by Jayne Castle
Frances told Lydia to stick her hands out between two of the cell bars. The Greenie bound her wrists with some tape and then unlocked the door.
Lydia concentrated on orienting herself silently, using the amber in her bracelet to draw a mental map of the route to the Master's Chamber. She'd had a great deal of experience navigating underground and a professional's feel for alien architecture.
Her three escorts guided her through a short series of halls and intersections. They passed a number of chambers that had been converted into offices, complete with desks and files. There were no phones, of course. For some reason, a property of the illuminated quartz no doubt, most communications systems did not work underground.
One passage caught her attention. It was blocked with a gate of illusion shadow. Two burly-looking Greenies were stationed on either side of the darkened entrance.
"What's in there?" she asked her escorts.
"That's classified," Acolyte Martin intoned. "Only those with a need to know go in there."
"Need to know, huh?" Lydia glanced back over her shoulder as she was led past.
There was a small sign propped on one side of the passage. It read AREA 51.
The next hallway contained a row of small chambers that had been outfitted as offices. Each was staffed with a Greenie or two. If it hadn't been for their bizarre robes and shaved heads, they would have looked like normal clerks.
"What are all these people doing?" Lydia asked.
"They handle the financial and business affairs of the Order," Frances explained. "The contributions and donations we receive amount to a great deal of money. The funds have to be invested and managed wisely according to the instructions Master Herbert receives from Amatheon if we are to prosper and grow."
"You guys make a lot of money off those Thirteen Steps to Bliss books?"
"The books are one of our sources of income," Frances said. "There are others."
"Such as?"
"Save your questions for Master Herbert," Martin said.
They halted at a doorway that was cloaked in illusion shadow. Another pair of Greenies with broad shoulders and tough-looking features greeted Lydia's escorts.
"The Master is ready to see her," one of them said. "You are instructed to take her to the Philosopher's Chamber."
Lydia watched intently to see which of the two guards de-rezzed the trap that shuttered the entrance. It was the one on the right. The other was probably a hunter, she decided.
She felt psi energy shiver in the air for a few seconds and a moment later the illusion shadow evaporated. She and her escorts walked into a large, imposing green hall. Behind them, the shadow reappeared. The guard had reset the trap.
She surveyed the grand hall and almost laughed, in spite of the fear that was snaking through her. Hysteria, she thought. Get a grip.
But that was easier said than done. The room was really quite amazing. Human furnishings invariably seemed very much out of place when they were moved into the ruins and the catacombs. The clash of perspectives and proportions was simply too great to allow for any harmonious blending of styles. When people did bring furniture into the catacombs, as was sometimes necessary, they generally stuck to simple, utilitarian pieces.
But whoever had done this space had clearly felt compelled to go for drama. The walls were hung with great swaths of red and gold velvet draperies. Intricately patterned carpets were spread out on the floors. The furnishings were large, heavy pieces in the style that had been popular at the time of the Era of Discord. The sofas, chairs, and tables were hand carved and gilded to a fare-thee-well.
In addition to looking distinctly odd in the ancient, nonhuman setting, the thick carpets and heavy wall hangings cut down the natural light that emanated from the quartz. The result was an over-furnished, dimly lit room that was probably supposed to appear aristocratic and imposing.
Lydia looked at Frances and raised her brows. "Who was your decorator? It looks like a stage set for a low-budget horror movie."
Frances and the other two were obviously stunned by her lack of good taste but before they could lecture her on issues of artistic design, a short, plump figure in a green robe bustled forth from another shadowed room. Amber beads clinked.
"I am Acolyte Rich," he announced.
"Okay, that settles it," Lydia said. "You're of the masculine persuasion. I wasn't sure. Those unisex robes complicate things, you know."
"My Master considers you an honored guest," Rich stated. He sounded offended by her failure to immediately recognize his sex.
"Yeah?" Lydia held up her bound wrists. "If this is the way you treat your guests, I'd sure hate to see how you handle folks you don't like very much."
Rich looked at Frances and the other two.
Frances shrugged. "She's been real chatty ever since she woke up. Probably a side effect of the drug they used to bring her in."
"Chatty?" Lydia frowned. "You call this chatty? You haven't seen anything yet. Five will get you ten that I can talk any of you right into the ground. Come on, let's see your money."
Rich's eyes glinted angrily beneath the hood but when he spoke he kept his voice calm and polite. "Please come with me, Miss Smith. The Master is expecting you."
"Gee, I sure hope he isn't expecting too much." Lydia walked forward. "I'm not. Let's go talk to the murdering bastard."
There was a horrified silence from the Greenies.
"What are you saying?" Frances whispered. "That's a lie."
"Master Herbert would never hurt anyone," Rich growled. "He is the First Acolyte of Amatheon. The Philosopher teaches that Bliss can only be achieved through peaceful means."
"How dare you accuse the Master of murder?" Martin took an ominous step toward her. "You owe him an apology"
The velvet curtains shifted again and another figure appeared. Like the others he wore green robes but his gown was trimmed at the sleeves and hem with lots of intricately worked letter As stitched in gold thread.
The cowl was thrown back to reveal a tall man in his mid-thirties. In other garb he could have passed for a successful CEO or an academic on the fast track to department head. He was striking in appearance with a high, aristocratic forehead and prominent cheekbones. But it wasn't his looks that drew the eye. It was the way he commanded the space around him. He had a stage actor's charisma, Lydia thought.
"Enough, Acolytes," he said in a deep, mellifluous voice that rolled like dark honey through the entire room. "Miss Smith has had an unpleasant experience and is upset. There is no need to make the situation worse. I'm sorry to say that she has good reason to feel negative toward all of us at the moment." He turned toward Lydia and bowed slightly. "I am hoping to change her opinion."
"You must be Herbie," she said.
The acolytes threw her annoyed looks but the newcomer merely smiled tolerantly.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am, as you guessed, Master Herbert. I know you have questions." He paused a beat. "I have answers."
"Well, Herb, I don't know why you went to all the trouble to kidnap me, but I can tell you one thing: My husband is going to be really pissed about this."
Chapter 26
"I don't get it, Boss." Verwood, seated on the passenger side of the Slider, frowned at Fuzz, who was perched on the back of the seat. "Why did we have to stop by your place to pick up this little varmint before we go nail the guy who's running the Greenie cult?"
"Fuzz is a dust-bunny, not a varmint." Emmett eased the Slider through a narrow Old Quarter lane. "And he's a lot smarter than he looks."
"That probably wouldn't take much. I mean, how smart would the little critter have to be to have more brains than a wad of dryer lint?"
Fuzz paid no attention. He was braced on the seat back, straining forward as if eager to leap straight through the windshield. All four of his eyes were open.
"Watch yourself, Verwood," Emmett said. "Remember what they say about dust-bunnies."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. By the time
you see the teeth, it's too late." Verwood took a pretzel out of the sack on his lap and offered it to Fuzz who accepted it in one paw. "He's kind of cute in his own way. You know, I've seen a few dust-bunnies living in alleys in the Old Quarter and out in the country near some of the smaller ruins but I never met anybody who kept one as a pet."
"Lydia says he adopted her, not the other way around." Emmett sent the Slider creeping through another fogbound street. "I think the two of them have formed some sort of psychic connection, although Lydia says she isn't aware of it on her end. But Fuzz found her once before when she was lost underground and I can't think of any other way he could have done that unless there's some psi-link. I'm praying he can work his magic act again tonight."
Verwood's face was grim in the light from the dashboard. "You really think they took her underground?"
"There's only one explanation I can come up with to rationalize why someone would grab her."
"Ransom? Everyone knows you're rich in your own right and you've got the deep pockets of the Guild to back you up if you need more cash. But, shit, the risk. I mean, what kind of idiot would kidnap the wife of a Guild boss? The guy's gotta know he's signing his own death warrant."
"This isn't about money. According to the information you and Perkins turned up, the Greenies have rivers of income flowing in from a variety of safe, perfectly legal sources. Everyone knows that a well-run cult is a money machine."
Verwood screwed up his face in a quizzical expression. "You think maybe they need Mrs. London's opinion on some antiquities?"
"She's a terrific para-archaeologist but there are a fair number of those around." Emmett slowed the Slider and brought it to a halt at the end of a short lane. "The one thing that makes her different from any other P-A is that she survived forty-eight hours underground without amber and came out with her para-rez faculties intact."
Verwood whistled softly. "You think this is connected to what happened back when she disappeared for two days?"
"Yes." Emmett de-rezzed the engine and cracked the door. "I also think that Lydia was right all along. She was the victim of a conspiracy. But one that was orchestrated by the Greenies, not the Guild. Come on, Fuzz."
He reached into the Slider for the dust-bunny. Fuzz, clutching the unfinished pretzel in one of his six paws, hopped onto his arm and scurried up to his shoulder.
Verwood got out of the Slider and walked around the front to join Emmett. "What are we doing here? Thought we were headed for the Greenie headquarters."
"With any luck at all, that's what the Greenies will assume, too. Probably figure they can stall us indefinitely there."
"So, where are we?"
"This is the former address of Dr. Lawrence Maltby."
"Thought he was dead."
"He is."
Emmett led the way across the empty, mist-shrouded street and went up the steps to the darkened front door of the aging apartment building.
The lock had not been repaired. They went inside and down the dingy hall. Emmett halted at the door across from Maltby's, made a fist, pounded three times.
"This is London. Guild business. Open the door or we'll break it down."
There was a frozen silence from inside the apartment. Then Emmett heard a series of quick steps. The peephole went dark.
A few seconds later the door opened about two inches.
Cornish peered out nervously. He did not unhook the chain.
"What do you want, London?"
Emmett flattened his hand on the wall beside the door frame. "I want you to tell me the location of Maltby's secret rat hole, the one he used when he went down into the catacombs."
Cornish's eyes widened in exaggerated innocence. "How would I know that?"
"Something tells me you're an opportunist, Cornish." Emmett smiled slowly, showing a few teeth. "Got to be to support a serious Chartreuse habit."
Cornish flinched. "Now, see here, I don't know where you're going with this, but it's got nothing to do with me."
"I think you probably followed Maltby a few times when he went out at night. How could you resist? Maybe you figured you could steal a couple of relics or even some dreamstone from his hoard."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
Emmett gritted his teeth against the irritating whine in the little man's voice. "I'm not here to get you in trouble. I just want to know where Maltby went when he spent a night in the catacombs. It's worth a thousand to me."
Cornish's face went slack. "A thousand?"
"That'll buy a lot of Chartreuse, won't it?"
"Hang on," Cornish said. "I'll get a coat."
"I regret the inconvenience and the fear that you went through this evening, Lydia." Herbert sat down on a velvet-covered chair that bore a strong resemblance to a throne. "May I call you Lydia?"
"No," Lydia said.
"Please forgive me, but I felt that I had no choice but to arrange for you to be brought here in a somewhat un-conventional manner. I was afraid that you would never agree to assist us of your own free will. There is a great deal of prejudice against the Order in the outside world. It is not easy to overcome."
"What makes you think I'll help you now, Herb?" Lydia asked.
Some progress had been made, she thought. Herbert had ordered Frances to remove the tape that had bound her wrists and she was no longer in a barred cell. Instead, she was comfortably seated on a red velvet sofa, drinking rez-tea from a beautiful little cup and snacking on cookies.
This was probably Herb's idea of shrewd para-psychology, she thought, a sort of good Greenie-bad Greenie routine. He wanted her to think that he was the good Greenie, the one she could trust.
"Believe it or not, I'm sure that once I have explained the situation, you will feel a strong professional interest in assisting us, Miss Smith."
"That's Mrs. London to you, Herb."
Herbert's handsome jaw tensed but his warm smile did not slip by so much as a fraction. His compelling eyes were gentle with understanding.
"Why don't I start by answering some questions for you," he said persuasively.
"Okay, my first question is, when are you going to let me out of here?"
"All in good time, my dear." Herbert took a swallow of tea and deliberately lowered the cup. "I was referring to questions you no doubt have concerning the unfortunate incident you suffered in the catacombs a few months ago."
Lydia froze in the act of reaching for another cookie. "Your Greenies were involved in that? And here I've been blaming those two hunters who abandoned me—"
Enlightenment struck. "Well, jeez, now I get it. Those bastards were working for you, weren't they? They were closet Greenies."
Herbert sighed. "We prefer to use the proper name of our organization, Mrs. London. We are the Order of the Acolytes of Amatheon."
"Yeah, sure." She took a big bite out of the cookie and munched. "Just tell me what you and your cult had to do with what happened to me."
"We rescued you, Mrs. London."
She swallowed twice to get rid of the last of the cookie and then shook her head. "That's a lie. When I regained consciousness I was alone in the tunnels. There was no one else around." Except for Fuzz, of course, but there was no reason to mention him to Herb. She had never told anyone except Emmett and her closest friends about Fuzz's role in her adventure.
Herbert's mouth curved in a sad, weary smile. "It's the truth, although I admit there's no way I can prove it now. You were found unconscious by one of our excavation crews."
"You operate your own teams?" She hesitated as something else became clear. "Yes, of course you do. That's how you created this little underground empire, isn't it? You have your own equipment and a private staff of tanglers and hunters."
"Many fine dissonance-energy and ephemeral-energy para-rezes have become members of the Order. We also have a number of other professionals with various skills. Accountants, bookkeepers, administrators, clerks. We even have our own medical clinic. In short, we have created a complete c
ommunity down here, Mrs. London."
"Do you have a license to excavate?"
"Of course. We obtained it in the name of one of our many business enterprises. This entire sector was turned over to us. It was unexplored when we acquired it. Our people cleared the traps and ghosts and mapped the passages."
"You know the Antiquities Act states that no individual or organization can lay exclusive claim to any of the ruins. You can own artifacts and relics, but you can't just claim as private property whole sections of the catacombs."
"Ah, yes, but there is a lovely little loophole, isn't there?" Herbert looked amused. "A business or institution can, with the appropriate certification, stake a claim for a period of several years for purposes of excavation, exploration, and research. During that time the organization has complete control over the entire sector in which it is licensed to operate."
He was right. There was no point arguing the finer points of the Antiquities Act with Herbert. He obviously knew it backward and forward.
She helped herself to another cookie. "You were saying something about having rescued me." Might as well keep him talking, she thought. Time was critical. The longer she stalled, the better the chances that Emmett would find her.
"Yes." Herbert rose from his over-gilded chair and began to pace the carpet. His strides were slow, thoughtful, imbued with an aura of grave importance. "One of our crews discovered you in a chamber in this sector. You were still unconscious. You were taken to the infirmary where you were diagnosed as showing all the symptoms of a bad ghost burn."
"What did your medics do to me?" she asked, not bothering to conceal her deep suspicion.
"You were given the customary psi-calming drugs that are usually administered in such situations. As I'm sure you are aware, people who have been singed are generally very agitated and confused when they awaken."
"In other words, you drugged me."
"I assure you, the medics followed standard emergency procedures. The drugs allowed you to fall into a normal sleep. We were then faced with a dilemma."
"What to do with me?"
