Neverwhere

that he had somehow lost the need to stop and stare. The people here were no less strange than at the last Floating Market, but, he supposed, he was every bit as strange to them, wasn’t he? He looked around, scanning the faces in the crowd as they walked, hunting for the marquis’s ironic smile. «I don’t see him,» he said.
They were approaching a smith’s stall, where a man who could easily have passed for a small mountain, if one were to overlook the shaggy brown beard, tossed a lump of red-molten metal from a brazier onto an anvil. Richard had never seen a real anvil before. He could feel the heat from the molten metal and the brazier from a dozen feet away.
«Keep looking. De Carabas’ll turn up,» said Door, looking behind them. «Like a bad penny.» She thought for a moment, and added, «What exactly is a bad penny anyway?» And then, before Richard could answer, she squealed, «Hammersmith!»
The bearded mountain-man looked up, stopped hitting the molten metal, and roared, «By the Temple and the Arch. Lady Door!» Then he picked her up, as if she weighed no more than a mouse.
«Hello, Hammersmith,» said Door. «I hoped you’d be here.»
«Never miss a market, lady,» he thundered, cheerfully. Then he confided, like an explosion with a secret, «This’s where the business is, y’see. Now,» he said, recollecting the cooling lump of metal on his anvil, «just you wait here a moment.» He put Door down at eye level, on the top of his booth,, seven feet above the deck.
He banged the lump of metal with his hammer, twisting it as he did so with implements Richard assumed, correctly, were tongs. Under the hammer blows it changed from a shapeless blob of orange metal into a perfect black rose. It was a work of astonishing delicacy, each petal perfect and distinct. Hammersmith dipped the rose into a bucket of cold water beside the anvil: it hissed and steamed. Then he pulled it out of the bucket, wiped it, and handed it to a fat man in chain mail who was standing, patiently, to one side; the fat man professed himself well satisfied and gave Hammersmith, in return, a green plastic Marks and Spencer shopping bag, filled with various kinds of cheese.
«Hammersmith?» said Door, from her perch. «These are my friends.»
Hammersmith enveloped Richard’s hand in one several sizes up. His handshake was enthusiastic, but very gentle, as if he had, in the past, had a number of accidents shaking hands and had practiced it until he got it right. «Charmed,» he boomed.
«Richard,» said Richard.
Hammersmith looked delighted. «Richard! Fine name! I had a horse called Richard.» He let go of Richard’s hand, turned to Hunter, and said, «And you are . . . Hunter? Hunter! As I live, breathe, and defecate! It is!» Hammersmith blushed like a schoolboy. He spat on his hand and attempted, awkwardly, to plaster his hair back. Then he stuck his hand out and realized that he had just spat on it, and he wiped it on his leather apron, and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
«Hammersmith,» said Hunter, with a perfect caramel smile.
«Hammersmith?» asked Door. «Will you help me down?»
He looked shamefaced. «Beg pardon, lady,» he said, and lifted her down. It came to Richard then that Hammersmith had known Door as a small child, and he found himself feeling unaccountably jealous of the huge man. «Now,» Hammersmith was saying to Door, «What can I do for you?»
«Couple of things,» she said. «But first of all—» She turned to Richard. «Richard? I’ve got a job for you.»
Hunter raised an eyebrow. «For him?»
Door nodded. «For both of you. Will you go and find us some food? Please?» Richard felt oddly proud. He had proved himself in the ordeal. He was One of Them. He would Go, and he would Bring Back Food. He puffed out his chest.
«I am your bodyguard. I stay by your side,» said Hunter.
Door grinned. Her eyes flashed. «In the market? It’s okay, Hunter. Market Truce holds. No one’s going to touch me here. And Richard needs looking after more than I do.» Richard deflated, but no one was watching.
«And what if someone violates the Truce?» asked Hunter.
Hammersmith shivered, despite the heat of his brazier. «Violate the Market Truce? Brrrr.»
«It’s not going to happen. Go on. Both of you. Curry, please. And get me some papadums, please. Spicy ones.»
Hunter ran her hand through her hair. Then she turned and walked off into the crowd, and Richard went with her. «So what would happen if someone violated Market Truce?» asked Richard, as they pushed through the crowds.
Hunter thought about this for a moment. «The last time it happened was about three hundred years ago. A couple of friends got into an argument over a woman, in the market. A knife was pulled and one of them died. The other fled.»
«What happened to him?