“If it is really valuable then you can sell it to Norrell. He has paid great prices for books before now.”

“The magician of Hanover-square will never own this book. He will never even see it.”

“And where do you keep such a great treasure?”

Vinculus laughed coldly as if to say it was not very likely that he would tell that to the servant of his enemy.

Childermass called to the girl to bring them some more ale. She brought it and they drank for a while longer in silence. Then Childermass took a pack of cards from the breast of his coat and shewed them to Vinculus. “The cards of Marseilles. Did you ever see their like before?”

“Often,” said Vinculus, “but yours are different.”

“They are copies of a set belonging to a sailor I met in Whitby. He bought them in Genoa with the intention of using them to discover the hiding places of pirates’ gold, but when he came to look at them, he found that he could not understand them. He offered to sell them to me, but I was poor and could not pay the price he asked. So we struck a bargain: I would tell him his fortune and in return he would lend me the cards long enough to make copies. Unfortunately his ship set sail before I was able to complete the drawings and so half are done from memory.”

“And what fortune did you tell him?”

“His true one. That he would be drowned dead before the year was out.”

Vinculus laughed approvingly.

It seemed that when Childermass had made the bargain with the dead sailor he had been too poor even to afford paper and so the cards were drawn upon the backs of ale-house bills, laundry lists, letters, old accounts and playbills. At a later date he had pasted the papers on to coloured cardboard, but in several instances the printing or writing on the other side shewed through, giving them an odd look.

Childermass laid out nine cards in a line. He turned over the first card.

Beneath the picture was a number and a name: VIIII. L’Ermite. It shewed an old man in a monkish robe with a monkish hood. He carried a lantern and walked with a stick as if he had come near to losing the use of his limbs through too much sitting and studying. His face was pinched and suspicious. A dry atmosphere seemed to rise up and envelop the observer as if the card itself were peppery with dust.

“Hmm!” said Childermass. “For the present your actions are governed by a hermit. Well, we knew that already.”

The next card was Le Mat, which is the only picture card to remain numberless, as if the character it depicts is in some sense outside the story. Childermass’s card shewed a man walking along a road beneath a summer tree. He had a stick to lean upon and another stick over his shoulder with a handkerchief bundle hanging from it. A little dog skipped after him. The figure was intended to represent the fool or jester of ancient times. He had a bell in his hat and ribbons at his knees which Childermass had coloured red and green. It appeared that Childermass did not know quite how to interpret this card. He considered a while and then turned over the next two cards: VIII. La Justice, a crowned woman holding a sword and a pair of scales; and The Two of Wands. The wands were crossed and might among other things be thought to represent a crossroads.