, but my torc-backed Sight led me immediately to one particular section tucked away in a corner. As we approached, several quite powerful
“Is that really solid gold . . . ? It is, it is! Tons of it! Well, one up on the Wulfshead’s silver door . . .”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “The door is fused to the wall; you couldn’t pry that loose with an enchanted crowbar.” I ran my fingertips across the gleaming gold. It was unnaturally warm to the touch, and subtly unpleasant. As though there were something really nasty on the other side. “This isn’t just gold, Molly. It feels . . . inhabited.”
“Could this be the same material as your armour?” said Molly.
“Good question,” I said. “Obviously not the strange matter of my current armour, but . . . the Heart got up to a lot of stuff that most of the family never got to hear about. No . . . No. I don’t think so. London Undertowen had already been in existence for centuries before the Heart crashed into our reality. This is probably a coincidence.”
But I couldn’t seem to make myself feel comfortable about that, even as I said it.
“How do we get in?” Molly said briskly. “Without our having to do something urgent, violent and attention- gathering?”
“We use the passWord,” I said; and I said it. The golden door swung smoothly and silently open before us.
“How did you know that?” said Molly.
“Because Droods know everything,” I said.
“Not always,” she said sweetly. “Or we wouldn’t need to be here, would we?”
“True,” I said.
Inside the door, a narrow stairway of very old, very smooth and worn-down stone steps led away into darkness. They looked old enough to have actually been Roman. I looked back, but no one was paying us any attention. The door’s avoidance spells were protecting us. I led the way down the steps, Molly following close behind. She wanted to go first, but I wouldn’t let her, and then she wanted to walk beside me, but the steps weren’t wide enough; so she settled for walking close behind and sulking. There was no handrail, so we had to press our shoulders hard against the rough stone of the adjoining wall to be sure we didn’t accidentally get too close to the edge of the steps, and the apparently bottomless drop beyond.
We went down and down and down for quite some time. When I looked back the way we’d come, the light at the top was already gone, shut off by the closing door. The only light came from floating balls of pale green fluorescence, bobbing along on the air before us, leading the way down, like more than usually dependable will-o’- the-wisps. They paused when we paused, but were always careful to maintain a respectful distance, no matter how much I tried to close the gap. The shadows were deep and dark, and the long drop to our side still showed no sign of having any bottom. We descended, following the lights, until I lost all track of how deep we were.
“How deep do you think it goes?” said Molly.
“All the way,” I said.
“I hate answers like that,” said Molly.
The rough stone wall boasted many overlapping layers of graffiti, laid down over centuries, in many different languages and dialects, including a few traces of Latin. I pointed out one of the clearer sections to Molly.
“Any idea what that says?”
“Sorry,” she said. “That is in no way classical Latin. It could be saying, ‘Biggus Dickus will make your eyes water,’ for all I know.”
Some of the writing became clearer as we descended, though many were of ambiguous intent.
My legs began to cramp up, from the strain of the continuing descent, and my back was killing me. Molly had to be feeling it, too, but she didn’t complain, so I couldn’t. I gritted my teeth against the pain and kept going.
“You’d think they’d have an elevator put in, in this day and age,” I said.
“Whom would you trust to run it?” said Molly.
“Good point,” I said. “Is it just me, or is the air getting seriously cold . . . ?”
“We’re a long way from the sun down here.”
“That’s probably the point.”
“Have you ever visited London Undertowen before?” said Molly. “I mean, you have the passWord. Even I don’t know the passWord.”
“I’m a Drood field agent in London,” I said. “I get to know all the passWords. But no, I’ve never been down here before. This was always more Matthew’s province than mine. He mixed with the authorities, the movers and shakers; worked all the important cases and knew all the important people. I knew about London Undertowen . . . heard all the stories. This is the shadow world, the distorted mirror image of the world above, where the tail wags the dog. As below, so above. They say that all new members of Parliament are brought here after they’re elected, dragged down into Under Parliament to be shown where true power lies. And those who won’t kneel or bow their head are driven mad or killed.”
“I’ve heard those stories as well,” said Molly. “And for once, I really hope they aren’t true.”
Sometime later, and by then I had no idea at all how much later, we reached the foot of the stairs. Molly and I stopped and leaned on each other, breathing hard. We took it in turn to massage some feeling back into our legs and rub each other’s backs, and when we were ready we looked around. We were standing in a narrow stone tunnel lit by a few of the green lights bobbing up by the ceiling. The stone walls gave every indication of being authentically ancient, with the original tool marks still plain to the eye. We followed the corridor for a while, took a sharp left turn, and found ourselves in a large but surprisingly pleasant stone grotto. Bright electric lights pushed back the darkness, which still filled a number of empty doorways leading off. Thick rugs and carpets covered the floor, comfortable furniture was scattered around, and there was even a bar. People stood around chatting cheerfully. Quite a lot of people. If not for the setting, it could have been any party, anywhere. A few people glanced in our direction as we arrived, but no one seemed particularly interested. Because if we were here, it could only be because we were expected.
“It looks like someone’s living room,” said Molly. “And the people look so . . . ordinary.”
“I see a bar,” I said. “When in doubt, head for the bar.”
Molly looked at some of the empty doorways, full of impenetrable darkness, and actually shivered. “You can’t trust anything down here. They say you can find anything, or anyone, somewhere in the catacombs of London Undertowen. Evocations of every place or period, every style and culture. Because nothing’s ever lost or forgotten down here. But this . . . this looks like a seventies swingers’ party.”
“As long as we’re not expected to throw our car keys into a bowl,” I said.
“Watch your back,” said Molly. “Here there be monsters.”
I headed for the bar, with Molly striding right at my side. And that was when Isabella Metcalf emerged suddenly from the crowd to confront us. I almost didn’t recognise her. She’d abandoned her usual bloodred biker leathers for a city business power suit of navy blue, dark stockings and some shoes that were no doubt very fashionable.
“Are those . . . padded shoulders?” I said innocently.
“Shut up, Eddie,” said Isabella.
“No, really, I’ve heard they’re coming back.”
“
“Please,” I said. “It’s, ‘Shut up, Shaman Bond,’ if you don’t mind. I have a secret identity to maintain.”
