01. Labyrinth of Dreams (20 page)

We walked along what I first thought of as a stone porch, and more of the place seemed to come into focus. It wasn't just a big stone building; this thing was a castle, like they had in Europe, and what we were on was called, I think, a battlement. All around I could see other buildings of dark stone, but aside from the fact that they all looked like travel posters of Austria, there was little to be learned from them.

Before we found a stairway or entrance, we heard the door open well behind us, and turned and went back. Two figures emerged, and after making sure that the door was secure, turned to walk away.

I took a deep breath. "Hey!" I called out loudly. "Help!"

The two figures stopped and turned, and we started toward them.

"We took a wrong turn and, boy, are we in trouble!" I yelled.

They stopped, then stared at us in wonder as we came clearly into view. I was afraid we might have another dog-girl or fat werewolf here, but the two at least
looked
human, although dressed in robes and hoods.

"Who the
devil
are you two?" the larger of the two demanded to know. "And what in heaven's name are you doing skulking about here like
that?"
He was a man with a very cultured British-sounding accent and a very pleasant voice. It was a relief to find somebody in this network who didn't speak gibberish first.

"I'm Sam Horowitz and this is my wife, Brandy," I told them. "We've gotten caught twice now in that damned transport system, and this time they shot us here."

The second figure gasped.
"You
came out of
there?"
It was a woman's voice, with much the same accent.

"Yeah, out of the blue lights and the folds. Can we explain everything inside someplace? We're
freezing
to death!"

"Yes, by all means, follow us," the man told us. "This is most irregular. Most irregular. The abbot is not going to like this one bit."

I turned to Brandy as we walked, and repeated, "The abbot?"

"I don't know. Sounds better than the Costello, I guess."

I knew what the title implied, and I think Brandy did, too. Abbots headed abbeys or something like that. Monasteries and convents and that kind of thing. With my background, I couldn't be sure beyond that, and Brandy was raised Baptist, but I kind of suspected we were now in some sort of religious retreat, probably Catholic or whatever passed for Catholic wherever this was. The Middle Ages for sure, but monks and nuns in medieval
Oregon?
Either history was real wrong or Columbus had a great PR man.

We went down some stone stairs and reached a wing of the big building behind the main body, and the woman opened a door and entered while the man held it for us. It wasn't tremendously warmer inside, but at least there was no wind.

The woman had gone on ahead, because we had a reception committee. There were three of them, each of whom looked about seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, and all three were wearing black robes with the hoods hanging down their backs, and all three had swords on thick black belts worn outside their robes. They all bowed slightly to the man, whose own robe was a rusty brown color.

"Take these two to a holding room without allowing them to be seen by anyone else," he ordered. "Sister Elizabeth will be returning shortly with some clothes for them. No conversation with them, no questions. I will notify the abbot and then return for questioning."

The three bowed again, then turned their attention to us. One of them motioned us to follow him, and the other two fell in behind. I didn't feel too great about all this, but at least we had shelter, and somebody who knew the score was being forced to pay attention to us. The only thing I worried about was whether these guys would just decide we were a complication they didn't need, and dispose of us, one way or the other. It was something I didn't care to think about.

We were taken to a small room lit by an oil lamp with a straw bed and straw on the floor as well. It had a door but no windows, and after we entered, the door was shut; but it was clear that two of the silent giants had taken up guard duty on either side of the door just outside. I figured it was more to keep the curious out than to keep us in. We had no place else to go.

Sister Elizabeth was back in a few minutes carrying a bundle. These turned out to be a brown wool robe like the man had been wearing, a black robelike dress like the sister's, and some boots. "I had to guess on the sizes," she told us apologetically, "but at least it will warm you."

She was a slightly built woman with a plain, very English sort of face, totally free of any makeup or jewelry, and her rust-colored hair was cut so short she didn't have to comb or maintain it, although it would never win any prizes for hair styling. While we tried on the clothing, I couldn't help but notice that Sister Elizabeth's gaze kept returning to Brandy, and I had a suspicion that she might never have seen a black woman before. I kind of hoped that she hadn't seen Jews down at the local Inquisition.

The clothes were baggy but serviceable; mine was thick wool and Brandy's seemed to be cotton, and while mine ended just below the knee and hers almost dusted the floor, it was still okay. The boots were a different matter—not just for size, but because we hadn't worn shoes of any kind in so long that they hurt and felt funny. They were soft leather, though, with a lot of give, and while both pairs were a bit large, they would do until we had the chance to get a better fit.

"What is this place?" I asked her. "A monastery?"

"It is the Mount Olivet Retreat in the Barony of Oregonia," she responded. "There is both a monastery and a convent here, as well as a seminary, conference area, and master library."

"Are you
really
a nun?" Brandy asked, echoing my own thoughts.

She seemed somewhat startled by the question. "Of course. I have been in holy orders for eleven years."

Her reaction was so genuine and so automatic that there was no reason in the world to doubt her. Still, it was puzzling. I could easily see a group like this using a monastery, convent, or whatever as a cover, even having some real ones around, but I couldn't see having real ones work that machinery. I mean, most of the folks we'd seen so far, like the pair at the warehouse and the woman who'd sent us here, weren't even a hundred percent human.

We were given no more chances for questions, though. The man who was with her, who she called Brother Michael, came for us, looked us over, nodded to himself, then said, "You will come with me now. The abbot was just getting ready for bed, but he insists on seeing the both of you at once. Come along, please."

I could tell we were hardly trusted, although what sort of danger we could pose to them was beyond me. I mean, they sure as hell knew we didn't have any concealed weapons or concealed anything else on us. Still, those big guards had eyes only for us, and passages had been sealed off to keep anybody from seeing us. Finally we reached an upstairs chamber, just about the time I was ready to take off those boots and throw them away, and we waited while Brother Michael went in and then returned. "The abbot will see you now," he said formally, and we all went in.

It was a comfortable office, large and well organized, with walls of bookshelves filled to capacity, a huge redwood desk and padded chair, and plush padded seats and benches. To one side was a large fireplace whose fire was dying but not dead. The room was very comfortably warm.

The abbot entered by a side door, looking tired. He was a thin man of medium height, with short gray hair and a pair of old-fashioned glasses. He wore a black robe over which was a gold chain with a round medallion hanging from it. He sat in his chair and looked us over carefully, then looked at the others. "Take the normal security precautions, but you may leave us alone," he said to them. It was a kind, gentle voice and the tone was casual, but clearly this was not a request but an order. They bowed, and all left, closing the door.

"Please sit down," he invited, indicating two padded chairs. His voice had more than a trace of Irish brogue in it. "I am Brian McInerney, bishop of Olivet and the abbot of this place. And you?"

"Sam Horowitz, and this is my wife, Brandy," I responded.

"Uh huh. Horowitz, you say? Jewish?"

"Born that way."

"You will pardon me, but the lady does not look Jewish to me."

"The lady wasn't born that way," Brandy replied a little coolly, "but she's pretty satisfied to be a Horowitz."

Mclnerney shrugged. "No offense is meant. I've seen a lot stranger than the two of you in my time, I assure you. However, the only people of color in this land are of American Indian ancestry, and interracial unions are quite rare and, I'm afraid, not socially condoned."

"It's not easy where we come from, either," I noted. Well, it was easy to see why Dog-woman sent us here. I'd said McInerney and Oregon and specified English.

The abbot sighed. "Ah, yes, and that brings up an interesting question, Mr. Horowitz. Just where
do
you come from?"

"New Jersey," I told him. "But in that world this place is the western distribution center for a company called General Ordering and Development, Inc."

Mclnerney nodded. "As you might surmise, I am familiar with the company. Why don't the two of you tell me how you came to be here—and doing an imitation of Adam and Eve, as I'm told. Before we can make any decisions regarding your future, I must know who and what I am dealing with."

"I have a lot of questions, too," I said.

"But
you
do not have
me
in
your
office in
your
world deciding
my
fate," he pointed out with unassailable logic.

And so I told him the basics of the story. At least, I told him that a rich man in a big city near ours stole a lot of money from a man in our city, and that both were involved in criminal activities, and that the victim hired us to track the thief down because his own bosses would not be very understanding if they found out. I told him we were private detectives whose work was taking jobs like this one, and how we'd traced our quarry, found his look-alike girlfriend, traced them here, and then gotten involved in the gun-fight, the third Whitlock, and why and how we'd wound up sneaking into the plant and getting caught in that thing and sent to limbo. He sat there, listening intently, and never once interrupted until I was done and until Brandy had tilled in some gaps.

He sat there about a half a minute more, saying nothing, then said, incredulously. "Do you mean to tell me that you do not have any idea what this is all about? That, even now, with two trips through the Labyrinth, you are as ignorant of the facts as you are stuck?"

We nodded in unison. "That's about it, Bishop," Brandy agreed.

"You understand that I am going to have to check this all out? That if any part of your story is false I will be able to determine it?"

"That's fine with us, sir," I told him. "Why would we lie about it?"

The abbot sighed again. "Mr. Horowitz, I am certain that you must realize that any organization of the size, scope, and power of the one that controls the Labyrinth will have its enemies, its opponents. Idealists, revolutionaries, and ambitious underlings seeking to topple its leadership or to compete with it are inevitable. Such activity is always ongoing, although lately it has been sharply on the increase. People have died, stations have been put out of commission, and a great deal of havoc has been raised. The only reason you are not in our dungeons is that I think you are telling the truth. A gut instinct, I admit, but born of thirty years of ministering to people."

"Then you're really a priest? As well as the— station master?" Brandy asked.

"Oh, my, yes! Part of this appointment entails also being the station master, as you put it. We are no false identity put on to mask them. Instead, we have an arrangement with them that works to our mutual benefit. This is not to say that they don't have their representatives here— they are all over the place, by which I mean the world and not here. I fear that the general accommodations here are too spare for their liking. They are a worldly bunch, I must say. This post is difficult to fill, you understand, for there are few who can deal with them and still sleep nights. I often am beset by doubts myself, but I must accept my Church's decision that our interaction with them serves the common good." He yawned. "You must excuse me, it is getting quite late. For the moment, I fear I must place you under guard and keep you apart from the rest of the people here. So far, we have managed to limit the knowledge that you even exist only to those connected with the Labyrinth, the security staff, and myself. As the security staff are all under permanent rules of silence, I feel certain I can keep this quiet for now. In the meantime, I will arrange for Sister Elizabeth to get you some bedding and something to eat, and I will call for you when I know more."

He called for the guards, and that was the end of the interview. They took us back down to the floor with the small rooms, and Sister Elizabeth managed to find some blankets, a couple of scrawny feather pillows, and some sweet-tasting beer and fruit and pastries. It wasn't exactly heaven, but, right then, it would have to do. It was certainly no worse, and a good deal better, than I'd feared it might be.

They kept us down there for a couple of days. It wasn't all that comfortable, particularly after being used to some ability to roam, but the food was decent and it gave us a little time to reacclimate ourselves to the real world, or what passed for the real world, anyway. I kind of hoped the guards were eunuchs or something, though, since there were times when the sounds coming from the cell might have made celibates reconsider.

The rest of the time was spent simply comparing notes and seeing what we could come up with. We had a big picture now of what was going on, even if the details still didn't make much sense. Somebody, somewhere, had invented a machine that allowed you to travel between worlds. It wasn't between planets—we kept coming back to the same out-of-the-way spot in Oregon—but between different versions of Earth. How they could exist, we had no idea, but clearly they did; and it was the kind of fact you accepted by Sherlock Holmes's maxim: when everything else is eliminated, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.