I left the garage, locking the door behind me, and sure enough the taxi with no name was already there waiting for me. I walked over to it and got in, and never once looked back. It's an important part of a field agent's job: to be able to walk away from anyone or anything at a moment's notice and never look back.

The taxi took me back into London proper and dropped me off at the first Underground Tube station we came to. I rode up and down on the trains, switching from one line to another at random, until I was sure no one was following me. There was no way my family, or anyone else, could have tracked me down so quickly, but I needed to be sure. I got off at Oxford Street and went up and out into the open air. It was early evening now, and crowds of people surged up and down the street, in the course of their everyday lives, as though this was just another day. No one paid me any attention. That at least was normal, and rea.s.suring.

The first name on my list was the Chelsea Lovers. Very secretive, and very hard to find. They changed their location every twenty-four hours, and with good reason. The Chelsea Lovers were hated and feared, worshipped and adored, pet.i.tioned and despised. And the only way to find them was to read the cards. So I walked casually down Oxford Street till I reached the rows of public phone kiosks, and I checked out the display of tart cards plastering the interiors. Tart cards are business cards left in the kiosks by prost.i.tutes advertising their services. Sometimes there's a photo (which you can be sure will bear little or no resemblance to the real woman); more often a piece of suggestive art accompanied by a brief jaunty message and a phone number.

The cards have a long history, dating back to Victorian times, and down the years have developed a language all of their own. A girl who boasts an excellent knowledge of Greek, for example, will not possess actual academic qualifications; though a visit to her would almost certainly be an education in itself. But underneath all the euphemisms and double entendres there is another, more secret language, for those who can read it. A wholly different message, to be read in the placement of certain words and letters, telling you how to find the current locations for darker and more dangerous pleasures. I worked out that day's message and phoned the indicated number, and a voice at the other end, which might have been male or female, both or neither, gave me an address just beyond Covent Garden and told me to ask for the Kit Kat Club. Nice to know someone still had a sense of humour.

The place wasn't hard to find. From the outside it looked like just another building, behind a bland anonymous front. No advertising, no clues. Either you knew exactly what the place was, or you had no business being there. I studied the exterior thoughtfully, while people pa.s.sed me by, unknowing. The Kit Kat Club wasn't the sort of place you rushed into. You needed to gird your spiritual loins first.

The Chelsea Lovers were a group marriage of a.s.sorted mystical head cases, dedicated to the darker areas of tantric s.e.x magic, channelled through cutting-edge computer technology. They organised orgies that ran twenty-four hours a day, with partic.i.p.ants constantly coming and going. With the kind of mystical power they were capable of generating, they could have picked up the whole of London and spun it around a few times before dropping it again. Only they never did, because...well, apparently because they were concerned with something far more important. What that might be, no one knew for sure, and most were afraid to ask. The Chelsea Lovers had links to every necrotech, psycho fetish, and ceremonial s.e.x club in the city, and were famous for knowing things no one else knew, or would want to. They supported themselves by practicing entrapment and blackmail on significant people: celebrities, politicians, and the like.

Which was why the Chelsea Lovers had good reason to want Edwin Drood dead. A year or so back the family had sent me in to destroy the Chelsea Lovers' main computers, and all their files, after they'd made the mistake of trying to pressure someone sheltering under the family's protection. So I'd armoured up, forced my way in, and taken out their computers with a tailored logic bomb fired from one of the Armourer's special guns. The computers melted down so fast there was nothing left but a puddle of silicon on the floor.

They never saw my real face; only the golden mask. So they had no reason to suspect Shaman Bond. Except, of course, that the Chelsea Lovers were suspicious of everyone, and quite rightly too. They worried people.

I went up to the perfectly ordinary front door and knocked politely. A concealed sliding panel opened, and a pair of scowling eyes studied me silently. I gave them the pa.s.sword I'd received on the phone, and that was enough to gain me entry. The sliding panel slammed shut, and the door opened just enough to let me in. I had to turn sideways to squeeze through, and the door was immediately locked behind me.

The security man leaned over me. He was big as a wardrobe, with muscles on his muscles. I could tell this because he was entirely naked, apart from enough steel piercings in painful places to make him a danger to be near during thunderstorms. He wanted me to take my clothes off too (house rules), or at the very least submit to a thorough frisking. I gave him my best hard look, and he decided to pa.s.s the question upward. I told him I was here to see the founding quartet, and he raised a pierced eyebrow. I gave him their actual names, which impressed him, and after nodding slowly for a moment, he lumbered off to find them.

I stayed put, by the door. I hadn't been entirely sure what to expect. I mean, I've been around, comes with the job, but the Chelsea Lovers were a whole new area of depravity to me. The entire building had been hollowed out to form one large, open, and cavernous room. The Kit Kat Club was lit by rotating coloured lights, giving the scene a kaleidoscopic, trippy feel. Very fitting for a group whose origins lay in the sixties. Pretty much everywhere I looked there were naked people, or people dressed in the kinds of dramatic fetish gear that makes you look even more naked than naked. Leather and rubber, plastic and liquid latex, collar and chains, spikes and masks and every kind of restraint you'd rather not think about. There were no wallflowers here; everyone was involved with someone or something. They moved smoothly together, all across the huge room, flesh rising and falling, skin sliding over sweaty skin. There were no words, only moans and sighs and the sounds of a language older than civilisation. The faces I could see held a self-absorbed, animal look; all wide eyes and bared teeth.

Men and women everywhere, tangled together on the floor, up the walls, and on the ceiling, and even floating in midair. s.e.x beat on the air in an overpowering presence, hot and sweaty and pumped full of pheromones. I could smell sweat and perfumes and a whole bunch of psychotropic drugs. I wasn't worried. My torc would filter them out. Even quiescent around my throat, my armour still protected me.

So much nakedness, so much s.e.x, so much harnessed pa.s.sion; but I couldn't say I found it arousing. It was scary. They were working magic here, invoking strange and potent energies produced by people who had willingly driven themselves out of all control, people who would do anything, receive anything, and not give a d.a.m.n. There was no love here, no tenderness; nothing but indulgence and transgression.

The wide cavernous room seemed much larger than the building should have been able to contain. This was spatial magic, fuelled by the tantric energies. The room expanded to contain the pa.s.sion within. The walls, floor, and ceiling had taken on a puffy, organic look. All pinks and purples and b.l.o.o.d.y shades, patterned with long traceries of pulsing veins. The wall nearest me was sweating, as though turned on by the never-ending s.e.x. The Kit Kat Club was alive and part of the proceedings. Where men and women b.u.mped against the floor or walls or ceiling, they sank into the fleshy embrace as though into the arms of another partner.

I shifted my feet uncomfortably, and the floor beneath me gave subtly, as though I were standing on a water bed. People were drifting towards me, reaching out with inquiring hands. There was something in their faces that wasn't entirely human; or perhaps more than human. Transformed by an emotion or desire so extreme I had no name for it. I was way out of my depth. So of course I put on my most confident face, and even sneered a little, as though I'd seen it all before and hadn't been impressed then. I glared at anyone who came too close, and they turned away immediately, losing interest.

As my eyes adjusted to the flaring lights and colours, I began to recognise faces in the roiling throng: celebrities, footballers, politicians, even a few respectable businessmen from the City that dear prudish Matthew would probably have been horrified to discover in a place like this. I filed the faces away in my memory, for future thought. And perhaps a little blackmail, if money became tight.

The walking wardrobe returned with the four founding members of the Chelsea Lovers. They strolled with almost supernatural grace through the heaving crowds, which opened before them and closed after them without once stopping or even slowing what they were doing. The four founders walked on air, masters of their own s.p.a.ce, touching nothing but each other. Their hands wandered constantly over each other's bare flesh. They sank slowly down to hover before me, and the bouncer went back to his door. The four original Chelsea Lovers: Dave and Annie, Stuart and Lenny. Two men and two women, but far beyond anything so human now; instead they were as alien and other as anything I ever encountered from another dimension. They had to be in their late sixties, but they still had the smooth bodies of twenty-year-olds. Perfect as statues, lean and hungry, burning with unnatural energies, sustained by an endless appet.i.te that had nothing to do with food.

They looked much as they must have done when they first met in Chelsea, back in the swinging sixties, when London swung like a pendulum. Two young couples, then, out on the town and hungry for new experiences. They found something, or it found them, and they were never the same afterwards. They started their first club in a little place just off Carnaby Street, and what they did there shocked even the most hardened souls of the permissive generation. The Chelsea Lovers hadn't seen daylight since. They moved from location to location, known only to those in the know, travelling the secret subterranean routes beneath the city streets, flitting silently through the shadows of the undertown, with its ancient Roman arches, where all the bad things congregate, for fun and profit. Nothing ever touched the Chelsea Lovers. Even then, they were far too dangerous.

They stood before me, skin like chalk, eyes like p.i.s.sholes in the snow. Colourless flyaway hair, purple lips, and endless smiles that meant nothing, nothing at all. They were entirely naked, untouched by piercings or tattoos or any such trappings. Such lesser things were not for them. Just hanging on the air before me, silent and inviting, they were still the most blatantly s.e.xual things I had ever seen. They had all the impact of the first nude photos you ever saw, the first object of desire, the first boy or girl you ever wanted, and the first you ever lost. I wanted them and I was afraid of them, and G.o.d alone knows what I would have done if my torc hadn't been there to protect me from the worst of their influence.

I knew the four names, but not which was who. I don't think anyone does anymore. Perhaps not even them. One of the women spoke to me. Her voice sounded like she had ice in her veins and a fever in her head.

"What do you want here? What's your pleasure?"

I had to clear my throat before I could speak, and even then my voice wasn't as steady as I would have liked. "I need to consult your computers. I need information, the kind only you might possess."

"What do you offer in payment?" said one of the men. His voice was calm, cheerful, confidential, and about as human as a spider scuttling across your arm. "Information in return, perhaps; or money, or your seed? You'd be surprised what we could make from your seed, freely given."

"Information," I said quickly. My mouth was very dry, and my legs were shaking. "First, a secret location used by a Drood field agent, on the outskirts of London." And I gave them the address of the garage I'd just abandoned. "Second, the name of the Drood field agent who's just been declared rogue and is on the run here in London: Edwin Drood."

All four of them actually shivered with delight at the prospect of getting their hands on a new rogue Drood, the first in years. They rose and fell on the air, laughing silently, their chalk white skin shimmering brightly. If they could seduce and corrupt the rogue to their cause, they would have access to secrets and information no one else had. They commanded me to follow them and floated off towards the centre of the room, descending slowly until they walked on the bodies that moved unstoppably beneath them. I struggled after them, my feet slipping and sliding on the sweat-covered bodies. I stared straight ahead. You can't keep glancing down and apologising. And finally, in the exact centre of the cavernous room, the four founding Chelsea Lovers impersonally levered people out of the way to reveal a large puckered orifice in the floor. They gestured, and it dilated open, revealing only darkness and a sudden pungent smell on the air, like supercharged cinnamon. One by one the four of them floated down into what lay below the floor, disappearing into darkness, until only I was left hesitating on the rim. In the end, I just shrugged and jumped in after them. This was what I'd come for, after all.

And found myself suddenly in a brightly lit, high-tech environment that was the complete ant.i.thesis of everything above. It was a circular room barely twenty feet in diameter, crowded with all the latest computer equipment. But the computers had burst open, their silicon contents spilling out like fruiting bodies, spreading themselves up the walls and across the ceiling like silver ivy, even dropping down in encrustations like silicon stalact.i.tes. The computers here were living things, growing things, fuelled by the s.e.xual energies from above. Self-centred, self-perpetuating. The air-conditioning gusted like heavy breathing, and the monitor screens all around me could have been eyes or mouths or other orifices. The four Chelsea Lovers stood together in the middle of it all, looking at me expectantly.

"Word is, there's a traitor inside the Drood family," I said. "I want to know everything you know about that."

They nodded in eerie unison, and one of them ran a hand caressingly over a computer console. It was a slow, sensuous lover's touch. I could feel beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. Normal people weren't supposed to be exposed to things like the Chelsea Lovers. Just their presence was toxic to ordinary humans. The computers hummed thoughtfully to themselves. The Chelsea Lovers stood together, in the same stance, even breathing in unison. Their eyes didn't blink as they considered me. I could feel a presence, a pressure, forming in the room. A desire, a need, a physical imperative...

"What's it all for?" I said abruptly. "I mean, all of this. The Chelsea Lovers. The Kit Kat Club. The s.e.x magic and the computers. What's the point of it all?"

"Apocalypse," said one of the women, and they all smiled a little more widely. "The real s.e.xual revolution, come at last. We want to turn the whole world on. Using s.e.x magic, computer magic, ritual and pa.s.sion, instinct and logic, flesh and silicon bonded together in unthought-of ways, to work a tidal change in reality itself. We will make the whole world s.e.xual. Fetishize everything in it, the living and unliving, suffusing the whole world with a pa.s.sion and an appet.i.te that will never end. A great joyous s.e.xual apocalypse, the climax of history. The biggest bang of all. Endless sensation, endless pleasure...And we shall all worship the new flesh, forever and ever and ever..."

She broke off as a face appeared on all the monitor screens at once. The computers had discovered the ident.i.ty of the new rogue Drood, and it was me. My face was on every wall, with my real name beneath it. The family had released my true ident.i.ty to the world. The Chelsea Lovers turned as one to orientate themselves on me. They weren't smiling anymore. They each thrust one hand out at me, and s.e.x hit me like a fist. I cried out, convulsing helplessly as pa.s.sion burned in me like a fever, like the nightmares you have when your temperature rises and your blood boils in your brain. I wanted to go to them, on my hands and knees if necessary, and worship their flesh with my own. I would have begged, would have died, for their lightest touch, for the pleasure of their favour.

But there was still just enough Drood training and pride left in me to hold them off, just enough for me to be able to subvocalise the Words, and my armour flashed around me, golden and glorious, sealing me off from all attack. I staggered backwards, suddenly myself again, like a man who lurches back from the very edge of a cliff. The Chelsea Lovers cried out in one awful voice, full of rage at the sight of Drood armour. I jumped up, the strength of my legs amplified by my armour, and I went soaring up through the orifice and back into the Kit Kat Club above.

I erupted back into that fleshy, cavernous place, and people fell back from me, shouting and screaming. I had broken the mood, or the Chelsea Lovers had. I ran for the door, and all at once, in answer to some unheard signal, everyone in the room surged forward to attack me. Blows and kicks came from every direction, though I couldn't feel them through the armour, and naked people grabbed at my arms and legs, trying to pull me down. I ran on, kicking and pushing people out of the way, and none of them could slow or stop me. They clutched at me with endless hands and crowded in before me, blocking the way to the door with their bare bodies. I focused on just moving forward, not striking out, though every instinct yelled in me to fight. With my armour's strength I could kill these people, and I didn't want to do that. Unlike some of my family, I still believed in (mostly) innocent bystanders.

I could see the door, up ahead. The huge bouncer came forward to stop me, his huge hands opening and closing eagerly. I hit him once, and he fell backwards, blood flying on the air, to be trampled underfoot by the packed crowds still pressing forward. Strange forces crackled on the air around me, s.e.x magic and computer energies from the room below, crawling over my armour, trying to force a way in. There were screaming faces all around me now, desperate people clutching at me, wrapping their arms around my legs, reaching down from the ceiling to clatter their hands uselessly against my golden head. Naked men and women crawled all over me, slowing me down by sheer weight and press of bodies.

I reached through my armoured side and drew my needle gun. I still had it. Strictly speaking, I should have handed it in to the Armourer, but what with one thing and another I never got around to it. There were only a few needles left. I aimed the gun at the nearest wall and shot a holy-water ice needle into the nearest pulsing vein. The whole room convulsed, like a great fleshy earthquake. Everywhere, naked men and women were falling away from me, clutching at their heads, crying out in shock and horror. They forgot all about me as the room shook, and I ran for the door.

I pulled the door wide open, and daylight poured in. More screams, as much fear as anger. I looked back. The whole place was convulsing now, with great cracks opening up in the drying-out walls. People dropped out of midair as the magics fell apart, no longer sustained by the endless orgy. Men and women cried and howled and hit out at each other. I'd broken the mood. I nodded, satisfied. I might not have learned anything useful here, but at least the word would go out: that even though I no longer had the support of my family, I was still a force to be reckoned with.

CHAPTER NINE.

Dream a Little Dream for Me S o I went back down into the Underground and took the Tube to Leicester Square station. No one wanted to sit next to me in the carriage; in fact, people actually got up to move farther away from me. It took me a while to realise I still stank of musk from the Kit Kat Club. Still, several women did smile at me. And a couple of men. I finally emerged from the station and wandered up St. Martin's Lane. The evening was drawing on now, and people were out on the town in happily chattering groups. No one paid me any attention, so I guessed the musk was wearing off in the open air. It felt good to be safely anonymous again.

St. Martin's Lane is in a nice enough area; all theatres and restaurants, pleasant stores and businesses. All very civilised, in fact. I followed the curving street around till I came to the next address on my list: the very secret home and lair of the Sceneshifters. Probably the most dangerous group on the scene, in their own small way. And so tricky to deal with that I'd never been allowed to have any direct contact with them, even though they were quite definitely on my patch. The Sceneshifters were the exclusive responsibility of a special group within the family; and I had been instructed very firmly to keep my distance.

But, things change.

Essentially, the Sceneshifters work behind the scenes of reality, changing small details here and there, to turn the state of the world to their advantage. There are members of the Drood family whose full-time job it is to detect these changes and put them back the way they were. We a.s.sume we're winning, on the grounds that the Sceneshifters don't actually rule the world yet. As far as we can tell...

From the outside, their address looked like just another building, part of a fairly modern row with bright white stone and oversized windows, but there was something about the place...something that raised the hackles on your neck and made you disinclined to linger. People pa.s.sing by increased their pace and averted their eyes without even realising they were doing it. I stood before the main entrance, scowling thoughtfully. A field agent learns to depend on his instincts, and every instinct I had was yelling at me to get the h.e.l.l away from this awful place. Just standing there, I felt...uneasy, disturbed, in peril of both body and soul. As though if I went inside, I might see things I couldn't stand to see, learn things I didn't want to know. Even with the torc around my throat, shielding me from outside influence, it still took all my willpower to hold my ground.

As I stared intently at the building, refusing to look away, the details began to slip and flow, like a melting painting. As though a top coat was being washed away, revealing the true image beneath. Just like the family reports said, the Sceneshifters' headquarters was protected by an uncertainty spell. You had to be certain that what you were looking for was there, or it wouldn't be. It all came down to mental discipline. Which would be a shock for certain members of my family, who'd been known to say loudly in cla.s.srooms that I didn't possess any.

As I watched, scowling fiercely with concentration, the office building before me just faded away like a pa.s.sing thought to reveal the true structure beneath. An old church, with a ma.s.sive wood and plaster fronting, an arched doorway, and medieval stained-gla.s.s windows. It was half the size of the modern buildings towering on either side of it, but there was a basic strength and solidity to the place that was somehow rea.s.suring. My instincts were still p.r.i.c.kling, but at least I didn't feel like running anymore. I strode up to the front door and knocked like I had a reason to be there.

When you're dealing with people who change reality on a daily basis, there's not much point in trying to sneak in. They probably knew I was coming to see them before I did. And I certainly wasn't planning on throwing my weight around; there were very definite limits to what my armour could be expected to protect me from. When the door opened, I planned on being extremely polite and using all the reasonableness at my command. I also planned on smiling a lot, and running like a rabbit if my clothes started changing colour.

The door opened to reveal a cheerful-looking soul, a rea.s.suringly ordinary guy in grubby workman's overalls. He was about my age, a bit scruffy, with a pleasant face and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth that he didn't bother to take out when he was speaking. He nodded easily to me.

"h.e.l.lo, squire. Looking for the Sceneshifters, are you? Thought so. I'm Bert. I do all the real work around here, while they're all off saving the world. Someone has to check the state of the tubing and mop up the spills. Fancy a nice cup of tea? I've got the kettle on...Well suit yourself. Don't say I didn't offer. Come on in, come on in...So, you're the new rogue Drood, are you? Edwin Drood? Nice to meet you. Sort of thought you'd be taller, somehow...Never mind. Come here looking for sanctuary, have you?"

"News does get around," I said dryly as soon as I could get a word in edgeways. I stepped inside the church, and he shut the door behind me. I listened carefully, but I didn't hear him lock it. The interior was typical old-fashioned religious, a bit on the gloomy side, with brightly coloured light streaming in through the stained-gla.s.s windows. But there were no pews, no altar, and the only religious symbols were those originally carved into the old stone walls. It might be a church, but clearly no one had worshipped here for some time.

"Oh, we always know what's going on," Bert said cheerfully. "We hear everything the moment it happens, and sometimes several months before. I've always said we could make a fortune with a good gossip magazine (very upmarket, nothing sleazy), but I can't even get it on the committee agenda. Got their heads in the clouds, that lot. Come to join us, have you, Edwin? You should, you know; we're doing important work here, when we're not having endless arguments about what const.i.tutes a pivotal moment in history and which way we should tip the balance. I ask you, who really believes World War Two could have been averted by giving Hitler back his missing t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e? Still, tell you what, squire; you come along with me and I'll give you the basic tour while we're waiting for the others to show up. How would that be?"

"Won't the others mind, us starting without them?" I said cautiously. I wasn't sure what I'd expected to find here, but Bert sure as h.e.l.l wasn't it.

"Course they won't mind! You're expected, squire; we've all been looking forward to you turning up here. The things we could achieve with a Drood on our side! And we could use some new blood in the group, to be honest. Not to mention someone with a propensity for actually getting things done, instead of just sitting around talking about it. I swear we'd be ruling this world by now if the committee could just get their heads out of their a.r.s.es once in a while."

He headed for the back of the church, his hands in his overall pockets and his cigarette still protruding jauntily from one corner of his mouth. I followed along, keeping a wary eye out for sneak attacks or mutating realities, but it all seemed very calm and peaceful.

"So," I said casually, "what is this important work that you're doing here, Bert?"

"We're defeating the Devil, one day at a time." For the first time Bert sounded entirely serious. "He rules this world, you know. Not G.o.d. He hasn't been in charge for ages. I mean, you only have to look around you to see that for yourself. The world wasn't supposed to be like this. Not this...mess. We were supposed to live in paradise. But something happened long ago, and the Devil's been playing games with humanity ever since, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Telling us lies, driving us to despair, torturing us every day with false hopes, impossible ambitions, and chances s.n.a.t.c.hed away at the last moment. Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do bad guys thrive? Because the guy in charge gets a kick out of it, that's why. He's making a h.e.l.l out of this world, just for the fun of it. Some say the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to make us believe love was real..."

"Oh," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say, except perhaps Have you stopped taking any medication recently?

"But bit by bit we're changing the world the Devil made," Bert said cheerfully. "Rewriting reality and transforming the world into something finer and fairer. We're stealing back the world, inch by inch, and making it something fit for people to live in. We're all going home, to paradise. That's why the founding members chose this place for our HQ. Centuries of acc.u.mulated faith and sanct.i.ty help keep the Devil from noticing we're here."

"So the Devil hasn't always ruled the world?" I said carefully. "G.o.d was in charge, once?"

"Oh, yes...Word is the Devil s.n.a.t.c.hed control of the world away from G.o.d after he persuaded the Romans to crucify the Christ. The Son of G.o.d was never supposed to die! He was supposed to stay with us forever, teaching us how to live proper lives. But with him gone, the Devil sneaked in and stole creation away from the Creator. And we've been stuck with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d ever since. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up everyone's lives, in his own private torture chamber, just for a giggle. This way, squire. Mind the step."

Bert led me out the back of the church and into a large antechamber packed with men and women sitting around long tables. They all wore bright red robes, complete with hoods. They were reading newspapers, magazines, and books, and making careful notes in their laptops. A few looked up and nodded to Bert before returning to their work. All four walls were lined with bookshelves crammed full of books and bound magazines from floor to ceiling.

"Here is where we study the world," Bert said grandly. "Through its media, its history books, and every up-to-date commentary. There's another room where they do nothing but watch every single news channel, all day long. We have to rotate those people on a regular basis, or they start developing conspiracy theories, and next thing you know you've got a schism on your hands. And of course there's our wide-ranging net of supporters and fellow travellers tucked away in governments and religions and big businesses all across the world, keeping us aware of what's really going on. If you knew what Bill Gates was planning to do next, you'd s.h.i.t yourself. We're always looking for that crucial factor, that pivotal moment, when tipping over one small domino will set all the others toppling...Come on, come on; lots more to see."

He led the way down a long wooden spiral stairway that creaked alarmingly under our weight and finally gave out onto a low-ceilinged stone chamber deep beneath the church, full of bubbling chemical vats almost as tall as I was and a lot broader. Garishly coloured liquids surged up out of the vats and along through what seemed like miles of thick rubber tubing stapled to the walls and ceiling. All around there were gauges and valves and wheels and some fairly primitive filtering systems. I'd seen stills that were more complicated. Bert darted back and forth across the chamber, fussing over the equipment, adjusting a valve here and turning a wheel there. He tapped one gauge with a knuckle, sniffed at the reading, and then turned to smile proudly at me.

"It's a very delicate setup," he said, patting a nearby vat affectionately. "Needs constant monitoring, of course. The founders put all this together, years ago, and they won't let me change anything. Even though they're far too intellectual to actually come down here and get their hands dirty on a regular basis. Not that I want them messing about with things, now that I've got everything running just right."

He looked at me, inviting me to say something. I hadn't a clue what to say about his precious setup, so I retreated to something else that had been bothering me.

"If the church's sanct.i.ty is enough to hide you from the Devil, why do you need the uncertainty spell as well?"

Bert looked distinctly disappointed in me but soldiered on with his answer. "That's not exactly a spell, as such. More what you'd call a side effect, really. Comes from the Red King, down in the dream chamber. Or Professor Redmond, as he was. We call him the Red King after the character in Through the Looking-Gla.s.s. Remember him? He was fast asleep and dreaming, and everyone was afraid to wake him, because they believed he was dreaming the world and everything in it. So if he did wake up, they'd all cease to exist. Would you like to meet him? We don't normally show him off to visitors, but then you're special, aren't you?"

I was still trying to form an answer to that one when we were interrupted by the arrival of a man and a woman through the door on the far side of the chamber. They were both wearing the ubiquitous long red robes, and they both carried a definite air of authority about them. They were middle-aged, with long, ascetic faces and severe expressions. Bert just nodded to them, conspicuously unimpressed.

"Thank you, Bert," said the man. "We'll take it from here." He gave me a cold smile. "I'm Brother Nathanial, and this is Sister Eliza. Welcome to the Sceneshifters, Edwin Drood."

I nodded coolly in return. I didn't like his eyes, or hers. They both had that look; that certainty beyond any doubt, inhumanly focused, merciless in their logic. Fanatic's eyes.

"I'm here looking for some answers," I said.

"Aren't we all?" said Nathanial. "Come; ask us anything. We shall conceal nothing from you. Bert, there's been a spillage in the secondary systems. If you wouldn't mind..."

"All right, all right, I'll go and clean up your mess while you give Edwin the old pep talk." He nodded easily to me. "Have fun with the Red King, and his dreams. Don't have nightmares afterwards." He gave me one last c.o.c.ky wink and left the room.

"Marvellous fellow," said Nathanial. "An invaluable member of our staff, though I'd never tell him that. He might want paying more. Now then, Edwin; Sister Eliza and I run things here, in as much as anyone does. We like to think of ourselves as a cooperative. Don't expect dear Eliza to say anything. She has no tongue anymore. Sometimes the small changes we make have the most unexpected repercussions..."

"Bert said something about founding members," I said, just to be saying something.

"Oh, yes, that's us. There were six, originally, but now there's seven. Another side effect..."

"How many people are there in the Sceneshifters?" I said, trying for a question that might possess even a slim chance of having a definite answer.

"Oh, more than you'd think," said Nathanial, smiling coolly. "Certainly far more than your family thinks. You'd be surprised, Edwin. Our ranks are growing all the time, as we open people's eyes to the terrible truth. We're the real salvation army, fighting a holy war against the Devil and all his works. Bert has filled you in on the basics, hasn't he? Good, good...I think it's time for you to meet the centre of our operations, our very own Red King, Professor Redmond. We're all very proud of him. This way, please..."

"But there are questions I need to ask you," I said. "About my family, and why I was declared a rogue..."

"Yes, yes," said Nathanial. "All in good time. You really can't appreciate what we're doing here until you've met the Red King."

He and the silent Sister Eliza ushered me politely but firmly through the maze of chemical vats and looping tubes to a door at the back of the chamber, and then through it into a long stone corridor that stretched away before us, sloping down into the earth. Thick pulsing tubing was stapled to the rough stone walls, while from the ceiling hung a series of bare electric bulbs. We followed the tubes down the corridor, descending for some time, until I lost track of just how deep we were under the church and the London streets. The air was chill and damp, and water ran down the walls.

"Don't you have any security down here?" I said after a while, just to break the silence.

Nathanial shrugged easily. "The uncertainty effect keeps out the riffraff, while the church's sanct.i.ty hides us from the Devil and his disciples. And the Red King dreams he's safe, so he is..."

"How does this all work?" I said just a little desperately. "This whole...sceneshifting business?"

"It's really very simple," said Nathanial in that smug kind of way that tells you it isn't going to be at all simple. "While the Red King sleeps, he dreams. Constantly. And while in that state he is able to see behind the scenes of reality, as it were. How things really work, and how they're put together. We can influence his dreams and persuade him to make small changes. And the alterations he makes there, affect things here. In reality. We only deal in small changes, never big ones, no matter how tempting. They might be noticed by...You Know Who.

"I often wonder what it is the professor sees, exactly, in his dreams. We can only guess. And whisper the odd suggestion in his ear. He's in a very suggestive state. Though you have to be very careful what you ask for; very specific. Did you know there used to be pyramids in Scotland? Oh, yes; a huge tourist attraction, in fact. But the Red King dreamed them away, and now they're gone, and no one remembers them but us. Your family missed that one, which I sometimes think is rather a shame...Still, enough small changes add up, when your family doesn't interfere. We're so glad you've come to join us, Edwin."

"I haven't decided anything yet," I said.

"But you will," said Nathanial. "You will."

Sister Eliza chuckled abruptly. The sound she made without a tongue was ugly, disturbing. Even Nathanial flinched a little. The corridor turned around suddenly and spilled us out into a small stone chamber, barely twelve feet in diameter, gloomily lit just enough to be restful on the eyes. The walls had been roughly painted to resemble night skies, with whorls of stars and a procession of moons in all its phases. In the centre of the room stood a marble pedestal, and on top of that, held in place by an ornate latticework of copper wire, was a severed human head. Male, middle-aged, slack features. From the look of the ragged stump of the neck, whoever had cut it off hadn't had much practice. Someone had placed a fresh laurel wreath around the heavily lined brow. The head wasn't breathing, but behind the closed eyelids the eyes darted back and forth in the rapid eye movements of the dream state. Around the base of the pedestal someone had drawn a traditional pentagram with mathematical precision. And around that someone had traced a series of ceremonial circles containing signs and pictograms from half a dozen forgotten cultures. Someone had done their homework.

Nathanial gestured for me to examine the back of the head, so I walked around to take a look. Thick rubber tubes had been plugged roughly into the back of the man's head, trailing away across the floor and out the door into the corridor, presumably all the way back up to the chemical vats. I leaned forward for a better look and winced at the crude holes where the tubes entered. No surgeon had done this. Someone had just drilled into the back of the skull, and then pushed the tubes through into the exposed brain. I came back around to study the face. It didn't look happy or unhappy. If not for the eye movements, I'd never have known it was still alive.

"Why just a head?" I said finally.

"Well," said Nathanial, "it wasn't as if we really needed the rest of him, and keeping a whole body alive and preserved would have added greatly to our expenses. We were quite a small operation, when we started out. Just the professor and half a dozen of his finest students...The tubes keep the head going, and the wires trickle a constant slow current across the frontal lobes, ensuring that he remains asleep and deep in the dream state. The tubes feed him certain preservatives and all the necessary drugs. He could last forever, theoretically. Ah, yes, the drugs. We haven't explained about those yet, have we? We're feeding the professor a rather special c.o.c.ktail of powerful psychotropic chemicals, everything from acid to taduki to datura. All according to the professor's own theories. The drugs push his mind up and out while he dreams, blasting the doors of perception right off their hinges so he can see what lies behind, and beyond."

"Who was he, originally?" I said. "How did he come to this?"

"Well, it was all his own idea, originally," Nathanial said, smiling in a rather self-satisfied way. "He was our professor at Thames University, back then. Remarkable mind; quite remarkable. He became our leader, our inspiration. He gave us these fascinating lectures, you see; all about shamanic drugs, and dream states, and how they could be combined to access different levels of reality. He also talked a lot about something called experimenter's intent, where the scientist's intent could actually change the outcome of the experiment he was performing. It wasn't that great a step to combine those ideas...

"The professor was really quite surprised when we finally went to him, all six of his favourite students, and told him we'd found a way to translate his theories into a workable, practical solution to all the world's problems. He was even more surprised when we brought him down here, showed him what we'd done, and explained to him that he had been granted the singular honour of being our Red King. The man who would change the world and save us all from the Devil. In fact, when we told him exactly what we intended to do, he reacted very negatively. Actually started to cry when we showed him the bone saw and held him down...

"But that was all long ago. He's done such good work since, sleeping and dreaming for all these years, without interruption. The longer you sleep, you see, the more deeply you dream, and the further the drugs can take you. He dreams very deeply and very powerfully these days. I just know he'd be so proud of what we've done with his help..."

"I wouldn't bet on it," I said. "After what you did to him, if he ever does wake up, it'll be the end of your world."

"You don't know him like we did," said Nathanial. "He'd understand. He was always telling us it was our duty to go out and change the world. And how we always had to be prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good. And we did. We sacrificed him. You know, we're still struggling to understand the significance of just what it is we're doing here. We don't just sit on our laurels, oh no! I sometimes wonder if perhaps the whole world, and everything in it, is just a dream. The Devil's dream. And that's why the professor is able to access it and change bits of it. If that is the case, we must be very careful not to disturb the Devil with our changes, in case we wake him..."