Drummond stood in the empty back street before the black double doors. There wasn’t another person in sight, nor a bird perched on an eave, nor a rat, nor a single bug scurrying about. There seemed nothing living in the entire street.

Drummond pressed the bell button. There was no sound, and the huge black doors stayed closed and silent. Time stretched, but he knew to wait. After another few moments the door swung inward, and a tall shaven-headed man nodded, but said nothing. He was one of the priests of the order and was dressed in a rough cassock, made of something coarse that looked like it had been woven from long hair. Drummond grimaced, imagining what it must feel like against the man’s skin.

He followed the priest in silence; no words were necessary, as he knew where he was to go. It wouldn’t matter if he did feel the need to talk; he had tried to strike up a conversation once before, and it was if he and his questions didn’t exist. The priests were courteous, helpful, but silent as mutes, and were both the household staff and bodyguards of the Father – nothing more, nothing less.

Drummond continued weaving along dark corridors that sloped ever downward, with the only light a single candle placed here and there in damp stone alcoves. He guessed the candles were for his benefit, as the priests didn’t seem to mind the dark at all. Drummond watched the man’s back for a while – he seemed to glide in his cassock, as though he didn’t take steps but instead moved on some sort of conveyance that had no normal up-and-down motion of walking. Maybe he was on wheels. He would have laughed at the thought, expect he knew that his nervousness would have made it come out like some sort of insane cackle.

After another fifteen minutes of heading down ancient moss-covered steps, and along smooth stone pathways, Drummond estimated they were a good half-dozen floors below ground. It was warmer here, as though the heating had been cranked up to about eighty degrees. He pulled a silken handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his brow and top lip.

Eventually the priest stopped before a large archway, at another dark, sealed door. He turned and nodded to Drummond, and then stood back into a coffin-shaped alcove. Drummond knew what was expected – he was to go in alone. He swallowed, and licked dry lips. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and knocked once before pushing open the thick door.

The first thing that always assailed his senses was the smell – fishy, but not the scent of fresh-caught fish, but more the odor of something left to putrefy on a dead shoreline. There was also the heat, and the pervasive darkness broken only by the light of a double candle on the altar stone at the far end of the large room.

Drummond stood still, feeling perspiration run down his sides. There were other impenetrably dark alcoves at various places, and he knew they led on to further passageways. He had no idea how large the building was, or how far it descended into the Earth, but guessed whatever the size from the outside, its depths led down too many levels for him to calculate. Frankly, he thought, I’m as deep as I ever want to go.