Neverwhere

did one of them answer the second gatekeeper correctly?»
«Yes, Father Abbot.»
There was regret in the old man’s voice. «So, one of them is left to face the Ordeal of the Key. Let him or her stand forward now.»
Door said, «Oh no.»
Hunter said, «Let me take his place. I will face the ordeal.»
Brother Fuliginous shook his head. «We cannot permit that.»
When Richard was a small boy he had been taken, as part of a school trip, to a local castle. With his class he had climbed the many steps to the highest point in the castle, a partly ruined tower. They had clustered together at the top, while the teacher pointed out to them the whole of the countryside, spread out below. Even at that age, Richard had not been very good at heights. He had clutched the safety rail, and closed his eyes, and tried not to look down. The teacher had told them that the drop from the top of the old tower to the bottom of the hill it overlooked was three hundred feet; then she told them that a penny, dropped from the top of the tower, would have enough force to penetrate the skull of a man at the bottom of the hill, that it would crack a skull like a bullet. That night Richard lay in bed, unable to sleep for imagining the penny falling with the power of a thunderbolt. Still looking like a penny, but such a murderous penny, when it dropped . . .
An ordeal.
The penny dropped for Richard. It was a thunderbolt sort of a penny.
«Hang on a sec,» he said. «Back up. Mm-mm: ordeal. Someone’s got an ordeal waiting for them. Somebody who didn’t have a little fight down in the mud, and didn’t get to answer the riddle . . . » He was babbling. He could hear himself babbling, and he just didn’t care.
«This ordeal of yours,» Richard asked the abbot. «How much of an ordeal is it?»
«This way now,» said the abbot.
«You don’t want him,» said Door. «Take one of us.»
«Three of you come. There are three tests. Each of you faces one test: that is fair,» said the abbot. «If he passes the ordeal, he will return to you.»
A light breeze eased the fog. The other dark figures were holding crossbows. Each crossbow was pointed at Richard, or Hunter, or Door. The friars closed ranks, cutting Richard off from Hunter and from Door.
«We’re looking for a key—» said Richard to the abbot, in a low voice.
«Yes,» said the abbot, placidly.
«It’s for an angel,» explained Richard.
«Yes,» said the abbot. He reached out a hand, found the crook of Brother Fuliginous’s arm.
Richard lowered his voice. «Look, you can’t say no to an angel, especially a man of the cloth like yourself . . . why don’t we just skip the ordeal? You could just hand it over.»
The abbot began to walk down the curve of the bridge. There was a door, open at the bottom. Richard followed him. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. «When our order was founded,» said the abbot, «we were entrusted with the key. It is one of the holiest, and the most powerful, of all sacred relics. We must pass it on, but only to the one who passes the ordeal and proves worthy.»
They walked through winding narrow corridors, Richard leaving a trail of wet mud behind him. «If I fail the ordeal, then we don’t get the key, do we?»
«No, my son.»
Richard thought about this for a moment. «Could I come back later for a second try?»
Brother Fuliginous coughed. «Not really, my son,» said the abbot. «If that should happen, you will in all probability be . . . » he paused, and then said, «beyond caring. But do not fret, perhaps you will be the one to win the key, eh?» There was a ghastly attempt at reassurance in his voice, more terrifying than any attempt to scare him could have been.
«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