Just when I began to think we’d have to push on and get drenched, the rain let up a little. I checked to make sure Radar was covered—nothing sticking out of the blanket but the end of her snout and her back paws—then mounted up and pedaled slowly across the dry channel. As we did, I wondered if I was crossing the Rumpa Bridge Woody had told me about.
9
The shops were fancy, but something was wrong about them. It wasn’t just that they were deserted, or obvious that at some time in the distant past they had been looted, perhaps by Lilimar residents fleeing their city when the gray came. There was something else that was more subtle… and more awful, because it was still there. Still happening. The buildings seemed solid enough, vandalized or not, but they were twisted somehow, as if a gigantic force had pulled them out of shape and they hadn’t been able to entirely snap back. When I looked directly at them—HIS MAJESTY’S BOOTERY, CULINARY DELIGHTS, CURIOUS TREASURES, TAILORS TO THE HOUSE OF （the rest of that one had been beaten away, as if what followed were profane）， SPOKES AND WHEELS—they seemed okay. Normal enough, if anything could be said to be normal in the otherworldliness of the Other. But when I returned to minding my straight path down the wide street, something happened to them at the edge of my vision. Straight angles seemed to slither into curves. Glassless windows seemed to move, like eyes squinting for a better look at me. Letters became runes. I told myself this was nothing but my hopped-up imagination, but I couldn’t be sure. One thing I was sure of: I didn’t want to be here after dark.
At one cross-street, a huge stone gargoyle had tumbled into the street and stared at me upside-down with its lipless mouth stretched open to show a pair of reptilian fangs and a pitted gray tongue. I made a wide arc around it, relieved to get past its chilly upside-down gaze. As I moved on there was a low thud. I looked back and saw the gargoyle had fallen over. Maybe one of the back wheels of the trike had brushed it, upsetting the precarious balance it had maintained for years. Maybe not.
Either way, it was staring at me again.
10
The palace—assuming that was what it was—grew closer. The buildings on either side looked like townhouses, once no doubt luxurious but now falling to ruin. Balconies had collapsed. Carriage lamps marking fancy stone walks had either fallen over or been knocked down. The walks themselves were sprouting brownish-gray weeds that looked nasty. The spaces between these stone houses had been choked with nettles. Going through would tear your skin to ribbons.
The rain started to come down heavily again as we reached even fancier houses, these constructed of marble and glass with wide steps （intact） and fancy porticoes （mostly smashed）。 I told Radar to hang in there, we had to be getting close, but I did it in a low voice. In spite of the downpour my mouth was dry. I never even considered turning it up to catch some rain, because I didn’t know what might be in it, or what it would do to me. This was a terrible place. An infection had run through it, and I didn’t want to drink any of it down.
Yet it seemed to me there was one good thing. Claudia had told me I might get lost, but so far it had been a straight shot. If Hana’s yellow house and the sundial were near the majestic agglomeration of buildings overlooked by the three spires, Gallien Road would take me directly there. Now I could see vast windows in that great pile. They weren’t stained glass, like those in a cathedral, but a shimmering deep green that reminded me of the staves in the outer gate. And that nasty pool.
Looking at them, I almost missed Mr. Bowditch’s initials painted halfway up a stone post with a ringbolt on top, presumably for hitching horses. There was a row of these, like blunt teeth, standing in front of a gigantic gray building with almost a dozen doors at the top of its steep steps, but not a single window. The post bearing the initials AB was the last in line before a narrower street branching off to the left. The crossbar of the letter A had been turned into an arrow that pointed down this narrow way, which was lined with more faceless stone buildings hulking eight or ten stories high. I could imagine that once these had been filled with Empisarian bureaucrats, doing the work of the kingdom. I could almost see them scurrying in and out, wearing long black frock coats and shirts with high collars, like men （I guessed they would all be men） in the illustrations of a Dickens novel. I didn’t know if any of the buildings housed His Majesty’s Royal Prison, but in a way they all looked like prisons to me.
I stopped, staring at the A crossbar that had been turned into an arrow. The palace was dead ahead, but the arrow was pointing me away from it. The question was this: did I keep on going straight, or did I follow the arrow? From behind me, in the basket and under a blanket that was now wet and would soon be soaking, Radar had another coughing fit. I almost disregarded the arrow and went straight on, figuring I could always come back if I ran into a dead end or something, but then I remembered two things Claudia had told me. One was that if I followed Mr. Bowditch’s marks, all would be well （might be well is what she actually said, but why quibble）。 The other was that I had, according to her, a goddamned long trek ahead of me. But if I continued the way I was going, it would be a goddamned short trek.