The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

snored so loud the bed curtains trembled.”

“You never got a chance to drug him, then?”

“What, with my little buttons? No. In the first place he wouldn’t drink any wine, and anyway, what would have been the point of drugging him? We know as much as he does. If we want to find out any more about the levitation device, the one to drug would be Lord Basmond.”

“That would be rather difficult now, I’m afraid,” said Lady Beatrice, and told what she had found on entering his lordship’s bedchamber. Dora’s eyes widened.

“No! You’re sure?”

“I know a dead man when I see one,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Damn and blast! So convenient to murder someone when there are whores about to blame for it. I suppose now we’ll have to run all screaming and hysterical to the butler and report it. Jane and Maude will have firm alibis, at least. First, however, we’ll need to report to the missus.” Dora set a bucket of water on the fire.

“She isn’t in her room,” explained Lady Beatrice.

“No? I suppose it’s possible she did for his lordship.”

“Would she?”

“You never know; I should think it was a bit treasonous, wouldn’t you, offering an invention like that to other empires? She may have made the decision to do for him and confiscate the thing for the Society. If she did, she may be out making arrangements to cover our tracks.”

“Let’s not go running to Pilkins yet, then,” said Lady Beatrice. “What became of the rest of the Dessert?”

“That’s a good question,” said Dora. “Pantry?”

They left the silent kitchen and, following a trail of cake crumbs and blobs of creme anglaise, located the remaining Dessert in the pantry, as expected. Thoroughly ruined now, it lay spilt sideways on the flagstones, its grain carrier leaning against the wall.

“Once more, damn and blast,” said Dora. “Where’s the marvelous flying thing? The box or plank or whatever it was Pilkins carried in?”

“Not here, at any rate,” said Lady Beatrice.

“You don’t suppose the missus took it?”

“Might have, but—” Lady Beatrice began, as a prolonged bumping crash came from above. They looked at each other and ran upstairs, Lady Beatrice lifting her skirts to hurry. Dora, being nimbler in her present state of undress, arrived in the great hall first. Lady Beatrice heard her exclaim a fairly shocking oath, and upon joining her discovered why; for Arthur Fitzhugh Rawdon, Lord Basmond, lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the great staircase.

The two ladies stood there considering his corpse for a long moment.

“Frightfully convenient accident,” said Lady Beatrice at last.

“I think it will look better if you do the screaming,” said Dora, with a gesture indicating her nudity.

“Very well,” said Lady Beatrice. Dora retreated to the kitchen. Lady Beatrice cleared her throat and, drawing a deep breath, uttered the piercing shriek of a terrified female.

Mrs. Corvey paused only to switch on the night-vision feature of her optics before advancing down the tunnel. Instantly she beheld the tunnel walls and floor, stretching ahead into a green obscurity. She had expected the same neat brickwork that distinguished the laboratory building, but the tunnel appeared to be of some antiquity: haphazardly mortared with flints, here and there buttressed with timbers, and penetrated with roots throughout, threadlike white ones or gnarled and black subterranean limbs.

As she proceeded along the tunnel’s length, Mrs. Corvey noted in several places the print of shoes. Most were small, not much bigger than her own, but twice she saw a much larger track, a man’s certainly. Moreover she perceived strange and shifting currents of air in the tunnel. About a hundred yards in she spotted what must be their source, for a second tunnel opened where some of the flint and mortar had fallen in, creating a narrow gap in the wall.

Mrs. Corvey studied the tunnel floor in front of the gap. Someone had gone through in the recent past, to judge from the way the earth was disturbed. She turned and considered the main course of the tunnel, which ended a few yards ahead where a ladder ascended, doubtless to the tower above. Yielding to her intuition, however, she turned back and slipped through the gap into the second tunnel.

Here the walls seemed of greater antiquity still, indeed, scarcely as though shaped by human labors at all; rather burrowed by some great animal. There was an earthy damp smell and, distantly echoing, the sound of trickling water. Mrs. Corvey peered into the depths and spotted something scarlet ahead in the green gloom, an irregular mass against one wall.

She lifted her cane to her shoulder and went forward cautiously, five feet, ten feet, and then there was a sudden burst of hectic illumination and a blare of — sound? No, not sound; Mrs. Corvey was at a loss to say what sensation it was that affected her nerves so painfully. She swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. Two or three deep breaths restored her composure before she heard a groan in the darkness ahead. And then:

“You know,” said a male voice, “if I’m to die here I’d much rather be shot. All this blinding me and chaining me to walls and so forth is becoming tedious.”

THIRTEEN: In Which Mr. Ludbridge Tells a Curious Story

The scarlet mass had shifted, and resolved itself now into the shape of a man, slumped against the wall of the tunnel with one arm flung up awkwardly. As she neared him, Mrs. Corvey saw that he was in fact pinioned in place by a manacle whose chain had been passed about one of the ancient roots.

“Mr. Ludbridge?” she inquired.

His head came up sharply and he turned his face in her direction.

“Is that a lady?”

“I am, sir. William Reginald Ludbridge?”

“Might be,” he said. She was within a few paces of him now and, opening a compartment in her cane, drew forth a lucifer and struck it for his benefit. The circle of dancing light so produced proved to her satisfaction that the prisoner was indeed the missing man Ludbridge. “Who’s that?”

“I am Elizabeth Corvey, Mr. Ludbridge. From Nell Gwynne’s.”

“Are you? What becomes of illusions?”

“We dispel them,” she replied, relieved to remember the countersign, for she was seldom required to give it.

“And we are everywhere. If you’re wondering why your match isn’t producing any light, it’s because of that damned — excuse me — that device you tripped just now. It’ll be at least an hour before we can see anything again.”

“In fact, I can see now, Mr. Ludbridge.” She blew out the tiny flame.

“I beg your pardon? Oh! Mrs. Corvey. You’re the lady with the… do forgive me, madam, but I hardly expected the GSS to send the ladies’ auxiliary to my aid. So the flash hasn’t affected your, er, eyes?”

“It does not appear to have, sir.”

“That’s something, anyway. Er… I trust you weren’t sent alone?”

“I was not, sir. Some of my girls are upstairs, I suppose you’d say, entertaining Lord Basmond and his guests.”

“Ha! Ingenious. I don’t suppose you happen to have a hacksaw with you, Mrs. Corvey?”

“No, sir, but let me try what I might do with a bullet.” Mrs. Corvey set the end of her cane against the root where the manacle’s chain passed over it, and pressed the triggering mechanism. With a bang the chain parted, and white flakes of root drifted down like snow. Ludbridge’s arm