Ruins.

Again, all four of us made the trip to the market. This time we went in the afternoon and kept the appointment Norman had made to see part of the old castle’s foundations. The guy was very apologetic that there was so little to see, as most of the stones are under the food market and can’t be shown to the public for health and safety. There was even less on show than I expected: the guy (he’s a warden of sorts for the market) played a tape of an actor recounting the castle’s history, and the tape lasts three times longer than you can spend looking at it. Out of the corner exit, near where Samuel was attacked, is a wooden door, leading down a dozen stairs to a white room, well lit and damp. The room contains about fifteen foot of wall, six foot thick and six foot high. It used to be the corner of a tower. Other unearthed stones have been piled up next to it. Finger long drops of white mould hang along the stairs, which set off Samuel’s unusual lungs into a coughing fit that our guide assumed was asthma. There’s a glass square in the floor that used to be lit, when it would show an original timber from the first castle made of wood.

We thanked the guy for showing us, and took our obligatory places for a cup of tea in yet another café. This one had a sign boasting good grub. It was then Samuel slid down in his chair and pointed out three men walking aimlessly through the stalls. None of them was the stranger, who I had mentioned to Samuel but held back about him calling Samuel Salt. I could see they had a look in common though – like antique hunters caught in a gale: acquainted with money, acquainted with cheese, unacquainted with good sleep or deodorant.
“There’s not many women are there.” I said to Angela.
“I’m more interested,” Samuel said, “In the fact they’re getting on. They seemed to be sharing a joke. Or at least an amusing anecdote. Before last year they wouldn’t have shook hands.”
“How come?”
“Professional paranoia. Hardly any magicians share their work, especially in progress. But if they’re here to investigate the foundations, they must have agreed on some sort of working arrangement.”

They went past us, and Norman followed. When they went past again, Norman was still a few metres behind and said they were just idling, doing a circuit of the place.

“More interesting still.” Said Samuel, now hiding his face behind a tabloid left lying on a neighbour's table. “Those are the men.”

I turned to see four biggish black leather jackets, topped by doughy faces and short back and sides. They walked with manc swaggers in too tight jeans. Bruises, black eyes and one with a limp testified they'd been in a fight too.
“I thought there were six?” I said.
“Two elsewhere. That’s them.”
“Well who’s going to follow them? Angela?”
“Certainly not.” Insisted Samuel, his chivalric streak not quite Twenty-First Century.
“Well you can’t, they’d recognise you. That only leaves me.”
“Again, certainly not. If they realised, they could-”
“They’ve gone.” Angela said. “If we see them again, I’ll go. As long as I don’t faint.’

We didn’t see them again though. And after a few hours of waiting the markets were closing and we were asked to leave. We met up with Norman outside, who told us the three magicians had wandered around until just before closing, when they stepped into an empty stall and closed the screen behind them.

“They’re in there now.” Said Angela. “They’ve found a way around the health and safety. They’re on the inside now.” They can sneak down any time they want.

Back at home we talked about where the thugs who beat up Samuel fit in, since we never actually saw them talking to the magicians. Angela took this as her cue to censure us for our indecision again. Norman told her that a man had called for her a second time: -
“Didn’t you call him back?”
“Thank you.” Angela said, with a note of the final word. She didn’t badger us about procrastination after that.