Neverwhere

and ravens, crows and starlings. Fine, wise birds. Tasty and wise. Brilliant.»
Richard said, «No, thank you» and turned around.
The hand-painted sign above the stall said:
OLD BAILEY’S BIRDS AND INFORMATION
There were other, smaller, signs scattered about:
YOU WANTS IT, WE KNOWS IT, and YOU WON’T FIND A PLUMPER STARLING!!!! and WHEN IT’S TIME FOR A ROOK, IT’S TIME FOR OLD BAILEY!! Richard found himself thinking of the man he had seen when he had first come to London, who used to stand outside Leicester Square Tube station with a huge hand-painted sandwich board that exhorted the world to «Less Lust Through Less Protein, Eggs, Meat, Beans, Cheese and Sitting.»
Birds hopped and fluttered about small cages that looked as if they had been woven out of TV antennae. «Information, then?» continued Old Bailey, warming to his own sales-pitch. «Roof-maps? History? Secret and mysterious knowledge? If I don’t knows it, it’s probably better forgot. That’s what I says.» The old man still wore his feathered coat, was still wrapped about with ropes and cords. He blinked at Richard, then pulled on the pair of spectacles tied about his neck with string. He inspected Richard carefully through them. «Hang on—I knows you. You was with the marquis de Carabas. On the rooftops. Remember? Eh? I’m Old Bailey. Remember me?» He thrust out his hand, pumped Richard’s hand furiously.
«Actually,» said Richard, «I’m looking for the marquis. And for a young lady named Door. I think they’re probably together.»
The old man did a little jig, causing several feathers to detach themselves from his coat; this provoked a chorus of raucous disapproval from the various birds around them. «Information! Information!» he announced to the crowded room. «See? I told ’em. Diversify, I said. Diversify! You can’t sell rooks for the stewpot forever—anyway, they taste like boiled slipper. And they’re so stupid. Thick as custard. You ever eaten rook?» Richard shook his head. That was something he could be certain of, at any rate. «What’ll you give me?» asked Old Bailey.
«Sorry?» said Richard, awkwardly leaping from ice floe to ice floe in the stream of the old man’s consciousness.
«If’n I give ye your information. What’ll I get?»
«I don’t have any money,» said Richard. «And I just gave my pen away.»
He began to pull out the contents of Richard’s pockets. «There,» said Old Bailey. «That!»
«My hankie?» asked Richard. It was not a particularly clean handkerchief; it had been a present from his Aunt Maude, on his last birthday. Old Bailey seized it and waved it above his head, happily.
«Never you fear, laddie,» he sang, triumphantly. «Your quest is at an end. Go down there, through that door. You can’t miss them. They’re auditioning.» He was pointing towards Harrods’ extensive network of Food Halls. A rook cawed maliciously. «None of your beak,» said Old Bailey, to the rook. And, to Richard, he said, «Thank’ee for the little flag.» He jigged around his stall, delighted, waving Richard’s handkerchief to and fro.
Auditioning?
thought Richard. And then he smiled. It didn’t matter. His quest, as the mad old roof-man had put it, was at an end. He walked toward the Food Halls.
Fashion, in bodyguards, seemed to be everything. They all had a Knack of one kind or another, and each of them was desperate to demonstrate it to the world. At the moment, Ruislip was facing off against the Fop With No Name.
The Fop With No Name looked somewhat like an early eighteenth-century rake, one who hadn’t been able to find real rake clothes and had had to make do with what he could find at the Salvation Army store. His face was powdered to white, his lips painted red. Ruislip, the Fop’s opponent, resembled a bad dream one might have if one fell asleep watching sumo wrestling on the television with a Bob Marley record playing in the background. He was a huge Rastafarian who looked like nothing so much as an obese and enormous baby.
They were standing face to face, in the middle of a cleared circle of spectators and other bodyguards and sightseers. Neither man moved a muscle. The Fop was a good head taller than Ruislip. On the other hand, Ruislip looked as if he weighed as much as four fops, each of them carrying a large leather suitcase entirely filled with lard. They stared at each other, without breaking eye contact.
The marquis de Carabas tapped Door on the shoulder and pointed. Something was about to happen.
One moment there were two men standing impassively, just looking at each other, then the Fop’s head rocked back, as if he’d just been hit in the face. A small, reddish purple bruise appeared on his cheek. He pursed his lips and fluttered his eyelashes.