Bones of Haven

Bones of Haven by Simon R. Green

Haven is an old city, but still growing, with new houses built on the bones of

the old. But some parts of Haven are older than others and have never been

properly put to rest. Down below the surface of the city, the remains of older

structures stir uneasily in their sleep and dream dark thoughts of the way

things used to be. There are new buildings all over Haven, and some of them

stand on unquiet graves…

Chapter One

Hell Wing

Rain had come to Haven with the spring, and a sharp, gusting wind blew it in off

the sea. The rain hammered down with mindless ferocity, bouncing back from the

cobbles and running down the gutters in raging torrents. Water dripped from

every surface, gushed out of drainpipes, and flew in graceful arcs from carved

gargoyle mouths on the smarter buildings. It had been raining on and off for

weeks, despite everything the city weather wizards could do, and everyone was

heartily sick of it. The rain forced itself past slates and tiles and gurgled

down chimneys, making fires sputter and smoke. Anyone venturing out into the

streets was quickly soaked, and even inside the air seemed saturated with

moisture. People gritted their teeth and learned to ignore damp clothing and the

constant drumming of rain on the roof. It was the rainy season, and the city

endured it as the city endured so many other afflictions—with stubborn defiance

and aimless, sullen anger.

And yet things were not as gloomy in the port city of Haven as they might have

been. The rain-soaked streets were decked with flags and bunting and

decorations, their bright and gaudy colors blazing determinedly through the

grayness of the day. Two Kings had come to Haven, and the city was putting on an

attractive face and enjoying itself as best it could. It would take more than a

little rain to dampen Haven's spirits when it had an excuse to celebrate. A

public holiday had been declared from most jobs, on the grounds that the eager

citizens would have taken one anyway if it hadn't been granted, and people held

street parties between the downpours and boosted the takings at all the inns and

taverns. Tarpaulins were erected in the streets wherever possible, to ward off

the rain, and beneath them could be found street fairs and conjurers and

play-actors and all manner of entertainments.

Of course, not everyone got to take the day off. The city Guard still went about

its business, enforcing the law and protecting the good citizens from

pickpockets and villains and outrages, and, most important of all, from each

other. Haven was a harsh, cruel city swarming with predators, even during a time

of supposedly universal celebration. So Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and

Captains in the city Guard, made their way through the dismal gray streets of

the Northside and wished they were somewhere else. Anywhere else. They huddled

inside their thick black cloaks, and pulled the hoods well forward to keep the

rain out of their faces.

Hawk was tall, dark, and no longer handsome. He wore a black silk patch over his

right eye, and a series of old scars ran down the right side of his face, giving

him a cold, sinister look. Huddled inside his soaking wet black cloak, he looked

like a rather bedraggled raven that had known better days. It had to be said

that even when seen at his best, he didn't look like much. He was lean and wiry

rather than muscular, and was beginning to build a stomach. He wore his dark

hair at shoulder length, swept roughly back from his forehead and tied at the

nape of his neck with a silver clasp. He'd only just entered his thirties, but

already there were streaks of gray in his hair. It would have been easy to

dismiss him as just another bravo, perhaps already past his prime, but there was

a dangerous alertness in the way he carried himself, and the cold gaze of his

single eye was disturbingly direct. He carried a short-handled axe on his right

hip, instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He'd had lots of

practice.

Isobel Fisher walked at his side, unconsciously echoing his pace and stance with

the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six foot in height,

and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at

the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her late twenties, and handsome

rather than beautiful, with a raw-boned harshness to her face that contrasted

strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Some time ago, something

had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Even wrapped in

her thick cloak against the driving rain, she moved with a determined,

aggressive grace, and her right hand never strayed far from the sword on her

hip.

People gave them plenty of room as they approached, and were careful to look

away rather than risk catching the Guards' eyes. None of them wanted to be

noticed. It wasn't healthy. Hawk and Fisher were feared and respected as two of

the toughest and most honest Guards in Haven, and everyone in the Northside had

something to hide. It was that kind of area. Hawk glared balefully about him as

he and Fisher strode along, and stamped his boots unnecessarily hard on the

water-slick cobbles. Fisher chuckled quietly.

"Cheer up, Hawk. Only another month or so of utter misery, and the rainy season

will be over. Then you can start looking forward to the utter misery of the

boiling hot summer. Always something to look forward to in Haven."

Hawk sniffed. "I hate it when you're this cheerful. It's not natural."

"Me, or the rain?"

"Both." Hawk stepped carefully over a tangled mass of bunting that had fallen

from a nearby building. "I can't believe people are still going ahead with

celebrations in this downpour."

Fisher shrugged. "Any excuse for a holiday. Besides, they can hardly postpone

it, can they? The Kings will only be here two more days. Then it'll all be over,

and we can get back to what passes for normal here in the Northside."

Hawk just grunted, not trusting himself to any more than that. His job was hard

enough without extra complications. Haven was without doubt the most corrupt and

crime-ridden city in the Low Kingdoms, and the Northside was its dark and rotten

heart. No crime was too vile or too vicious to be overlooked, and if you could

make any kind of profit out of it, you could be sure someone was doing it

somewhere. And double-crossing his partner at the same time, like as not.

Violence was commonplace, along with rape and murder and protection rackets.

Conspiracies blossomed in the shadows, talking treason in lowered voices behind

locked doors and shuttered windows. Throughout Haven, the city Guard was

stretched thin to breaking point and beyond, but somehow they managed to keep a

lid on things, most of the time. Usually by being even harsher and more violent

than the people they fought. When they weren't taking sweeteners to look the

other way, of course. All of which made it increasingly difficult for anyone to

figure out why the Parliaments of both the Low Kingdoms and Outremer had

insisted on their respective Kings coming to Haven to sign the new Peace Treaty

between the two countries.

It was true that the Peace Talks at which the Treaty had been hammered out had

taken place in Haven, but only after the Guard had protected the negotiators

from treacherous assault by mercenaries and terrorists. There were a great many

people in both countries who had vested interests in seeing the Peace Talks

fail, and they'd shown no hesitation in turning Haven into their own private

battleground. Hawk and Fisher had managed to smash the worst conspiracy and

preserve the Talks, but it had been a very close thing, and everyone knew it.

Everyone except the two Parliaments apparently. They'd set their minds on Haven,

and weren't going to be talked out of it. Probably because they simply couldn't

believe what their Advisors were telling them about the city.

Upon hearing of the singular honor being bestowed on their fair city, Haven's

city Councilors practically had a collective coronary, and then began issuing

orders in a white-hot panic. No one had ever seen them do so much so quickly.

One of the first things they did was to give the Guard strict instructions to

get all the villains off the streets as quickly as possible, and throw the lot

of them in gaol, for any or no reason. They'd worry about trials and sentences

later, if at all. For the moment, all that mattered was rounding up as many

villains as possible and keeping them safely out of the way until the Kings had

left Haven. The prison Governor came closer to apoplexy than a coronary, though

it was a near thing, and demanded hysterically where he was supposed to put all

these extra bodies in his already overcrowded prison. That, he was curtly

informed, was his problem. So the Guards had gone out into the streets all over

the city, backed up by as many men-at-arms and militia as the Council could put

together, and started picking up villains and hauling them away. In some cases

where their lawyers objected strongly, the Guards took them in as well. Word

soon got around, and those miscreants who managed to avoid the sweeps decided it

would be wisest to keep their heads down for a while, and quietly disappeared.

The crime rate plummeted, overnight.

Which is not to say the city streets suddenly became peaceful and law-abiding.

This was Haven, after all. But the usual petty crimes and everyday violence

could be more or less controlled by the Guard and kept well away from the Kings

and their retinues, which was all that mattered as far as the Council was

concerned. No one wanted to think what the city would be like after the Kings

had left and most of the villains had to be released from prison due to lack of

evidence. To be honest, few people in Haven were thinking that far ahead. In the

meantime, Hawk and Fisher patrolled their usual beat in the Northside, and were

pleasantly surprised at the change. There were stretches when no one tried to

kill anyone else for hours on end.

"What do you think about this Peace Treaty?" said Hawk idly. "Do you think it's

going to work?"

Fisher shrugged. "Maybe. As I understand it, the two sides have hammered out a

deal that both of them hate but both of them can live with, and that's the best

anyone can hope for. Now that they've agreed on a definitive boundary line for

the first time in centuries, it should put an end to the recent border clashes

at least. Too many good men were dying out there in the borderlands, defending a

shaky line on a faded old map to satisfy some politician's pride."

Hawk nodded. "I just wish they'd chosen somewhere else for their signing

ceremony. Just by being here, the Kings are a magnet for trouble. Every fanatic,

assassin, and terrorist for miles around will see this as their big chance, and

head straight for Haven with blood in their eyes and steel in their hands."

"Come on," said Fisher. "You've got to admit, the Kings' security is pretty

impressive. They've got four heavy-duty sorcerers with them, a private army of

men-at-arms, and a massive deputation of honor guards from the Brotherhood of

Steel. I could conquer a minor country with a security force that size."

Hawk sniffed, unimpressed. "No security is ever perfect; you know that. All it

needs is one fanatic with a knife and a martyr's complex in the right place at

the right time, and we could have two dead Kings on our hands. And you can bet

Haven would end up taking all the blame, not the security people. They should

never have come here, Isobel. I've got a real bad feeling about this."

"You have bad feelings about everything."

"And I'm usually right."

Isobel looked at him knowingly. "You're just miffed because they wouldn't let

any Haven Guards into their security force."

"Damn right I'm annoyed. We know the situation here; they don't. But I can't

really blame them, much as I'd like to. Everyone knows the Guard in this city is

rife with corruption, and after our last case, no one trusts anyone anymore.

After all, if even we can come under suspicion…"

"We proved our innocence, and exposed the real traitor."

"Doesn't make a blind bit of difference." Hawk scowled and shook his head

slowly. "I still can't believe how ready everyone was to accept we were guilty.

After all we've done for this city… Anyway, from now on, there'll always be

someone ready to point the finger and mutter about no smoke without fire."

"Anyone points a finger at me," said Fisher calmly, "I'll cut it off, and make

him eat it. Now, stop worrying about the Kings; they're not our responsibility."

They walked a while in silence, kicking occasionally at loose debris in the

street. The rain seemed to be letting up a bit. Every now and again someone up

on a roof would throw something down at them, but Hawk and Fisher just ignored

it. Thanks to the overhanging upper floors of the buildings, it was rare for

anything to come close enough to do any harm, and there was no point in trying

to chase after whoever was responsible. By the time the Guards could get up to

the roof, the culprits would be gone, and both sides knew it. They were in more

danger from a suddenly emptied chamber pot from an upper window. You had to

expect that kind of thing in the Northside. Even if you were the infamous Hawk

and Fisher.

Hawk scowled as he strode along, brooding over recent events. It wasn't that

long ago that most of Haven had been convinced he'd gone berserk, killing anyone

who got in the way of his own personal vendetta outside the law. It hadn't been

true, and eventually he'd proved it, but that wasn't the point. He knew he had a

reputation for violence; he'd gone to great pains to establish it. It kept the

villains and the hardcases off his back, and made the small fry too nervous to

give him any trouble. But even so, the speed with which people believed he'd

gone bad had disturbed him greatly. For the first time, he'd seen himself as

others saw him, and he didn't like what he saw.

"We never used to be this hard," he said quietly. "These days, every time I look

at someone I'm thinking about the best way to take them out before they can get

to me. Whether they're behaving aggressively or not. Whenever I talk to someone,

part of me is listening for a lie or an evasion. And more and more, I tend to

assume a suspect is bound to be guilty, unless hard evidence proves them

innocent."

"In the Northside, they usually are guilty," said Fisher.

"That's not the point! I always said I'd never laid a finger on an honest man,

or killed anyone who didn't need killing. I'm not so sure of that anymore. I'm

not infallible. I make mistakes. Only thing is, my mistakes could cost someone

their life. When we first took on this job, I really thought we could do some

good, make a difference, help protect the people who needed protection. But now,

everyone I meet gets weighed as a potential enemy, and I care more about nailing

villains than I do about protecting their victims. We've changed, Isobel. The

job has changed us. Maybe… we should think about leaving Haven. I don't like

what we've become."

Fisher looked at him anxiously. "We're only as hard as we need to be to get the

job done. This city is full of human wolves, ready to tear us apart at the first

sign of weakness. It's only our reputation for sudden death and destruction that

keeps them at bay. Remember what it was like when we first started? We had to

prove ourselves every day, fighting and killing every hardcase with a sword and

a grudge, just to earn the right to walk the streets in peace. Now they've

learned to leave us alone, we can get things done. Look, we're a reflection of

the people we're guarding. If they start acting civilized and playing by the

rule book, so will I. Until then, we just do what we have to, to get the job

done."

"But that's the point, Isobel. Why do the job? What difference does it make? For

every villain we put away, there are a dozen more we can't touch who are just

waiting to take his place. We bust our arses every day, and nothing ever

changes. Except us."

"Now, don't start that again. We have made a difference. Sure, things are bad

now, but they were much worse before we came. And they'd be worse again if we

left. You can't expect to change centuries of accumulated evil and despair in a

few short years. We do the best we can, and protect the good people every chance

we get. Anything above and beyond that is a bonus. You've got to be realistic,

Hawk."

"Yeah. Maybe." Hawk stared straight ahead of him, looking through the driving

rain without seeing it. "I've lost my way, Isobel. I don't like what I am, what

I'm doing, what I've become. This isn't what I meant to do with my life, but I

don't know what else to do. We are needed here; you're right about that. But

some days I look in the mirror and I don't recognize my face at all. I hear

people talking about things I've done and it doesn't sound like me. Not the me I

remember being, before we came here. I've lost my way. And I don't know how to

find it again."

Fisher scowled unhappily, and decided she'd better change the subject. "I know

what your problem is. You're just brooding because I've put you on another

diet."

Hawk smiled in spite of himself. "Right. I must be getting old, lass; I never

used to put on weight like this. I can't believe I've had to let my belt out

another notch. When I was younger I had so much energy I used to burn off food

as fast as I could eat it. These days, I only have to look at a dessert and my

waistline expands. I should never have admitted turning thirty. That was when

the rot set in."

"Never mind, dear," said Fisher. "When we get back home tonight I'll put out

your pipe and slippers, and you can have a nice doze in your chair by the fire

before dinner."

Hawk looked at her. "Don't push your luck, Isobel."

She laughed. "Well, it serves you right. Anyone would think you were on your

last legs and doddering towards the grave, to hear you talk. There's nothing

wrong with you that a good fight in a good cause couldn't put right. In the

meantime, no desserts, cut down on the meat, and lots of nice healthy salads.

And no more snacks in between meals, either."

"Why does everything that's good for you have to taste so damned bland?"

complained Hawk. "And I don't care if lettuce is good for me; I'm not eating it.

Flaming rabbit food…"

They continued on their way through the Northside, doing their rounds and

showing their faces. Hawk seemed in a somewhat better mood but was still

unusually quiet. Fisher decided to let him brood, and not push it. He'd had

these moods before, and always snapped out of it eventually. Together, they

checked out three burglaries, and lectured one shopkeeper on the need for bolts

as well as locks on his doors and window shutters. None of the burglaries were

anything special, just routine break-ins. Not much point in looking for clues.

Sooner or later they'd catch someone in the act, and he'd confess to a whole

bunch of others crimes and that would be that. After the burglaries, they got

involved in a series of assaults, sorting out tavern brawls, muggings, and

finally a domestic dispute. Hawk hated being dragged into domestic quarrels. You

couldn't win. Whatever you did was bound to be wrong.

They approached the location of the domestic dispute cautiously, but at least

this time there was no flying crockery to dodge. Or flying knives. The address

was a poky little apartment in the middle of a row of shabby tenements.

Neighbors watched silently as the two Guards entered the building. Hawk took the

lead and kept a careful eye on the house's occupants as they made way before

him. Guards were the common enemy of all Northsiders; they represented and

enforced all the laws and authority that kept the poor in their place. As a

result, Guards were targets for anyone with a grudge or a mad on, and one of the

nastier surprise attacks these days was the Haven mud pie—a mixture of lye and

grease. Thrown at close range, the effect could be devastating. The lye burned

through clothing as though it wasn't there, and if it hit bare skin it could eat

its way right down to the bone. The grease made the lye stick like glue. Even a

small mud pie could put a Guard in hospital for weeks, if his partner didn't get

him to a doctor fast enough. And doctors tended to be few and far between in the

Northside. The last man to aim a mud pie at Hawk had got both his arms broken,

but there were any number of borderline crazies in the Northside, just waiting

to be pushed over the edge by one frustration too many. So Hawk and Fisher

stayed close together and kept a wary eye on shadowed corners and doors left

just a little too far ajar.

They made their way through the hall and up the narrow stairs without incident.

Mothers and small children watched in stony silence, while from above came the

sound of domestic unrest. A man and a woman were shouting and screeching at the

tops of their voices, but Hawk and Fisher didn't let themselves be hurried. As

long as the couple were still shouting they weren't searching for blunt

instruments or something with a sharp edge. It was when things went suddenly

quiet that you had to worry. Hawk and Fisher reached the landing and strode down

the hall, stepping over small children playing unconcernedly on the floor. They

found the door with the right number, the sounds from within made it pretty hard

to miss. Hawk hammered on the door with his fist, and an angry male voice broke

off from its tirade just long enough to tell him to go to hell. Hawk tried

again, and got a torrent of abuse for his trouble. He shrugged, drew his axe,

and kicked the door in.

A man and a woman looked round in surprise as Hawk and Fisher stood in the

doorway taking in the scene. The woman was less than average height, and more

than a little undernourished, with a badly bruised face and a bloody nose. She

was trying to stop the flowing blood with a grubby handkerchief, and not being

very successful. The man was easily twice her size, with muscles on his muscles,

and he was brandishing a fist the size of a mallet. His face was dark with rage,

and he glared sullenly at Hawk and Fisher as he took in their Guards' cloaks.

"What are you doing here? You've no business in this house, so get out. And if

you've damaged my door I'll see you pay for the repairs!"

Hawk smiled coldly. "If you've damaged that woman, you'll pay for it. Now, stand

back from her and put down that fist, and we'll all have a nice little chat."

"This is family business," said the man quickly, before the woman could say

anything. He lowered his fist, but stood his ground defiantly.

Fisher moved forward to speak to the woman, and the man fell back a step in

spite of himself. She ignored him, and spoke softly to the woman. "Does this

kind of thing happen often?"

"Often enough," said the woman indistinctly, behind her handkerchief.

Fisher frowned. "Just say the word, and we'll drag him off to gaol. You don't

have to put up with this. Are you married to him?"

The woman shrugged. "More or less. He's not so bad, most of the time, but he

can't keep a job because of his temper. He just lost another one today."

"So he comes home and takes it out on you." Fisher nodded understandingly.

"That's enough!" snapped the man suddenly, stung at being talked about as though

he wasn't there. "She's got nothing more to say to you, Guard, if she knows

what's good for her. And you two can get out now, or I'll throw you out."

Hawk stirred, and looked at him with interest. "You and what army?"

"I really think you should swear out a complaint against him," said Fisher.

"Next time he might not just break your nose. A few mights in gaol might calm

him down a bit, and if nothing else, it should make him think twice about

hitting you again."

The woman nodded slowly. "You're right. I'll swear out a complaint."

"You lousy bitch!" The man lurched forward, raising his huge hands menacingly.

Fisher turned and smacked him solidly between the eyes with her fist. The man

fell back a step and then sat down abruptly, blinking dazedly. Fisher looked at

Hawk.

"We'd better get him downstairs. You take one arm and I'll take the other."

"Right," said Hawk. "There's some railings outside we can chain him to until we

can find a Constable to take him back to Headquarters for charging."

They got him to his feet easily enough and were heading for the door when Hawk,

hearing a muffled cry behind them, looked back just in time to see the woman

heading straight for him with a knife in her hand. Hawk dropped the man and

stepped quickly to one side, but the woman kept coming at him, her eyes wild and

desperate. Fisher stuck out a leg and tripped her. The woman fell heavily and

lost her grip on the knife. Hawk stepped forward and kicked it out of reach. The

woman burst into tears. Hawk looked at Fisher.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"She loves him," said Fisher, shaking her head sadly. "She might not like the

treatment, but she loves him just the same. And when she saw us hauling him off

to gaol, she forgot how angry she was and decided we were the villains of the

piece, for threatening her man… Now we have to take them both in. Can't let

anyone get away with attacking a Guard, or we'll never have any peace."

Hawk nodded reluctantly, and they set about manhandling the man and the woman

down the stairs and out into the street.

They found a Constable, eventually, and let him take over, then set off on their

beat again. The rain continued to show signs of letting up without ever actually

doing anything about it. The day wore slowly on, fairly quiet by Northside

standards. Hawk and Fisher broke up half a dozen fights, ran off a somewhat

insecure flasher, and helped talk a leaper out of jumping from a second-story

building. The city didn't really care if a leaper killed himself or not, but

there was always the chance he might land on someone important, so official

policy in such cases was to clear the street below and then just let the

would-be suicide get on with it. As in many other things, Hawk and Fisher

ignored official policy and took the time to talk quietly and encouragingly to

the man, until he agreed to go down the normal way, via the stairs. The odds

were that by tomorrow he'd be back up on the roof again, but at least they'd

bought him some time to think it over. Working in the Northside, you learned to

be content with little victories.

"You know," said Hawk as he and Fisher walked away, "sometimes, when I'm up on a

roof with a leaper, I have an almost overwhelming urge to sneak up behind him

and shout Boo! in his ear. Just to see what would happen."

"You're weird, Hawk," said Fisher, and he nodded solemnly. At which point a rush

of gentle flute music poured through their minds, followed by the dry, acid

voice of the Guard communications sorcerer.

All Guards in the Northern sector, report immediately to Damnation Row, where

there is a major riot in progress. This order supersedes all other instructions.

Do not discuss the situation with anyone else until you have reported to the

prison Governor. That is all.

Hawk scowled grimly as he and Fisher turned around and headed back down the

street shoulders hunched against the renewed heavy rain. Damnation Row was

Haven's oldest and largest prison, as well as the most secure. A great squat

monstrosity of basalt stone, surrounded on all sides by high walls and potent

sorceries, it was infamous throughout the Low Kingdoms as the one prison no one

ever escaped from. Riots were almost unknown, never mind a major riot. No wonder

they'd been instructed not to talk about it. The prison's reputation was part of

its protection. Besides, if word did get out, the streets would be thronged with

people heading for the prison to try and help the inmates break out. Most people

in Haven knew someone in Damnation Row.

The prison itself stood jammed up against the city wall on the far boundary of

the Northside, and Hawk and Fisher could see its outline through the driving

rain long before they got to its gatehouse. The exterior walls were huge, dark,

and largely featureless, and seemed especially grim and forbidding through the

downpour. Hawk hauled on the steel bell pull at the main gate, and waited

impatiently with Fisher for someone to answer. He'd never been inside Damnation

Row before and was curious to see if it was as bad as everyone said. Conditions

inside were supposed to be deliberately appalling. Haven had nothing but

contempt for anyone dumb enough or unsuccessful enough to get caught, and the

idea was that a stay in Damnation Row would scare the offender so much he'd do

anything rather than be sent back—including going straight. The prison's

excellent security record also made it a useful dumping ground for dangerous

lunatics, untrustworthy magic-users, and political and religious embarrassments.

The city firmly believed in taking revenge on its enemies. All of them.

Hawk yanked on the bell pull again, hammered on the door with his fist, and

kicked it a few times for good measure. All he got out of it was a stubbed toe

and an unsympathetic glance from Fisher. Finally a sliding panel in the door

jerked open and a grim-faced prison guard studied their Guards' uniforms for a

long moment before slamming the panel shut and opening the judas gate in the

main door to let them in. Hawk and Fisher identified themselves, and weren't

even given time to dump their dripping wet cloaks before being hustled through

the outer precincts of the prison to the Governor's office. Everywhere they

looked there was bedlam, with prison guards running this way and that, shouting

orders no one listened to and getting in each other's way. Off in the distance

they could hear a dull roar of raised voices and the hammering of hard objects

on iron bars.

The Governor's office was comfortably furnished, but clearly a place of work

rather than relaxation. The walls were bare save for a number of past and

present Wanted posters, and two framed testimonials. The plain, almost austere

desk was buried under paperwork, split more or less equally into two piles

marked "Pending" and "Urgent." The Governor, Phillipe Dexter, stood up from

behind his desk to shake hands briefly with Hawk and Fisher, gestured for them

to take a seat, and then returned to his own chair quickly, as though only sheer

willpower had kept him on his feet that long. He was an average-looking man in

his late forties, dressed fashionably but conservatively, and had a bland,

politician's face. At the moment he looked tired and drawn, and his hand had

trembled slightly with fatigue when Hawk shook it. The two Guards took off their

cloaks and draped them over the coat rack before sitting down. The Governor

watched the cloaks dripping heavily on his carpet, and closed his eyes for a

moment, as though that was definitely the last straw.

"How long has this riot been going on?" asked Hawk, to get the ball rolling.

"Almost four hours now." The Governor scowled unhappily, but his voice was calm

and measured. "We thought we could contain it at first, but we just didn't have

the manpower. This prison has always suffered from overcrowding, with two or

even three inmates locked up in a cell originally meant for one. Mainly because

Haven has almost doubled in size since this prison was built. But we coped,

because we had to. There was nowhere else to put the prisoners; all the other

gaols in Haven are just holding pens and debtors' prisons, and they face the

same problem as us. But, thanks to the Council's ill-advised purge of the

streets/we've had prisoners arriving here in the hundreds over the last week or

so, and my staff just couldn't cope with the resulting crush. We had four,

sometimes five, to a cell in some places, and not even enough warning to allow

for extra food and blankets. Something had to give.

"The prisoners decided this morning that they couldn't be treated any worse than

they already were, and attacked the prison staff during breakfast and

slopping-out. The violence soon spread, and we didn't have enough manpower to

put it down. Essentially, we've lost half the prison. Barricades and booby traps

have been set up by the inmates in all the approaches to two of the main Wings,

and they've been throwing everything they can get their hands on at us to make

us keep our distance. They've started several fires, but so far the prison's

security spells have been able to stamp them out before they could get out of

control. So far, no one's actually escaped. Our perimeter is still secure.

"We've tried to negotiate with the inmates, but none of them have shown any

interest in talking. Pretty soon the Council is going to order me to take the

occupied Wings back by force, before the Kings get to hear about the riot and

start getting worried. But that, believe it or not, isn't the main problem.

Adjoining the two occupied Wings is Hell Wing, where we keep our supernatural

prisoners. Creatures of power and magic, locked away here while awaiting trial.

Hell Wing is in its own pocket dimension, surrounded by powerful wards, so it

should still be secure. But there are reported to be several magic-users among

the rioters, and if they find a way into Hell Wing and set those creatures

loose, a whole army of Guards wouldn't be enough to control them."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then back at the Governor. "If it's as

serious as all that," said Hawk, "why are you wasting time talking to us? You

need somebody with real power, like the God Squad, or the SWAT team."

The Governor nodded quickly. "The God Squad have been alerted, but at present

they're busy coping with an emergency on the Street of Gods. I've sent for the

Special Wizardry and Tactics team; they're on their way. When they get here, I

want you two to work with them. You've both worked with the God Squad in the

past, you have experience coping with supernatural creatures, and you have a

reputation for salvaging impossible situations. And right now, I'm so desperate

I'll grab at any straw."

There was a brief knocking at the door, and it swung open before the Governor

could even ask who it was. A woman and three men filed into the office and

slammed the door shut behind them. The woman fixed the Governor with a harsh

gaze.

"You sent for the SWAT team. We're here. Don't worry, we've been briefed." She

looked at Hawk and Fisher. "What are they doing here?"

"They'll be working with you on this," said the Governor firmly, trying to

regain control of the situation. "The God Squad's been delayed. These two

officers are…"

"I know who they are." The woman nodded briskly to Hawk and Fisher. "I'm Jessica

Winter, team leader and tactician. My associates are Stuart Barber,

weaponmaster; John MacReady, negotiator; and Storm, sorcerer. That takes care of

introductions; anything more can wait till later; we're on a tight schedule and

time's running out. Let's go. Sit tight. Governor; you'll have your prison back

in a few hours. Oh, and if any more Guards arrive, keep them out of our way."

She smiled briefly, and hustled her people out of the office before the Governor

could work up a reply. Hawk and Fisher nodded to him and hurried out after the

SWAT team. Jessica Winter led the way down the corridor with casual confidence,

and Hawk took the opportunity to surreptitiously study his new partners. He knew

them all by reputation but had never worked with any of them before.

Winter was a short, stocky woman with a determined, friendly manner that

reminded Hawk irresistibly of an amiable bulldog. She was in her early thirties

and looked it, and clearly didn't give a damn. She'd been through two husbands

that Hawk knew of, and was currently pursuing her third. She moved and spoke

with a brisk, no-nonsense efficiency, and by all accounts could be charming or

overwhelming as the mood took her. She was dressed in a simple shirt and

trousers, topped with a chain-mail vest that had been polished within an inch of

its life, and wore a sword on her hip in a plain, regulation issue scabbard.

She'd been with the SWAT team for seven years, two of them as leader and

tactician. She had a good if somewhat spotty record, and preferred to dismiss

her failures as learning experiences. Given that her team usually wasn't called

in until things had got totally out of hand, Winter had built up a good

reputation for finding solutions to problems at the last possible moment. She

also had a reputation for convoluted and devious strategies, which Hawk felt

might come in very handy just at the moment. He had a strong feeling there was a

lot more to this situation than met the eye.

He glanced across at Stuart Barber, the weaponmaster, and felt a little

reassured. Even walking down an empty corridor in the midst of friends and

allies, Barber exuded an air of danger and menace. He was a tall,

powerfully-built man in his mid-twenties, with arms so tightly muscled the veins

bulged fiercely even when his arms were apparently relaxed. He had a broad,

brutal-looking sword on his hip, in a battered leather scabbard, and wore a long

chain-mail vest that had been repaired many times, not always neatly. He had a

long, angular head, with pale, pinched features accentuated by dark hair cropped

short in a military cut. He had a constant slight scowl that made him look more

thoughtful than bad-tempered.

John MacReady, the negotiator, looked like everyone's favorite uncle. It was his

job to talk people out of things before Winter let Barber loose on them.

MacReady was average height and well-padded, in a friendly, non-threatening way.

He smiled a lot, and had the charming gift of convincing people he was giving

them his entire attention while they were talking. He was in his mid-forties,

going bald, and trying to hide it with a somewhat desperate hairstyle. He had an

easy, companiable way about him that made him hard to distrust, but Hawk decided

to try anyway. He didn't put much faith in people who smiled too much. It wasn't

natural.

The sorcerer called Storm was a large, awkward-looking man in his late twenties.

He was easily six foot six inches, and his broad frame made him look even

taller. His robe of sorcerer's black looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in

months, and the state of his long black hair and beard suggested they'd never

even been threatened with a comb. He scowled fiercely at nothing and everything,

and just grunted whenever Winter addressed him. His hands curled and uncurled

into fists at his side, and he strode along with his beard jutting out before

him, as though just waiting for some fool to pick a quarrel with him. All in

all, he looked rather like some mystical hermit who'd spent years in a cave

meditating on the nature of man and the universe, and came up with some very

unsatisfactory answers. The sorcerer looked round suddenly, and caught Hawk's

eye.

"What are you staring at?"

"I was just wondering about your name," said Hawk easily.

"My name? What about it?"

"Well, Storm's not exactly a usual name for a sorcerer. A weather wizard, maybe,

but…"

"It suits me," said the sorcerer flatly. "Want to make something of it?"

Hawk thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. "Not right now. I

was just curious."

Storm sniffed dismissively, and looked away. Jessica Winter fell back a few

steps to walk alongside Hawk. She smiled at him briefly. "Don't mind Storm," she

said briskly, not bothering to lower her voice. "He's a gloomy bugger, but he

knows his job."

"Just what kind of a setup are we walking into?" asked Fisher, moving up on

Hawk's other side. "As I understand it, you've had a full briefing. We just got

the edited highlights."

Winter nodded quickly. "Not surprisingly, the situation isn't as simple and

straightforward as it appears. The riot broke out far too suddenly and too

efficiently for it to have been entirely spontaneous. Somebody had to be behind

it, pulling the strings and pointing people in the right direction. But the

Governor's attempts to negotiate got nowhere, because the rioters couldn't agree

on a leader to represent them. Which suggests that whoever is behind the riot is

keeping his head down. Which in turn suggests that person had his own reasons

for starting it."

"Like breaking someone out, under cover of the chaos?" said Fisher.

"Got it in one," said Winter. "But so far no one's got out over the walls or

through the gates; the prison guards have seen to that. The Governor's

insistence on regular panic drills seems to have paid off. The real problem lies

with Hell Wing, which is where we come in. If someone's managed to get in there

and bust any of those creatures loose, we could be in real trouble. You could

break out any number of people in the chaos that would cause. And if that

someone's let them all loose… we might as well evacuate the entire city."

"That bad?" said Hawk.

"Worse."

Hawk thought about it. "Might this be a good time to suggest a strategic

retreat, so we can wait for the God Squad to back us up?"

Storm sniffed loudly. "The word retreat isn't in our vocabulary."

"It's in mine," said Hawk.

"Just how well-confined are these supernatural prisoners?" asked Fisher

hurriedly.

"Very," said Winter. "Hell Wing is a separate pocket dimension linked to

Damnation Row by a single doorway, protected by armed guards and a number of

powerful magical wards. Each inmate is confined separately behind bars of cold

iron, backed up by an individually tailored geas, a magical compulsion that

prevents them from escaping. There's never been an escape from Hell Wing. The

system's supposed to be foolproof."

"Unless it's been sabotaged from inside," said Hawk.

"Exactly."

Fisher frowned. "All of this suggests the riot was planned well in advance. But

the prison didn't become dangerously overcrowded until just recently."

"It was a fairly predictable situation," said Winter. "Once it was known the

Kings were coming here. Especially if our mysterious planners knew of that in

advance."

From up ahead came the sound of ragged cheering, interspersed with occasional

screams and catcalls.

"We'll have to take it carefully from here on in," said MacReady quietly. "We're

getting close to the occupied wings. We have to pass right by them to get to

Hell Wing. The Governor's going to try and distract them with new attempts at

negotiating, but there's no telling how long that will last. It's bedlam in

there."

A scream rose suddenly in the distance, drowned out quickly by stamping feet and

baying voices. Fisher shivered despite herself.

"What the hell are they doing?"

"They'll have got to the sex offenders by now," said MacReady. "There's a social

status among criminals, even in Damnation Row, and sex offenders and child

molesters are right at the bottom of the list. The other prisoners loathe and

despise them. They call them beasts, and assault them every chance they get.

Mostly they're held in solitary confinement, for their own protection. But right

now the prisoners are holding mock trials and killing the rapists and child

abusers, one by one.

"Of course, when they've finished with that, there are various political and

religious factions, all eager to settle old grudges. When the dust's settled

from that, and the prisoners have demolished as much of the prison building as

they can, they'll turn on the seventeen prison staff they were able to get their

hands on, and try and use them as a lever for an escape. When that doesn't work,

they'll kill them too."

"We can't let that happen," said Fisher. "We have to put a stop to this."

"We will," said Winter. "Once we've made sure Hell Wing is secure. I know,

Fisher, you want to rush in there and rescue them, but we can't. Part of this

job, perhaps the hardest part, is learning to turn your back on one evil so you

can concentrate on a greater one."

It was ominously quiet in the distance. Hawk scowled. "Should have put a geas on

the lot of them. Then there wouldn't have been all this trouble in the first

place."

"It's been suggested many times," said Winter, "but it would cost like hell, and

the Council won't go for it. Cells and bars come a lot cheaper than magic."

"Hold it," said Storm suddenly, his voice so sharp and commanding that everyone

stopped dead where they were. The sorcerer stared silently at the empty corridor

ahead of them, his scowl gradually deepening. "We're almost there."

he said finally, his voice now low and thoughtful. "The next bend leads into

Sorcerers' Row, where the magic-users are confined. They're held in separate

cells, backed up by an individual geas. After that, there's nothing between us

and Hell Wing."

"Why have we stopped?" said Winter quietly. "What's wrong, Storm?"

"I don't know. My inner Sight's not much use here. Too many security spells. But

I ought to be picking up some trace of the magic-users on Sorcerers' Row, and

I'm not getting anything. Just traces of stray magic, scattered all over the

place, as though something very powerful happened here not long ago. I don't

like the feel of it, Jessica."

"Draw your weapons," said Winter, glancing back at the others, and there was a

quick rasp of steel on leather as the team's swords left their scabbards. Hawk

hefted his axe thoughtfully, and then frowned as he realized MacReady was

unarmed.

"Where's your sword?" he said quietly.

"I don't need one," said the negotiator calmly. "I lead a charmed life."

Hawk decided he wasn't going to ask, if only because MacReady was obviously

waiting for him to do so. He nodded calmly to the negotiator, and moved forward

to join Winter and Storm.

"I don't like standing around here, Winter. It makes us too good a target. If

there's a problem with Sorcerers' Row, let's check it out."

Winter looked at him coolly. "I lead the team, Captain Hawk, and that means I

make the decisions. We're going to take this slow and easy, one step at a time.

I don't believe in rushing into things."

Hawk shrugged. "You're in charge, Winter. What's the plan?"

Winter frowned. "It's possible the rioters could have broken the magic-users out

of their cells, but not very likely; the geas should still hold them. Captain

Hawk, you and your partner check out the situation. Barber, back them up.

Everyone else stays put. And Hawk, no heroics, please. Just take a quick look

around, and then come back and tell me what you saw. Got it?"

"Got it," said Hawk.

He moved slowly forward, axe held at the ready before him. Fisher moved silently

at his side, and Barber brought up the rear. Hawk would rather not have had him

there, on the grounds that he didn't want to be worrying about what Barber was

doing when he should be concentrating on getting the job done, but he couldn't

say no. He didn't want to upset Winter this early in their professional

relationship. Or Barber, for that matter. He looked like he knew how to use that

sword. Hawk sighed inaudibly and concentrated on the darkening corridor ahead.

Some of the lamps had gone out, and Hawk's gaze darted from shadow to shadow as

he approached the bend in the corridor. The continuing silence seemed to grow

thicker and more menacing, and Hawk had a growing conviction that someone, or

something, was waiting for him just out of sight round the corner.

He eased to a halt, his shoulder pressed against the wall just before the bend,

then glanced back at Fisher and Barber. He gestured for them to stay put, took a

firm grip on his axe, and then jumped forward to stare down the side corridor

into Sorcerers' Row. It stretched away before him, all gloom and shadow, lit

only by half a dozen wall lamps at irregular intervals. The place was deserted,

but all the cell doors had been torn out of their frames and lay scattered

across the floor. The open cells were dark and silent, and reminded Hawk

unpleasantly of the gap left after a tooth has been pulled. He stayed where he

was, and gestured for Fisher and Barber to join him. They did so quickly, and

Fisher whistled softly.

"We got here too late, Hawk. Whatever happened here is over."

"We don't know that yet," said Hawk. "We've still got to check the cells.

Fisher, watch my back. Barber, stay put and watch the corridor. Both ends. And

let's all be very careful. I don't like the feel of this."

"Blood has been spilled here," said Barber quietly. "A lot of it. Some of it's

still pretty fresh."

"I don't see any blood," said Fisher.

"I can smell it," said Barber.

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other briefly, and then moved cautiously towards

the first cell. Fisher took one of the lamps from its niche in the wall and held

it up to give Hawk more light. He grunted acknowledgment, and glanced down at

the solid steel door lying warped and twisted on the floor before him. At first

he thought it must have been buckled by some form of intense heat, but there was

no trace of any melting or scorching on the metal. The door was a good two

inches thick. Hawk didn't want to think about the kind of strength that could

warp that thickness of steel.

There were a few small splashes of blood in the cell doorway, dry and almost

black. Hawk eased forward a step at a time, ready for any attack, and then swore

softly as the light from Fisher's lamp filled the cell. The cell's occupant had

been nailed to the far wall with a dozen daggers and left to bleed to death.

Given the amount of blood soaking the floor below him, he'd taken a long time to

die.

Hawk moved quickly from cell to cell, with Fisher close behind him. Every cell

held a dead man. They'd all been killed in different ways, and none of them had

died easily. They all wore sorcerer's black, but their magic hadn't protected

them. Hawk sent Barber back to fetch the rest of the team while he and Fisher

dutifully searched the bodies for any sign of life. It didn't take long. Winter

walked slowly down Sorcerers' Row, frowning, with MacReady at her side. Storm

darted from cell to cell, muttering under his breath. Barber sheathed his sword

and leaned against the corridor wall with his arms folded. He looked completely

relaxed, but Hawk noted that he was still keeping a careful watch on both ends

of the corridor. Storm finally finished his inspection and stalked back to

report to Winter. Hawk and Fisher joined them.

"What happened here?" said Hawk. "I thought they were supposed to be

magic-users. Why didn't they defend themselves?"

"Their geas wouldn't let them," said Storm, bitterly. "They were helpless in

their cells when the killers came."

"Why kill them at all?" said Fisher. "Why should the rioters hate magic-users

enough to do something like this to them?"

"There was no hate in this," said Storm. "This was cold and calculated, every

bloody bit of it. It's a mass sacrifice, a ritual designed to increase magical

power. If one sorcerer sacrifices another, he can add the dead man's magic to

his own. And if a sorcerer were to sacrifice all these magic-users, one after

another… he'd have more than enough magic to smash through into Hell Wing, and

make a new doorway."

"Wait a minute," said Hawk. "All the sorcerers in this prison were held here, on

Sorcerers' Row, and none of them are missing. There's a dead body in every

cell."

"Someone must have smuggled a sorcerer in, disguised as a prisoner," said

Winter. "Probably bribed a guard to look the other way. This riot was carefully

planned, people, right down to the last detail."

Fisher frowned. "So someone could have already entered Hell Wing and let the

creatures out?"

"I don't know," said Storm. "Maybe. I can tell there's a new dimensional doorway

close at hand, now I know what I'm looking for, but I can't tell if anyone's

been through it recently."

"Great," said Fisher. "Just what this case needed, more complications." She

looked at Winter. "All right, leader, what are we going to do?"

"Go into Hell Wing, and see what's happened," said Winter evenly. "Our orders

were to do whatever is necessary to prevent the inmates of Hell Wing from

breaking out. Nothing has happened to change that."

"Except we now face a rogue sorcerer and an unknown number of rioters as well as

whatever's locked up in there," said Hawk. "I didn't like the odds when we

started, and I like them even less now. I can't do suicide missions."

"Right," said Fisher.

Winter looked at them both steadily. "As long as you're a part of the SWAT team,

you'll do whatever I require you to do. If that isn't acceptable, you can leave

any time."

Hawk smiled coldly. "We'll stay. For now."

"That isn't good enough, Captain."

"It's all you're going to get."

Fisher pushed in between Hawk and Winter, and glared at them both impartially.

"If you two have quite finished flexing your muscles at each other, may I remind

you we've still got a job to do? You can butt heads later, on your own time."

Winter nodded stiffly. "Your partner is right, Captain Hawk; we can continue

this later. I take it I can rely on your cooperation for the remainder of this

mission?"

"Sure," said Hawk. "I can be professional when I have to be."

"Good." Winter took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. "The

situation isn't necessarily as bad as it sounds. I think we have to assume some

of the rioters have entered Hell Wing, presumably to release the inmates in the

hope that they'd add to the general chaos. But if the fools have managed to

break any of the geases and some of the creatures are loose, I think we can also

safely assume that those rioters are now dead. Which means we're free to

concentrate on recapturing those creatures that have broken loose."

"Just how powerful are these… creatures?" asked Fisher.

"Very," said Storm shortly. "Personally, I think we should just seal off the

entire Wing, and forget how to find it."

"Those are not our orders," said Winter. "They have a right to a fair trial."

Storm sniffed. "That's not why our Lords and masters want these things kept

alive. Creatures of Power like these could prove very useful as weapons, just in

case the Peace Treaty doesn't work out after all…"

"That's none of our business, Storm!"

"Wait a minute," said Hawk. "Are you saying we're supposed to take these things

alive?"

"If at all possible, yes," said Winter. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"This case gets better by the minute," growled Hawk. "Look, before we go any

further, I want a full briefing on these Creatures of Power. What exactly are we

going to be facing in Hell Wing?"

"To start with, there's the Pale Men," said Winter steadily. "They're not real,

but that just makes them more dangerous. They can take on the aspect of people

you used to be but no longer are. The longer they hold the contact, the more

real they become, while you fade into a ghost, a fancy, a might-have-been.

Sorcerers create Pale Men from old love letters, blood spilled in anger, an

engagement ring from a marriage that failed, or a baby's shoes bought for a

child that was never born. Any unfinished emotion that can still be tapped. Be

wary of them. They're very good at finding chinks in your emotional amour that

you never knew you had."

"How many of them are there?" said Fisher.

"We don't know. It tends to vary. We don't know why. Then there's Johnny Nobody.

We think he used to be human, perhaps a sorcerer who lost a duel. Now he's just

a human shape, consisting of guts and muscle and blood held together by surface

tension. He has no skin and no bones, but he still stands upright. He screams a

lot, but he never speaks. When we caught him, he was killing people for their

skin and bones. Apparently he can use them to replace what he lost, for a time,

but his body keeps rejecting them, so he has to keep searching for more."

"I'm surprised he hasn't killed himself," said Fisher.

"He's tried, several times," said Winter. "His curse won't let him die. Now, if

I may continue… Messerschmann's Portrait is a magical booby trap left behind by

the sorcerer Void when he had to leave Haven in a hurry earlier this year,

pursued by half the sorcerers in Magus Court. We still don't know what he did to

upset them, but it must have been pretty extreme. They're a hard-boiled bunch in

Magus Court. Anyway, the Portrait was brought here for safekeeping, and it's

been in Hell Wing ever since. The creature in the Portrait may have been human

once, but it sure as hell isn't now. According to the experts who examined the

Portrait, the creature is actually alive, trapped in the Portrait by some

powerful magic they don't fully understand. And it wants out. Apparently, if it

locks eyes with you long enough, it can walk out into the world, and you would

be trapped in the Portrait, in its place. So don't get careless around it."

"You should be safe enough, Hawk," said Fisher. "It'd have a hard job locking

eyes with you."

Hawk winked his single eye. Winter coughed loudly to get their attention.

"Crawling Jenny is something of an enigma. It's a living mixture of moss, fungi,

and cobwebs, with staring eyes and snapping mouths. It was only five or six feet

in diameter when it was first removed from the Street of Gods because it was

menacing the tourists. Now it fills most of its cell. If some fool's let

Crawling Jenny loose and it's been feeding all this time, there's no telling how

big it might be by now.

"The Brimstone Boys are human constructs, neither living nor dead. They smell of

dust and sulphur, and their eyes bleed. Their presence distorts reality, and

they bring entropy wherever they go. There are only two of them, thank all the

Gods, but watch yourselves; they're dangerous. We lost five Constables and two

sorcerers taking them. I don't want to add to that number.

"And finally, we come to Who Knows. We don't know what that is. It's big, very

nasty, and completely invisible. And judging by the state of its victims'

bodies, it's got a hell of a lot of teeth. They caught it with nets, pushed it

into its cell on the end of several long poles, and nobody's gone near it since.

It hasn't been fed for over a month, but it's still alive—as far as anyone can

tell."

"I've just had a great idea," said Fisher, when Winter finally paused for

breath. "Let's turn around, go back, and swear blind we couldn't find Hell

Wing."

"I'll go along with that," said Barber.

Winter's mouth twitched. "It's tempting, I'll admit, but no. We're SWAT, and we

can handle anything. It says so in our contract. Listen up, people. This is how

we're going to do it. Storm, you open up the gateway and then stand back.

Barber, Hawk, and Fisher—you'll go through first. If you see something and it

moves, hit it. Hard. Storm will be right behind you, to provide whatever magical

support you need. I'll bring up the rear. Mac, you stay back here and guard the

entrance. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us from behind."

"You never let me in on the exciting stuff," said MacReady.

"Yes," said Winter. "And aren't you grateful?"

"Very."

Winter smiled, and turned back to the others. "Take your places, people. Storm,

open the gateway."

The sorcerer walked a few steps down the corridor and began muttering to himself

under his breath. Barber stepped forward to take the point, and Hawk and Fisher

moved in on either side of him. Barber glanced at them briefly, and frowned.

"Don't you people believe in amour? This isn't some bar brawl we're walking

into."

"Amour just slows you down," said Hawk. "The Guard experiments with it from time

to time, but it's never caught on. With the kind of work we do, it's more

important for us to be able to move freely and react quickly. You can't chase a

pickpocket down a crowded street while wearing chain mail. Our cloaks have steel

mesh built into them, but that's it."

"And you don't even wear that, most of the time, unless I nag you," said Fisher.

Hawk shrugged. "Don't like cloaks. They get in the way while I'm fighting."

"I've always believed in amour," said Barber, swinging his sword loosely before

him. He seemed perfectly relaxed, but his gaze never left Storm. "It doesn't

matter how good you are with a blade, there's always someone better, or luckier,

and that's when a good set of chain mail comes into its own."

He broke off as the sorcerer's voice rose suddenly, and then cut off sharply.

The floor lurched and dropped away beneath their feet for a heart-stopping

moment before becoming firm again. A huge metal door hung unsupported on the air

right in front of them, floating two or three inches off the ground. An

eight-foot-tall slab of roughly beaten steel, it gleamed dully in the lamplight,

and then, as they watched, it swung slowly open to reveal a featureless,

impenetrable darkness. A cold breeze blew steadily from the doorway, carrying

vague, blurred sounds from off in the distance. Hawk thought he heard something

that might have been screaming, or laughter, but it was gone too quickly for him

to identify it.

"Move it," said Storm tightly. "I don't know how long I can keep the gateway

open. There's so much stray magic around, it's distorting my spells."

"You heard the man," said Winter. "Go go go!"

Barber stepped through the doorway, and the darkness swallowed him up. Hawk and

Fisher followed him in, blades at the ready. The darkness quickly gave way to a

vague, sourceless silver glow. Barber, Hawk, and Fisher moved immediately to

take up a defensive pattern, looking quickly about them for possible threats.

They were standing in a narrow corridor that seemed to stretch away forever. The

walls and the low ceiling were both covered with a thick mass of dirty grey

cobwebs. The floor was a pale, pockmarked stone, splashed here and there with

dark spots of dried blood. There was a brief disturbance in the air behind them

as first Storm and then Winter appeared out of nowhere to join them.

"All clear here, Jessica," said Barber quietly. "No sign of anyone, or

anything."

"If this is Hell Wing, I don't think much of it," said Fisher. "Don't they ever

clean up in here?"

"I'm not sure where or what this is," said Storm. "It doesn't feel like Hell

Wing. The air is charged with magic, but there's no trace of the standard

security spells that ought to be here. Everything… feels wrong."

"Are you saying you've brought us to the wrong place?" asked Hawk dangerously.

"Of course not!" snapped the sorcerer. "This is where Hell Wing used to be. This

is what has… replaced Hell Wing. I think we have to assume the creatures have

broken loose. All of them."

Barber cursed softly, and hefted his sword. "I don't like this, Jessica. They

must have known somebody would be coming. Odds are this place is one big trap,

set and primed just for us."

"Could be," said Winter. "But let's not panic just yet, all right? Nothing's

actually threatened us so far. Storm, where does this corridor lead?"

Storm shook his head angrily. "I can't tell. My Sight's all but useless here.

But there's something up ahead; I can feel it. I think it's watching us."

"Then let's go find it," said Winter briskly. "Barber, you have the point. Let's

take this one step at a time, people. And remember, we're not just looking for

the creatures. The rioters who opened the gateway have got to be here somewhere.

And, people, when we find them, I don't want any heroics. If any of the rioters

wants to surrender, that's fine, but no one's to take any chances with them. All

right; move out. Let's get the job done."

They moved off down the corridor, and the darkness retreated before them so that

they moved always in the same sourceless silver glow. The thick matted cobwebs

that furred the walls and ceiling hung down here and there in grimy streamers

that swayed gently on the air, stirred by an unfelt breeze. Noises came and went

in the distance, lingering just long enough to chill the blood and disturb the

mind. Hawk held his axe before him, his hands clutching the haft so tightly that

his knuckles showed white. His instincts were screaming at him to get out while

he still could, but he couldn't just turn tail and run. Not in front of Winter.

Besides, she was right; even if this place was a trap, they still had a job to

do. He glared at the darkness ahead of them, and then glanced back over his

shoulder. The darkness was there too, following the pool of light the team moved

in. More and more it seemed to Hawk that they were moving through the body of

some immense unnatural beast, as though they'd been swallowed alive and were

soon to be digested.

Barber stopped suddenly, and they all piled up behind him, somehow just managing

to avoid toppling each other. Barber silently indicated the right-hand wall, and

they crowded round to examine it. There was a ragged break in the thick matting

of dirty grey cobwebs, revealing a plain wooden door, standing slightly ajar.

The wood was scarred and gouged as though by claws, and splashed with dried

blood. The heavy iron lock had been smashed, and was half hanging away from the

door. Winter gestured for them all to move back, and they did so.

"It seems my first guess was wrong," said Storm quietly. "This is Hell Wing,

after all, merely hidden and disguised by this… transformation. The lock quite

clearly bears the prison's official mark. Presumably the door leads to what was

originally one of the cells."

"Any idea what's in there?" asked Winter softly.

"Something magical, but that's all I can tell. Might be alive, might not. Again,

there's so much stray magic floating around, my Sight can't see through it."

"Then why not just open the door and take a look?" said Hawk bluntly. "I've had

it up to here with sneaking around, and I'm just in the mood to hit something.

All we have to do is kick the door in, and then fill the gap so that whatever's

in there can't escape."

"Sounds good to me," said Fisher. "Who gets to kick the door in?"

"I do," said Barber. "I'm still the point man."

He looked at Winter, and she nodded. Barber moved silently back to the door and

the others formed up behind him, weapons at the ready. Barber took a firm grip

on his sword, lifted his left boot, and slammed it hard against the door. The

heavy door swung inward on groaning hinges, revealing half of the small, gloomy

cell. Barber hit the door again and it swung all the way open. Everybody tensed,

ready for any sudden sound or movement, but nothing happened. The cell wasn't

much bigger than a privy, and it smelled much the same. The only illumination

was the silver glow falling in from the corridor outside, but it was more than

enough to show that the cell was completely empty. There was no bed or other

furnishings—only some filthy straw on the floor.

Some of the tension went out of Hawk, and he lowered his axe. "Looks like you

got it wrong this time, Storm; no one's home. Whoever or whatever used to be

locked up in here is long gone now."

"With a trusting nature like yours, Captain, I'm astonished you've lasted as

long as you have," the sorcerer said acidly. "The cell's occupant is quite

likely still here, held by its geas, even though the lock has been broken. You

just can't see it, that's all."

Anyone else would have blushed. As it was, Hawk spent a moment looking down at

his boots before nodding briefly to the sorcerer and then staring into the cell

with renewed interest. "Right. I'd forgotten about Who Knows, the invisible

creature. You're sure the geas is still controlling it?"

"Of course!" snapped Storm. "If it wasn't, the creature would have attacked us

by now."

"Not necessarily," said Winter slowly. "It might just be waiting for us to lower

our guard. Which presents us with something of a problem. If it isn't still held

by its geas, we can't afford to just turn our backs and walk away. It might come

after us. The reports I saw described it as immensely strong and entirely

malevolent."

"Which means," said Barber, "someone's going to have to go into that cell and

check the thing's actually there."

"Good idea," said Fisher. "Hawk, just pop in and check it out, would you?"

Hawk looked at her. "You pop in and check it out. Do I look crazy?"

"Good point."

"I'll do it," said Barber.

"No you won't," said Winter quickly. "No one's going into that cell. I can't

afford to lose any of you. Barber, hand me an incendiary."

Barber smiled briefly, and reached into a leather pouch at his belt. He brought

out a small smooth stone that glowed a dull, sullen red in the gloom, like a

coal that had been left too long in the fire, and handed it carefully to Winter.

She hefted it briefly, and then tossed it casually from hand to hand while

staring into the apparently empty cell. Barber winced. Winter turned to Hawk and

Fisher, and gestured with the glowing stone.

"I don't suppose you've seen one of these before. It's something new the Guard

sorcerers came up with. We're field-testing them. Each incendiary is a moment

taken out of time from an exploding volcano; an instant of appalling heat and

violence fixed in time like an insect trapped in amber. All I have to do is say

the right Word, throw the damn thing as far as I can, and a few seconds later

the spell collapses, releasing all that heat and violence. Which is pretty

unfortunate for anything that happens to be in the vicinity at the time. If Who

Knows is in that cell, it's about to get a very nasty surprise. Stand ready,

people. As soon as I throw this thing, I want that door slammed shut fast and

everyone out of the way of the blast."

"What kind of range does it cover?" said Hawk.

"That's one of the things we're testing."

"I had a suspicion you were going to say something like that."

Winter lifted the stone to her mouth, whispered something, and then tossed the

incendiary into the cell. She stepped quickly back and to one side. Hawk and

Barber slammed the cell door shut and put their backs to the wall on either side

of it. A moment later, the door was blown clean off its hinges by a blast of

superheated air and hurled into the corridor. Hawk put up an arm to protect his

face from the sudden, intense heat, and a glaring crimson light filled the

corridor. The wooden door frame burst into flames, and the cobwebs on the

corridor wall opposite scorched and blackened in an instant. In the heart of the

leaping flames that filled the cell something dark and shapeless thrashed and

screamed and was finally still. The temperature in the corridor grew intolerably

hot, and Hawk backed away down the corridor, mopping at the sweat that ran down

his face. The others moved with him, and he was about to suggest they all run

like hell for the gateway, when the flames suddenly died away. The crimson glare

disappeared, and the temperature dropped as quickly as it had risen. There was a

vile smell on the smoky air, but the only sound was the quiet crackling of the

flames as they consumed the door frame. Hawk moved slowly forward and peered

cautiously into the cell. The walls were blackened with soot, and smoke hung

heavily on the still air, but there was no sign of the cell's occupant, dead or

alive.

"Think we got it?" asked Fisher, just behind him.

Hawk shrugged. "Who knows? But we'd better hope so. If the incendiary didn't

kill it, I'd hate to think of the mood it must be in."

"It's dead," said Storm shortly. "I felt it die."

"Handy things, those incendiaries," said Hawk casually as he and Fisher turned

back to face the others. "How long do you think it'll be before they're released

to the rest of the Guard?"

"Hopefully never, in your case," said Storm. "Given your reputation for death

and destruction."

"You don't want to believe everything you hear," said Hawk.

"Just the bad bits," said Fisher.

Hawk looked at her reproachfully. Winter coughed behind a raised hand. "Let's

move it, people. We've got a lot more ground to cover yet. Barber, take the

point again. Everyone else as before. Let's go."

They moved on down the corridor, and the sourceless silver glow moved with them.

Hawk glanced back over his shoulder, expecting to see the burning door frame

glowing in the gloom, but there was only the darkness, deep and impenetrable.

Hawk turned away, and didn't look back again. The corridor seemed to go on

forever, and without any way of judging how far they'd come, Hawk began to lose

his sense of time. It seemed like they'd been walking for hours, but still the

corridor stretched away before them, the only sound the quiet slapping of their

boots on the stone floor. The dense growth of filthy matted cobwebs on the walls

and ceiling grew steadily thicker, making the corridor seem increasingly narrow.

Storm had to bend forward to avoid brushing the cobwebs with his head. AH of

them were careful to avoid touching the stuff. It looked diseased.

They finally came to another cell, with the door standing slightly open, as

before. Storm stared at it for a long time, but was finally forced to admit he

couldn't See anything anymore. Magic was running loose in Hell Wing, and he had

become as blind as the rest of them. In the end, Barber kicked the door in, and

he and Hawk charged in with weapons at the ready. The cell looked much like the

last one, save for a canvas on an easel standing in the middle of the room,

facing the back wall. Averting their eyes from the painting, Hawk and Barber

checked the cell thoroughly, but there was nothing else there. Winter directed

the others to stay out in the corridor and told Hawk to inspect the canvas. If

it was what they thought it was, his single eye should help protect him from the

painting's curse. Barber stood by, carefully watching Hawk rather than the

painting, so that if anything went wrong he could pull Hawk away before the

curse could affect him. That was the theory, anyway.

Hawk glanced out the cell door, and nodded reassuringly to Fisher. She wasn't

fooled, but gave him a smile anyway. Hawk stepped in front of the easel, and

looked for the first time at Messerschmann's Portrait. The scene was a bleak and

open plain, arid and fractured, with no trace of life anywhere, save for the

single figure of a man in the foreground. The man stared wildly out of the

Portrait, so close it seemed Hawk could almost reach out and touch him. He was

wearing a torn and ragged prison uniform, and his face was twisted with terror

and madness.

"Damn," said Hawk, hardly aware he'd spoken aloud. "It's got out."

The background scene had been painted with staggering realism. Hawk could almost

feel the oppressive heat wafting out of the painting at him. The figure in the

foreground was so alive he seemed almost to be moving, drawing closer… Suddenly

Hawk was falling, and he put out his hands instinctively to break his fall. His

palms slapped hard against the cold stone floor of the cell, and he was suddenly

shocked into awareness again. His gaze fell on the Portrait, and he scrabbled

backwards across the floor away from it, his gaze averted, until his back was

pressed against the far cell wall.

"Take it easy," said Fisher, kneeling down beside him. "Barber spotted something

was wrong, and pulled you away from the Portrait when you wouldn't answer him.

You feeling all right now?"

"Sure," said Hawk quickly. "Fine. Help me up, would you?"

Fisher and Barber got him on his feet again, and he smiled his thanks and waved

them away. He was careful not even to glance in the Portrait's direction as he

left the cell to make his report to Winter.

"Whatever was in the Portrait originally has got out and is running loose

somewhere in Hell Wing. One of the rioters has taken its place. Is there any way

we can get him out?"

"Only by replacing him with someone else," said Storm. "That's the way the curse

works."

"Then there's nothing more we can do here," said Winter. "If you've fully

recovered, Captain, I think we should move on."

Hawk nodded quickly, and the SWAT team set off down the corridor again.

"At least we've got one less rioter to worry about," said Hawk after a while.

The others looked at him. "Just trying to look on the bright side," he

explained.

"Nice try," said Winter. "Hang on to that cheerfulness. You're going to need it.

From what I've heard, we'd be better off facing a dozen rioters with the plague

than the Portrait's original occupant. It might have been human once, but its

time in the Portrait changed it. Now it's a nightmare in flesh and blood, every

evil thought you ever had given shape and form, and it's running loose in Hell

Wing with us. So, along with all our other problems, we're going to have to

track it down and kill it before we leave. Assuming it can be killed."

"Are you always this optimistic?" asked Fisher.

Winter snorted. "If there was any room for optimism, they wouldn't have called

us in."

"Something's coming," said Storm suddenly. "I can't see it, but I can feel it.

Something powerful…"

Winter barked orders, and the SWAT team fell quickly into a defensive formation,

with Barber, Hawk, and Fisher at the point, weapons at the ready. Hawk glanced

thoughtfully at Barber. Now that there was finally a chance at some action, the

weaponmaster had come fully alive. His dark eyes were fixed eagerly on the gloom

ahead, and his grin was disturbingly wolfish. A sudden conviction rooted itself

in Hawk that Barber would look just the same if the order ever came down for the

weaponmaster to go after him or Fisher. Barber didn't give a damn for the law or

for justice. He was just a man born to kill, a butcher waiting to be unleashed,

and to him one target was as good as any other. There was no room in a man like

Barber for conscience or ethics.

A sudden sound caught Hawk's attention, and his thoughts snapped back to the

situation at hand. Something was coming towards them out of the darkness. Hawk's

grip tightened on his axe. Footsteps sounded distinctly in the gloom, drawing

steadily closer. There were two separate sets of footsteps, and Hawk smiled and

relaxed a little. It was only a couple of rioters. But the more he listened, the

more it seemed to him there was something wrong with the footsteps. They were

too slow, too steady, and they seemed to echo unnaturally long on the quiet. The

air was tense, and Hawk could feel his hackles rising. There was something bad

hidden in the darkness, something he didn't want to see. A slight breeze blew

out of the gloom towards him. It smelt of dust and sulphur.

"They're coming," said Storm softly. "The chaos bringers, the lords of entropy.

The dust and ruins of reality. The Brimstone Boys."

Hawk glared at the sorcerer, and then back at the darkness. Storm had sounded

shaken, almost unnerved. If just the approach of the Brimstone Boys was enough

to rattle a hardened SWAT man, Hawk had a strong feeling he didn't want to face

them with nothing but his axe. He fell back a step and glanced across at Winter.

"Might I suggest this would be a good time to try out another of those

incendiary things?"

Winter nodded sharply and gestured to Barber. He took another of the glowing

stones from his pouch, whispered the activating Word, and threw the stone into

the darkness. They all tensed, waiting for the explosion, but nothing happened.

Storm laughed brusquely, a bleak, unpleasant sound.

"That won't stop them. They control reality, run rings round the warp and weft

of space itself. Cause and effect run backwards where they look. They're the

Brimstone Boys; they undo natural laws, turn certainties into whims and maybes."

"Then do something!" snapped Winter. "Use your magic. You're supposed to be a

top-level sorcerer, dammit! You didn't sound this worried when you first told us

about them."

"I didn't know," whispered Storm, staring unseeingly at the gloom. "I couldn't

know. They're too big. Too powerful. There's nothing we can do."

Winter grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back out of the way. "His

nerve's gone," she said shortly to the others. "The Brimstone Boys must have got

to him somehow. I'm not taking any chances with these bastards. The minute you

see them, kill them."

"We're supposed to take these creatures alive, remember?" said Barber mildly.

"To hell with that," Winter snapped. "Anything that can take out an experienced

sorcerer like Storm so easily is too dangerous to mess about with."

Hawk nodded, and he and Fisher moved forward to stand on either side of Barber.

The weaponmaster was quivering slightly, like a hound straining at the leash, or

a horse readying for a charge, but his sword hand was perfectly steady. Hawk

glared into the darkness, and then looked down suddenly. The corridor floor

seemed to be shifting subtly under his feet, stretching and contracting. His

boots were sinking into the solid stone floor as though it had turned to mud. He

looked across at Barber and Fisher to see if they'd noticed it too, and was

shocked to discover that they were now yards away, as though the corridor had

somehow expanded vastly while he wasn't looking. He jerked his boots free from

the sticky stone, and backed away. The ceiling was impossibly far above him, and

the wall was running with boiling water that steamed and spat at him. Birds were

singing, harsh and raucous, and somewhere children screamed in agony. The light

changed to golden summer sunlight, suffusing the air like bitter honey. Hawk

smelled dust and sulphur, so strong he could hardly breathe. And out of the

darkness, stepping slow and somber, came the Brimstone Boys.

They might have been human once, but now they were impossibly, obscenely old.

Their bodies were twisted and withered, turned in upon themselves by time, and

there were gaping holes in their anatomy where skin and bone had rotted away to

dust and nothingness. Their wrinkled skin was grey and colorless, and tore when

movement stretched it. Their faces were the worst. Their lips were gone, and

their impossibly wide smiles were crammed with huge blocky teeth like bony

chisels. Blood ran constantly from their dirty yellow eyes and dropped from

their awful smiles, spattering their ancient tattered skin.

Barber shouted something incoherent, and launched himself at the nearest figure.

His sword flew in a deadly pattern, but the blade didn't even come close to

touching the creature. Barber strained and struggled, but it was as though he

and the ancient figures, only a few feet apart, lived in separate worlds, where

they could see each other but not touch. Fisher drew a knife from her boot and

threw it at the other figure. The knife tumbled end over end, shrinking slowly

as though crossing some impossible distance but still not reaching its target.

The withered creature looked at Fisher with its bleeding eyes, and she cried out

as she began to sink into the floor. Despite all her struggles to resist, the

flagstones sucked her down into themselves like a treacherous marsh. She struck

at the floor with her sword, and sparks flew as the steel blade hit solid stone.

Hawk ran towards her, but she seemed to recede into the distance as he ran. He

pushed himself harder, but the faster he ran, the further away she seemed to be.

Somewhere between the two of them, Barber sobbed with helpless rage as he

struggled futilely to touch the Brimstone Boys with his sword. Hawk could

vaguely hear Winter shouting something, but all he could think of was Fisher.

The stone floor was lapping up around her shoulders. The light was growing

dimmer. Sounds echoed strangely. And then something gold and shining flew slowly

past him, gleaming richly in the fading light, and landed on the floor between

the Brimstone Boys. They looked down at it, and despite himself, Hawk's gaze was

drawn to it too. It was a pocket watch.

He could hear it ticking in the endless quiet. Ticktocking away the seconds,

turning past into present into future. The Brimstone Boys raised their awful

heads, their grinning mouths stretched wide in soundless screams. Dust fell

endlessly through golden light. The floor grew solid again, spitting out Fisher,

and the walls rushed in on either side. The ceiling fell back to its previous

height. And the Brimstone Boys crumbled into dust and blew away.

Hawk looked around him, and the corridor was just as it had always been. The

silver light pushed back the darkness, and the floor was solid and reliable

under his feet. Fisher picked up the throwing knife from the floor before her,

looked at it for a moment, and then slipped it back into her boot. Barber put

away his sword and shook his head slowly, breathing heavily. Hawk turned and

looked back at Winter and the sorcerer Storm, who seemed to have completely

recovered from his daze. In fact, he was actually smiling quite smugly.

"All right," said Hawk. "What happened?"

Storm's smile widened. "It's all very simple and straightforward, really," he

said airily. "The Brimstone Boys distorted reality wherever they went, but they

weren't very stable. They could play all kinds of tricks with space and

probabilities and the laws of reality, but they were still vulnerable to time.

The ordered sequence of events was anathema to their existence. It was already

eroding away at them; that's why they looked so ancient. I just speeded the

process up a bit, with an augmented timepiece whose reality was a little bit

stronger than theirs."

"What was all that nonsense you were spouting before?" demanded Fisher. "I

thought you'd gone off your head."

"That was the idea," said Storm smugly. "They didn't see me as a threat, so they

ignored me. Which gave me time to work my magic on the watch. I could have been

an actor, you know."

He stretched out his hand, and the watch flew through the air to nestle snugly

in his hand. Storm checked the time, and put the watch back into his pocket.

"Heads up," said Barber suddenly. "We've got company again."

"Now what?" demanded Hawk, spinning round to face the darkness, and then

freezing on the spot as he saw what was watching them from the edge of the

silver glow. A human shape, formed of bloody organs and viscera, but no skin,

stood trembling on legs of muscle and tendons but no bones. Its naked eyes

stared wetly from a flat crimson mess that might once have been its face. It

breathed noisily, and they could see its lungs rising and falling in what had

once been its chest.

"Johnny Nobody," said Hawk. "Poor bastard. Are we going to have to kill him

too?"

"Hopefully not," said Winter. "We're going to be in enough trouble over Who

Knows and the Brimstone Boys. With a little luck, we might be able to herd this

thing back into its cell. It's supposed to be strong and quick, but not very

bright."

And then something pounced on Johnny Nobody from behind and smashed it to the

floor. Blood spurted through the air as its attacker tore it apart and stuffed

the gory chunks into its mouth. The newcomer looked up at the SWAT team, its

mouth stretched in a bloody grin as it ate and swallowed chunks of Johnny

Nobody's unnatural flesh. What upset Hawk the most was how ordinary the creature

looked. It was a man, dressed in tatters, with wide, staring eyes you only had

to meet for a moment to know their owner was utterly insane. Just looking at him

made Hawk's skin crawl. What was left of Johnny Nobody kicked and struggled,

unable to die despite its awful wounds, but incapable of breaking its attacker's

hold. The crazy man squatted over the body, ripping out strings of viscera and

giggling to himself in between bloody mouthfuls.

"Who the hell is that?" asked Fisher softly. "One of the rioters?"

"I don't think so," said Winter. "I think we're looking at the original occupant

of Messerschmann's Portrait."

"I thought he was supposed to be some kind of monster," said Hawk.

"Well, isn't he?" said Winter, and Hawk had no answer. The SWAT leader looked at

Barber. "Knock him out, Barber. Maybe our sorcerers can do something to bring

his mind back."

Barber shrugged. "I'll do what I can, but bringing them in alive isn't what I do

best."

He advanced slowly on the madman, who looked up sharply and growled at him like

an animal. Barber stopped where he was and sheathed his sword. Moving slowly and

carefully, he reached inside one of his pockets and brought out a small steel

ball, no more than an inch or so in diameter. He hefted it once in his hand,

glanced at the madman, and then snapped his arm forward. The steel ball sped

through the air and struck the madman right between the eyes. He fell backwards

and lay still, without making a sound. Barber walked over to him, checked his

pulse, and then bent down beside him to retrieve his steel ball. Johnny Nobody

twitched and shuddered, leaking blood and other fluids, and Barber's lips

thinned back from his teeth as he saw the raw wounds slowly knitting themselves

together. He moved quickly back to the others, dragging the unconscious madman

with him.

"About time we had a little luck," said Winter. "Johnny Nobody's in no shape to

give us any trouble, and we've got ourselves a nice little bonus in the form of

our unconscious friend here. At least now we'll have something to show for our

trouble."

"Winter," said Fisher slowly, "I think we've got another problem."

There was something in the way she said it that made everyone's head snap round

to see what she was talking about. Thick tendrils of the dirty grey cobwebs had

dropped from the ceiling and were wriggling towards Johnny Nobody. The bloody

shape struggled feebly, but the grey strands whipped around it and dragged the

body slowly away along the floor into the darkness, leaving a trail of blood and

other things on the stone floor. Hawk looked at the thick mass of cobwebs

covering the walls and ceiling, and made a connection he should have made some

time back. He looked at Winter.

"It's Crawling Jenny, isn't it? All of it."

"Took you long enough to work it out," said Winter. "The rioters must have

opened its cell and let it out. Which is probably why we haven't seen any of

them since. According to the reports I saw, Crawling Jenny is carnivorous, and

always ravenously hungry."

"Are you saying this stuff ate all the rioters?" said Fisher, glaring

distrustfully at the nearest wall.

"It seems likely. Where else could it have got enough mass to grow like this? I

hate to think how big the creature must be in total."

"Why didn't you tell us what this stuff was before?" said Hawk. "We've been

walking through it all unknowing, totally at its mercy. It could have attacked

us at any time."

"No it couldn't," said Storm. "I've been shielding us. It doesn't even know

we're here."

"There wasn't any point in attacking its outer reaches," said Winter. "It'd just

grow some more. No, I've been waiting for something like this to happen. Since

Johnny Nobody is undoubtedly heading for the creature's stomach, all we have to

do is follow it. I'm not sure if Crawling Jenny has any vulnerable organs, but

if it has, that's where they'll be."

She set off down the corridor without looking back, hurrying to catch up with

the dragging sounds ahead. The others exchanged glances and moved quickly after

her. Barber carried the unconscious madman over his shoulder in a fireman's

lift. It didn't seem to slow him down any. Hawk glared suspiciously at the thick

mass of cobwebs lining the corridor, but it seemed quiet enough at the moment.

Which was just as well, because Hawk had a strong feeling his axe wasn't going

to be much use against a bunch of cobwebs.

They soon caught up with the tendrils dragging the body, and followed at a

respectful distance. Storm's magic kept them unseen and unheard as far as

Crawling Jenny was concerned, but no one felt like pushing their luck. Hawk in

particular was careful to keep to the center of the corridor, well away from

both walls. He found it only too easy to visualize hundreds of tentacles

suddenly lashing out from the walls and ceiling, wrapping up victims in helpless

bundles and dragging them off to the waiting stomach.

Eventually, the tendrils dragged the body into a dark opening in the wall.

Winter gestured quickly for everyone to stay where they were. Barber lowered the

unconscious madman to the floor, and stretched easily. He wasn't even breathing

hard. Winter moved slowly forward to peer into the opening, and the others moved

quietly in behind her, careful not to crowd each other so that they could still

retreat in a hurry if they had to. The silver light from the corridor shone

brightly behind them, and Hawk's lip curled in disgust at the sight ahead. The

narrow stone cell was filled with a soft, pulsating mass of mold and fungi

studded with lidless, staring eyes that burned with a horrid awareness. Sheets

of gauzy cobwebs anchored the mass to the walls and ceiling, and frayed away in

questing tendrils. As the team watched, two of the tendrils dropped Johnny

Nobody's writhing body onto the central mass, and a dozen snapping mouths

opened, crammed with grinding yellow teeth. They tore the body apart and

consumed it in a matter of seconds.

"Damn," said Winter. "We've lost another one."

"So much for Johnny Nobody," said Barber quietly. "Poor Johnny, we hardly knew

you."

"I don't know about you," said Hawk quietly to Winter, "but it seems to me that

swords and axes aren't going to be much use against something like that. You

could hack at it for hours and still not know if you'd hit anything vital."

"Agreed," said Winter. "Luckily, we should still have one incendiary left." She

looked at Barber, who nodded quickly, and produced another of the glowing stones

from his pouch. Winter nodded, and looked back at the slowly pulsating mass

before her. "When you're ready, Barber, throw the incendiary into one of those

mouths. As soon as the damned thing's swallowed it, everyone turn and run like a

fury. I'm not sure what effect an incendiary will have on a creature like that,

but I don't think we should hang around to find out. And Barber—don't miss. Or

you're fired."

He grinned, murmured the activating Word, and tossed the glowing stone into one

of the snapping mouths. It went in easily, and Crawling Jenny swallowed the

incendiary reflexively. The SWAT team turned as one and bolted back down the

corridor, Barber pausing just long enough to sling the unconscious madman over

his shoulder again. A muffled explosion went off behind them, like a roll of

faraway thunder, quickly drowned out by a deafening keening that filled the

narrow corridor as the creature screamed with all its many mouths. A blast of

intense heat caught up with the running figures and passed them by. Hawk

flinched instinctively, but Storm's magic protected them.

Rivulets of flame ran along the walls and ceiling, hungrily consuming the thick

cobwebs. Burning tendrils thrust out of the furry mass and lashed blindly at the

running SWAT team. Hawk and Fisher cut fiercely at the tendrils, slicing through

them easily. Burning lengths of cobwebs fell to the corridor floor, writhing and

twisting as the flames consumed them. Charred and darkened masses of cobwebs

fell limply from the wall and ceiling as a thick choking smoke filled the

corridor. Storm suddenly stumbled to a halt, and the others piled up around him.

"What is it?" yelled Hawk, struggling to be heard over the screaming creature

and the roaring of the flames.

"The exit's just ahead," yelled Storm, "but something's got there before us."

"What do you mean, 'something'?" Hawk hefted his axe and peered through the

thickening smoke but couldn't see anything. The flames pressed closer.

Storm's hands clenched into fists. Stray magic sputtered on the air before him.

"Them. They've found us. The Pale Men."

They came out of the darkness and into the light, shifting forms that hovered on

the edge of meaning and recognition. Smoke drifted around and through them, like

ghostly ectoplasm. Hawk slowly lowered his axe as it grew too heavy for him. His

vision grayed in and out, and the roar and heat of the fire seemed far away and

unimportant. The world rolled back upon itself, back into yesterday and beyond.

Memories surged through him, of all the people he'd been, some so strange to him

now he hardly recognized them. Some smiled sadly at what he'd become, while

others pointed accusing fingers or turned their heads away. His mind began to

drift apart, fragmenting into forgotten dreams and hopes and might-have-beens.

He screamed soundlessly, a long, wordless howl of denial, and his thoughts

slowly began to clear. He was who he was because of all the people he'd been,

and even if he didn't always like that person very much, he knew he couldn't go

back. He'd paid too high a price for the lessons he'd learned to turn his back

on them now. He concentrated on his memories, hugging them to him jealously, and

the ghosts of his past faded away and were gone. He was Hawk, and no one was

going to take that away from him. Not even himself.

The world lurched and he was back in the narrow stone corridor again, choking on

the thick smoke and flinching away from the roaring flames as they closed in

around him. The rest of the team were standing still as statues, eyes vague and

far away. Some of them were already beginning to look frayed and uncertain,

their features growing indistinct as the Pale Men leeched the pasts out of them.

Hawk glared briefly at the shifting figures shining brightly through the smoke

and grabbed Storm's shoulder. For a moment his fingers seemed to sink into the

sorcerer's flesh, and then it suddenly hardened and became solid, as though

Hawk's touch had reaffirmed its reality. Shape and meaning flooded back into

Storm's face, and he shook his head sharply, as though waking from a nagging

dream. He looked at Hawk, and then at the Pale Men, and his face darkened.

"Get out of the way, you bastards!"

He thrust one outstretched hand at the drifting figures, and a blast of raw

magic exploded in the corridor. It beat on the air like a captured wild bird,

and the Pale Men were suddenly gone, as though they'd never been there at all.

Hawk looked questioningly at Storm.

"Is that it? Wave your hand and they disappear?"

"Of course," said Storm. "They're only as real as you allow them to be. Now help

me get the others out of here."

Hawk nodded quickly, and started pushing the others down the corridor. Their

faces were already clearing as they shook off their yesterdays. Smoke filled the

corridor, and a wave of roaring flame came rushing towards them. Storm howled a

Word of Power, and gestured sharply with his hand, and a solid steel door was

suddenly floating on the air before them. It swung open, and the SWAT team

plunged through. They fell into the corridor beyond, and the door slammed shut

behind him.

For a while, they all lay where they were on the cool stone floor, coughing the

smoke out of their lungs and gasping at the blessedly fresh air. Eventually,

they sat up and looked around them, sharing shaken but triumphant smiles. Hawk

knew he was grinning like a fool, and didn't give a damn. There was nothing like

almost dying to make you feel glad to be alive.

"Excuse me," said a polite, unfamiliar voice, "but can anyone tell me what I'm

doing here?"

They all looked round sharply, and found that the madman Barber had brought out

with them was now sitting up and looking at them, his eyes clear and sane and

more than a little puzzled. Storm chuckled suddenly.

"Well, it would appear the Pale Men did some good, in spite of themselves. By

calling back his memories, they made him sane again."

The ex-madman looked around him. "I have a strong feeling I'm going to regret

asking this, but by any chance are we in prison?"

Hawk chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It's only temporary. Who are you?"

"Wulf Saxon. I think."

Winter rose painfully to her feet and nodded to MacReady, who had been standing

patiently to one side, waiting for them to notice him. As far as Hawk could

tell, the negotiator hadn't moved an inch from where they'd left him.

"Mission over," said Winter, just a little breathlessly. "Any trouble on your

end, Mac?"

"Not really."

He glanced back down the corridor. Hawk followed his gaze and for the first time

took in the seven dead men, dressed in prisoner's uniforms, lying crumpled on

the corridor floor. Hawk gave the unarmed negotiator a hard look, and he smiled

back enigmatically.

"Like I said: I have a charmed life."

I'm not going to ask, thought Hawk firmly. "Well," he said, in the tone of

someone determined to change the subject. "Another successful mission

accomplished."

Winter looked at him. "You have got to be joking. All the creatures we were

supposed to capture are dead, and Hell Wing is a blazing inferno! It'll cost a

fortune to rebuild. How the hell can it be a success?"

Fisher grinned. "We're alive, aren't we?"

Back in the Governor's office, the SWAT team stood more or less at attention,

and waited patiently for the Governor to calm down. The riots had finally been

crushed, and peace restored to Damnation Row, but only after a number of

fatalities among both inmates and prison staff. The damage to parts of the

prison was extensive, but that wasn't too important; it would just give the

inmates something to do to keep them out of mischief. Nothing like a good

building project to keep prisoners busy. Not to mention too exhausted to think

about rioting again.

Even so, it probably hadn't been the best time to inform the Governor that all

his potentially valuable Hell Wing inmates were unfortunately deceased, and the

Wing itself was a burnt-out ruin.

The Governor finally stopped shouting, partly because he was beginning to lose

his voice, and threw himself into the chair behind his desk. He glared

impartially at the SWAT team, and drummed his fingers on his desk. Hawk cleared

his throat cautiously, and the Governor's glare fell on him like a hungry

predator just waiting for its prey to provide an opening.

"Yes, Captain Hawk? You have something to say, perhaps? Something that will

excuse your pitiable performance on this mission, and give some indication as to

why I shouldn't lock you all up in the dirtiest, foulest dungeon I can find and

then throw the key down the nearest sewer?"

"Well," said Hawk, "things could have turned out worse." The Governor's face

went an interesting shade of puce, but Hawk pressed on anyway. "Our main

objective, according to your orders, was to prevent the inmates of Hell Wing

from escaping and wreaking havoc in the city. I think we can safely assume the

city is no longer in any danger from those inmates. Hell Wing itself is somewhat

scorched and blackened, I'll admit, but solid stone walls are pretty

fire-resistant, as a rule. A lot of scrubbing and a lick of paint, and the

place'll be as good as new. And on top of all that, we managed to rescue Wulf

Saxon from Messerschmann's Portrait, and restore his sanity. I don't think we

did too badly, all things considered."

He waited with interest to see what the Governor's response would be. The odds

favored a coronary, but he wouldn't rule out a stroke. The Governor took several

deep breaths to calm himself down, and fixed Hawk with a withering stare.

"Wulf Saxon has disappeared. But we were able to learn a few things of interest

about him, by consulting our prison records. In his time, some twenty-three

years ago, Saxon was a well-known figure in this city. He was a thief, a forger,

and a confidence trickster. He was also an ex-Guard, ex-city Councilor, and the

founder of three separate religions, two of which are still doing very well for

themselves on the Street of Gods. He's a confirmed troublemaker, a

revolutionary, and a major pain in the arse, and you've let him loose in the

city again!"

Hawk smiled, and shook his head. "We had him captured. Your people let him

loose."

"He's still an extremely dangerous individual that this city was well rid of,

until you became involved!"

Fisher leaned forward suddenly. "If he's that dangerous, does that mean there's

a reward for his capture?"

"Good point, Isobel," said Hawk, and they both looked expectantly at the

Governor.

The Governor decided to ignore both Hawk and Fisher, for the sake of his blood

pressure, and turned to Winter. "Regretfully, I have no choice but to commend

you and your SWAT team for your actions. Officially, at least. The city Council

has chosen to disregard my objections, and has ordered me to congratulate you on

your handling of the situation." He scowled at Winter. "Well done."

"Thank you," said Winter graciously. "We were just doing our job. Have you

discovered any more about the forces behind the riot?"

The Governor sniffed, and shuffled through the papers on his desk. "Unlikely as

it seems, the whole thing may have been engineered to cover a single prisoner's

escape. A man named Ritenour. He disappeared early on in the riot, and there's a

growing body of evidence that he received help in doing so from both inside and

outside the prison."

Winter frowned. "A riot this big, and this bloody, just to free one man? Who is

this Ritenour? I've never heard of him."

"No reason why you should have," said the Governor, running his eyes quickly

down the file before him. "Ritenour is a sorcerer shaman, specializing in animal

magic, of all things. I wouldn't have thought there was much work for him in a

city like Haven, unless he likes working with rats, but he's been here three

years to our certain knowledge. He's worked with a few big names in his time,

but he's never amounted to anything himself. He was in here awaiting trial for

nonpayment of taxes, which is why he wasn't guarded as closely as he might have

been."

"If he worked for big names in the past," said Hawk slowly, "maybe one of them

arranged for him to be sprung, on the grounds he knew something important,

something they couldn't risk coming out at his trial. Prisoners tend to become

very talkative when faced with the possibility of a long sentence in Damnation

Row."

"My people are busy checking that connection at this moment, Captain," said the

Governor sharply. "They know their job. Now then, I have one last piece of

business with you all, and then with any luck I can get you out of my life

forever. It seems the security forces protecting the two Kings and the signing

of the Peace Treaty have decided there might just be some connection between

Ritenour's escape and a plot against the two Kings. I can't see it as very

likely myself, but, as usual, no one's interested in my opinions. The SWAT team,

including Captains Hawk and Fisher, are to report to the head of the security

forces at Champion House, to discuss the situation. That's it. Now get out of my

office, and let me get back to clearing up the mess you people have made of my

prison."

Everyone bowed formally, except for the Governor, who ostentatiously busied

himself with the files before him. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, nodded

firmly, and advanced on the Governor. They each took one end of his desk, lifted

it up, and overturned it. Papers fluttered on the air like startled butterflies.

The Governor started to rise spluttering from his chair, and then dropped

quickly back into it as Hawk and Fisher leaned over him, their eyes cold and

menacing.

"Don't shout at us," said Hawk. "We've had a hard day."

"Right," said Fisher.

The Governor looked at them both. At that moment, all the awful stories he'd

heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot more believable.

"If you've quite finished intimidating a superior officer, can we get out of

here?" said Winter. "Those security types don't like to be kept waiting.

Besides, if we're lucky, we might get to meet the Kings themselves."

"That'll make a change," said Hawk as he and Fisher headed unhurriedly for the

door.

"Yeah," said Fisher. "If we're really lucky, maybe we'll get to intimidate them

too."

"I wish I thought you were joking," said Winter.

Chapter Two

Something to Believe In

When it rains in Haven, it really rains. The rain hammered down without mercy,

beating with spiteful persistence at every exposed surface. Ritenour—sorcerer,

shaman, and now ex-convict—looked around him with interest as he strode along

behind the taciturn man-at-arms called Horn. They were both protected by

Ritenour's rain-avoidance spell, but everyone else in the crowded street looked

like so many half-drowned sewer rats. The rains had barely begun when Ritenour

had been thrown into Damnation Row, but they were in full force now, as blindly

unstoppable as death or taxes. A continuous wave of water three inches deep

washed down the cobbled street, past the overflowing gutters. Ritenour stamped

enthusiastically through the water, smiling merrily at those people he splashed.

He ignored the furious looks and muttered curses, secure in the knowledge that

Horn wouldn't allow him to come to any harm.

Ritenour's smile widened as they made their way through the Northside. He didn't

know where he was going, but he didn't give a damn. He was back in the open air

again, and even the stinking streets of the Northside seemed light and fresh

after the filthy rat-hole he'd shared with three other magic-users on Sorcerers'

Row. In fact, he felt so good about things in general, he didn't even think

about killing the insensitive men and women who crowded around him in the packed

street. There'd be time for such things later.

He studied the back of the man in front of him thoughtfully. Horn hadn't said

much to him since collecting him from the professionally anonymous men who'd

smuggled him out of Damnation Row under cover of the riot. Apparently Horn

fancied himself as the strong, silent type. Deeds, not words—that sort of thing.

Ritenour sighed happily.

Such types were delightfully easy to manipulate. Not that he had any such thing

in mind at the moment, of course. Horn was taking him to Daniel Madigan, and you

don't kill the goose that may produce golden eggs. Not until you've got your

hands on the golden eggs, anyway.

Ritenour wondered, not for the first time, what a terrorist's terrorist like

Madigan wanted with a lowly sorcerer shaman like him. Arranging the prison riot

must have cost Madigan a pretty penny; he had to be expecting Ritenour to

provide something of more than equal value in return. Ritenour shrugged.

Whatever it was, he was in no position to argue. He'd only been in gaol for tax

evasion, but all too soon he'd have ended up in Court under a truthspell, and

then they'd have found out all about his experiments in human as well as animal

vivisection. They'd have hanged him for that, even though his experiments had

been pursued strictly in the interests of sorcerous research. Madigan had

rescued him in the very nick of time, whether the terrorist knew it or not.

He let his mind drift on to other matters. Horn had promised him, on Madigan's

behalf, a great deal of money if he would agree to work with the terrorist on a

project of mutual interest. Ritenour was always interested in large amounts of

money. People had no idea how expensive sorcerous research was these days,

particularly when your subjects insisted on dying. But it had to be said that

Madigan was not the sort of person Ritenour would have chosen to work with. The

man was an idealist, and fanatically devoted to his Cause: the overthrowing and

destruction of Outremer. He was very intelligent, inhumanly devious and

determined, and had raised violence and murder to a fine art. Ritenour frowned

slightly. Whatever Madigan wanted him for, it was bound to be unpleasant and not

a little dangerous. In the event he decided to go through with this project,

he'd better be careful to get most of his money up front. Just in case he had to

disappear in a hurry.

Horn stopped suddenly before a pleasantly anonymous little tavern tucked away in

a side court. Ritenour looked automatically for a sign, to see what the place

was called, but there didn't seem to be one. Which implied the tavern was both

expensive and exclusive (you either knew about it already or you didn't matter),

and therefore very security conscious. Just the sort of place he'd expect to

find Madigan. The best place to lie low was out in the open, hidden behind a

cloud of money and privilege.

Horn held open the door for him, and then followed him into the dimly lit

tavern. People sat around tables in small, intimate groups, talking animatedly

in lowered voices. No one looked up as Horn led the way through the tables to a

hidden stairway at the back of the room. The stairs led up to a narrow hallway,

and Horn stopped before the second door. It had no number on it, but there was

an inconspicuous peephole. Horn knocked three times, paused, and then knocked

twice. Ritenour smiled. Secret knocks, no less. Terrorists did so love their

little rituals. He wondered hopefully if there'd be a secret password as well,

but the door swung open almost immediately, suggesting someone had already

studied Horn through the peephole. Ritenour assumed a carefully amiable

expression and followed Horn in. The door shut firmly behind him, and he heard

four separate bolts sliding into place. He didn't look back, and instead put on

his best open smile and looked casually about him.

The room was surprisingly large for tavern lodgings, and very comfortably

furnished. Apparently, Madigan was one of those people who believed the mind

works best when the body is well cared for. Ritenour was glad they had something

in common. Most of the fanatics he'd had dealings with in the past had firmly

believed in the virtues of poverty and making do with the barest essentials.

Luxuries were only for the rich and the decadent. They also believed in

compulsory hair shirts and cold baths, and had shown no trace whatsoever of a

sense of humor. Ritenour wouldn't have dealt with such killjoys at all if his

experiments hadn't required so many human subjects. His main problem had always

been obtaining them discreetly. After all, he couldn't just go out into the

streets and drag passersby into his laboratory. People would talk.

A young man and attractive woman, seated at a table at the far end of the room,

were keeping a watchful eye on him. Ritenour gave them his best charming smile.

Another man was standing guard by the door, arms folded across his massive

chest. He had to be the largest man Ritenour had ever seen, and he was watching

Ritenour closely. The sorcerer nodded to him politely, uncomfortably aware that

Horn hadn't moved from his side since they'd entered the room. Ritenour didn't

need to be told what would happen if Madigan decided he couldn't use him after

all. Or, to be more exact, what might happen. Ritenour might be unarmed, but he

was never helpless. He always kept a few nasty surprises up his metaphorical

sleeves, just in case of situations like this. You met all sorts, as a working

sorcerer.

One man was standing on his own before the open fireplace, his face cold and

calm, and Ritenour knew at once that this had to be Daniel Madigan. Even

standing still and silent, he radiated power and authority, as though there was

nothing he couldn't do if he but put his mind to it. He stepped forward

suddenly, and Ritenour's heart jumped painfully. Although Madigan wore no sword,

Ritenour knew the man was dangerous, that violence and murder were as natural to

him as breathing. The threat of sudden death hung about him like a bloodied

shroud. Ritenour felt an almost overwhelming urge to back away, but somehow made

himself hold his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other

terrorists looking at Madigan with respect, and something that might have been

awe or fear. Or both. Madigan held out a hand for Ritenour to shake, and the

sorcerer did so, finding a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his hand

wasn't shaking. Madigan's hand was cold and hard, like a store mannequin's.

There was no warmth or emotion in the handshake, and Ritenour let go as soon as

he politely could. Madigan gestured at the two chairs before the open fire.

"Good of you to come and see me, sir sorcerer. Please; take a seat. Make

yourself comfortable. And then we can have a little talk, you and I."

"Of course," said Ritenour, bowing formally. His mind was racing. When in doubt,

take the initiative away from your opponent. "I wonder if I could prevail on you

for a bite of something, and perhaps a glass of wine? Prison fare tends to be

infrequent, and bordering on inedible."

There was a moment of silence as Madigan stared at him impassively, and Ritenour

wondered if he'd pushed it too far, too early. Everyone else in the room seemed

to have gone very still. And then Madigan bowed slightly, and everyone relaxed a

little. He nodded to the young man sitting at the table, and he rose quickly to

his feet and left the room, fumbling at the door's bolts in his haste. Ritenour

followed Madigan to the two chairs by the fire, and was careful to let Madigan

sit down first. Horn moved in to stand beside Madigan's chair.

"Allow me to introduce my associates in this glorious venture," said Madigan

mildly. "You've already met Horn, though I doubt he's told you much about

himself. He is the warrior of our little group, a most excellent fighter and an

experienced killer. His family were deported from Outremer some generations ago,

stripped of title and land and property. Horn has vowed to avenge that ancient

insult.

"The young lady watching you so intently from that table is Eleanour Todd, my

second-in-command. When I am not available, she is my voice and my authority.

Her parents died in an Outremer cell. She fought as a mercenary for the Low

Kingdoms for several years, but now they have betrayed her by seeking peace with

Outremer she has joined me to exact a more personal revenge.

"The large gentleman at the door is Bailey. If he has another name, I've been

unable to discover it. Bailey is a longtime mercenary and a seasoned campaigner.

And yet despite his many years of loyal service to both Outremer and the Low

Kingdoms, he has nothing to show for it, while those he served have grown fat

and rich at his expense. I have promised him a chance to make them pay in blood

and terror."

Someone outside the door gave the secret knock. Bailey looked through the

peephole, and then pulled back the bolts and opened the door. The young man

who'd left only a few moments before bustled in carrying a tray of cold meats

and a glass of wine. He set down the tray before Ritenour, who smiled and nodded

his thanks. The young man grinned cheerfully, and bobbed his head like a puppy

that's just got a trick right, then looked quickly at Madigan to check he'd done

the right thing.

"And this young gentleman is Ellis Glen," said Madigan dryly. "One of the most

savage and vicious killers it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. You

must let him show you his necklace of human teeth some time. It's really quite

impressive. I have given his life shape and meaning, and he has vowed to obey me

in everything. I expect great things of Ellis."

He tilted his head slightly, dismissing Glen, and the young man scurried over to

sit at the table, blushing like a girl who'd been complimented on her beauty.

Madigan settled back in his chair and waved for Ritenour to begin his meal. The

sorcerer did so, carefully not hurrying. More and more it seemed to him he

couldn't afford to seem weak in front of these people. Madigan watched him

patiently, his face calm and serene. Ritenour could feel the pressure of the

others' watching eyes, and took the opportunity his meal provided to study them

unobtrusively.

Horn looked to be standard hired muscle, big as an ox and nearly as smart. You

could find a dozen like him in most taverns in the Northside, ready for any kind

of trouble as long as it paid well. He had a square, meaty face that had taken a

few too many knocks in its time. He wore a constant scowl, aimed for the moment

at Ritenour, but its unvarying depth suggested it was probably his usual

expression anyway. And yet there was something about the man that disturbed the

sorcerer on some deep, basic level. He had the strong feeling that Horn was the

kind of warrior who would just keep coming towards you, no matter how badly you

injured him, until either you were dead or he was.

Ritenour suppressed a shudder and switched his gaze to Eleanour Todd. She was

altogether easier on the eye, and Ritenour flashed her his most winning smile.

She looked coldly back, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him as he ate. Judging by

the length of her splendid legs, she would be easily his height when standing,

and her large frame was lithely muscular. She wore a standard mercenary's

outfit, hard-wearing and braced with leather in strategic places for protection,

but cut tightly here and there to emphasize her femininity. With her thick mane

of long black hair and calm dark eyes, she reminded Ritenour of nothing so much

as a trained fighting cat, awaiting only her master's instruction to leap upon

her prey and rend it with slow, malicious glee. She held his gaze for a moment,

and then smiled slowly. Ritenour's stomach muscles tightened. Her front teeth

had been filed to sharp points. Ritenour nodded politely and looked away, making

a firm mental note never to turn his back on her.

The huge warrior, Bailey, could well be a problem. He had to be in his late

forties, maybe even early fifties, but he was still in magnificent shape, with a

broad muscular chest and shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways when

he walked through a doorway. Even standing still on the other side of the room,

he seemed to be looming over everyone else. He made Horn look almost petite. And

yet his face was painfully gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as

though he'd been having trouble sleeping. Ritenour shrugged inwardly. Any

mercenary Bailey's age was bound to have more than a few ghosts haunting his

memories. Ritenour studied the man's face thoughtfully, searching for clues.

Bailey's hair was iron-grey, cropped short in a military cut. His eyes were icy

blue, and his mouth was a thin line like a knife-cut. Ritenour could see control

in the face, and strength, but his cold mask hid everything else. Ritenour

decided he wouldn't turn his back on this one either.

Despite Madigan's unsettling praises of the young man, Ritenour didn't see Ellis

Glen as much of a problem. He was barely out of his teens, tall and gangling and

not yet into his full growth. His face was bright and open, and he was so full

of energy it was all he could do to sit still at his table while Ritenour ate.

He was probably only there to run errands and take care of the scutwork no one

else wanted to be bothered with. Useful battle fodder too; someone expendable

Madigan could send into dangerous situations to check for traps and ambushes.

And finally, of course, there was Daniel Madigan himself. You only had to look

at him for a moment to know he was the leader. He was darkly handsome and

effortlessly charismatic, and even sitting still and silent, he radiated

strength and authority and presence. He was the first person everyone's eyes

went to on entering a room, drawing attention in much the same way a wolf would,

or any other predator. Looked at coolly, he wasn't physically all that

outstanding. He was slightly less than average height, and certainly not

muscular, but still he was the most dangerous man in the room, and everyone knew

it. Ritenour felt increasingly unsettled by Madigan's gaze, but forced himself

to continue his meal and his appraisal of the terrorist leader.

The more he studied Madigan, the clearer it became that violence of thought and

deed was always simmering just below a calm surface. And yet there was nothing

special you could put your finger on about his face or bearing. Ritenour had

heard it said that Madigan, when he felt like it, could turn off his personality

in a moment, and become just another anonymous face in the crowd. It was an

attribute that had enabled him to escape from many traps and tight corners in

his time. Ritenour studied the man's features carefully. Just now, Madigan was

showing him a cool, unemotional politician's face, half hidden behind a neatly

trimmed beard. His eyes were dark and unwavering, and his occasional smile came

and went so quickly you couldn't be sure whether you'd seen it or not. He looked

to be in his early thirties, but had to be at least ten years older, unless he'd

started his career of death and terror as a child. Not that Ritenour would put

that past him. If ever a man had been born to violence and intrigue and sudden

death, it was Daniel Madigan. No one knew how many people he'd killed down the

years, how many towns and villages he'd destroyed in blood and fire, how many

outrages he'd committed in the name of his Cause.

He had vowed to overthrow and destroy Outremer. No one knew why. There were many

stories, mostly concerning the fate of his unknown family, but they were only

stories. The Low Kingdoms had long since disowned him and his actions. He was

too extreme, too ruthless… too dangerous to be associated with, even at a

distance. Madigan didn't care. He went his own way, following his own Cause,

ready to kill or destroy anyone or anything that got in his way.

And now he was sitting opposite Ritenour, studying him coolly and waiting to

talk to him. With a start, Ritenour realized he'd finished his meal and was

staring openly at Madigan. He buried his face in his wineglass and fought his

way back to some kind of composure. He finally lowered his glass and put it

carefully down on the arm of his chair, aware that the other terrorists were

watching him with varying shades of impatience.

"Did the vintage meet with your approval?" asked Madigan.

"An excellent choice," said Ritenour, smiling calmly back. In fact, he'd been so

preoccupied he hadn't a clue as to what he'd just drunk. It could have been

dishwater for all he knew. He braced himself, and met Madigan's unnerving gaze

as firmly as he could. "What do you want with me, Madigan? I'm no one special,

and we both know it. I'm just another mid-level sorcerer, in a city infested

with them. What makes me so important to you that you were ready to start a riot

to break me out of Damnation Row?"

"You're not just a sorcerer," said Madigan easily. "You're also a shaman, a man

with intimate knowledge of the life and death of animals and men. I have a use

for a shaman. Particularly one who's followed the path of your recent

experiments. Oh yes, my friend, I know all the secrets of your laboratory. I

make it my business to know such things. Relax; no one else need ever know.

Providing you do this little job for me."

"What job?" said Ritenour. "What do you want me to do?"

Madigan leaned forward, smiling slightly. "Together, you and I are going to

rewrite history. We're going to kill the Kings of Outremer and the Low

Kingdoms."

Ritenour looked at him blankly, too stunned even to register the shock that he

felt. He'd known the Kings had arrived in Haven. That news had penetrated even

Damnation Row's thick walls. But the sheer enormity of the plan took his breath

away. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a snap.

"Let me get this right," he said finally, too thrown even to care about sounding

respectful. "You're planning to kill both Kings? Why both? I thought your

quarrel was just with Outremer?"

"It is. I have dedicated my life to that country's destruction."

"Then why the hell… ?" Horn stirred suddenly at Madigan's side, reacting to the

baffled anger in Ritenour's voice, and he shut up quickly to give his mind a

chance to catch up with his mouth. There had to be a reason. Madigan did nothing

without a reason. "Why do you want to kill your own King?"

"Because the Low Kingdoms' Parliament has betrayed us all by agreeing to his new

Peace Treaty. Once this worthless scrap of paper has been signed, land that is

rightfully ours and has been for generations will be given away to our

hereditary enemies. I will not allow that to happen. There can be no peace with

Outremer. As long as that country exists, it is an abomination in the sight of

the Gods. That land was ours, and will be again. Outremer must be brought down,

no matter what the price. So, both their King and ours must die, and in such a

fashion that no one knows who is responsible. Both Parliaments will blame the

other, both will deny any knowledge of any plot, and in the end there will be

war. The people of both countries will demand it. And Outremer will be wiped

from the face of the earth."

"We're going to do all this?" said Ritenour. "Just the six of us?"

"I have a hundred armed men at my command, hand-picked and assembled just for

this project. But if all goes well, we shouldn't even need them much, except to

ensure our security once we've taken control of Champion House. You must learn

to trust me, sir sorcerer. Everyone in this room has committed their lives to

carrying out this plan."

"You're committed to your Cause," said Ritenour bluntly. "I'm not. I'm here

because I was promised a great deal of money. And all this talk of dying for a

Cause makes me nervous. Dead men are notorious for not paying their bills."

Madigan chuckled briefly. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Don't worry, my friend.

You'll get your money. It's being held in a safe place until after this mission

is over. And to answer the question you didn't ask; no, you will not be required

to die for our Cause. Once you have performed the task I require of you, you are

free to leave."

There was a knock at the door, an ordinary, everyday knock, and Madigan's people

tensed, their hands moving quickly to their weapons. Bailey stared through the

peephole, grunted once and relaxed. "It's all right. It's just the traitor." He

unbolted the door and pulled it open, and a young nobleman strode in as if he

owned the place.

He was tall and very slender, with a skin so pale it all but boasted that its

owner never voluntarily put a foot outdoors. His long, narrow face bore two

beauty spots and a look of utter disdain. He was dressed in the latest fashion,

with tightly cut trousers and a padded jerkin with a chin-high collar. He had

the kind of natural poise and arrogance that comes only with regular practice

since childhood, and his formal bow to Madigan bordered on insolence. He swept

off his wet cloak and handed it to Bailey without looking at him. The old

warrior held the dripping garment between thumb and forefinger, and for a moment

Ritenour thought Bailey might tell the young nobleman what he could do with it.

But Madigan glanced briefly at him, and Bailey hung the cloak carefully on the

rack by the door. The young noble strutted forward, ostentatiously ignoring

everyone, and warmed his hands by the fire.

"Beastly weather out. Damned if I know why your city weather wizards allow it.

My new boots are positively ruined." He glared at Ritenour as though it was his

fault. The sorcerer smiled in response, and made a mental note of the young

man's face for future attention. The nobleman sniffed loudly and turned his

glare on Madigan. "This is the sorcerer fellow, is it? Are you sure he's up to

the job? I've seen better dressed scarecrows."

"I don't need him for his fashion sense," said Madigan calmly. "Have you brought

the information I require, Sir Roland?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd venture out in this bloody downpour unless it

was absolutely necessary, do you?"

He pulled a roll of papers from inside his jerkin, and moved over to spread them

out on the table, scowling at Glen and Eleanour Todd until they stood up and got

out of the way. Ritenour and Madigan got up and went over to join him at the

table. The sorcerer studied Sir Roland with interest. Either the man had nerves

of steel, or he was totally insensitive to the fact that he was making enemies

of some very dangerous people. Sir Roland secured his papers at the corners with

the terrorists' wineglasses, and gestured impatiently for Madigan to move in

beside him. He did so, and everyone else crowded in behind him.

"These are the floor plans for Champion House," said Sir Roland brusquely. "All

the details you'll need are here, including the location and nature of all the

security spells. I've also marked the routes of the various security patrols,

and how many men-at-arms you can expect to encounter at each point. You'll find

details of their movements, a timetable for each patrol and so on, in the other

papers. I don't have time to go through those with you now. I've also got you

the plans you requested for the cellar, though what good that's going to do you

is beyond me. No one's been down there for simply ages, and the whole place is a

mess. It's full of rubbish and probably crawling with rats. And if you're

thinking of breaking in that way, you can forget it. The cellar was built on

solid concrete, and there are unbreakable security wards to prevent anyone from

teleporting into the House.

"Now then, this sheet gives you both Kings' separate schedules, inside and

outside the building, complete with details of how much protection they'll have.

With these schedules, you'll be able to tell exactly where each King should be

at any given moment. There are bound to be alterations from time to time, to

accommodate any whims or fears of the Kings' security people, but I'll see

you're kept up to date as much as possible. For the moment, everyone's so afraid

of offending somebody that they're all following their schedules to the letter,

but you know how paranoid security people can get. You'd almost think they had

something to worry about. Finally, this sheet gives you the names of those

people who can be trusted to support you, once the operation is underway. You'll

notice the list includes names from the parties of both countries." The young

noble smiled slightly. "Though of course they won't reveal themselves unless it

becomes absolutely necessary. Still, I think you can rely on them to keep their

fellow hostages in line, prevent any heroics, that sort of thing.

"I think you'll find everything you need in here. I must say I'm rather looking

forward to seeing Their Majesties' faces when they discover they're being held

for ransom. Glorious fun. Now then, I must be off. I have to get back before I'm

missed. I don't see any need for us to meet again, Madigan, but if you must

contact me, do be terribly discreet. We don't want anything to go wrong at this

late stage, now do we?"

He turned away from the table, and gestured imperiously for Bailey to fetch him

his cloak. Bailey did so, after a look at Madigan, and Sir Roland swung the

cloak around his shoulders with a practiced dramatic gesture. Ritenour almost

felt like applauding. Sir Roland bowed briefly to Madigan, ignored everyone

else, and left. Bailey closed and bolted the door behind him. Ritenour looked at

Madigan.

"Dear Roland doesn't know what's really going on, does he?"

Madigan's smile flickered briefly. "He and his fellow conspirators believe

they're part of a plot to disrupt the Peace Signing with a kidnapping. They

believe this will delay the Signing, buy them time to sow seeds of doubt in

their precious Parliaments, and generally stir up bad feeling on both sides.

They also expect a large share of the ransom money to find its way into their

hands. I fear they're going to be somewhat disappointed. I'm rather looking

forward to seeing their faces when we execute the two Kings right before their

eyes."

"Glorious fun," said Eleanour Todd, and everyone laughed.

"About these conspirators," said Ritenour diffidently, indicating the relevant

page. "You do realize that all of them, and most particularly including Sir

Roland, will have to die? Along with everyone who could identify us."

Madigan nodded. "Believe me, sir sorcerer, no one will be left alive to point

the finger, and no one will pursue us. Haven… will have its own problems."

Ritenour looked around him, taking in the mocking smiles on the terrorists'

faces, and a sudden chill clutched at his heart. "What exactly are you planning,

Madigan? What do you want from me?"

Madigan told him.

Wulf Saxon strode through the old familiar district he used to live in, and no

one knew him. The last time he'd walked these streets, twenty-three years ago,

people had waved and smiled and some had even cheered. Everyone wanted to know

him then—the local lad who'd made good. The city Councilor who'd started out in

the same mean streets as them. But now no one recognized his face, and in a way

he was glad. The Northside had always been rough and ready, shaped by poverty

and need, but it had never seemed this bad. There was no pride or spirit left in

the quiet, defeated people who scurried through the pouring rain with their

heads bowed. The once brightly painted buildings were grey and faceless with

accumulated soot and filth. Garbage blocked the gutters, and sullen-eyed bravos

shouldered their way through the crowds without anyone so much as raising a

murmur of protest.

Saxon had expected some changes after his long absence, but nothing like this.

The Northside he remembered had been vile, corrupt, and dangerous, but the

people had a spark then, a vitality that enabled them to rise above all that and

claim their own little victories against an uncaring world. Whatever spark these

people might once have possessed had been beaten out of them. Saxon trudged on

down the street, letting his feet guide him where they would. He should have

felt angry or depressed, but mostly he just felt tired. He'd spent the last few

hours tracking down names and memories, only to find that most of the people

he'd once known were now either missing or dead. Some names only produced blank

faces. It seemed many things could change in twenty-three years.

He found himself standing in front of a tavern with a familiar name, the

Monkey's Drum, and decided he could use a drink. He pushed the door open and

stepped inside, his eyes narrowing against the sudden gloom. He took off his

cloak and flapped it briskly out the open door a few times to lose the worst of

the rain, and then hung it on a nearby peg. He shut the door and turned to study

the tavern's interior with a critical eye.

It was fairly clean, in an absent-minded sort of way, and half-full of patrons

sitting quietly at their tables, talking in lowered voices. None of them looked

at Saxon for more than the briefest of moments, to make sure he wasn't the

Guard. He smiled sourly, and headed for the bar. It seemed some things never

changed. The Monkey's Drum had always been a place where you could buy and sell

and make a deal. He made his way through the closely packed tables and ordered a

brandy at the bar. The price made him wince, but he paid it with as much good

grace as he could muster. Inflation could do a lot to prices in twenty-three

years. The money he'd set aside in his secret lock-up all those years ago wasn't

going to last nearly as long as he'd hoped. Twenty-three years… He kept

repeating the number of years to himself, as though he could make himself

believe it through sheer repetition, but it didn't get any easier. It was as

though he'd gone to sleep in one world and awakened in another that bore only a

nightmarish resemblance to the one he remembered.

That would teach him to try and steal a sorcerer's painting.

He smiled, and shrugged resignedly. Being a city Councilor had proved

surprisingly expensive, and the pittance the city paid wasn't nearly enough to

keep him in the style to which he intended to become accustomed. So he'd gone

back to his previous occupation as a gentleman crook, a burglar with style and

panache, and had broken into the house of a sorcerer he'd known was currently

out of town. He'd been doing quite well, sidestepping all the sorcerer's

protective wards with his usual skill, only to end up being eaten by

Messerschmann's bloody Portrait. Sometimes there's no justice in this world.

Saxon put his back against the bar and looked round the room, sipping at his

brandy while he wondered what to do next. He couldn't stay here, but he didn't

know where else to go. Or even if there was any point in going anywhere. His

ex-wife was probably still around somewhere, but there was nothing he wanted to

say to her. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted, but it had only taken her a

few years of marriage to decide that she didn't want him. No, he didn't want to

see her. Besides, he owed her twenty-three years of back alimony payments. And

then his gaze stumbled across a familiar face, and he straightened up. The years

had not been kind to the face, but he recognized it anyway. He strode through

the tables, a smile tugging at his lips, and loomed over the figure drinking

alone at a table half hidden in the shadows.

"William Doyle. I represent the city auditor. Taxes division. I want to see all

your receipts for the last four years."

The man choked on his drink and went bright red. He coughed quickly to get his

breath back, and tried on an ingratiating smile. It didn't suit him. "Listen, I

can explain everything…"

"Relax, Billy," said Saxon, dropping into the chair opposite him. "You always

were easy to get a rise out of. It's your own fault, for having such a guilty

conscience. Well, no words of cheer and greeting for an old friend?"

Bill Doyle looked at him blankly for a long moment, and then slow recognition

crept into his flushed face. "Wulf…

Wulf Saxon. I'll be damned. I never thought to see you again. How many years has

it been?"

"Too many," said Saxon.

"You're looking good, Wulf. You haven't changed a bit."

"Wish I could say the same for you. The years have not been kind to you, Billy

boy."

Doyle shrugged, and drank his wine. Saxon looked at him wonderingly. The Billy

Doyle he remembered had been a scrawny, intense young man in his early twenties.

Not much in the way of muscle, but more than enough energy to keep him going

long after most men gave up and dropped out. Billy never gave up. And now here

he was, a man in his late forties, weighing twice what he used to and none of it

muscle. The thinning hair was still jet-black, but had a flat, shiny look that

suggested it was probably helped along with a little dye. The face that had once

been so sharp and fierce was now coarse and almost piggy, the familiar features

blurred with fat like a cheap caricature. He looked like his own father. Or like

his father might have looked after too many good meals and too many nights on

booze. His clothes might once have been stylish, but showed signs of having been

washed and mended too many times. Without having to be told, Saxon knew that

Billy Doyle was no longer one of life's successes.

Doyle looked at him, frowning. "You haven't changed at all, Wulf. It's uncanny.

What happened. You raise enough money for a rejuvenation spell?"

"In a way. So, what's been happening in your life, Billy? What are you doing

these days?"

"Oh, this and that. Wheeling and dealing. You know how it is."

"I used to," said Saxon, slumping unhappily in his chair. "But things have

changed while I was away. I went to where my old house used to be, and they'd

torn it down and replaced it with some mock-Gothic monstrosity. The people who

lived there had never even heard of me. I went to the old neighborhood and there

was no trace of my family anywhere. Everyone I ever knew is either dead or moved

on. You're the first friendly face I've seen all day."

Doyle looked at the clock on the wall, and gulped at his drink. "Listen," he

said, trying hard to sound casual, "I'd love to sit and chat about the old days,

but I'm waiting for someone. Business; you know how it is."

"You're nervous, Billy," said Saxon thoughtfully. "Now, what have you got to be

nervous about? After all, this is me, your old friend Wulf. We never used to

have secrets from each other. Or can it be that this particular piece of

business you're involved in is something you know I wouldn't approve of?"

"Listen, Wulf…"

"Now, there aren't many things I don't approve of. I've tried most things once,

and twice if I enjoyed it. And I was, after all, a gentleman thief, who robbed

from the rich and kept it. But there was one thing I never would look the other

way for, and that hasn't changed. Tell me, Billy boy, have you got yourself

involved in childnapping?"

"Where do you get off, coming on so self-righteous?" said Doyle hotly. "You've

been away; you don't know what it's like here these days. Things have changed.

It's always been hard to make a living here, but these days there's even less

money around than there used to be. You've got to fight for every penny and

watch your back every minute of the day. If you won't take on a job, there are a

dozen men waiting to take your place. There's a market for kids— brothels,

fighting pits, sorcerers, you name it. And who's going to miss a few brats from

the streets, anyway? Their parents are probably glad they've got one less mouth

to feed. I can't afford to be proud anymore. The money's good, and that's all I

care about."

"You used to care," said Saxon.

"That was a long time ago. Don't try and interfere, Wulf. You'll get hurt."

"Are you threatening me, Billy?"

"If that's what it takes."

"You wouldn't hurt me, Billy boy. Not after everything we've been through

together."

"That was someone else. Get out of here, Wulf. You don't belong here anymore.

Times have changed, and you haven't changed with them. You've got soft."

He looked past Saxon's shoulder, and rose quickly to his feet. Saxon got up too,

and looked around, carefully moving away from the table so that his sword arm

wouldn't be crowded. Two bravos were standing by the table, staring at him

suspiciously. One of them was holding a young boy by the arm, as much to hold

him up as prevent him escaping. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten

years old, and his blank face and empty eyes showed he'd been drugged. Saxon

looked at the bravos thoughtfully. They were nothing special; just off-the-shelf

muscle. He looked at Doyle.

"Can't let you do this, Billy. Not this."

"It's what I do now, Wulf. Stay out of it."

"We used to be friends."

"And now you're just a witness." Doyle looked at the two bravos and gestured

jerkily at Saxon. "Kill him, and dispose of the body. I'll take care of the

merchandise."

The bravos grinned, and the one holding the boy let go of his arm. The child

stood still, staring at nothing as the bravos advanced on Saxon. They went to

draw their swords, and Saxon stepped forward to meet them with empty hands. He

smiled once, and then his fist lashed out with supernatural speed. The first

bravo's head whipped round as the force of the blow smashed his jaw and broke

his neck, and. he crumpled lifelessly to the floor. The other bravo cried out

with shock and rage, and Saxon turned to face him.

The bravo cut at him with his sword, and Saxon's hand snapped out and closed on

the man's wrist, bringing the sword to a sudden halt. The bravo strained against

the hold, but couldn't move his arm an inch. Saxon twisted his hand, and there

was a sickening crunching sound as the man's wrist bones shattered. All the

color went out of his face, and the sword fell from his limp fingers. Saxon let

go of him. The bravo snatched a knife from his belt with his other hand, and

Saxon slammed a punch into his gut. His hand sank in deeply, and blood burst

from the man's mouth. Saxon pulled back his hand, and the bravo fell to the

floor and lay still. Saxon heard a footstep behind him, and turned round to see

Billy Doyle backing slowly away, a sword in his hand. Saxon looked at him, and

Doyle dropped the sword. His eyes were wide and frightened, and his hands were

trembling.

"You're not even breathing hard," he said numbly. "Who are you?"

"I'm Wulf Saxon, and I'm back. My time away has… changed me somewhat. I'm

faster, stronger. And I don't have a lot of patience anymore. But some things

about me haven't changed at all. You're out of the childnapping business, Billy.

As of now. I'll hand the boy over to the Guard. You'd better start running."

Doyle stood where he was, deathly pale. He licked his lips, and shifted his feet

uncertainly. "You wouldn't set the Guard on me, Wulf. You wouldn't do that to

me. We're old friends, remember? You were never the sort to betray a friend."

"That was someone else," said Saxon. "One question, and then you can go. The

correct answer buys you a half-hour start. If you lie to me, I'll hunt you down

and kill you. Where's my sister, Billy? Where's Annathea?"

Doyle smiled. "Yeah, figures you'd have a job tracking her down. She doesn't use

that name anymore. Hasn't for a long time. Ask for Jenny Grove, down on Cheape

Street. Grove used to be her old man. Ran off years ago. He never was worth

much."

"Where on Cheape Street?"

"Just ask. They all know Jenny Grove round there. But you aren't going to like

what you'll find, Wulf. I'm not the only one that's changed. Your precious

sister's been through a lot since you abandoned her."

"Start running, Billy. Your half hour starts now. And pass the word around. Wulf

Saxon is back, and he's in a real bad mood."

Billy Doyle took in Saxon's icy blue eyes and the flat menace in his voice, and

nodded stiffly, the smile gone from his mouth as though it had never been there.

He was very close to death, and he knew it. He turned and headed for the door at

a fast walk that was almost a run. He grabbed a drab-looking cloak from the

rack, pulled open the door, and looked back at Saxon. "I'll see you regret this,

Wulf. I have friends, important people, with connections. They aren't going to

like this at all. Haven's changed since your day. There are people out there now

who'll eat you alive."

"Send them," said Saxon. "Send them all. Twenty-eight minutes left, Billy boy."

Doyle turned and left, slamming the door behind him. Saxon looked around him

unhurriedly, but no one moved at their tables. The tavern's patrons watched in

silence as Saxon took the drugged boy by the arm and headed for the door. He

collected his cloak, slung it round his shoulders, and pulled open the door. It

was still raining. He looked back into the tavern, and the patrons met his gaze

like so many wild dogs, cowed for the moment but still dangerous. Saxon bowed to

them politely.

"You've got five minutes to get out of here by the back door. Then I'm setting

fire to the tavern."

He handed the boy over to a Guard Constable who came to watch the fire brigade

as they tried to put out the blazing tavern. The driving rain kept the fire from

spreading, but the Monkey's Drum was already beyond saving. There were

occasional explosions inside as the flames reached new caches of booze. Saxon

watched for a while, enjoying the spectacle, and then got directions to Cheape

Street from the Constable and set off deeper into the Northside.

He didn't know this particular area very well, except by reputation, and

undoubtedly that had also changed in the past twenty-three years, along with

everything else. Certainly the streets he passed through seemed increasingly

dingy and squalid, and he grew thankful for the heavy rain that hid the worst

details from him. A slow, sick feeling squirmed in his gut as he wondered what

Doyle had meant in his comments about Annathea. And why should she have changed

her first name, just because she got married? It didn't make sense. Anyone would

think she was hiding from someone.

It didn't occur to him until some time later that she might have been hiding

from him.

Cheape Street turned out to be right on the edge of the Devil's Hook, a square

mile of slums and alleyways bordering the Docks. The Hook was where you ended up

when you'd fallen so far there was nowhere else to go but the cemetery. Poverty

and suffering were as much a part of the Devil's Hook as the filthy air and

fouled streets. Death and sudden violence were a part of everyday life. Saxon

kept his hand conspicuously near his sword, and turned a hard glare on anyone

who even looked like they were getting too close. He had no trouble in finding

the address he'd been given, and stared in disbelief at the sagging tenements

huddled together in the rain. This was the kind of place where absentee

landlords crammed whole families into one room, and no one could afford to

complain. What the hell was Annathea doing here? He stopped a few people at

random, using the Jenny Grove name, and got directions to a second-floor flat

right at the end of the tenement building.

Saxon found the right entrance and strode into the narrow hallway. Four men were

sitting on the stairs, blocking his way. They were pretty much what he expected.

Young, overmuscled, and out of work, with too much time on their hands and

nothing to do but make trouble to relieve the endless boredom. Probably saw this

filthy old fleatrap as their territory, and were glad of a chance to manhandle

an outsider. Unfortunately for them, Saxon wasn't in the mood to play along. He

strode towards them, smiling calmly, and they moved to block off the stairs

completely. The oldest, who couldn't have been more than twenty, grinned

insolently up at Saxon. He wore battered leathers pierced with cheap brass rings

in rough patterns, and made a big play out of pretending to clean his filthy

nails with the point of a vicious-looking knife.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm visiting my sister," said Saxon. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah. You could say that. You're not from around here, not with fancy clothes

like those. You don't belong here. This is Serpent territory. We're the

Serpents. You want to walk around where we live, that's going to cost you. Think

of it as an informal community tax."

The others laughed at that, a soft dangerous sound, and watched Saxon with dark,

unblinking eyes. Saxon just nodded, unmoved.

"And how much would this tax be?"

"Everything you've got, friend, everything you've got."

The young tough rose lithely to his feet, holding his knife out before him.

Saxon stepped forward, took him by the throat with one hand, and lifted him off

his feet. The Serpent's eyes bulged and his grin vanished. His feet kicked

helplessly inches above the floor. He started to lift his knife, and Saxon

turned and threw him the length of the hall. He slammed into the end wall by the

door, and slid unconscious to the floor. Saxon looked at the Serpents still

blocking the stairs, and they scrambled to get out of his way.

He started up the stairs, and one of them produced a length of steel chain from

somewhere and whipped it viciously at Saxon's face, aiming for the eyes. The

other two produced knives and moved forward, their eyes eager for blood. Saxon

swayed easily to one side and the chain missed, though he felt the breath of its

passing on his face. His attacker stumbled forward, caught off balance, and

Saxon took the Serpent's throat in his hand and crushed it. Blood flew from the

man's mouth, and he fell dying to the floor. Saxon kicked him out of the way.

That left two.

He slapped the knife out of one Serpent's hand, and kicked the other in the leg.

He felt, as well as heard, the bone break beneath his boot. The man fell back,

screaming and clutching at his leg. The other was down on one knee, scrabbling

frantically for his knife. Saxon kicked him in the face. The Serpent's neck

snapped under the impact, and he flew 'backwards to lie unmoving on the hall

floor. Saxon turned and looked at the last Serpent, who cringed from him, his

back pressed against the stairway banisters. Saxon reached down, grabbed a

handful of the man's leathers, and lifted him up effortlessly, so that they were

face to face. Sweat ran down the Serpent's face, and his eyes were wide with

shock and fear.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Saxon. Wulf Saxon. I've been away, but now I'm back. I'm going up to visit

my sister now. If anyone feels like coming up after me and disturbing my visit,

I'm relying on you to convince them that it's a bad idea. Because if anyone else

annoys me, I'm going to get really unpleasant."

He dropped the Serpent, and continued on up the stairs without looking back. The

second floor was dark and gloomy. The windows had been boarded up, and there

were no lamps. The doors all looked much the same, old and hard-used and covered

with an ancient coat of peeling paint. The numbers had been crudely carved into

the wood, probably because any attached number would have been pried off and

stolen in the hope someone would pay a few pennies for it. In this kind of

neighborhood, anything that wasn't actually nailed down and guarded with a drawn

sword was considered fair game.

He found the right door, raised a hand to knock, and then hesitated. He wondered

suddenly if he wanted to meet the person his sister had become. Billy Doyle had

been a good sort once; brave, reliable, honorable. Saxon slowly lowered his

hand. His sister was Annathea, not this Jenny Grove; whoever she was. Perhaps

the best thing would be to just turn around and leave. That way he'd at least

have his memories of Annathea. He pushed the temptation aside. He had to know.

Whatever she'd done, whoever she'd become, she was still family, and there might

be something he could do to help. He knocked briskly at the door. There was a

pause, and then he heard the muffled sound of footsteps from inside.

"Who is it?"

Something clutched at Saxon's heart like a fist. The voice had been that of an

old woman. He had to cough and clear his throat before he could answer.

"It's me, Anna. It's your long-lost brother, Wulf."

There was a long pause, and then he heard the sound of bolts being drawn, and

the door opened to reveal a faded, middle-aged woman in a shapeless grey robe.

Her thin grey hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, and he didn't know her

face at all. Saxon relaxed a little, and some of the weight lifted from his

heart. He had come to the wrong place after all. He'd make his excuses,

apologize for disturbing the old lady, and leave. And then she leaned forward,

and raised a veined hand to touch his arm, her face full of wonder.

"Wulf? Is it really you, Wulf?"

"Annathea?"

The woman smiled sadly. "No one's called me that in years. Come in, Wulf. Come

in and tell me why you abandoned your family all those years ago."

She stepped back while he was still searching for an answer, and gestured for

him to enter. He did so, and she shut the door, carefully pushing home the two

heavy bolts. Saxon stood uncertainly in his sister's single room and looked

around him, as much to give him an excuse for not speaking as anything else. It

was clean, if not particularly tidy, with a few pieces of battered old furniture

that wouldn't have looked out of place in the city dump. Which was probably

where they'd come from. A narrow bed was pushed up against the far wall, the

bedclothes held together by patches and rough stitching.

The woman gestured for him to sit down on one of the uncomfortable-looking

chairs pulled up to the fire. He did so, and she slowly lowered herself into the

facing chair. Her bones cracked loudly in the quiet, sounding almost like the

damp logs spitting in the fire. For a while Saxon and the woman just sat there,

looking at each other. He still couldn't see his sister in the drawn, wrinkled

face before him.

"I hear you used to be married," he said finally.

"Ah yes. Dear Robbie. He was so alive, always joking and smiling and full of big

plans. Sometimes I think I married him because he reminded me so much of you.

That should have warned me, but I was lonely and he was insistent. He ran

through what was left of the family fortune in twelve months, and then I woke up

one morning and he was gone. He left me a nice little note, thanking me for all

the good times. I never saw him again. Things were hard for a while after that.

I had no money, and Robbie left a lot of debts behind him. But I coped. I had

to."

"Wait a minute," said Saxon, confused. "What about the rest of the family? Why

didn't they help you?"

Jenny Grove looked at him. "I thought you'd know by now. They're all dead, Wulf.

It broke mother's heart when you ran off and left us without even a word or a

note. Father spent a lot of money hiring private agents to try and track you

down, but it was all money wasted. Your friends were convinced something must

have happened to you, but they couldn't find out anything either. Mother died

not long after you left. She was never very strong. Father faded away once she

was gone, and followed her a year later. George and Curt both became soldiers.

George joined the army, and Curt became a mercenary. You know they never could

agree on anything. They died fighting on opposite sides of the same battle, over

fifteen years ago. That just left me. For a long time I clung to the hope that

you might come back to help me, but you never did. After a while, after a long

while, I stopped hoping. It hurt too much. How could you do it, Wulf? You meant

so much to us; we were all so proud of you. How could you just run off and leave

us?"

"I didn't," said Saxon. "I got caught in a sorcerer's trap.

I was only released today. That's why I haven't aged. For me, twenty-three years

ago was yesterday."

"Stealing," said Jenny Grove. "You were out stealing again, weren't you?

Everything you had, wealth and power and position; that wasn't enough for you,

was it? You had to have your stupid little thrills as well, didn't you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

She looked at him, too tired and beaten down even to be bitter, and he had to

look away. There was a long, awkward silence as he searched for something to

say.

"Why… Jenny Grove?" he said finally.

She shrugged. "Your money took us out of the Northside, and let us live the good

life, for a while. I wish it hadn't. It made it so much harder to go back to

being nothing again. Annathea and her life became just a dream, a dream I wanted

to forget, because it drove me mad. So I became Jenny Grove, who'd never been

anything but poor, and had no memories to forget."

"But what about our friends? Did none of them help you?"

"Friends… you'd be surprised how quickly friends disappear once the money's run

out. And you made a lot of enemies when you disappeared so suddenly. Friends

who'd been as close as family wouldn't even speak to us, because of the way you

left them in the lurch. They were convinced we must have known about it, you

see. Not everyone turned their back on me. Billy Doyle—you remember Billy—he

helped sort out the debts Robbie left me, and helped me start a new life. I

drove him away in the end. He was part of the old days, and I just wanted to

forget. Dear Billy; he had such a crush on me when we were younger. I don't

suppose you remember that."

"I remember," said Saxon. "He told me where to find you."

"That was good of him."

"Yes, it was. He said… everyone around here knew you. What do you do, these

days?"

"I read the cards, tell fortunes, that sort of thing. Father would never have

approved, but it's harmless enough. Mostly I just tell them what they want to

hear, and they go away happy. I have my regular customers, and they bring me

enough to get by on."

Saxon smiled for the first time. "That's a relief, at least. From the way Billy

said it, I was afraid you might have been a… well, a lady of the evening."

"You mean a whore. I was, dear. What else was there for me, then? But I got too

old for that. I decided I'd spent enough time staring at my bedroom ceiling, and

took up the cards instead. Dear me, Wulf, you look shocked. You shouldn't. There

are worse ways to make money, and you'll find most of them here in the Hook. Why

did you come here, Wulf? What do you want from me?"

Saxon looked at her. "You're my sister."

"No," said Jenny Grove flatly. "That was someone else. Annathea Saxon died years

ago—of a broken heart, like her parents. Go away, Wulf. We've nothing to say to

each other. All you can do is stir up memories best forgotten by both of us. Go

away, Wulf. Please."

Saxon rose slowly to his feet. He felt so helpless it hurt. "I'll get some money

together, and then I'll come back and see you again."

"Goodbye, Wulf."

"Goodbye, Anna."

He left without saying any more, and without looking back. Jenny Grove stared

into the crackling fire, and wouldn't let herself cry until she was sure he'd

gone.

Saxon stomped down the stairs, scowling angrily. There had to be someone left

from his past who'd be glad to see him. Someone he'd started on the road to

success… He smiled suddenly. Richard Anderson. Young Richard had been just

starting out in Reform politics twenty-three years ago, and Saxon had provided

both financial and personal backing when no one else believed in Anderson at

all. Saxon had believed in him. Richard Anderson had shown drive and ambition

and an almost savage grasp of how to play the political game. If anyone had

succeeded and prospered in Saxon's absence, it would be Anderson. And someone

with his genius for keeping a high profile shouldn't be that difficult to track

down.

He started down the stairs that led to the ground floor, and then stopped

suddenly, his hand dropping to his sword. The entry hall was crammed with a

dozen young toughs and bravos, all wearing the same leathers as the four

Serpents he'd encountered earlier. Apparently the survivor had gone running for

his friends. Well, crawling anyway. They carried knives and clubs and lengths of

steel chains, and they looked at Saxon with mocking grins and hungry eyes. Saxon

looked calmly out at them.

"I've had a bad day, my friends. You're about to have a worse one."

He ran down the last few stairs and launched himself into their midst. He landed

heavily on two Serpents, and his weight threw them all to the floor. He lashed

out with his fist, and one Serpent's face disappeared in a mess of blood and

broken bone. Stamping down hard as he rose to his feet, Saxon felt the other

Serpent's ribs break and splinter under his boot. Knives and bludgeons flailed

around him, but he was too fast for them. He moved among the Serpents like a

deadly ghost, his fists lashing out with supernatural strength and fury. He

picked up one of his assailants and used him as a living flail with which to

batter his fellows. The Serpent screamed at first, but not for long. Bones broke

and splintered, blood flew on the air, and Serpents fell to the floor and did

not rise again. Saxon soon tired of that, and threw the limp body away. He

needed it to be more personal. He needed to get his hands on them.

But the few remaining Serpents turned and ran rather than face him, and he was

left alone in the hallway, surrounded by the dead and the dying. Blood pooled on

the floor and ran down the walls, the stink of it heavy on the air. Saxon looked

slowly around him, almost disappointed there was no one left on whom he could

take out his frustration, and realized suddenly that he wasn't even breathing

hard. Something strange had happened to him during his time in the Portrait.

He'd lost his mind, and recovered it in some fashion he didn't really

understand, but he'd gained something too. Not only had he not aged, but when he

fought it was as though all the lost years burned in him at once. He was

stronger and faster than anyone he'd ever known. The Serpents hadn't been able

to lay a finger on him. His gaze moved slowly over the broken and bloodied

bodies that lay scattered across the hallway, and he grinned suddenly. He'd been

away, but now he was back, and he wasn't in the mood to take any shit from

anyone. Haven might have gone to hell while he was away, but he was going to

drag it back to civilization, kicking and screaming all the way if necessary.

He left the tenement building and strode off into the Northside, in search of

Richard Anderson.

"Councilor Anderson," said Saxon. "I'm impressed, Richard; really. You've come

up in the world."

Saxon leaned back in his chair and puffed happily at the long cigar he'd taken

from the box on Anderson's desk. The rich smell of cigar smoke filled the

office, obliterating the damp smell from Saxon's clothes. There were fresh

bloodstains on his clothes too, but so far, Anderson had carefully refrained

from mentioning them. Saxon looked around the office, taking his time. He liked

the office. It had been his once, back when he'd been a Reform Councilor. One of

the first Reform Councilors, in fact. The office had been extensively renovated

and refurnished since then, of course, and it looked a hundred times better.

Everything was top quality now, including the paintings on the walls. Saxon

could remember when the only painting had been a portrait of their main

Conservative rival. They'd used it for knife-throwing practice. Saxon sighed,

and looked down at the floor. There was even a fitted carpet now, with an

intimidatingly deep pile. He looked back at the man sitting on the opposite side

of the desk, and tried hard to keep the frown off his face.

Councilor Richard Anderson was a stocky, tolerably handsome man in his middle

forties, dressed in sober but acceptably fashionable clothes. Saxon thought he

looked ridiculous, but then fashions had changed a lot in the past twenty-three

years. Anderson looked impassively back at Saxon, wearing a standard

politician's face—polite but uninvolved. There was nothing in his expression or

posture to show how he felt about seeing the man who had once been his closest

friend and colleague, back from the dead after all the long years. Nothing

except the slow anger in his eyes.

"What the hell happened to you, Richard?" said Saxon finally. "How did you of

all people end up as a Conservative Councilor? You used to be even more of a

Reformer than I was; a hotheaded rebel who couldn't wait to get into politics

and start making changes. What happened?"

"I grew up," said Anderson. "What happened to you?"

"Long story. Tell me about the others. I assume they haven't all become

Conservatives. What's Dave Carrera doing these days?"

"He's an old man now. Sixty-one, I think. Left politics after he lost two

elections in a row. Runs a catering business in the Eastside."

"And Howard Kilronan?"

"Runs a tavern, the Inn of the Black Freighter."

"Aaron Cooney, Padraig Moran?"

"Aaron was killed in a tavern brawl, twenty years ago. I don't know what

happened to Padraig. I lost touch over the years."

Saxon shook his head disgustedly. "And we were going to change the world. We had

such hopes and such plans… I take it there is still a Reform movement in Haven?"

"Of course. It's even had a few successes of late. But it won't last. Idealists

don't last long in Haven as a rule. What are you doing here, Wulf?"

"I came to see a friend," said Saxon. "I don't seem to have many left."

"What did you expect, after running out on us like that? All our plans fell

apart without you here to lead us. You were a Councilor, Wulf; you had

responsibilities, not just to us but to all the people who worked and campaigned

on your behalf. When you just up and vanished, a lot of people lost heart, and

we lost the Seat on the Council back to the Conservatives. All of us who'd put

money into the Cause lost everything. Billy Doyle spent a year in a debtors'

prison. You know how he felt about you, and your sister. Have you seen her yet?"

"Yes. Why didn't you do something to help her?"

"I tried. She didn't want to know."

They sat in silence for a while, both of them holding back angry words. Saxon

stubbed out his cigar. The taste had gone flat. He rose to his feet and nodded

briskly to Anderson. "Time to go. I'll see you again, Richard; at the next

election. This is my office, and I'm going to get it back."

"No, wait; don't go." Anderson rose quickly to his feet and gestured

uncertainly. "Stay and talk for a while. You still haven't told me how you've

stayed so young. What have you been doing all these years?"

Saxon looked at him. Anderson's voice had been carefully casual, and yet there

had been a definite wrong note; a hint of something that might have been alarm,

or even desperation. Why should it suddenly matter so much to Anderson whether

he left or not? A sudden intuition flared within him, and he moved over to look

out the window. In the street below, Guard Constables were gathering outside the

house. Saxon cursed dispassionately, and turned back to look at Anderson.

"You son of a bitch. You set me up."

Anderson's face paled, but he stood his ground. "You're a wanted criminal, Wulf.

A common murderer and arsonist. I know my duty."

Saxon stepped forward, his face set and grim. Anderson backed quickly away,

until his back slammed up against the wall. Saxon picked up the heavy wooden

desk between them and threw it effortlessly to one side, and then stood still,

staring coldly at Anderson.

"I ought to tear your head right off your shoulders. After all the things I did

for you… But it seems I'm a bit pressed for time at the moment. I'll see you

again, Richard; and then we'll continue this conversation."

He turned away and headed for the door. Anderson struggled to regain his

composure.

"They'll find you, Saxon! There's nowhere you can hide. They'll hunt you down

and kill you like a rabid dog!"

Saxon smiled at him, and Anderson flinched. Saxon laughed softly. "Anyone who

finds me will regret it. I've got nothing left to lose, Richard; and that makes

me dangerous. Very dangerous."

He left the office, not even bothering to slam the door behind him. He ran down

the stairs to meet the Guard, feeling his new strength mount within him like a

fever. He wasn't going to let the Guard stop him. He had things to do. He wasn't

sure what they were yet, but he was sure of one thing: someone was going to pay

for all the years he'd lost, for all the friends and hopes that had been taken

from him. The first of the Guard Constables appeared at the bottom of the

stairs, and Saxon smiled down at him.

"You know something? I've had a really bad day. You're about to have a worse

one." The other Guards arrived, and he threw himself at them.

The cemetery wasn't much to look at, just a plot of open land covered with earth

mounds and headstones. Incense sticks burned at regular intervals, but the smell

was still pretty bad. Saxon stood looking down at the single modest stone

bearing both his parents' names, and felt more numb than anything. He'd never

meant for them to be buried here. He'd always intended they should be laid to

rest in one of the more discreet, upmarket cemeteries on the outskirts of the

city. But by the time they died, most of the money he'd brought to the family

was gone, and so they were buried here. At least they were together, as they'd

wanted.

The rain had died away to a miserable drizzle, though the sky was still dark and

overcast. Saxon stood with his head bare, and let the rain run down his face

like tears. He felt cold, inside and out. He knelt down beside the headstone,

and set about methodically clearing the weeds away from the stone and the grave.

He'd known his parents would probably be dead, as soon as he was told how many

years he'd been away, but he hadn't really believed it. Then Anna told him

they'd died, but he still didn't believe it, not really. For him it was only

yesterday that they'd both been alive and well, and proud of him. Their son, the

city Councilor. And now they were gone, and they'd died believing he deserted

them, and all the people who depended on him. He stopped weeding and sat still,

and the tears burst from him with a violence that shook him.

They finally passed, leaving him feeling weak and drained. He'd never felt so

alone. In the past, there had always been family and friends to look out for