“For God’s sake, George,” said Orcrist.
“Oh, I know, Sam,” Tyler said with a broad wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t ... dwell on these things now that I move in lower circles ... present company excluded, of course. But I long even now for that old life, to mount old ... Lightboy and ride off on adventures and quests and whatnot.”
At this point Frank slumped forward onto the tablecloth, fast asleep.
FRANK opened his eyes, but closed them again when he saw that the room was in pitch blackness. Not dawn yet, he thought. I wonder if Dad is home. A raucous, choking snore from another room made him sit up, completely awake. That’s not Dad, he thought; and this isn’t my room. Where am I? He felt around on the top of the table beside the bed, and soon had struck a match to a candle.
I’m in one of Orcrist’s guest rooms, he realized. And we’re underground, so God knows what time it is. He got out of bed and found his gaudy clothes draped over a chair. Odd as they were, he felt better when he was dressed. Now then, he thought. What are Orcrist’s breakfast customs?
He sighted the door, and then snuffed the candle and groped to it in the dark. To his relief the silent hallway beyond was lit by wall cressets, and he wandered along it until he came to Orcrist’s sitting room.
“Ah, Frank,” said Orcrist, who sat in an easy chair with a book and a cup of coffee. “Up with the sun even down here, eh? As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you.” He stood up and took two rolls of parchment out from behind a bust of Byron on one of his bookshelves. Then he unrolled them on the carpet, using books to hold the corners down. On one of them had been done a finely shaded drawing of a girl’s head; the other was blank.
“What do you think of that picture, Frank?” Orcrist asked.
“I’d say it’s one of Gascoyne’s best sketches of Dora Wakefield. People used to say he was having an affair with her, but my father never believed it.” Orcrist blinked. “Well, you know your field, Frank, that’s certain. Yes, it is a Gascoyne, though I didn’t know the name of the model. What I want to know is whether you can, without compromising any principles, copy it for me on this blank sheet. Hm?”
“Sure I can,” Frank answered carelessly. “Have you got black ink, a little water, and a ... number eight point pen?”
Orcrist pointed to them on the bookcase. “I’ll be back in an hour to get you for breakfast,” he said, and left the room, carrying his coffee.
Frank rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and got to work. He lightly sketched the face onto the blank sheet using a dry pen to lay down some guide-scratches; then he dipped the pen in the ink and began carefully mimicking Gascoyne’s delicate stippling and cross-hatching. The discipline of his craft took his mind off of the uncertainty of his current situation. Except for the occasional clink of pen-nib against ink bottle, the room was silent.
When Orcrist returned, he found Frank sitting in the easy chair, reading.
“Given up?” he asked with a little annoyance.
Frank handed him the two rolls of parchment. “Which one is Gascoyne’s?” he asked. Orcrist unrolled one, looked at it, and replaced it on the table. He unrolled the other one more carelessly, stared at it closely, and then spread both of them out on the floor.
“Given up?” asked Frank.
Abruptly, Orcrist laughed. “Yes, by God,” he said. “Which is yours?”
“The one whose ear lobe is showing. I didn’t want to do an absolute copy.”
Orcrist laughed again and clapped Frank on the shoulder. “Come along to breakfast,” he said. “And we can discuss your career possibilities.”
Chapter 5
Beardo was staring with ill-concealed distaste at a glistening fried egg on his plate. With a petulant jab of his fork he ripped open the yolk.
“There’s a sad sight for you, poet,” he said somberly.
“Oh, quit playing with it,” said Tyler.
Both of them were frowning and squinting, and they seemed to have occasional trouble in breathing.
“Beardo,” said Orcrist, leading Frank into the breakfast room, which was cheerily lit by actual sunlight reflected down a shaft from the surface. “Your boy here proves to be a competent art forger. I propose to buy him from you. How does sixty malories sound?”
“You’re too generous, I’m sure,” smiled Beardo, cheered by this unexpected windfall. “Sixty it is.”
Frank was surprised to find that he was a buyable article, but he said nothing.
“How do you feel about that, Frank?” asked Orcrist.
“You’d be a licensed art forger, bonded to me. You can have room and board here, plus a good salary, half of which, for the first two years, goes to me. Then when your bond is paid off you keep all of it. Will you take it?”
How can I not take it, Frank thought. It sounds like a good deal, and there’s absolutely nothing else I can do. He bowed. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Orcrist. Where do I sign?”
“After breakfast, can’t do business before breakfast. Why, gentlemen, you’ve eaten nothing! Not hungry?” He winked at Frank. Beardo and Tyler shook their heads.
“Well I thank you for your company anyway. I assume two such busy citizens as yourselves must have many appointments, so I won’t inconvenience you by insisting that you stay for lunch.”
ORCRIST told Frank that they’d get him registered with the Subterranean Companions that night. In honor of the occasion he provided Frank with some clothes of a more sober nature: a suit of brown corduroy, black boots and a black overcoat. “It’s not a good idea to be too conspicuous down here,” he confided. “If you went out dressed in those other clothes, the first thief who saw you would figure it was Ali Baba himself walking by, and bash you before you could blink.”
Frank examined the conservative lines of his new overcoat with some relief. “Who are the Subterranean Companions?” he asked.
“A brotherhood of laborers engaged in extralegal work. A thieves’ union, actually. And we’ve got to get your name on the roll. Freelance work simply isn’t permitted.”
“Well, I want to do this right,” Frank put in.
“Of course you do.”
That evening, after a much simpler dinner than the previous night’s, Orcrist and Frank set off down Sheol Boulevard, a grand street whose brick roof stood a full twenty feet above the cobblestones. Streetlamps were hung from chains at intervals of roughly fifteen paces, and taverns, fuel stores and barber shops cast light through their open doorways onto the pavement.
“This, I guess you could say, is Downtown Understreet,” said Orcrist. “Three blocks farther are the good restaurants. We’ve even got a couple of good bookstores down here.”
“Will we be passing them?” asked Frank.
“Not tonight. We’ve got to turn south on Bolt after this next cross street.”
They walked on without speaking, listening to the sounds of the understreet metropolis—laughter, shouts, clanking dishes and lively accordion music—echoing up and down the dim avenues.
At Bolt Street they turned right, and then took a sharp jog left, into an alley mouth, and stopped. They were in almost total darkness.
“Where are we?” whispered Frank.
“Sh!”
He heard the rattle of keys, and then the scratch and snap of a lock turning. Orcrist’s hand closed on his shoulder and guided him forward a few paces. There was a breath of air, and the sound of the lock again, and then a match flared in the blackness and Orcrist was holding it to the wick of a small pocket lantern. The narrow hallway smelled of old french fries. Orcrist put his finger to his lips and led Frank forward, past several similar doors, to a stairway.