Guard Against Dishonor

trying to bring in his attackers alive. As if he'd had a choice, with ten-to-one

odds.

They made their way through the building, going from department to department,

ostensibly just passing the time of day with their co-workers, but always

managing to slip in the occasional probing question. It was hard going. None of

the Guards wanted to talk about Morgan or his drugs, and in particular no one

wanted to be seen talking to Hawk. Overnight he'd become bad news, and no one

wanted to get too close in case some of the guilt rubbed off on them. The sudden

reticence was unnerving. Usually Headquarters was buzzing with gossip about

everything under the sun, most of it unprovable and nearly all of it

acrimonious, but now all Hawk had to do was stick his head round a door and

silence would fall across the room. Hawk gritted his teeth and kept smiling. He

didn't want anyone to think the silence was getting to him. And slowly, very

slowly, he started getting answers. They were mostly evasive, and always hushed,

but they often told as much by what they didn't say as what they did. And the

picture that gradually emerged was more than a little disturbing.

Mistress Melanie of the Wardrobe department didn't know anything about Morgan or

the missing drugs, but she did let slip that the campaign of silence was

semiofficial in origin. Word had come down from Above that the Morgan case was

closed. Permanently. Which suggested that someone High Up was involved, as well

as someone at Headquarters. That was unusual; corruption in the higher ranks of

the Guard tended to be political rather than criminal. A clerk in Intelligence

quietly intimated that at least one Guard Captain was involved. And a pretty

well-regarded Captain, too. He wouldn't even hint at a name.

Hawk and Burns hung around the Constables' cloakroom for a while, but it soon

became clear that the Constables were uneasy in their company and had nothing to

say. The Forensic Laboratory was up to its eyes in work, as usual, and the

technicians were all too busy to talk. Vice, Forgery, and Confidence Tricks were

all evasive and occasionally openly obstructive. Hawk had his enemies in the

Guard, and some saw this as their chance to attack while he was vulnerable. Hawk

just kept on smiling, and made a note of certain names for later.

Of all the departments, the Murder Squad turned out to be the most

forthcoming—probably because no one was going to tell any of its members who

they could and couldn't talk to. They were the toughest of the tough, took no

nonsense from anyone, and didn't care who knew it. Unfortunately, what they knew

wasn't really worth the telling. The crates of super-chacal had been taken down

to the storage cellars, and signed in, all according to procedure. But when the

time came to check the contents, there was no sign of the crates anywhere.

Everyone in Stores swore blind that no one could have got to the drugs without

breaking Stores' security, and all the wards and protections were still in

place, undisturbed. Which meant it had to be an inside job. Someone in Stores

had been got at. But when the Stores personnel were tested under truthspell,

they all came out clean as a whistle. So whoever took the drugs had to be

someone fairly high up in the Guard, with access to the right keys and

passwords. Hawk mentioned the possibility of a Captain on the take. There was a

lot of shrugging and sideways glances, but no one would admit to knowing

anything definite. Hawk thanked them for their time, and left.

That just left the Drug Squad, but as Hawk expected, no one there would talk to

him. They were already under suspicion themselves, and weren't about to make

things worse by helping a pariah like Hawk. He nodded politely to the silent

room, and then he and Burns left to do some hard thinking. They found an empty

office, barricaded the door to keep out unwelcome visitors, and sat down with

their feet propped up on either side of the desk.

"The more I learn, the less this case makes sense," said Hawk disgustedly.

"There's no way anyone could have got those crates out of Stores without

somebody noticing, passwords or no passwords. I mean, you'd have needed at least

half a dozen people just to shift that many crates. Someone in Stores has got to

be lying."

"But they all passed the truthspell."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's possible to beat the truthspell,

if you know what you're doing."

"It could have been sorcery of some kind," said Burns. "Morgan had one sorcerer

working for him in that factory; who's to say he doesn't have another one

working for him?"

"Could be," said Hawk. "Hell, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Did

you see their faces in the Drug Squad? I know those people. I've worked with

practically everyone in that room at one time or another, and they looked at me

like I was a stranger. It was the same with all the others; they don't trust me

anymore, and the fact of the matter is, I don't trust them either. I don't know

who to trust anymore. You heard what Intelligence said; it isn't just a Captain

who's on the take, it's a well-respected Captain. There aren't too many of

those."

"Maybe we should go talk to Commander Glen."

"No. I don't think so."

Burns looked at him. "Are you saying you don't trust Glen either? He's the one

who gave you this brief, told you to find out what's going on!"

"He's also the one who let Morgan go. And it's clear there's been a lot of

pressure coming down from Above to keep people quiet. What better way to conceal

a potentially embarrassing investigation than to be the one who set it up?"

"But why would someone like Glen bother about a few missing drugs?"

"He wouldn't. More and more it seems to me the drugs are only a part of this.

Something else is going on, something so big they can't afford for it to come to

light."

"They?" said Burns.

Hawk shrugged. "Who knows how far up the corruption goes? Why stop at a Captain

or a Commander? Morgan said there was a lot of money to be made out of this

super-chacal. Millions of ducats. And don't forget, most of the top people in

the Guard are political appointees, and there's a damn sight more corruption in

politics than there ever was in the Guard."

"Hawk," said Burns carefully, "this is starting to sound very paranoid. We're

going to need an awful lot of hard evidence if we're to convince anyone else."

"We can't go to anyone else. We're all alone now. We can't trust anyone—not our

colleagues, not our superiors, not our friends. Anyone could be working for the

other side." Hawk hesitated, and looked intently at Burns. "You know, you don't

have to stay with me on this. When I asked you to be my partner, I didn't know

what we were getting into. There's still time for you to get out, if you want.

Things could get very nasty very quickly once I start pushing this."

Burns smiled. "You're not getting rid of me that easily. Especially not now the

case is getting so interesting. I'm not convinced about this massive conspiracy

of yours, but there's no doubt something fascinating is going on. I'm with you

all the way, until we break the case or it breaks us. Morgan's people killed my

partner. I can't turn my back on that. So, what's our next step?"

"There's only one place we can go," said Hawk slowly. "The Guard Advisory

Council."

Burns gaped at him for a moment. "You've got to be kidding! They're just a bunch

of businessmen, Guard retirees and idealistic Quality who like to see themselves

as a buffer between the Guard and the Council's politics. They mean well, but

they're about as much use as a chocolate teapot. I mean, they're very free with

their advice, but they don't have any real power. They're mostly just public

relations. How can they help us?"

"They're all people in a position to have a finger on the pulse of what's

happening in Haven. And just maybe they're divorced enough from both Guard and

Council not to be tainted by the present corruption. Maybe we can get some

answers there we won't get anywhere else. It's worth a try."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Burns hesitated a moment. "Hawk, this Captain who's

working for Morgan. What if it turns out to be someone we know? Maybe even a

friend?"

"We do whatever's necessary," said Hawk flatly. "Whoever it is."

Burns looked as though he was going to say something more, and then both he and

Hawk jumped as someone knocked briskly on the office door. They both took their

feet off the desk, and glanced at each other.

"Captain Hawk?" said a voice from outside. "I have a message for you."

"How did he know where to find me?" said Hawk quietly. "No one's supposed to

know where we are."

"What do we do?" said Burns.

"Answer him, I suppose." Hawk got up and walked over to the barricaded door.

"What do you want?"

"Captain Hawk? I have a message for you, sir. I'm supposed to deliver it in

person."

Hawk hesitated, and then shrugged. He pulled away the chairs holding the door

shut, drew his axe, and opened the door. A Guard Constable looked at him, and

the axe, and nodded respectfully.

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain. It's about the child you rescued from under the

collapsed tenement. The little girl."

"I remember her," said Hawk. "Has there been some improvement in her condition?"

"I'm sorry, sir. She's dead. I'm told she never regained consciousness."

"I see. Thank you." The Constable nodded and walked away. Hawk closed the door.

"Damn. Oh damn."

Out in the corridor, the Constable smiled to himself. The news had obviously

shaken Hawk badly. And anything that slowed Hawk down had to be good for Morgan

and his backers. The Constable strode off down the corridor, patting the full

purse at his belt and whistling cheerfully.

Chapter Five

Under Siege

Fisher peered out the study window, chewing thoughtfully on a chicken leg she'd

liberated from the delegates' lunch time snack after they'd disappeared back

into the pocket dimension. She'd spent the last half hour checking out the house

security and searching for weak spots, but she had to admit ap Owen seemed to

know what he was doing. Every door and window had locks or bolts or both, and

they were all securely fastened. There were men-at-arms in servants' livery on

every floor, making their rounds at random intervals so as not to fall into a

predictable routine. Routines could be taken advantage of. There were caches of

weapons stashed all over the house, carefully out of sight but still ready to

hand in an emergency. Outside, the grounds were a security man's dream. All the

approaches were wide open—nowhere for anyone to hide—and the thick covering of

snow made the lawns impossible to cross without leaving obvious tracks.

All in all, everything was calm and peaceful, and showed every sign of staying

that way. Which was probably why Fisher was so bored. Ap Owen's people seemed to

regard her as an outsider, and her appointment as some kind of negative

appraisal of their own abilities. As a result, none of them were talking to her.

Ap Owen himself seemed friendly enough, but it was clear he was the worrying

type, constantly on the move, checking that everything was running smoothly.

Fisher wandered aimlessly around for a while, committing the layout of the house

to memory and trying to get the feel of the place.

It was an old house, creaking and groaning under the weight of the winter cold,

with a somewhat erratic design. There were rooms within rooms and corridors that

led nowhere, and shadows in unexpected places. But everything that could be done

to make the house secure had been done, and Fisher couldn't fault ap Owen's

work. She should have felt entirely safe and protected, and it came as something

of a surprise to her to find that she didn't. Deep down inside, where her

instincts lived, she couldn't shake off the feeling she—and everyone else in the

house—was in danger. No doubt part of that uneasiness came from knowing there

was a pocket dimension nearby. After what had happened in the Hook she was more

than a little leery of such magic, for all of ap Owen's reassurances. But more

than that, she had a strong feeling of being watched, of being under siege. She

had only to look out of a window to feel the pressure of unseen watching eyes,

as though somewhere outside a cold professional gaze was studying her

dispassionately, and considering options.

And so she'd ended up back in the study, staring out the wide window at the

bare, innocent lawns and wondering if she was finally getting paranoid. Ap Owen

acted as if he was expecting an attack at any moment, and she was beginning to

understand why. There was a definite feeling of anticipation in the air, of

something irrevocable edging closer; as though her instincts were trying to warn

her of something her mind hadn't noticed yet. She threw aside her chicken leg,

turned her back on the window defiantly, and looked around for something to

distract her. Unfortunately, the study was briskly austere, with the bare

minimum of chairs and a plain writing table. Bookshelves lined two of the walls,

but their leather-bound volumes had a no-nonsense, businesslike look to them.

There was one portrait, on the wall behind the desk, its subject a

straight-backed, grim-faced man who apparently hadn't approved of such

frivolities as having your portrait painted. The study had clearly been intended

as a room for working, not relaxing.

Fisher leafed through some of the papers on the desk, but ap Owen's handwriting

was so bad they might have been written in code for all she could tell. She

looked thoughtfully at the wine decanters left over from the delegates' break,

and then looked away. She'd been drinking too much of late. So had Hawk. Haven

did that to you.

There was a definite crawling on the back of Fisher's neck, and she strode back

to the window and glared out at the featureless scene again. The snow-covered

lawns stretched away before her, vast and unmarked. There were no trees or

hedges, nothing to hide behind. Everything was quiet. Fisher yawned suddenly,

and didn't bother to cover her mouth. She'd been hoping to snatch a couple of

hours' sleep here, but it seemed her nerves were determined to keep her restless

and alert. She almost wished that someone would attack, just to get it over

with.

She started to turn away from the window, and then stopped, startled, and looked

quickly back again. The wide open lawns were empty and undisturbed; no one was

there. But for a moment she could have sworn… It came again, a sudden movement

tugging at the edge of her vision. She looked quickly back and forth, and

pounded her fist on the windowsill in frustration. There couldn't be anyone out

there. Even if they were invisible, they'd still leave tracks in the snow.

Things moved at the corner of her eyes, teasing her with glimpses of shapes and

movement that refused to come clear. She backed slowly away from the window and

drew her sword. Something was happening out there. There was a sound behind her

and she spun round, dropping into a fighter's crouch. Ap Owen raised an eyebrow,

and she flushed angrily as she straightened up.

"Dammit, don't do that! Come and take a look, ap Owen. Something's going on

outside."

"I know. Half my people are giving themselves eyestrain trying to get a clear

look at it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"I have a very nasty suspicion," said ap Owen, moving over to join her before

the window. "I think there's someone out there, hiding behind an illusion spell.

It must be pretty powerful to hide his trail as well, but as he gets closer to

the house the protective wards are interfering with the spell, giving us

glimpses of what it's hiding."

"You think it's just one man?"

"Not really, no. Just wishful thinking. I've put my people on full alert, just

in case."

"Does whoever's out there know we've spotted something?"

"Beats me. But they haven't tried anything yet, which suggests they still trust

in the illusion to hide their true strength."

Fisher scowled out the window, and hefted her sword restlessly. "All right, what

do we do?"

"Wait for them to come to us. Let's see if they can even get in here before we

start panicking. After all, it would need a bloody army to take this house by

force."

There was a sudden, vertiginous snap and the world jerked sideways and back

again, as the house's wards finally broke down the illusion spell and showed

what lay behind it. The wide lawns were covered with armed men, and more were

pouring through the open gates. Dressed in nondescript furs and leathers, they

advanced on the house in a calm, professional way. Fisher swore respectfully.

There had to be at least two hundred men out there.

The four marble statues had come alive, and were cutting a bloody path through

the invaders. They were coldly efficient and totally unstoppable, but were hard

put to make any impression on so many invaders. Half a dozen guard dogs blinked

in and out of existence as they threw themselves at the intruders, leaping and

snapping and now and again tearing at a man on the ground, but again there were

simply too few of them to make any real difference. No one had expected or

planned for an invasion on such a scale as this.

"I don't want to disillusion you, ap Owen," said Fisher grimly, "but it looks to

me like they've got a bloody army. We are in serious trouble."

"You could well be right. From the look of them, they're mercenaries." He yelled

something out the study door, and four footmen burst in, each carrying a longbow

and a quiver of arrows. Ap Owen grinned at Fisher. "They don't have much use for

bows in the Guard, but I've always believed in them. You can do a lot of damage

with a few bowmen who know what they're doing."

"No argument from me," said Fisher. "I've seen what longbows can do."

The footmen set up before the window, pulling off their long frock coats to give

them more freedom of movement. Fisher and ap Owen struggled with the bolts that

held the window shut, until Fisher lost her temper and smashed the glass with

the hilt of her sword. Ap Owen threw the window open and stepped back to let the

archers take up their position. Bitter cold streamed in from outside, and the

archers narrowed their eyes against the glare of the snow. The attacking force

realized the grounds were no longer hidden behind the illusion spell, and ran

towards the house, howling a dissonant mixture of war cries and chants. Sunlight

flashed on swords and axes and morningstars. Fisher couldn't even guess how many

attackers there were anymore. The archers drew back and released their

bowstrings in a single fluid movement, and four of the attackers were thrown

backwards with arrows jutting from their bodies. Their blood was vividly red on

the snow. The archers let fly again and again, punching holes in the attacking

force, but they just kept coming, ignoring their dead and wounded.

"They're professionals, all right," said ap Owen calmly. "Mercenaries. Could be

working for any number of people. Whoever it is must want us shut down really

badly. An army that size doesn't come cheap. I didn't think there were that many

mercenaries for hire left in Haven."

"How long before reinforcements can get here?" said Fisher tightly.

"There aren't going to be any," said ap Owen. "We're on our own. Low profile,

remember? Officially, no one knows we're here."

"And we're expendable," said Fisher.

"Right. We either win this one ourselves, or we don't win it at all. What's the

matter, don't you like a challenge?"

Fisher growled something under her breath. The first handful of mercenaries to

reach the window ducked under the flight of arrows and clambered up onto the

windowsill. The archers threw aside their bows and grabbed for their swords.

Fisher thought briefly of the door behind her. She didn't believe in suicide

missions. On the other hand, she didn't believe in running, either. She moved

quickly forward to join ap Owen and the archers, and together they threw the

first mercenaries back in a flurry of blood and gore. More of the attackers

crowded in to take their place. The war cries and chants were almost deafening

at close range. Fisher glanced at ap Owen, saw him palm a pill from a small

bottle, and swallow it. He caught her gaze and smiled.

"Just a little something, to give me an edge. Want one?"

"No thanks. I was born with an edge."

"Suit yourself. Here they come again." He breathed deeply as the drug hit him,

and smiled widely at the mercenaries. "Come and get it, you lousy bastards! Come

one, come all!"

The main bulk of the attack force hit the window like a breaking wave, and

forced the archers back by sheer force of numbers. Fisher was swept aside,

fighting desperately against a forest of waving blades. In moments the room was

full of mercenaries, most of whom ran past the small knot of beleaguered

defenders and on into the house. Fisher and ap Owen ended up fighting back to

back, carving bloody gaps in the shifting press of bodies. The archers fell one

by one, and Fisher and ap Owen were slowly driven back across the room, away

from the window, as more mercenaries poured in. There seemed no end to them.

Ap Owen laughed happily and mocked his opponents as he fought, and none of the

mercenaries could get anywhere near him in his euphoric state. Fisher fought

doggedly on. Mercenaries fell dead and dying around her, their blood staining

the expensive carpet. Her footing became uncertain as bodies cluttered the

floor, and it was getting harder to find room to swing her sword. She yelled at

ap Owen to get his attention.

"We've got to get out of here, while we still can!"

"Right!" yelled ap Owen, grinning widely as he slit a mercenary's throat.

"Follow me!"

They made a break for the door, ploughing through the startled mercenaries, and

cutting down anyone who got in their way. They burst out into the hall, and

Fisher was surprised to find it deserted. Ap Owen headed for the stairs, with

Fisher close behind.

"They don't know where the Talks are really being held, so they're wasting time

searching the house," said ap Owen breathlessly, as he took the steps two at a

time. "But I know where there's an emergency entrance into the pocket dimension.

We can hide out in there till the fighting's over."

"What about your people?" protested Fisher angrily. "You can't just abandon

them!"

"They know where the entrance is, too. If they've got any sense, most of them

are probably already there."

Fisher heard boots hammering on the stairs behind her, and threw herself

forward. The mercenary's sword swept past her head, the wind of its passing

tugging at her hair. Fisher kicked backwards, and the swordsman's breath caught

in his throat as the heel of her boot thudded solidly into his groin. Fisher

turned around to finish him off, and found herself facing a dozen more

mercenaries charging up the stairs towards her. She put a hand on the groaning

swordsman's face and pushed him sharply backwards. He fell back down the stairs

and crashed into his fellows, bringing them all to an abrupt halt. Fisher smiled

angelically at the chaos, and turned her back on them. Ap Owen was nowhere to be

seen.

She swore harshly, and hurried up the stairs to the landing. She paused at the

top of the stairs to get her bearings, and an axe buried itself in the wall

beside her. She ran along the hallway, glaring about her. Ap Owen couldn't have

gone far. If he had, she was in trouble. He'd never got around to telling her

where the doorway to the pocket dimension was. Sounds of hot pursuit grew louder

behind her, and from all around came shouts and curses and war cries as the

invaders spilled through the house, searching for the Peace Talks.

A mercenary burst out of a door just ahead of her, and Fisher ran him through

while he was still gaping at her. She jerked the sword free and then had to back

quickly away as two more men charged out of the room at her.

She put her back against the railing that ran the length of the hall and swung

her sword in wide arcs to keep them at bay. Two-to-one odds didn't normally

bother her, but this time she was facing two hardened professionals in very

cramped surroundings, with nowhere to retreat and no one to guard her blind

sides. It was at times like this that she realized how much she missed Hawk. She

cut viciously at one mercenary's face, and he stepped back instinctively. Fisher

darted for the gap that opened up, but the other swordsman was already there,

forcing her back with a flurry of blows. Fisher fought on, but she could feel

her chances of getting out alive slipping away like sand between her fingers.

And then one of the mercenaries went down in a flurry of blood, and ap Owen was

standing over him, flashing his lunatic grin. Fisher quickly finished off the

other mercenary, and the two Guards sprinted down the hallway, with more

mercenaries in hot pursuit.

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded Fisher. "I turned my back on you for a

moment and you were gone!"

"Sorry," said ap Owen breezily. "I didn't notice you weren't still with me. Now

save your breath for running. We've got a way to go yet, and those bastards

behind us are getting closer."

A mercenary appeared out of nowhere before them and ap Owen cut him down with a

single slash. Fisher hurdled the writhing body without slowing, and followed ap

Owen up a winding stairway. Footsteps hammered on the steps behind her, and she

glanced back over her shoulder to see half a dozen mercenaries charging up the

stairs after her. Fisher looked away and forced herself to run faster. She was

already bone-tired after the long day, and her legs felt like lead, but somehow

she forced out a little extra speed. Ap Owen, of course, was running well and

strongly, buoyed up by his battle drug. Sweat ran down Fisher's face, stinging

her eyes, and her sides ached as her lungs protested. She just hoped she

wouldn't get a stitch. That would make it a perfect bloody day.

Ap Owen led her down a wide corridor at a pace she was hard pressed to match,

but somehow she kept up with him. The growing crowd of mercenaries snapping at

her heels helped. It worried her that she hadn't seen any of ap Owen's men.

Surely some of them should have got this far… A growing suspicion took root in

her that they were all dead. That all the house's defenders were dead, apart

from her and ap Owen. Which made it all the more urgent they reach the pocket

dimension and warn the delegates.

Ap Owen darted suddenly sideways through an open doorway, and Fisher threw

herself in after him. She whirled to slam the door shut, but three mercenaries

forced their way in. Fisher cut down one with a single, economical stroke, and

his blood flew on the air, but another swordsman darted in under her reach and

cut at her leg. Her thick leather boot took most of the impact, but she could

still feel blood trickling down her leg inside the boot. She drove the man back

with a frenzied attack, and for a moment held off both opponents by the sheer

fury of her attack.

And then ap Owen was with her, cutting and hacking like a madman, and between

them they finished off the mercenaries, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. It

rattled angrily in its frame as men on the other side put their shoulders to it.

The two Guards stood exhausted over the bodies for a moment, breathing harshly,

and then ap Owen jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go. The doorway's

here."

Fisher looked behind her, and saw an open door hanging unsupported in the air.

Beyond the door there was only darkness. "About time. I just hope the pocket

dimension turns out to be a damn sight more secure than this house."

"It is; I guarantee it. Now let's move it, please."

He grabbed her arm and hauled her through the doorway. The door slammed shut

behind them, and disappeared from the room. There was a brief sensation of

falling, and then Fisher was in the Peace Talks' hidden room. The delegates rose

startled from their seats around a long table, staring at her and ap Owen. She

quickly put up a hand to forestall their questions.

"The house is overrun with mercenaries. We had to cut and run. No choice. How

many more of our people made it here?" She took in their blank faces, and looked

away. "Damn. Then I think it's fair to assume they won't be coming. We're the

only survivors."

She looked quickly round the sparsely furnished, medium-sized room, and then

blinked as she found there was no sign of the doorway. All four walls were

blank. She shrugged, and looked at ap Owen, who was sitting on the floor beside

her with his head hanging down. He was deathly pale, with sweat streaming off

his face, and obviously using all his willpower to keep from vomiting. Fisher

smiled sourly. That was battle drugs for you. Great as long as adrenalin kept

you going, but once you stopped there was hell to pay. She manhandled him onto a

chair, and then turned back to the delegates. They were obviously waiting for a

more detailed report, and it was clear from their faces that their patience had

just about run out. Really, the report should come from ap Owen, as the senior

Captain in charge of security, but since he was out of it and likely to stay

that way for some time… Fisher realized she was still holding her sword, and

sheathed it. She drew herself up to parade rest, thought briefly about saluting

the delegates, and then decided the hell with it.

"We're in trouble," she said bluntly. "Someone hired a small army of

mercenaries, backed them up with some heavy-duty sorcery, and sent them here

looking for you. Our security forces didn't stand a chance; the mercenaries

rolled right over us. Unless some more of our people arrive in the next few

minutes, you'd better get used to the idea that your entire security force now

consists of ap Owen and me. And there aren't going to be any reinforcements.

We're trapped in here, and the house is crawling with mercenaries."

"It's not quite as bad as you make it sound, Captain," said Lord Regis calmly.

"Firstly, we are quite safe here. The dimensional doorways won't open to the

mercenaries, and the only other way in is to open a new doorway. Even a

high-level sorcerer couldn't do that without first knowing the exact coordinates

of this dimension, and those are, of course, only known to a select few. All we

have to do is sit tight and wait for the mercenaries to leave. They won't hang

around once they realize we're not in the house; an attack like this is bound to

have been noticed, especially in Low Tory. I think we can be fairly confident

that the Guard is on its way here even as we speak."

"Wait a minute," said Fisher. "How will we know when it's safe to leave?"

Lord Regis shrugged. "We'll just stick our heads out from time to time, and see

what's happening."

Ap Owen chuckled harshly. "He means you and I will stick our heads out, Fisher.

They're not going to take any risks. Right, my lord?"

"Of course," said Lord Regis. "That is what you're here for, isn't it?"

Fisher looked at ap Owen. His face was still pale, but he was sitting up

straight and he looked a lot more composed. "How are you feeling?"

"Great. The side effects don't last long."

"Long enough to get you killed, if they hit you at the wrong moment."

Ap Owen shrugged.

"You're all missing the point," said Major de Tournay.

"How did the mercenaries know to look for us here? Our location was supposed to

be secret."

"He has a point," said Lord Regis, looking heavily at ap Owen.

The senior Captain nodded unhappily. "Somebody must have talked. Someone always

talks, eventually. But since they couldn't know about this dimension, it doesn't

really matter. The mercenaries will just ransack the house, find no trace of the

Talks, and report back to their masters that you weren't here. They'll be called

off, and you can resume the Talks undisturbed, secure in the knowledge they

won't be back again. And if the Guard reacts fast enough, they might even be

able to follow the mercenaries back to their masters, and we can round them all

up in one go."

"Excellent!" said Lord Nightingale. "This might turn out to have been all for

the best, after all."

"Hold it just a minute," said Fisher, and there was a harshness in her voice

that drew all eyes to her. "A lot of good men died out there, trying to protect

you and your precious Talks. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

The two merchants, Rook and Gardener, had the grace to look a little

embarrassed. The two Majors stirred uncomfortably, but said nothing. Lord Regis

looked thoughtfully at the floor. Lord Nightingale sniffed.

"They were just doing their job," he said flatly. "They understood they were

expendable. As are we all."

"I'm sure that'll be a great comfort to their widows," said Fisher. "Those men

never stood a chance, thanks to your insistence on low profile security."

"That's enough, Captain!" said Lord Regis sharply. "It's not your place to

criticize your superiors. We have to consider the bigger picture."

Fisher gave him a hard look, and then turned away. Ap Owen relaxed slightly, and

felt his heart start beating again. He didn't think Fisher would actually punch

out a lord, but you could never tell with Fisher.

"His lordship is right, Fisher," he said carefully. "The safety of the delegates

must come first. That's what they told us when we took on this job, remember?

Now take it easy. We're all perfectly safe in here; nothing can reach us."

He broke off suddenly, as far away in the distance a bell tolled mournfully. The

sound seemed to echo on and on.

faint but distinct, as though it had traveled impossible distances to reach

them. They all stood silently, listening. The bell tolled again and again,

growing slowly louder and more mournful, like the bell from a forgotten church

deep in the gulfs of hell. Fisher's breathing quickened, and her hand fell to

her sword. Something was out there in the dark, she could feel it; something

awful. The pealing of the bell grew louder still, painfully loud, until everyone

in the hidden room had their hands pressed to their ears. And then the air split

open above them, and nightmares spewed out into the waking world.

Creatures with insane shapes that hurt and disturbed the human eye fought and

oozed and squirmed out of nowhere, and fell writhing to the floor. There were

things with splintered bones and snapping mouths, and nauseating shapes that

twisted through strange dimensions as they moved. Creatures with flails and

barbs and elongating limbs. A monstrous slug with grinding teeth in its belly

fell heavily onto the conference table, its weight cracking the thick wood from

end to end. A clump of ropy crimson intestines squeezed out of the split in the

air, and dropped squirming to the floor, where it dripped acid, eating holes in

the carpet. The conference room rang to a cacophony of screams and howls and

roars, drowning out the madly tolling bell.

For a moment everyone froze where they were, and then Fisher threw herself

forward, swinging her sword in wide, vicious arcs. Strangely colored blood flew

steaming on the air as her blade sank deep into unnatural flesh, and howling

shapes rose up in fury all around her. Ap Owen was quickly at her side, and

together they forced the demons back. Major Comber and Major de Tournay drew

their swords and fought back to back, old enmities forgotten in the face of a

common foe. They cut and thrust with professional efficiency, and nothing could

stand against them for long.

The two traders, Rook and Gardener, retreated into a corner and defended

themselves with unfamiliar swords as best they could. Creatures swarmed eagerly

about them, scenting easy prey. Lord Regis fought stubbornly with his back to a

wall, barely keeping the fangs and claws from his throat but determined not to

give in. Lord Nightingale cleared a space around him with inspired

swordsmanship, chanting all the while in a harsh forced rhythm. Human blood

flowed as the creatures pressed closer, forcing their way past flashing steel by

sheer force of numbers. And still more shapes poured through the split in the

air, and there seemed no end to them.

"We've got to get out of here!" Fisher yelled to ap Owen.

"We can't," he answered, grunting with the effort of his blows. "Only Regis and

Nightingale can open the door. And they both look a bit busy at the moment. See

if you can work towards them, take some of the pressure off."

Fisher tried, but the growing tide of creatures forced her back foot by foot,

and ap Owen had to struggle to keep his place at her side. A jagged cut on his

forehead leaked blood steadily down one side of his face, and he had to keep

blinking his eye to clear it. A raking claw suddenly opened up a long, curving

gash across Fisher's hip and stomach, and she stumbled and almost fell as the

pain flared through her. Ap Owen darted in to try and cover her, and a long,

serrated tentacle whipped around his shoulders and snatched him up into the air.

Fisher hacked at the tentacle, but it wouldn't let him go. Comber and de Tournay

were soaked with blood from a dozen minor wounds, but were still holding their

ground and grimly defying the creatures to move them. Rook and Gardener had

already fallen and disappeared beneath a heaving throng of frenzied shapes. Lord

Regis was struggling, tears of exhaustion running down his cheeks, but Lord

Nightingale ignored him, concentrating on his rhythmic chanting.

And then Nightingale's voice rose sharply to a shout, and the split in the air

slammed together and was gone. The creatures burst into flames, screaming and

thrashing as a searing golden fire consumed them, leaving nothing but ash. The

faraway bell was quiet, and the only sound in the hidden room was the harsh

breathing and groans of the two Guards and the surviving delegates.

Fisher sat with her back braced against a wall, watching exhaustedly as ap Owen

slowly picked himself up from where the burning tentacle had dropped him. The

two Majors leaned on each other, exchanging quiet compliments. Lord Regis bent

wearily over two bodies lying twisted and still in a corner, then straightened

up and turned away. Rook and Gardener were beyond help. Regis looked across at

Lord Nightingale, calmly cleaning the blood from his sword in the middle of the

room.

"I didn't know you were a sorcerer, Nightingale."

The Outremer lord shrugged easily. "I'm not, really. I just like to dabble."

"Still, I would have expected you to mention it," said Regis. "Since one of the

conditions for these Talks was that none of the delegates be a sorcerer."

"I told you," said Nightingale. "I'm not a sorcerer. Just a gifted amateur."

"That's not the point…"

"Can we discuss this later?" said Fisher sharply. "We need a doctor in here."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," said Nightingale. "We're under orders

not to reveal our presence. Officially, no one is to know we're here."

"You have got to be joking," said Fisher. "If there's one thing we can be

certain about, it's that our enemies know where we are. Both the mercenaries and

those stinking creatures knew exactly how best to catch us off guard. Somebody's

talked. We're not a secret anymore. So forget the low profile nonsense, and get

some real protection in here. We were lucky this time. We won't be again. And

get me a bloody doctor, dammit! If this wound gets infected, I'll sue."

Some time later, after a number of hasty but effective healing spells, Fisher

and ap Owen made their rounds of the house, looking over their new, improved

security force and checking the faces of the dead mercenaries before they were

carried out. None of the mercenaries had been taken alive. Those who hadn't

managed to escape before Guard reinforcements arrived killed themselves rather

than be captured.

"Which suggests to me they were under a geas," said ap Owen. "It had to be some

kind of magical compulsion. Mercenaries don't believe in that kind of loyalty to

a cause. Any cause. We fight strictly for cash; nothing else. I had wondered if

I might know any of these poor bastards, but I don't recognize any faces.

Probably hired outside Haven, to prevent any rumors of the attack from getting

out. You couldn't hope to hire this many men in Haven and keep it quiet."

"Right," said Fisher. "Somebody always talks. Which brings us back to the attack

on the pocket dimension. Someone betrayed us. But who knew?"

"Not many. The delegates, you and I and the ten Guards working inside the house,

and Commander Glen, of course." He stopped suddenly, and he and Fisher looked at

each other. "Glen?" said ap Owen finally.

"Why not?" said Fisher. "He's the only one who had nothing to risk by talking."

Ap Owen shook his head firmly. "Glen's a hard bastard, but he's no traitor. Much

more likely one of my people talked to the wrong person before they came here,

and that person sold us out."

Fisher nodded unhappily. She couldn't ask any of ap Owen's people about it; none

of them had survived the mercenaries' attack.

"That's not our only problem," said ap Owen dourly. "Nightingale's knowledge of

magic has got everyone worked up. Admittedly he saved all our arses when the

creatures broke through, but now Regis and Major Comber are worried sick he

could be using his magic to influence their minds during the Talks. But they

accepted him as a delegate and if they reject him now, Outremer will undoubtably

retaliate in kind, and what progress they have achieved so far will all have

been for nothing. So, for the moment the Talks are officially in abeyance until

Rook and Gardener can be replaced. And you can bet Haven's replacement will know

some sorcery, just to be on the safe side."

Fisher growled something unpleasant, and then shrugged. "At least the Talks will

continue. That's something."

"Until the next attack."

"You think there'll be another one?"

"Bound to be. Too many interests want these Talks to fail. And we're stuck right

in the middle. And I thought being a Guard would be a nice cushy number after

being a mercenary…"

Chapter Six

Naming The Traitor

"This is where the Guard Advisory Council meets? I've seen more impressive

outhouses." Hawk shook his head disgustedly. "Maybe you were right after all,

Burns. Anyone who has to meet in a dump like this isn't going to be in any

position to help us."

Burns kept a diplomatic silence, but his shrug spoke volumes. Hawk glared at the

building before him, and wondered if there was any point in going inside. The

Guard Advisory Council held its meetings in a rented room over a corner grocer's

shop; the kind that stays open all hours and sells anything and everything. The

two-storey building was fairly well-preserved, but looked like it hadn't seen a

coat of paint in generations. Hawk peered into the shop through the single,

smeared window, and one glance at the interior was enough to convince him he'd

have to be bloody hungry before he ate anything that came from this grocer. He

could practically see plague and food poisoning hiding in the shadows and

giggling together. And he didn't want to think about what the unfamiliar cut of

meat optimistically labeled "Special Offer" might be. He turned away and looked

around the street. Passersby kept their heads down to avoid his gaze and hurried

by the two Guards, trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. Mostly

they just succeeded in looking furtive. It was that kind of neighborhood.

"I did try to tell you, Hawk," Burns said finally. "These people are Advisors,

and that's all. They have no real power or influence, even if they like to think

they have. They come up with the odd good idea on occasion, and they're good

public relations, so the Guard tolerates them, but that's as far as it goes."

"Maybe," said Hawk. "But none of that's important.

What matters is that these people are connected to the Guard, but not a part of

it. They ought to know some of what's going on but still be distanced enough

that they can talk to us without fear of retribution. Dammit, Burns, I need

someone to talk to me. I need information. We're flailing about in the dark and

getting nowhere, and Morgan's sitting out there somewhere safe and secure,

laughing at us. We need a lead, something to point us in the right direction at

least."

"And you think we're going to get that from the Guard Advisory Council?"

"It's worth a try, dammit! We've got to do something!"

He strode angrily forward, ignored the shop doorway and stomped up the iron fire

escape that clung uncertainly to the side of the building. Burns followed him

silently. His partner was getting desperate, and it was beginning to show. Hawk

stopped before the plain wooden door at the top of the fire escape, and banged

loudly on it with his fist. Someone inside pulled back a sliding panel and

studied Hawk for a long moment. Then the panel slid shut and there was the sound

of bolts being drawn back. The door swung open, and Hawk and Burns stepped

inside. The door closed quickly behind them.

The rented room turned out to be surprisingly cosy. Oil lamps shed a golden glow

over the wood-paneled walls and chunky furniture, and large, comfortable-looking

chairs had been set out before a crackling fire. Two men stood together by the

chairs, facing Hawk and Burns with determined casualness. They looked

embarrassed, and perhaps just a little frightened. Hawk studied them both,

letting the silent moment stretch uncomfortably. Burns stirred at his side, but

made no move to intervene. The man to their left coughed nervously.

"Good evening, Captains. It's good of you to visit us. It's not often the Guard

takes an interest in our work. I'm Nicholas Linden, the lawyer. Perhaps you've

heard of me… And this is my associate, Michael Shire, once a Captain in the

Guard, now retired."

Hawk nodded politely. Burns had already filled him in on who he'd be meeting,

and he had no trouble recognizing these two from Burns's descriptions. Nicholas

Linden was tall and fashionably slender, with watchful eyes and a practiced

smile. He'd started out as a meat-wagon chaser specializing in insurance cases,

and had graduated through a series of well-publicized cases and well-bribed

juries to a fairly successful practice in Low Tory. At which point he suddenly

developed a civic conscience, and started agitating to put an end to the kind of

sharp practices that had got him where he was. His fellow lawyers had persuaded

him to join the Guard Advisory Council, in the hope of distracting him from

things best left alone. To no one's surprise, it worked.

Michael Shire had been a Captain in the Guard for twenty years, before taking

early retirement to go into business for himself as a private security

consultant. He'd done well for himself over the past few years, and was now

responsible for most of the hired muscle in the Westside. He was a large,

squarish man in his late forties, wearing fashionably garish clothes that didn't

suit him. He had a calm, self-satisfied face, with cold, expressionless eyes.

And these were two of the people who'd set themselves up as the Guard's

conscience.

"Will any of the others be joining us?" Hawk said finally, his voice flat and

cold.

"I'm afraid not, Captain," said Linden, perhaps just a little too quickly. "You

must understand, we all lead very busy lives outside the Advisory Council, and

it isn't always possible for all of us to attend meetings called at such short

notice. However, your message did say your business was both urgent and

important, so Michael and I agreed to… represent the others. Do please sit down,

Captains. And help yourselves to some wine, if you will."

Hawk shook his head shortly, and sat down. Burns also declined the wine, and he

and the Advisors joined Hawk in the chairs before the fire. Linden and Shire

looked at Hawk and Burns expectantly. Hawk set out the situation as clearly and

concisely as he could, taking it from the raid on Morgan's factory to his

growing belief that Morgan must be bribing someone fairly high up in the Guard.

There was a pause, and then Shire snorted loudly.

"Don't see what all the fuss is about," he said gruffly, meeting Hawk's gaze

unflinchingly. "There's always been a certain amount of… private enterprise in

the Guard. It's only natural for Guards to augment their income on occasion,

given the low wages. Everyone takes a special payment now and again; it's a sort

of unofficial tax. If people want real protection, they've got to be prepared to

pay for it. After all, a contented Guard is much more likely to look out for

you, isn't he? I think you're taking this too seriously, Captain Hawk."

"I'm not talking about half-arsed protection rackets," said Hawk. "I'm talking

about a high-ranking Guard who's been bought and paid for by one of the city's

biggest drug barons."

"So what?" said Shire flatly. "This is Haven, remember? There are people here it

doesn't pay to cross, and Morgan is very definitely one of them. It's not in the

Guard's interest to start a war it couldn't win."

"This time it's different," snapped Hawk. "Morgan's new drug is too dangerous to

be ignored. And whoever's helping him in the Guard is putting the whole damned

city at risk, just to earn himself a nice little bonus. This isn't just

corruption anymore; it's treason. I want this bastard, and you're going to help

me identify him. You're both in a position to hear things, know things; people

will talk to you who wouldn't talk to me. I want to know what they've been

saying. I want the name."

Shire and Linden glanced at each other, and then Linden leaned forward. He fixed

Hawk with an earnest gaze, and chose his words carefully. "You must understand,

Captain, that my associate and I are taking a not inconsiderable risk in seeing

you at all. You've made yourself dangerous to know. You've been making enemies,

the wrong sort of enemies. The word is that Morgan has important friends, very

well-connected people, who aren't taking kindly to your enquiries. Anyone who

openly helped you would be putting his own neck in the noose."

"Refusing to talk to me can be pretty risky too," said Hawk calmly. "I'm not

playing by the rules anymore. I don't have the time."

Shire sniffed. "Threats won't get you anywhere. To put it bluntly, Morgan is

connected to people who are scarier than you'll ever be."

"Then why are you talking to us at all?" asked Burns.

"Because I was a Captain in the Guard for twenty years…" said Shire slowly, "…

and there are some things I won't stand for. I might have taken the odd gratuity

in my time, and looked the other way when I was told, but I was always my own

man. No one tells me to roll over on my back and play dead, like a good dog. Not

then or now. Linden came to see me earlier today. He was scared. He overheard

something he shouldn't have, from one of Morgan's people, and he knew he

wouldn't be safe as long as he was the only one who knew it. So he told me, and

now he's going to tell you. There's no doubt that Morgan, or the people he's

associated with, have infiltrated the Guard at practically every level. From the

bottom right to the top. But for once, we have a name. Morgan's bought himself a

Guard Captain, someone so loyal and honorable as to be above suspicion."

"Tell me the name," said Hawk.

Linden swallowed hard, and looked briefly at Shire for support. "You're not

going to like this, Hawk. I don't have any proof or evidence; this is just what

I heard. I could be wrong."

"Just tell me the bloody name!"

"Fisher," said Linden. "Captain Isobel Fisher."

Hawk launched himself out of his chair, both hands reaching for Linden. Burns

grabbed at him, but Hawk shook him off. He took two handfuls of Linden's shirt

and lifted him up into the air. The lawyer's face lost all its color, and his

mouth worked soundlessly. Shire and Burns pulled at Hawk's arms, but he ignored

them, thrusting his face close to Linden's.

"You're lying, you bastard. They put you up to this, didn't they? Didn't they!

Tell me the name, you bastard. Tell me the real name!"

Linden struggled to get his breath, his eyes wide and staring. "Please… please

don't hurt me. I'm sorry…"

"He's telling the truth," said Shire urgently, almost shouting in Hawk's ear to

get his attention. "Let him go, Hawk. He's just telling you what he heard."

"That's right," said Burns. "Let him go, Hawk. Come on, let him go."

Hawk dropped the lawyer back onto his chair, and turned away, breathing heavily.

Linden clawed at his collar, trying to get some air into his lungs. Bums and

Shire backed away from Hawk, watching him carefully.

"Take it easy, Hawk," said Burns soothingly. "It's just hearsay, that's all.

They said themselves they had no proof or evidence."

"It's a lie," said Hawk.

"Of course it is."

"Don't use that tone of voice with me, Burns! I'm not a child. I'm not a fool,

either. This is just something Morgan's come up with to try and slow me down,

distract me from going after him. Well, it's not going to work. I know Isobel.

It's impossible that she could be involved in anything like that. She wouldn't…"

"Of course not," said Burns. "Let's go, Hawk. We've got what we came for."

Hawk nodded, and headed for the door without even looking at Shire and Linden.

Burns made a quick, placating gesture to them, and hurried out after his

partner.

Down in the street, Hawk strode blindly through the snow and slush, staring

straight ahead. People took one look at his face and hurried to get out of his

way. Burns walked along beside him, studying his partner anxiously.

"We have to talk about this, Hawk," he said finally. "Of course the idea of

Fisher being a rogue is ridiculous, but we can't just ignore it, either. Whoever

the corrupt Captain is, it has to be someone who'd normally be above suspicion.

Someone so honest and trustworthy no one would ever connect them with Morgan.

Everyone we've talked to agrees on that, and it has to be said there aren't many

Captains in the Guard who fill that description."

"It isn't Isobel," said Hawk.

"Then why name her in front of someone like Linden? Even if Morgan's people knew

they were being overheard, how would they know you'd end up talking to Linden?

You only decided to visit the Advisors a short time ago."

"He would have passed the word on, and it would have got round to me eventually.

It's just a distraction, that's all."

"Sure," said Burns. "Look, whoever the rogue is, it has to be someone close to

us. Close to you. Someone who knows you well enough to know the people you'd go

to for answers. How else did Morgan's people know where to ambush us after we

left Saint Christophe?"

"We're probably being watched," said Hawk.

"Not all the time; we'd notice."

"Well, maybe he's got a sorcerer watching us magically! He had a sorcerer at the

factory; how do we know he hasn't got another magic-user working for him?"

"I think we'd better leave this till later," said Burns suddenly, his voice low.

"We're being followed again. Look around you."

Hawk's preoccupation fell away in a moment, and he looked casually about him,

his hand moving naturally to the axe at his side. "Hell's teeth, how did I miss

them? They're not exactly professional quality, are they? That's what happens

when you let yourself get distracted. There's a lot of them; I make it

twenty-seven, most of them wearing gang colors. How about you?"

"I only see twenty-two, but I'll take your word for it. They must have known we

were going to be here, Hawk; it's another bloody ambush. Better thought-out than

the last one, too; they're all around us this time."

Hawk sniffed. "It doesn't matter. I'm just in the mood to cut up a few bad

guys."

Burns looked at him sharply. "Wait a minute, Hawk; this is no time to start

feeling heroic. We're outnumbered more than ten to one here."

"So what do you suggest? Put up our hands and surrender nicely, and hope we'll

get taken as prisoners of war? This may be a war, Burns, but no one's taking any

prisoners."

"We could always make a run for it."

"We could, but how far do you think we'd get? The streets are narrow and

crowded, and we're both dog-tired while our pursuers look decidedly fresh. There

aren't even any fire escapes in easy reach this time. They've planned this well,

Burns, and we walked right into it."

The street grew increasingly quiet as they strode along, and passersby began

moving into the shelter of doorways so as to be safely out of the way when the

killing began. Everyone knew what was happening. The ambushers weren't even

trying to hide themselves anymore.

Hawk stopped walking and looked openly around. Burns stopped beside him, and

looked quickly about for any escape route he might have missed. The ambushers

were everywhere, moving confidently forward. Now that they were all out in the

open, Burns counted twenty-nine of them. They were dressed in ragged furs and

leathers, and carrying clubs and swords and axes. Some had broken bottles and

lengths of metal piping. They all looked lean and hungry and very dangerous.

Burns looked to Hawk for support, and a sudden chill ran through him. Hawk was

smiling, a cold and nasty death's-head grin. Burns felt an instinctive need to

back away. He'd seen his partner go through many moods that day, but this was

something new and awful, and for the first time Burns understood why Hawk was so

widely feared in the Northside. At this moment, he looked vicious and deadly and

totally unstoppable.

Burns made some kind of noise in his throat, and Hawk looked at him briefly.

"These aren't Morgan's people," he said, his voice eerily calm and even. "These

are street-gang toughs from the Devil's Hook. I beat up their leader, a piece of

slime called Hammer, earlier on this morning. He must have declared vendetta on

me. Knew I should have killed him."

He fell silent as one of the ambushers stepped forward, but his death's-head

grin never wavered. He recognized the man as the gang leader, and drew his axe

with a flourish. Hammer stopped where he was and called out to Hawk, his voice

carefully loud and mocking.

"I've been looking for you, Hawk. No one messes with me and gets away with it,

not even the high and mighty Captain Hawk. Don't look so tough now, do you? Now

you're on your own and I've got my people here to back me up. You're going to

die slow, Hawk. We're all going to take turns cutting on you; going to take our

time and get real inventive. You're going to scream and cry and beg for death

before we're through."

Hawk laughed at him, and there was enough naked violence in the sound to silence

the gang leader almost in mid-word. The watching ambushers stirred uneasily.

Hawk swept his axe back and forth before him. "Who's first?" he said mockingly.

No one moved. Hawk glanced at Burns. "Get out of here while you can," he said

quietly, his voice calm and conversational. "They don't care about you; they

just want me. If you make a run for it, they'll probably let you go."

"Forget it," said Burns. "They'll kill me anyway, just for being a Guard, and

being with you. Believe me, if I could see a way out of this mess, I'd take it.

I'm not crazy. Do me a favor, Hawk: Next time you feel like punching out a gang

leader, don't do it in front of witnesses. All right, you're supposed to be the

expert on winning against impossible odds: What are we going to do? There's

nowhere to run, and if we try and make a stand they'll roll right over us."

Hawk nodded, still grinning at the ambushers and hefting his axe. Burns looked

away. The grin was starting to unnerve him. One of the toughs stepped forward.

Hawk looked at him, and the tough stopped where he was.

"I think our best bet is to try and lose them in the side streets and

alleyways," said Hawk calmly. "They're narrow and crowded, and the gang will

only be able to come at us a few at a time. We should be able to take them

easily, as long as we keep our heads."

"What if they've staked out the alleyways with more of their people?" said Burns

tightly.

"Then we fight our way through and keep running. Maybe we can outrun them."

"What happens if we get trapped in a dead end?"

"Then we see how many of the bastards we can take with us. Think positive,

Burns. We're not dead yet, and I've faced worse odds in my time."

"When?" demanded Burns. Hawk just grinned at him.

Hammer suddenly barked an order, and the toughs moved forward from every

direction. Hawk lifted his axe threateningly and then sprinted towards the

nearest side street. Burns charged after him, his stomach churning sickly. Three

gang members made to block their way. Hawk cut down the first two with vicious

sweeps of his axe, and hit the third man with a lowered shoulder. The massive

tough was thrown aside like a child, and Burns hacked halfway through his waist

without even slowing. He pounded after Hawk down the narrow street, with the

gang howling behind them.

More gang members appeared out of darkened alley mouths, but somehow Hawk and

Burns managed to cut a way through them and keep on running, leaving bodies

lying in pools of vivid scarlet on the grimy snow. Hawk glared about him, trying

to figure out exactly where he was. This wasn't an area he knew particularly

well and he couldn't afford to stop and look for landmarks hidden or disguised

by the recent snow. His breath burned in his chest, and he could feel the

beginnings of a stitch in his side. Normally he prided himself on his stamina,

but it had been a long day and it wasn't getting any shorter. From the sound of

it, Burns was finding the going equally hard.

And then they rounded a sharp corner and skidded to a halt as they saw more gang

members waiting for them. There were ten of them blocking the narrow alley, all

armed with some kind of weapon and smiling confidently. Hawk glanced back over

his shoulder. The pursuers were coming up fast, and there was no way out. Hawk

felt more anger than anything. Being killed in a gang ambush was such a stupid

way to go. And now he'd never get the chance to clear Fisher's name. He'd make

them pay for that. He threw himself at the smiling faces before him, and laughed

aloud as he saw their expressions change to shock and terror as his axe tore

through them like firewood. He sensed Burns fighting desperately at his side,

but Hawk had no room in him for anything but rage.

The first few died easily before his fury, but there were too many of them for

him to break through, and soon the rest of the gang arrived. Hawk and Burns

fought back to back, surrounded by screaming mouths and flailing weapons, hemmed

in by the jostling press of bodies. The sheer number of attackers gave Hawk and

Burns a fighting chance; the gang were so eager to get at their victims that

they kept getting in each other's way and deflecting many of the blows meant for

the two Guards. Hawk fought on fiercely, sending blood spraying through the

freezing air, but knew it was only a matter of time before someone got in a

lucky blow. Then his guard would drop, and he'd go down under a dozen swords.

And if he was lucky, he'd die before Hammer could pull his people off. He was

just sorry he'd dragged Burns into this. Hawk fought on, as much out of

stubbornness as anything. If he had to die, he was going to make them work for

it. A sword licked in past his defenses, and punched through his side and out

again. Blood ran thickly down his hip and leg, and the strength seemed to flow

out of him along with the blood. He swung his axe clumsily, and the swords were

everywhere.

A thick mist sprang up suddenly in the alleyway, diffusing the amber lamplight

in strange ways, and misty grey ropes curled and tightened around the gang

members' throats. They dropped their weapons to tear at the strangling mists

with desperate hands, and fell gagging to the ground. Curling mists lashed

viciously among the gang, sending them flying this way and that, and they fled

screaming back down the alley and out into the surrounding streets. The mists

flowed after them like a relentless river. Dead bodies littered the alley.

Hammer stared uncomprehendingly about him, abandoned by his men, and then backed

away as Hawk loomed up before him, grim and bloody, his gaze colder than the

winter could ever be. He turned to run, and Hawk cut him down with one blow of

his axe. Hammer fell dying to the ground, and there was enough anger still in

Hawk for him to regret it was over so quickly.

He turned to see how Burns had fared, and fell back against a wall as the wound

in his side caught up with him. The stabbing pain filled his mind, and then a

strong arm curled around his shoulders, supporting him, and a cool hand pressed

against his bloody side. There was a brief, crawling sensation as the wound

knitted itself together, and then the sorceress Mistique stepped back and

grinned at him.

"I thought I'd leave the gang leader for you to take care of personally. But I

can't believe you just walked right into that ambush. If I hadn't been following

you too, they'd have had to bury what was left of you in a closed coffin."

"I had a lot on my mind," said Hawk, feeling gingerly at his side. "And it must

be said, this has not been one of my better days. Thanks for the rescue."

"You're welcome. But next time don't go dashing off like that. I nearly didn't

catch up in time."

Hawk nodded, and looked across at Burns. The man's clothing was soaked in blood,

but he nodded quickly to Hawk and Mistique to show he was all right. Hawk looked

down at the gang leader, lying dead and broken on the dirty snow, and swore

softly.

"I should have taken him alive. He might have been able to answer some

questions."

Burns frowned. "What could he have known? He isn't connected with Morgan; he was

just after you because you made him lose face in front of his people."

"Someone had to have told him where to find us! He couldn't have followed us all

the way from the Hook."

"He didn't," said Mistique flatly. "I've been following you for some time, and

they were already here waiting for you when you went in to talk to the

Advisors."

Hawk looked at her narrowly. "I didn't see you following us."

Mistique smiled. "Well, after all, darling, I am a sorceress."

Hawk nodded slowly. "All right; want to tell me why you were following us? And

why you dropped out of sight right after we left the Hook?"

The sorceress scowled, and leaned back against the alley wall with her arms

folded. "I know something that certain important people don't want known.

Something… dangerous. So I decided to disappear for a while, and do some hard

thinking. I needed someone to talk to, someone I could trust. You were the

obvious choice, Hawk, but I had to be sure you were what you were supposed to

be. So I've been following you." She looked at him for a long moment. "Even now

I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing. You're not going to like this, Hawk."

"Tell me," said Hawk. "Tell me what you know."

"I was talking to one of the prisoners we took in Morgan's factory, before we

brought them back to Headquarters," said Mistique steadily. "He was mad as hell

because the Guard Captain that Morgan had been paying off hadn't warned them

about the raid. I asked him for the Captain's name, but he didn't know it. He

knew what the Captain looked like, though. He recognized her when he saw her

during the raid.

"It was Fisher, Hawk. Captain Isobel Fisher."

Chapter Seven

Scapegoat

Fisher looked out the repaired study window and glowered sourly at the array of

armed men camped out on the wide lawns. There had to be a hundred men out there

now, wearing chain mail under their furs and warming their hands at the

scattered iron braziers. If the Peace Talks had had this kind of protection

before, two of the delegates and all of the original security force might still

be alive. Fisher felt obscurely guilty that she hadn't got to know the men under

her command before they were killed. As it was, it would take a hell of an army

to get past the new security force; that, or a particularly nasty piece of

magic. Fisher decided she wasn't going to think about that. She still got edgy

every time she remembered the flood of twisted creatures that had come spilling

out of the split in reality. She'd only just got over jumping at every sudden

noise.

Raised angry voices cut across her reverie, and she turned her back on the

window to study the squabbling delegates. Her mouth compressed into a thin, flat

line as she realized they were going round and round in the same futile circles.

The Peace Talks were becoming increasingly warlike, with the two lords blaming

everyone and everything but themselves for the present sorry state of affairs.

Lord Nightingale of Outremer was the loudest voice, quite openly determined to

lay the blame for everything at Haven's door. Lord Regis was trying to be

reasonable and diplomatic, but his temper was visibly shortening, and his voice

had already risen to match Nightingale's.

The two Majors, Comber and de Tournay, had withdrawn from the fray and settled

themselves in a corner with the drinks cabinet. They were busily comparing

whiskies and doing their best to ignore the whole unpleasantness. They had no

interest in recriminations or name-calling, and had said so loudly.

Unfortunately, it hadn't been loud enough to compete with the racket Regis and

Nightingale were making, so their objections had gone completely unnoticed by

the two lords.

Captain ap Owen was standing with his back to the fireplace, watching everything

and saying nothing. He hadn't spoken a dozen words to anyone since he'd overseen

the new security force as they cleared up the mess left by the assault. Fisher

understood. The men under his command had been longtime associates and friends,

and now he'd lost them all in one brief clash of arms. The bodies were gone now,

along with the dead mercenaries, but the smell of blood and death was still

strong in the house.

Major Comber stirred suddenly, and slammed the flat of his hand against the top

of a nearby table. It made a satisfyingly loud noise, and the two lords shut up

and looked round to see what was happening. Comber carefully put down his whisky

glass, and glared at each lord in turn.

"I think this nonsense has gone on long enough," he said firmly. "We're supposed

to be here to discuss the border problem, not play at who can shout and stamp

their foot the loudest. We'll probably never find out exactly who betrayed us,

and it doesn't matter worth a damn anyway. The attack was a failure and the

Talks can go on. Now, may I respectfully suggest that we get back to what we're

supposed to be doing, and leave the squabbling and whining to the politicians.

That's what they're paid for."

De Tournay started to nod vigorously in agreement, and then stopped as he

realized both Nightingale and Regis were glaring at Comber.

"Your opinion is noted, Major Comber," said Lord Regis icily. "But allow me to

remind you that your function at these Talks is to provide us with military

information and advice. Nothing more. The Lord Nightingale and I are quite

capable of deciding what is important here, and right now nothing is more

important than determining who betrayed us. We could all have been killed,

dammit, and I want to know who was responsible! Particularly since it seems we

can't trust our own security people to keep us safe."

He glared at Fisher and ap Owen, who stared back calmly, fully aware that

anything they said would only end up being used against them. Major de Tournay

stirred in his corner, and then shrugged uncomfortably as Regis turned his glare

on him.

"With respect, my lord, no security system is perfect. Fisher and ap Owen did

their best, in extremely difficult circumstances."

He shut up as Nightingale turned to glare at him too. Nightingale's voice was

low and deadly. "When I want your advice, Major de Tournay, I will ask for it.

Until then you will oblige me by keeping your mouth shut. Is that clear?"

De Tournay and Comber looked at each other, nodded formally to their respective

lords, and returned their attention to the whisky decanters. Regis sniffed, and

looked back at Fisher and ap Owen.

"Now then, Captains, it cannot have escaped your attention that our security

here has been hopelessly breached. Whether this was the result of internal

treachery or simple incompetence on your part has yet to be determined. You can

both be very sure there will be a full enquiry into your behavior today…"

"I don't think we can wait for that," said Nightingale flatly. "Someone has

revealed to our enemies not only the location of this house, but also the

coordinates of the pocket dimension. Quite a few people knew about the

house—that was inevitable—but only a handful knew about the pocket dimension.

Don't you find it interesting that our security problems only began after

Captain Fisher joined us?"

"Oh, come on," said ap Owen immediately. "You're not seriously accusing Fisher?

She's a legend in Haven! And she fought like hell against the mercenaries and

the creatures in the dimension. In fact, if not for her, I wouldn't have lived

long enough to reach the dimension, and you wouldn't have lived long enough to

close the dimensional doorway. We owe her our lives!"

"Look at the facts," said Nightingale calmly. "The mercenaries didn't attack the

house till she got here, and the creatures didn't attack us until she'd joined

us in the pocket dimension…"

"He has a point," said Regis slowly. "And it does seem odd that Captain Fisher

should have been in the middle of so much fighting, and come out of it with only

minor, superficial wounds."

"She's a good fighter!" said ap Owen. "Everyone knows that."

"No one's that good," said Nightingale.

"And I must admit the new security forces have brought rather disquieting news

concerning Fisher's partner, Captain Hawk," said Regis.

"Hawk?" said Fisher sharply. "What about Hawk?"

Regis fixed her with a steady gaze. "It appears that Captain Hawk is completely

out of control. He's assaulted a superior officer and gone on a rampage through

the city, attacking people in some kind of personal vendetta, and killing anyone

who gets in his way. We don't know exactly how many people he's killed, but we

have a confirmed account of more than thirty dead, and almost as many injured.

At least a dozen were just innocent passersby."

"I don't believe it," said Fisher.

"In view of what you've just told me," said Lord Nightingale, ignoring Fisher,

"I don't think I care to trust my well-being to any security force commanded by

Captain Fisher. I'm afraid I must insist she be replaced, if the Talks are to

continue."

"I have to agree," said Regis. "Well, Fisher, have you anything to say for

yourself?"

"I didn't want to come here in the first place," said Fisher. "If you don't want

me, I'll leave."

"It's not that simple," said Nightingale coldly. "We can't allow you to just

walk out of here. You know too much. And besides, I don't believe in letting

traitors walk free. Regis, I want this woman arrested, and held incommunicado

till these Talks are over."

Regis nodded. "Fisher, hand over your sword. You're under arrest. The charge is

treason."

Nightingale smiled at Fisher coldly. "I'll see you hanged for your part in this,

bitch."

Fisher drew her sword and dropped into her fighting stance. "You and what army,

Nightingale?"

"Fisher, that's enough!" snapped Regis. "Give your sword to ap Owen. That's an

order!"

Fisher laughed at him. "Stuff your order. I may be slow, but I'm not crazy.

You're just desperate for a scapegoat, and I look like the best bet. Well,

sorry, people, but I'm afraid I must decline the honor."

Regis looked at ap Owen. "Arrest her! Do whatever you have to, but stop her. She

mustn't leave here alive!"

Ap Owen hesitated, and Fisher threw a chair at him. She was across the room and

out the door before the two Majors could get to their feet and ap Owen could

disentangle himself from the chair. Regis and Nightingale remained where they

were, shouting orders. Fisher slammed the door shut behind her, grinned briefly

as she heard someone crash into it, and then sprinted down the corridor to the

front door. She yanked it open and charged out into the grounds. The new

security people looked up in surprise, and moved towards her, anticipating some

kind of emergency in the house. Fisher grabbed the first officer she saw, and

pointed him at the front door.

"Block off that door and don't let anyone out, no matter what! Take as many men

as you need. Everything depends on you! Move it!"

The officer threw her a quick salute, and charged towards the door, yelling for

his men to follow him. Fisher ran for the front gate, breathlessly informing

every man-at-arms she passed of the terrible emergency up at the house. The

emergency became more and more terrible, and the details more and more

fantastic, as she passed through the main body of men, determined to stir up the

maximum confusion. She finally reached the gate, and paused a moment to look

back. The men-at-arms were milling aimlessly back and forth, trampling the snow

into slush, shouting incoherently to each other, and searching desperately for

some sign of the enemy. Fisher grinned, and set off down the street at a fast

but eminently respectable pace, so as not to attract too much attention.

First thing was to get rid of the Guard's uniform; it was too distinctive. Maybe

change it for a long robe with a hood, something large and bulky enough to

substantially alter her appearance. When word finally got out from the house,

there were going to be an awful lot of people looking for Captain Fisher. There

was no point in trying to protest her innocence. It was clear Nightingale had

picked on her as the scapegoat, and the others would go along with him in order

to keep the Talks going. As she'd been told from the beginning, the Peace Talks

were far more important than any Guard Captain. She was expendable.

But she wasn't about to let anyone or anything get between her and her search

for Hawk. From the sound if it, things had got really out of hand since she left

him with Burns. She frowned. Strange there hadn't been any mention of Burns. She

shook her head fiercely. That could wait. All that mattered was finding Hawk. If

he really was out of control, she was the only one with any chance of stopping

him. Whatever had happened between Hawk and Morgan, he'd listen to her.

And then they'd work together to find out who the real traitor was. Before, it

had just been business. Now, it was personal.

In the study, Lord Regis and Lord Nightingale were taking turns shouting at

Captain ap Owen. Outside in the grounds, Major Comber and Major de Tournay were

trying desperately to restore some kind of order to the chaos Fisher had made

out of the men-at-arms. Half of them were still running around like mad things,

looking for something to hit and mistaking each other for the enemy as often as

not. Ap Owen listened to the craziness outside, and somehow kept the smile from

his lips. Eventually the lords ran out of accusations and curses, and stopped a

moment to get their breath back. Ap Owen cleared his throat.

"What exactly do you want me to do, my lords? What are your orders?"

"Find Fisher!" snapped Nightingale, his cheeks mottled with rage. "I don't care

how you do it, but find her!"

"Take twenty men and go out into the city," said Regis. "Spread the word among

the Guard and on the streets. I'm authorizing you to offer a reward of five

thousand ducats for Fisher's capture, dead or alive."

Ap Owen looked at him sharply. "But surely, my lord, we need her alive for

questioning?"

"We need her stopped before she can do any more damage," said Nightingale. "As

long as she's free, she's a threat. You know her reputation, Captain; if you try

and take her alive she'll just kill your men and disappear again.

We can't risk that. If you find her, kill her. No quarter, no mercy."

Ap Owen looked at Regis, who nodded steadfastly. "Do whatever you have to,

Captain, but don't bring her back alive."

Chapter Eight

Cutting Loose

Burns and Mistique followed Hawk silently as he led the way through a maze of

narrow back streets and shadowed alleyways. He'd hardly said a word since

Mistique reluctantly named Fisher as the traitor, and his cold, grim visage

hadn't encouraged conversation. Burns and Mistique glanced at each other, but a

few raised eyebrows and quick shrugs were enough to make it clear neither of

them knew what was going through Hawk's mind. Given what he was capable of, his

continued silence was worrying. Passersby hurried to get out of his way, but

Hawk seemed totally oblivious of everything except his own thoughts. He walked

unhurriedly through the shabby streets, staring straight ahead, his bloodied axe

still in his hand.

They finally emerged into a quiet side street, and Hawk led his companions into

a squalid little tavern called The Dragon's Blood. The air was thick with smoke,

and the sawdust on the floor looked like it hadn't been changed in years.

Mistique wrinkled her nose. Burns pushed the door closed with his fingertips,

and then wiped his hand fastidiously on his cloak. The place was as dark as a

coal cellar, with only occasional pools of dirty yellow light at the occupied

tables, and two storm lanterns hanging over the bar. The window shutters had

been nailed shut to ensure privacy. Shadowed drinkers watched silently as Hawk

led his companions to a booth at the back of the room. Conversation slowly

resumed as the three Guards seated themselves, but only as a bare murmur. The

bartender emerged from behind his bar to serve them personally, and Hawk ordered

three beers. They sat in silence until he came back with the drinks. Hawk paid

him the exact amount and then dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand. The

bartender shrugged, and went back to the bar to continue polishing his glasses

with a dirty rag. Mistique looked dubiously at the drink in front of her, and

decided that she wasn't thirsty. Hawk took two deep swallows from his beer, and

then put the glass down and stared into it.

"The beer's safe enough here," he said quietly, "but don't touch the spirits.

Half of it's made from wood alcohol."

Burns sipped at his beer to show willing, and his lips thinned away from his

teeth at the bitterness. "Nice place you've chosen, Hawk. Great atmosphere. I'll

bet plague rats stay away from here in case they catch something. Do you drink

here often?"

"Only when I have some hard thinking to do. No one bothers me here." He drank

from his glass again, and Burns and Mistique waited patiently for him to

continue. Hawk wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, and

leaned back in his chair, staring out into the gloom around them. "It all comes

down to Morgan," he said finally. "He has all the answers. If we're ever going

to get to the truth of what's really going on here, we have to find Morgan."

"Half the Guards in Haven are trying to do just that," said Burns. "But Morgan's

always been able to disappear when he needed to. He could be anywhere in Haven.

Our people are out leaning on every loose mouth in the city, but no one knows

anything. Morgan's gone to ground so thoroughly this time that even his own

people don't seem to know how to contact him. You must really have thrown a

scare into him."

"He can't afford to be totally isolated," said Mistique. "He still has to move

his super-chacal before word gets out how dangerous it is. And to do that, he

must be doing business, however indirectly, with some distributor."

"Exactly," said Hawk. "Morgan may have crawled into his hole and pulled it in

after him, but his lieutenants are still out there, doing business on his

behalf. All we have to do is tail them, and eventually one of them will lead us

to Morgan."

Burns shook his head. "Hawk, those people are professionals; they'll spot any

tail we put on them."

"They won't spot a sorcerer," said Hawk. "How about it, Mistique? Can you follow

these people with your magic?"

"There is a way…" said Mistique slowly. "But I don't know these lieutenants like

you do. You'll have to open your minds so that I can learn what you know. Are

you and Burns willing to do that?"

"No," said Burns flatly. "Sorry, Hawk, but there are some things I won't do, for

you or anyone else. My thoughts are private, and my memories are my own."

"There's no need to be so defensive," said Mistique. "It's a common reaction to

my ability. Though why anyone should assume their secret thoughts are so

fascinating I couldn't resist peeking, is beyond me."

"Take what you need from me," said Hawk. "But don't go wandering. There are

things in my mind you don't want to know."

"I can believe that," said Mistique. She closed her eyes, and a cold breeze

swept through Hawk's mind, ruffling his thoughts, and picking things up and

putting them down again. Images flickered in Hawk's mind like flaring candles,

come and gone so quickly he barely recognized them, and then Mistique opened her

eyes, and his mind was quiet again. Mistique nodded, satisfied. "Got it. Names

and faces for all twenty of his lieutenants. Now I need both of you to sit still

and be quiet. This is going to be very difficult, and I can't afford any

distractions."

She closed her eyes again and let her mind drift up and out, becoming one with

the mists. Wherever mists and fogs rose throughout the city she had eyes and

ears. She became the mists, flowing over houses and streets, through keyholes

and under doors, and nothing was hidden from her. The mists carried her up into

the sky, and she soared high above the city, seeing it spread out below her like

a vast dark stone labyrinth of sudden turnings and endless possibilities. Lights

burned in its darkness like furnaces in hell. She swooped down over the city,

spreading her consciousness among the many streets and alleyways as mists curled

everywhere in Haven. Buildings raced past her at bewildering speed, people

appearing and disappearing in an instant, but all of them observed and studied

and dismissed. Words from a thousand conversations battered her hearing like

pounding waves on the rocks outside the harbor. Mistique let it all flow past

and over her, sifting through the endless noise and chaos until finally she

found what she was looking for.

His name was Griff—a shabby, skinny man with long, greasy dark hair, darting

eyes, and a quick, unpleasant smile. He wore a long frock coat mended at the

collar and elbows, and carried a quarterstaff. He didn't look like much, but

bigger men than he bobbed their heads and smiled nervously in his presence. He

was Morgan's eyes and voice and executioner, and everyone knew it. Mistique

curled lazily on the air as Griff strode down a gloomy side street,

unobtrusively checking now and again that he wasn't being followed. Mistique

floated after him, everywhere and nowhere, ahead and behind him.

Griff took a sudden turn into an alleyway and stopped dead, just inside the

alley mouth. He looked casually about him to be sure he was unobserved, and then

moved slowly forward, counting the steps under his breath. He then stopped,

reached out and pressed five bricks in the left-hand wall in a careful sequence.

A door slowly appeared in the wall, a great slab of solid steel, featureless

save for a single moulded handle, forming itself moment by moment out of the

dirty brickwork. Griff waited impatiently, his gaze darting back and forth, and

then he pulled the door open, grunting with the effort. A bright crimson light

flared out into the alley, and Griff stepped forward into it. The door slammed

shut behind him, cutting off the bloody light, and melted back into the

brickwork. In the renewed gloom of the alleyway, the roiling mists curled and

twisted triumphantly.

In the tavern, Hawk and Burns watched silently as Mistique closed her eyes and

fell immediately into a trance state. All trace of personality dropped out of

her face as her muscles relaxed completely. The air grew thick and indistinct

around her as wisps of mist seeped out of her skin. The mists gradually

thickened until they were boiling up off her like ectoplasm at a seance. The

tavern quickly emptied as the other customers headed for the door at a run. The

bartender disappeared behind his bar. Burns started to rise from his chair, and

then sank reluctantly back into it when Hawk glared at him. Hawk watched,

fascinated, as Mistique's eyes darted back and forth beneath her closed eyelids

as though she were dreaming, and then her eyes snapped open and personality

flooded back into her face. The mists in the booth began to dissipate, stirred

by a sourceless wind. Mistique fixed Hawk with her gaze.

"I've got him. Morgan's been hiding out in another pocket dimension, hidden off

Packet Lane, not ten minutes' walk from here."

"Did you get a look inside?" said Hawk. "Did you see Morgan himself?"

"Not really. I could sense his presence, along with a dozen or so bodyguards,

but when I tried to enter I brushed up against another sorcerer's wards, so I

got the hell out of there before I gave myself away."

"Are you sure there's just the one sorcerer?" said Hawk.

Burns looked at him. "One is usually enough to screw up any mission."

Hawk ignored him, his gaze fixed on Mistique. "This is the second we've come

across already. There might be more."

"No," said Mistique. "There's just the one."

"Good," said Hawk. "Burns and I will take care of the bodyguards. You handle the

sorcerer. Only this time, let's all try really hard not to bring the pocket

dimension down around our ears. All right?"

Mistique led the way to Packet Lane, striding confidently through the thickening

fog. Hawk carried his axe at the ready and kept a careful watch, but no one

seemed to be paying them any particular attention. People tended not to look at

Guards if they could help it, on the grounds they didn't want Guards looking at

them. Burns grumbled most of the way to Packet Lane, muttering that the odds

stank, the whole idea was crazy, and they ought to call Headquarters for a

backup. Eventually Hawk said No with enough force to prove that he meant it, and

Burns shut up and sulked the rest of the way. As long as he did it quietly, Hawk

didn't give a damn. He couldn't afford to have Headquarters involved at this

stage. If they were, he'd have to tell them about Fisher.

Mistique finally brought them to Packet Lane, and they stood together in the

alley mouth, staring into the gloom. Nothing moved in the alleyway, and the

shadows lay quiet and undisturbed. Burns drew his sword, and the sudden grating

noise was eerily loud in the quiet. He glanced at Hawk, who nodded to Mistique.

She walked forward, counting out the steps, and pressed the five bricks in the

correct sequence. The huge steel door appeared out of the brickwork, and swung

open at Mistique's gesture. They stepped forward into the bright crimson light,

and the door swung silently shut behind them.

The three Guards stood close together a moment, squinting into the crimson

glare, and then Hawk hissed at Burns and Mistique to spread out. They made too

good a target standing as a group. Their eyes quickly adjusted, and Hawk relaxed

a little as he realized the long corridor before them was completely empty. The

brilliant red light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, bathing

everything in its bloody glow. The corridor had no furniture, no doors, and no

visible turnings off. The walls and the floor were bare wood, not even

varnished. Hawk took the point and led the way forward, axe at the ready. Burns

and Mistique followed close behind. Their footsteps echoed loudly from the bare

wooden floor, no matter how softly they trod.

The corridor seemed to go on forever. Hawk glanced back over his shoulder, and

his hackles rose sharply as he saw the corridor stretching away behind him into

the distance, with no sign of the door through which they'd entered. He shrugged

uncomfortably, and trudged on down the corridor. It had to lead somewhere. The

corridor suddenly rounded a corner and branched in two. Hawk looked down both

paths, but there was nothing to choose between them. He looked back and forth

while Burns and Mistique waited patiently for him to make up his mind, and then

he tensed as he heard footsteps approaching. Hawk gestured quickly for the other

two to fall back, and they retreated round the corner. Hawk eased back round the

corner after them and stood poised, listening to the footsteps draw nearer. A

man-at-arms rounded the corner, and Hawk whipped an arm round his throat before

he had time to react. The man-at-arms started to call out, and Hawk tightened

the hold until all that came out was a strangled croak.

"Don't move," said Hawk quietly. He waited till the man was perfectly still, and

then eased his grip a little. The man-at-arms drew in a long, shuddering breath.

Hawk nodded to Burns, and he stepped forward and took the man's sword. Hawk put

his mouth close to his prisoner's ear.

"Morgan. Where is he?"

"Are you crazy? He'll have you killed for this…" He broke off abruptly as the

hold round his throat tightened harshly and then relaxed again.

"What's your name?" said Hawk.

"Justin."

"Do you know who I am?"

"No. Who are you?"

"I'm Hawk. Captain Hawk."

"Oh God."

"Where's Morgan?"

"It's not far. I'll lead you to him."

"That's a good boy. I'm going to let you go now. Behave yourself and you might

come out of this alive."

He let go of the man-at-arms, and gestured for him to lead the way. Justin

nodded jerkily, rubbed at his throat, and set off round the corner and down the

left-hand path. Hawk and Mistique followed close behind, with Burns bringing up

the rear. Hawk leaned in close to Mistique and spoke softly, so that only she

could hear.

"Is there any way Morgan could know we're coming? Could his sorcerer have set up

any protective wards in here?"

Mistique shook her head. "If he had, I'd know," she said softly. "There were

wards and magical booby traps crawling all over the alleyway, but I defused them

by summoning the door correctly. Keep your guard up, though, just in case. If I

were Morgan, I'd have some kind of fall-back defenses."

Hawk nodded. "That's probably what the dozen bodyguards are supposed to be. I

know how Morgan thinks; I've met his kind before. He thinks he's so big and

powerful no one would dare just walk in on him. After all, he's got his own

sorcerer and a dozen bodyguards to protect him. Who'd be crazy enough to come in

here after him, in his own stronghold?"

Mistique looked at Hawk. "He might just have a point."

Hawk smiled. "I've faced worse odds. Morgan's just a cheap thug with delusions

of grandeur. And I'm going to knock him down and rub his nose in it until he

tells me what I want to know."

The man-at-arms led them through a short series of passageways to a pair of

huge, polished oaken doors. Somewhere along the way, the sourceless crimson

light had changed to a homely golden glow. There were expensive paintings and

tapestries on the walls, and a deep-pile carpet on the floor. Hawk looked at the

double doors for a long moment, and then turned and smiled at their guide.

"Well done, Justin. I'm very pleased with you. Mistique, put him to sleep for a

while."

The sorceress locked eyes with Justin, and all the color drained out of his

face. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell limply backwards. Burns caught

him and lowered him to the floor. Hawk hefted his axe, breathed deeply, and then

reached forward and carefully opened one of the doors an inch. He looked back at

Burns and Mistique.

"No mercy, no quarter—but whatever happens, I want Morgan alive. He's no use to

me dead."

He turned back to the doors, kicked them open, and charged in, axe at the ready.

Burns and Mistique charged in after him, eyes darting round the vast chamber as

they searched for their first target. Morgan was reclining on embroidered

cushions with a beautiful young woman, drinking wine from a silver goblet, and

whispering something into her ear as she giggled helplessly. Half a dozen

men-at-arms were playing cards at a table in a far corner. There was no sign of

any sorcerer.

The men at the table looked round, startled, as the doors burst open, and then

scrambled to their feet, grabbing for their swords. Morgan pushed aside his

scantily clad companion and struggled to get to his feet, slipping and sliding

on the cushions. Hawk sprinted forward, hoping to get to Morgan before the

men-at-arms could reach him, but Morgan finally got his feet under him and ran

for the far door. Thin streamers of mist shot past Hawk and wrapped themselves

around Morgan, bringing him crashing to the floor. The far door flew open,

revealing a tall, gaunt-faced man dressed in sorcerer's black. He gestured

quickly, and the misty coils holding Morgan disappeared.

Hawk and Burns threw themselves at the charging men-at-arms. Hawk cut down the

first two to reach him with savage sweeps of his axe. Blood pooled thickly on

the floor as he stepped quickly over the writhing bodies to attack the next man.

They stood face to face for a moment, exchanging cut and thrust and parry, but

the man-at-arms was no match for Hawk's cold fury, and both of them knew it. The

swordsman began to back away, and Hawk went after him. He swung his axe with

vicious skill, and then caught a glimpse of flashing steel out of the corner of

his eye. He threw himself to one side, and the young woman's sword just missed

him. Hawk kicked the man-at-arms in the knee, elbowed him in the face, and

turned quickly to face the young woman as she attacked him with just as much

skill as the man-at-arms. Hawk wondered briefly where she'd hidden a sword in

such a brief outfit, and then was forced to give her his full attention as she

pressed home her attack.

She was good with a sword, and worse still, fresh and rested, while he was

fighting off a long day's fatigue. He stood his ground, swinging his axe with

both hands, but she deflected most of his blows and easily dodged the rest. Once

again Hawk caught a glimpse of movement at his side, and sidestepped quickly as

the man-at-arms he'd elbowed threw himself forward and accidentally impaled

himself on the young woman's sword. She froze in shock, and Hawk slammed the

butt of his axe against her head. She fell to the floor without a murmur and lay

still. Hawk glowered down at her. If he'd had any sense, he'd have killed her

while he had the chance, but he always was too chivalrous for his own good.

Besides, he rationalized, she might answer questions that Morgan wouldn't.

He looked around him, suddenly aware the room was strangely quiet. Burns had

dealt with the other men-at-arms, and was standing over his last kill, breathing

heavily and checking himself for wounds. There didn't seem to be anything

serious. Hawk grinned. There was a lot to be said for the advantage of surprise,

not to mention the adrenalin provided by extreme desperation.

He looked across at Mistique, who was standing very still, her face cold, her

eyes locked on the other sorcerer, still standing by the far door. Stray magic

spat and sparkled on the air between them.

Mists curled and twisted around Mistique like unfinished ghosts, and then leapt

forward with heart-stopping speed, only to dissipate and fall apart before they

could reach the sorcerer. He raised his hand in a short, casual gesture and all

around Mistique the floor bulged suddenly upwards, tearing itself apart. The

jagged wood erupted up into thick twisting branches that clutched at the air

like gnarled fingers. Barbed thorns thrust out of the crackling wood as the

branches stretched towards Mistique. Thick tendrils of mist boiled off the

sorceress, and shot forward to engulf the lengthening branches. The unliving

wood cracked and splintered as the mists writhed, ripping the branches apart.

Beads of sweat appeared on the sorcerer's face as the mists advanced on him.

Sharp wooden stalagmites thrust out of the floor and wall around Mistique,

piercing the air with razored points, but none of them came close to touching

her. A pearly haze built around the sorcerer, thickening inexorably into a fog

that swallowed him up. There was a single, choked cry from inside the fog, and

then silence. The fog quickly cleared, dispersed by a sourceless wind, and there

was no trace of the sorcerer anywhere. Hawk decided not to ask; he didn't think

he wanted to know. Mistique glanced across at him.

"That's what comes of overspecialization. If he hadn't limited himself to

working with wood, he might have been able to do some real damage."

"You only work with mists," Hawk pointed out, striding quickly over to Morgan,

who was still lying where he'd fallen.

"Mists are different," said Mistique. "You can do a lot with mists."

Hawk shrugged, grabbed Morgan by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. The

drug baron twisted suddenly, a knife gleaming in his hand. Hawk let go and

jumped back, sucking in his gut, and the knife ripped through his furs and out

again without touching him. Morgan drew back his hand for another thrust, and

Hawk caught him with a straight-finger jab just below the breastbone. Morgan's

face paled, and the knife slipped from his numb fingers. Hawk grabbed him by the

shirt-front and slammed him back against the nearest wall. He put his face close

to Morgan's and showed the drug baron his death's-head smile.

"Talk to me, Morgan."

"What… what do you want to know?" Morgan fought to keep his voice even, but he

couldn't face Hawk's cold gaze. He looked over Hawk's shoulder at Burns and

Mistique, standing together, and his face paled even more.

"Let's start with the drug," said Hawk. "The super-chacal. Where is it?"

"In one of the back rooms here." Morgan looked reluctantly back at Hawk. "There

are lots of empty rooms here. More than I can ever use."

"Have you started moving it yet?"

"No, we've been having difficulties setting up a new distribution network,

thanks to your interference."

"It's nice to be appreciated," said Hawk. "Now let's talk about the drug itself.

This super-chacal is something new. You didn't come up with it yourself.

Developing a new drug takes lots of time and money, not to mention a staff of

high-level alchemists in their own private lab. And that's out of your league,

Morgan. So how did you get your hands on it?"

Morgan tried to shrug, but Hawk had too tight a hold on him. "It came in through

the Docks, disguised as spices. All I had to do was make sure it hadn't been cut

with anything, then package it and make the connection with the distributors.

The drug itself was financed by outside money."

Hawk frowned thoughtfully. "Outside money… Outside Haven, or outside the Low

Kingdoms?"

"Didn't know. Didn't care. Money's money; I don't give a damn where it comes

from. This sounded like a good deal, so I went for it. I never got to talk to

the real backers; they always worked through middlemen. I can give you their

names if you want, but it won't do you any good. They'll have left Haven by now.

I'd planned to be long gone myself, once the drug hit the streets."

"You really are a piece of slime, you know that?" Hawk thrust his face up close

before Morgan's, and the drug baron tried to shrink back into the solid wall.

Hawk's voice was calm and even, but his face held a bitter rage only barely held

in check. "You knew what the drug was, and what it would do to anyone who took

it. You knew that once the super-chacal hit the streets, there'd be a bloodbath

that would tear Haven apart. But you went ahead with it anyway."

Morgan squirmed uncomfortably. "Come on, Hawk, if I hadn't gone for it, someone

else would have. You're exaggerating the dangers. So we lose a few scum from the

streets. So what? No one who really matters would have been hurt. And there's

millions to be made from this drug. Once word gets out, everyone will want to

try it. It gives a kind of hit no one's ever been able to deliver before. Even

the weakest man can become strong enough and brave enough to get back at

everyone who's ever done him down. Millions of ducats, Hawk. Think of it. It's

not too late; you can still cut yourself in. There's enough money in this for

everyone."

Hawk grinned at Morgan, and he shut up. "No deals, Morgan. Now then, you've done

very well, so far. Just one more question, and I'll be finished with you. Answer

it correctly, and you'll live to stand trial. You bought off a lot of people in

the Guard while setting up this deal, but I'm interested in one name in

particular. You bought yourself a Guard Captain. You know who I mean; the

well-respected Captain, the one who no one would suspect. The one who made your

drugs vanish from Guard Headquarters. I want to know who that Captain is. I want

to know very badly. So you tell me the name, Morgan, or I swear I'll cut you

into pieces right here and now."

"Hawk, you can't do this," said Burns. "It's inhuman."

"Shut up, Burns."

"He has to stand trial, Hawk. He'll tell us everything we need to know, under a

truthspell."

"I need to know now! Talk to me, Morgan!"

"Stop it, Hawk! I won't stand for this!"

Hawk half turned to shout at Burns, and Morgan brought his knee up sharply into

Hawk's groin. Air whistled in his throat as he fell backwards, momentarily

paralysed by the pain. Morgan made a dash for the far door, but Mistique put

herself between him and the door. Mists boiled up off her outstretched hands.

Morgan produced another knife from somewhere and lunged at her. Burns ran him

through from behind with his sword. Morgan sank slowly to his knees, still

holding onto his knife. He coughed painfully, and blood ran thickly from his

mouth. He fell forward and lay still, and Burns pulled his sword free. He knelt

down beside the body, tried for a pulse at the neck, and shook his head. He got

to his feet again, and a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. He looked round,

startled, and Hawk punched him in the mouth. Burns stumbled backwards, blood

spilling down his chin. Hawk went after him, but Mistique grabbed him from

behind and held him firmly.

"Stop it, Hawk! That's enough!"

Hawk struggled fiercely, but he was still weakened by Morgan's attack and he

couldn't break her grip. His gaze was fixed on Burns. "You stupid bastard! I

told you we needed him alive! How is he going to answer questions now?"

"I'm sorry," said Burns indistinctly, wiping blood from his mouth with the back

of his hand. "I didn't think… I just saw him lunging at Mistique, and I really

thought he was going to kill her…"

"I could have handled him," said Mistique.

"Yes, I'm sure you could have," said Burns, looking at the blood smeared across

his hand. "I didn't think… I'm sorry."

"Damn you," said Hawk. "What are we going to do now? He was the only one who

knew all the names." He shook his head sickly, then took a deep breath and let

it out slowly. "It's all right, Mistique, you can let me go now. I'm all right."

She let him go, and stood back. Hawk moved over to Morgan's body and knelt down

beside it, wincing as pain shot through him. He'd managed to take some of

Morgan's kneeing on his thigh, but the pain was still bad enough to make him

move like an old man. He tried for a pulse, but couldn't find one. He searched

the body slowly and methodically, but didn't come up with anything useful, apart

from a small bunch of keys. He got to his feet again, with a little help from

Mistique.

"At least we've got the drugs back," he said brusquely. "And this time I'll make

sure they don't go missing, even if I have to feed every damn package to the

incinerator myself."

"We ought to search the place before we go," said Burns. "There's always the

chance he kept records of who was working for him, and who he was paying off."

Hawk nodded curtly. "He probably had more sense than to leave something like

that just lying about, but it's worth a look. Don't move anything, though. We'll

leave the real search to the experts. Place is probably rigged with booby

traps." A sudden thought struck him and he looked quickly at Mistique. "Or is

this place going to collapse around our ears like the other one?"

The sorceress shook her head. "Solid as rock. Whoever set up this place knew

what he was doing."

They headed for the far door, Mistique staying close by Hawk in case he needed

to lean on her again. Burns kept a tactful distance. The sorceress cleared her

throat uncertainly.

"Hawk… would you really have used your axe on Morgan?"

He smiled slightly. "I was bluffing. Mostly. I'm not really as bad as my

reputation makes out."

"You convinced me," said Mistique. "I've never seen anyone look so mad."

"I wanted the name."

"Hawk," said Mistique gently. "We already know the name."

"So, did you find anything?" asked Commander Glen, leaning forward over his desk

and staring intently at Hawk and Burns.

Hawk shook his head. "Nothing useful. And Morgan didn't strike me as dumb enough

to commit anything incriminating to paper anyway."

Glen sniffed, and leaned back in his chair. "You're probably right. At least you

had enough restraint not to wreck the place, for a change—even if you didn't

leave anyone alive to answer questions."

"What about the man-at-arms Mistique put to sleep?" said Burns. "And the woman

Hawk knocked out?"

"Hired muscle," said Glen dismissively. "They weren't far enough in to know

anything useful. And speaking of Mistique, where is she? I want to hear her

report, too."

Hawk and Burns stared over Glen's head at the wall behind him. "She said she'd

look in later," said Hawk. "She's… rather busy at the moment." He lowered his

gaze abruptly, and fixed Glen with his single, cold eye.

"Commander, there's something I need to discuss with you."

"Yes," said Glen. "We have to talk about Captain Fisher. I've been hearing

stories about her for some time now. As long as they were just stories I could

afford to ignore them. You and Fisher were a good team; you got results. But I

can't ignore this, Hawk. She's betrayed the security of the Peace Talks, and

gone on the run. We have no idea where she is, or what she might be planning.

And now there's mounting evidence that she's been working for Morgan all along."

"I don't believe that," said Hawk. "I don't believe any of it."

Glen looked at him steadily. "She's gone rogue. Hawk. I have issued a warrant

for her arrest. There's a reward of five thousand ducats for anyone who brings

her in, dead or alive."

For a moment Hawk just looked back at him, his scarred face cold and impassive,

saying nothing. "I'll find her," he said finally. "I'll find her, and bring her

in. Call off your dogs, Commander."

"I can't do that, Hawk. It's out of my hands now. And I can't let you go,

either. You did a good job in recovering the super-chacal, but you upset a great

many prominent people in the process. If you'd brought Morgan in alive, no one

would have said anything, but as it is…"

"That was my fault, Commander," said Burns, but Hawk and Glen didn't even look

at him.

"Now that Fisher's gone rogue," said Glen, "you've become suspect too, Hawk,

through your relationship with her. Too many things have gone wrong around you

just lately. No one trusts you anymore. I have a warrant for your arrest too,

Hawk. I'm sorry."

"You've got to let me find Fisher," said Hawk. "Please. Let me bring her in, and

we'll prove our innocence."

"I'm sorry," said Glen. "I have my orders. Give me your axe, please."

Hawk drew his axe, and the room suddenly became very tense. He hefted the weapon

in his hand a moment, and then put it down on Glen's desk. The Commander relaxed

a little, and Hawk hit him with a vicious left uppercut. Glen flew backwards out

of his chair, slammed into the wall behind his desk, and slid unconscious to the

floor. Burns opened his mouth to yell something, his hand already reaching for

his sword. Hawk spun round, grabbed up his axe, and hit Bums across the head

with the flat of the blade while Burns was still drawing his sword. He fell to

the floor and lay there motionless, groaning quietly.

Hawk would have liked to tie them both up, but a quick glance around showed him

nothing he could use as a rope, and he didn't have the time, anyway. He hauled

them both into Glen's private washroom, and locked the door on them. He took a

last quick look round, and then left Glen's office and made his way casually

through Headquarters to the main entrance. He smiled and nodded to people he

passed, and they smiled and muttered automatically in return. Hawk kept his face

calm, but his thoughts were in a turmoil. He had to find Isobel before anyone

else did. He couldn't trust anyone else with the job.

Isobel… I'm coming for you.

Chapter Nine

Under The Masks

Fisher moved quietly through the back streets, trudging doggedly through the

snow and slush, with her head bowed. The tattered grey cloak didn't do much to

keep out the cold, but with the hood pulled well forward there was no way anyone

was going to recognize her. After all, who would expect the bold and dashing

Captain Fisher to be skulking through the worst part of town in rags she

wouldn't normally have used to polish her boots? She seethed inwardly at the

indignity, but kept her outer demeanor carefully calm and unobtrusive. Her

disguise would only hold up as long as no one challenged it, and there were a

hell of a lot of people who'd be only too happy to turn her in for whatever

reward was currently on her head.

Fisher had no doubt there was a reward. The Powers That Be needed a scapegoat,

and she was tailor-made for the role. She could plead her innocence till she was

blue in the face, but no one would give a damn. She had to be found guilty so

that the Outremer delegates would be reassured and the Peace Talks could go on.

They'd told her right from the beginning that she was expendable. Fisher grinned

fiercely. That was their opinion. If they wanted her to be a rogue, she'd be

one. And anyone who got in her way was going to regret it.

She slowed her pace slightly as two ragged figures appeared out of a dark alley

mouth and moved casually towards her. She caught brief glimpses of the knives

half hidden under their cloaks, and turned to face them. She'd obviously

overdone the unthreatening aspect of her disguise and made herself look an easy

target. Fisher scowled. She couldn't afford to fight them; at best it would draw

attention to her, particularly when she won, and at worst it might actually give

away who she was. But she couldn't hope for any help, either. Not in the

Northside. She swore under her breath, and let her hand move to her sword under

cover of the cloak. There was never a bloody Constable around when you needed

one.

The two bravos moved to block her path, and she came to a halt. She pushed back

her cloak to reveal the sword at her side, and lifted her head to give them her

best glare. She'd put a lot of work and practice into that glare, and it had

always served her well in the past. It suggested she was one hundred percent

crazy, barely under control, and violent with it. The two bravos took in the

glare and the sword, looked at each other, and then made their knives disappear,

and moved casually off in another direction, as though they'd intended to go

that way all along. Fisher let her cloak fall back to cover the sword, pulled

her hood even lower over her face, and continued on her way, trying not to look

too much in a hurry.

She had to think of somewhere to go, somewhere she could hole up for a while

till she could figure some way to get out of the city. She couldn't go home; it

was the first place they'd think of, and was probably crawling with Guards by

now, ransacking every room in search of evidence that wasn't there. A slow,

sullen anger burned in her, at the thought of strangers trampling through her

house, but she knew there was no point in brooding over it. Or the treasured

possessions she'd have to leave behind when she finally found a way out of the

city.

She had to find somewhere she could stop and think, somewhere safe. And there

were all sorts of things she'd have to get her hands on, things she'd need just

to survive out in the wilds of the Low Kingdoms, in the dead of winter. Starting

with a decent fur cloak. The cold cut right through the thin grey one she had

now. And she'd need a horse and provisions… and a dozen other things, none of

which she had the money to buy. Her money was back at the house. What there was

of it.

Her pace slowed as her thoughts churned furiously. She wasn't used to having to

plan ahead. That had always been Hawk's responsibility. Hawk. The name cut at

her briefly, like a razor drawn against unsuspecting skin. She wanted to go to

him so badly, but she didn't dare. Everything she'd heard since she hit the

streets suggested that Hawk had gone berserk, fighting and killing anyone who

got between him and Morgan. Something bad must have happened, something so awful

he no longer cared what happened to him as long as he got to Morgan. Her first

impulse had been to find him and fight at his side, but she couldn't do that. By

now there had to be a small army of Guards on her tail, and she'd be leading

them straight to Hawk. And if he really had gone berserk, he'd die rather than

be stopped.

She couldn't let that happen.

There must be somewhere she could go, somewhere they wouldn't think of looking.

She trudged on, head down, not looking where she was going, as her mind

floundered from one possibility to another before finally, reluctantly, settling

on one. The Tolling Bell was a rancid little tavern, tucked away at the back of

nowhere. The kind of place where they sold illegally strong drinks and the

bartender had little conversation and even less of a memory for faces. Fisher

had used the place before, when she needed to get away by herself for a while.

When she'd had a row with Hawk, or just needed to be alone with her thoughts.

She'd always taken pains to disguise her identity, so no one could find her till

she was ready to be found. The Tolling Bell… Yes… she could be there in half an

hour.

Her head snapped up, suddenly alert as she heard tramping feet heading towards

her. Six Guard Constables were moving purposefully in her direction. She quickly

dropped her head again, and hunched over under her cloak to make herself look

smaller. Her hand moved unobtrusively to the sword at her side. Six-to-one odds,

and no one to watch her back. Bad odds, but she'd faced worse in her time. She

glanced cautiously around for possible escape routes, and only then realized the

Guards weren't actually looking at her. Hope flared in her again, and she shrank

back against the wall as the Guards tramped past, doing her best to look

insignificant and harmless. The Constables hardly glanced at her as they passed,

and continued on their way. Fisher waited where she was, listening to the sound

of the footsteps dying gradually away, and then moved slowly on, careful not to

look behind her. Her back crawled in anticipation of a sudden sword thrust, but

it never came. She finally allowed herself to glance back over her shoulder, and

found the Constables were almost out of sight at the end of the street. Her

breath began to come a little more easily, and she increased her pace. She'd be

safe at The Tolling Bell. For a while. She could sit down, and rest, and think.

And just maybe she'd be able to see a way out of this mess.

Hawk strode angrily down the main street, pulling his ratty brown cloak tightly

about him. The cold cut through the ragged cloth as though it weren't there, but

at least the hood concealed his face, as long as he remembered to keep his head

bowed. Someone had to have found Glen and Burns by now, which meant word would

soon be circulating on the streets that Hawk was fair game for anyone who felt

like going after him. And with the kind of reward the Guard would be offering,

there'd be no shortage of volunteers. Most of the usual bounty hunters would

have more sense than to go after Captain Hawk, but there were always some stupid

enough to take any risk, for a chance at the big money. And if enough of them

got together, they might just manage it.

Hawk scowled, and peered unobtrusively about him. They were after Fisher too. He

had to find her, before anyone else did. Find her, and find out what had

happened. Why she'd betrayed Haven, and the Guard. And him. There had to be a

reason, a good reason. He believed that implicitly, because to think anything

else would drive him insane. He trusted Isobel, but all the evidence pointed to

her guilt. As a Guard, he'd learned to rely on the evidence before anything

else, and never to trust his instincts or his feelings until he had hard

evidence to back them up. But this was different. This was Isobel. He had to

find her and hear her explanation. And then he'd know what to do next.

Though really, deep down, he'd already decided what he was going to do. Whatever

she said, whatever she'd done; it didn't matter. Once before he'd given up

everything he had for her sake, and he wouldn't hesitate to do it again if he

had to. There were other cities, other countries they could go to, and it

wouldn't be the first time they'd had to change their names.

But he had to find her soon, before the Guard did. She wouldn't go to any of her

usual haunts; too many other people knew about them. There had to be some place

she'd regard as safe, some place she'd think no one knew about but her… The

Tolling Bell. That had to be it. Isobel often disappeared there when she lost an

argument or was feeling broody.

A shout went up not too far away, as a sudden gust of wind caught the edge of

his hood and flipped it back, revealing his face. Hawk pulled the hood back into

position, but the damage had been done. Two Guard Constables were running

towards him, swords drawn. Hawk looked quickly around for an escape route, but

they were all blocked by curious onlookers eager for some free entertainment.

Hawk cursed unemotionally, straightened up, and drew his axe. He shrugged his

cloak back out of the way and stamped the snow flat to give him better footing.

He hefted his axe thoughtfully, and waited for the two Constables to come within

range. He didn't want to kill them if he could avoid it. They were just doing

their job. As far as they were concerned, he was a rogue and a traitor. But he

couldn't let them stop him. Isobel's life might depend on his getting to her

before anyone else did.

The Constables slowed their pace as they drew near Hawk, and moved apart to take

him from two directions at once. Hawk picked the nearest one, and launched

himself forward. He ducked under the Constable's wild swing, the sword blade

tugging briefly at the top of his hood, and slammed his shoulder into the

Constable's gut. The man folded in half and fell away, gasping for air. Hawk

clubbed him forcefully across the back of the head with the butt of his axe, and

then spun round just in time to block an attack from the other Constable.

The two of them stamped back and forth, feinting and withdrawing, each trying to

make the other commit himself. Hawk faked a stumble, and went down on one knee.

The Constable immediately fell back a step, too old a hand to be taken in by

such an obvious stunt, and Hawk hit him in the face with the handful of snow

he'd palmed when he went down. The Constable staggered back, lashing out blindly

with his sword while he tried to claw the snow out of his eyes with his free

hand. Hawk timed it carefully, stepped in during a brief moment when the

Constable left himself open, and kicked him in the groin.

The Constable went down without a sound, and Hawk clubbed him unconscious. He

nodded once, satisfied, and then froze as a shout went up again, some way behind

him. He looked round and saw six more Constables charging down the street

towards him. Hawk turned on his heel and ran for the nearest alleyway. If he had

to take on six-to-one odds with no one to guard his back, someone was definitely

going to end up dead. Quite possibly him. The people in the alley mouth

scattered as he bore down on them axe in hand, and he plunged past them into the

concealing gloom of the narrow passageway. His best bet was to try and lose his

pursuers in the maze of back streets and cul de sacs. He knew this area, and the

odds were they didn't. He just hoped he wouldn't have to outrun them. He was

already short of breath. It had been a long day, and the end was nowhere in

sight.

He scowled to himself as he ran. Running from a mere six-to-one odds. If this

got out, he'd never live it down.

Captain ap Owen watched with interest as Commander Glen sat glowering behind his

desk, painfully growling orders to a steady stream of visitors. He kept an ice

pack pressed against his face. A quite spectacular bruise was spreading across

his jaw and peeking round the edges of the ice pack. People came and went in

sudden rushes and flurries, darting into the office to deliver updated reports

and possible sightings, and then quickly disappearing before Glen could turn his

glare on them. But for all their bustle and effort, it was clear they were no

nearer locating Hawk or Fisher.

"They can't just have vanished," protested Captain Burns, pacing back and forth,

and occasionally raising a hand to feel gingerly at the back of his head. He

claimed to have a hell of a bump there, but no one else had seen it. Ap Owen

thought it was probably more hurt pride than anything else. Burns glared at ap

Owen as though it were all his fault, and ap Owen quickly looked away, somehow

keeping a smile off his face. It had to be said, he'd never much cared for

Burns. Too interested in looking good, that one. Probably had a great career

ahead of him—in administration.

"We'll find them," said Glen slowly, trying hard not to move his mouth when he

spoke. "We've got their house staked out, and all their usual haunts. The city

Gates have been sealed, so they can't get out of Haven. All we have to do now is

run them to ground…" He broke off abruptly as a wave of pain hit him, but his

eyes were still hot and furious.

"We're leaning on all the usual informants," said ap Owen. "Most of them are

falling over themselves at a chance to do Hawk and Fisher some dirt. Those two

have made an awful lot of enemies during their short time in Haven."

Burns sniffed. "No honor among thieves. Or traitors."

Ap Owen raised an eyebrow. "That's hardly fair, Burns. Up until now, Hawk and

Fisher have always had an exemplary reputation."

"You have got to be joking. Everyone knows about the brutal tactics they use.

They don't care who they hurt or intimidate, and they kill anyone who gets in

their way. I've even heard it said they plant evidence and manufacture

confessions, just to make their arrest rate look good. They're no better than

thugs in uniform."

"They always upheld the law."

"When it suited them," said Burns. "Anybody can be bought, for the right price."

Ap Owen shrugged unhappily, and looked across at Glen. "With respect, Commander,

I think our quarry have more than enough sense to keep clear of all their usual

haunts. Is there anywhere they might go, that they might think we don't know

about? You were with Hawk all day, Burns. Did he mention any place to you?"

"If he had, I'd have said so!" snapped Burns. "Why aren't you out there looking

for them? You've got twenty men under you. Why aren't you out combing the

streets?"

"What's the point?" said ap Owen mildly. "We've got half an army out there as it

is; adding my people to that pack would only give them someone else to trip

over. Besides, I don't want my men wandering aimlessly about in the cold, or

they won't be worth spit when we finally get a chance to arrest Hawk or Fisher.

Or both. In fact, the more I think about it, the more sure I am they'll have

joined up by now. They always were very devoted to each other."

"I don't know," said Glen indistinctly, from behind his ice pack. "Hawk seemed

honestly shocked when he heard the news about Fisher's treachery. I think

there's a real chance he may not be involved in the treason himself."

"If he wasn't a traitor before, he is now," said Burns. "He's defied lawful

orders and assaulted a superior officer. And right now you can bet he's doing

his utmost to help the traitor Fisher to escape justice. Even though her actions

may have helped to start a war."

"Calm down," said ap Owen. "It isn't that bad. Yet. The delegates are still

talking to each other, even if it's not on an official basis at the moment.

There's still hope. In the meantime, guilty or not, I think we can assume Hawk

is doing his best to locate Fisher. And since he's much more likely to figure

out where she's hidden herself than we are, I think we can also assume that when

we finally catch up with them, they're going to be together. And together,

they're the most formidable fighting machine Haven has ever seen. I'm not sure I

can take them, even with twenty men under me. Which is why, Captain Burns, my

men are staying here, warm and rested, until they're needed. I don't want them

worn out from chasing round Haven after every unconfirmed sighting."

"Thank you, Captain," said Glen heavily. "I think you've made your point." He

scowled at ap Owen and Burns, and then stared unseeingly at the papers on his

desk, his fingers drumming quietly as he thought. "Hawk said something once,

about Fisher having a special place to go to be on her own, when she wanted to

get away from everything. He told me about it one time, when we were looking for

her in an emergency and couldn't find her. It was an inn. The something Bell.

The Tolling Bell, that was it."

"What district?" said ap Owen.

"How the hell should I know? Find out!"

Ap Owen rose to his feet. "It's got to be somewhere near their home. Shouldn't

be too hard to find someone here who lives in that area. I'll let you know the

minute I've got word, Commander; then I'll move in with my men while you have

the area surrounded. Maybe we can talk Hawk and Fisher into giving up. I don't

see any point in getting my people killed if I can avoid it."

"It's not as simple as that," said Glen slowly. "I have my orders, Captain ap

Owen, and I'm passing them on to you. Hawk and Fisher are to be brought in dead.

We're not interested in their capture or surrender. Our superiors have decided

that they can't be allowed to stand trial. They know too many secrets, too many

things the Council can't afford to have discussed in public. So Hawk and Fisher

are going to die resisting arrest. That's the way our superiors want it, and

that's the way it's going to be. Understand?"

"Yes, Commander," said ap Owen. "I understand. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"I'm going with you," said Burns. "I have a personal stake in this."

Ap Owen glanced at Commander Glen, who nodded brusquely. Ap Owen crossed over to

the door without looking at Burns, and left the Commander's office. Burns

followed him out. Glen stared at the papers on his desk for a long time before

returning to his work.

Fisher slipped into The Tolling Bell tavern with her hood pulled low, and

ordered an ale by pointing and grunting. The bartender drew her off a pint

without commenting. You got all sorts in The Tolling Bell. Fisher paid for her

drink and quickly settled herself in a dark corner, careful to avoid her usual

booth. She took a long swallow of the bitter ale, wiped the froth from her upper

lip with care, so as not to disturb her hood, and only then allowed herself to

relax a little. She'd always thought of The Bell as a sanctuary, a place apart

from the cares and duties of her life, and now she needed that feeling more than

ever. She looked around casually, checking the place out.

The inn was quiet, not surprising given the time of day, with only a dozen or so

customers. Fisher recognized all of them as regulars. They'd mind their own

business. They always did.

Hawk's gone berserk. He's killing anyone who gets in his way.

Fisher squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to believe that what she'd heard

was true, but it could be. It could be. And if it were… she didn't know what to

do for the best. She couldn't let him go on as he was. If he really had gone

berserk, innocent people might get hurt, even killed. She couldn't risk looking

for him herself; she might unknowingly lead the Guard right to him. But she

couldn't just abandon him, either. She had to do something… something, while

there was still time.

In the street outside, Hawk leaned against a wall and looked casually about him.

No one seemed to be paying him any untoward attention. He was pretty sure he

hadn't been followed since he shook off the pursuing Constables, but he wasn't

taking any chances. He approved of Fisher's choice of inn. The Tolling Bell was

quiet, off the beaten track and nicely anonymous. Not at all the kind of place

you'd expect to find Captains Hawk and Fisher. He took one last look around,

pulled his hood even lower, and ducked in through the open doorway.

He strolled over to the bar, and ordered a beer by grunting and pointing. The

bartender looked at him for a moment, and then drew him a pint. Hawk paid the

man, put his back against the bar, and sipped his beer thoughtfully as he looked

about him. The other customers ignored him completely, but one figure near the

back seemed to be going out of its way to avoid looking in his direction.

Fisher's heart beat painfully fast, and she clutched her glass until her

knuckles showed white. She had recognized Hawk the moment he entered the inn.

She knew the way he walked, the way he moved… He'd spotted her. She could tell

from the way his stance suddenly changed. Her thoughts raced furiously. Why was

he just standing there? Had he come to take her in? Did he want Morgan so badly

now, he'd even sacrifice her in return for a clear shot at the drug baron? He's

gone rogue. Killing anyone who gets in his way. Anyone.

She shoved her chair back from the table and sprang to her feet. She swept her

cloak over her shoulders, out of the way, and drew her sword. She couldn't let

Hawk take her in. He didn't understand what was going on. They'd kill her, once

she was safely out of the public eye, to be sure of appeasing the Outremer

delegates. She couldn't let Hawk take her in.

Hawk shrugged his own cloak back out of the way, and drew his axe as she drew

her sword. What little he could see of her face looked strained and desperate.

She must be a traitor. She's betrayed everyone. She betrayed you. There were

frantic scrambling sounds all around as the other customers hurried to get out

of the way. A tense, echoing silence filled the room.

She's a traitor. All the evidence proves it. She drew a sword on you. You can't

trust her anymore.

He's a rogue. He's gone berserk, out of control. He's killed people all over

Haven. You can't trust him anymore.

Hawk slowly straightened up out of his fighting stance, and put away his axe. He

pushed back his hood, and walked slowly towards Isobel. She straightened up and

lowered her sword. Hawk stopped before her, easily in reach of her sword, and

smiled at her.

"It's all right, Isobel. I don't care what you've done. You must have had a good

reason for it. If you don't want me with you, if you feel you have to… leave me

behind, that's all right. I'll understand. All that matters to me is that you're

safe."

Fisher slammed her sword back into its scabbard, and hugged Hawk fiercely,

crushing the breath out of him. "You damned fool, Hawk! As if I could ever leave

you…"

They clung together for a while, happy and secure in each other's arms, eyes

squeezed shut, as if they could close out everything in the world except the two

of them. The other customers slowly began to settle down again, though still

keeping a wary eye on the embracing couple. Eventually, reluctantly, Hawk and

Fisher broke apart, and stepped back to look at each other properly. Hawk's

mouth twitched.

"That is a really horrible-looking cloak, Isobel."

"You should talk. What the hell have you been up to, Hawk? I've been hearing all

kinds of crazy things about you."

Hawk grinned. "Most of them are probably true. You should hear what they've been

saying about you."

They sat down together at Fisher's table, and brought each other up to date on

the day's events. It took a while, not least because there were a lot of things

they weren't too sure about themselves, but eventually they both ran down, and

sat quietly, thinking hard. A growing murmur of conversation rose around them,

as the inn's customers disappointedly decided that there wasn't going to be any

more action after all.

"Somebody's been setting us up," said Hawk finally.

"Both of us. We've been led around by the nose all day long, and we were so tied

up in our own concerns we never even noticed. But the way things are, no one's

going to believe us, no matter what we say. You know, we could still make a run

for it. I know a forger who could knock us out new identities in under an hour."

Fisher looked at him. "Do you want to run?"

"Well, no, not really, but I thought you…"

"That was different. I thought I was on my own then. But now…"

"Right," said Hawk. "No one sets us up and gets away with it. The trouble is,

who the hell did it to us? I thought for a long time it was Morgan, but that

turned out not to be the case."

"Pity," said Fisher. "It would have simplified things. He said the drug was

developed by outside money… so presumably the people behind Morgan are our real

enemies. Whoever they are. It's not just the drug; they've got to be connected

with the Peace Talks in some way as well. Maybe they were banking on the chaos

the super-chacal would cause to break up the Talks, or at least keep the Guard

so occupied they couldn't protect the delegates properly. Wait a minute… wait

just a minute. All that talk of outside money could refer to outside the Low

Kingdoms; meaning Outremer."

"Right," said Hawk. "I thought that as well. We need a wedge, something or

someone we can use to force open this case and let in a little light. Look, just

because you're not a traitor, it doesn't mean there isn't one. Someone removed

those drugs from Headquarters, and sabotaged the Talks by revealing the house's

location and the coordinates of the pocket dimension. Who is there that's been

as closely involved in this case as you and I, and had the opportunity to do all

the things you've been accused of doing?"

"If the rumors are to be believed, it's a Guard Captain," said Fisher, scowling

thoughtfully into her drink. "A well-respected Captain, too honest and too

trusted ever to be suspected. But the only other Captain in this case is…" A

sudden inspiration stirred in her, and she stared at Hawk, her eyes widening.

"No, it couldn't be. Not him. Not Burns."

"Why not? He had the opportunity." Hawk nodded grimly, his thoughts racing

furiously. "It has to be him; he fits all the facts. And remember, one of

Morgan's people at the drug factory said he recognized one of the Captains who

took part in the raid as someone who worked for Morgan. He actually fingered

you, but presumably by then he'd been got at. So, if it wasn't you, it had to be

one of the other Captains. We can forget Doughty because he's dead, and we know

it wasn't us, so that just leaves Burns! Dammit, I always thought he was too

good to be true!"

"Wait a minute," said Fisher. "Let's not get carried away with this. How could

Burns have sabotaged the Peace Talks?"

Hawk frowned. "It wouldn't have been difficult for him to get the information.

He's been in and out of Headquarters all day, just like us. I feel like an

idiot, Isobel. It's no wonder I've been walking into traps all day; Burns must

have been reporting our position every time my back was turned!"

"It also explains why he killed Morgan," said Fisher. "He was afraid Morgan

might finger him, as a way of saving his own neck. We've found our traitor,

Hawk. Burns is behind everything bad that's happened to us today."

"Never liked him," said Hawk. "I wish now I'd hit him harder, when I had the

chance."

"A well-respected Captain that no one would suspect. The rumors were right about

that, at any rate. I never even heard a whisper about corruption concerning

Burns." Fisher frowned suddenly. "You know, Hawk, this isn't going to be easy to

prove. Who's going to take the word of two suspected traitors and renegades like

us against a paragon of virtue like Burns?"

"We'll just have to find him, and persuade him to tell them the truth."

"No rough stuff, Hawk. He'd only claim he was intimidated into saying what we

wanted him to say, and with our reputation, they'd believe him. We need

evidence. Hard evidence."

"All right, but first we've got to find him. And that's not going to be easy

either. He could be anywhere in Haven. Where are we supposed to start looking?"

"Right here," said Burns.

They looked up quickly, hands dropping to their weapons, and there was Burns

standing by the bar, with ap Owen beside him. Guard Constables were filing

quickly into the inn, swords at the ready. Once again the customers scrambled to

get out of the way. Hawk and Fisher rose slowly to their feet and moved away

from the table, ostentatiously keeping their hands well away from their weapons.

More Guards entered the inn. Hawk counted twenty in all. If the situation hadn't

been so grim, Hawk might have felt flattered they'd felt it necessary to send so

many men after him and Isobel. As it was, he was more interested in trying to

spot a quick escape route.

"Getting old, Hawk," said Burns casually. "You weren't even bothering to watch

the door. There was a time we wouldn't have caught you this easily."

"We're not caught yet," said Hawk. "But I'm glad you're here, Burns. There's a

lot of things Isobel and I want to discuss with you."

"The time for talk is over," said Burns. "In fact, your time has just run out."

"Drop your weapons on the floor, please," said ap Owen steadily. "You're under

arrest, Captains."

Burns looked around, startled, and glared at ap Owen. "Those were not our

orders! You obey Commander Glen's orders, or I'll have you put under arrest!" He

gestured quickly to the watching Constables. "You have your instructions. Kill

them both."

Hawk's axe was suddenly in his hands, the heavy blade gleaming hungrily in the

lamplight. Fisher stood at his side, sword at the ready. Hawk grinned nastily at

the other Guards.

"When you're ready, gentlemen. Who wants to die first?"

The Guards looked at each other. Nobody moved.

"I think we'll be leaving now," said Hawk calmly. "If anyone tries to follow us,

I'll take it as a personal insult. Now, stand clear of the door."

He almost brought it off. He was Hawk, after all. But Burns suddenly stepped

forward, sword in hand, and his angry voice broke the atmosphere.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" he said to his men. "You outnumber them ten

to one, and they're both dog-tired from chasing round the city all day! Now

carry out your orders, or I swear I'll see every man of you arrested for aiding

and abetting known traitors!"

The Constables' faces hardened, and they moved slowly forward, fanning out to

attack Hawk and Fisher from as many sides as possible. Hawk and Fisher moved

quickly to stand back to back. Fisher looked appealingly at Captain ap Owen.

"Listen to me, ap Owen. You know this isn't right. This whole thing's a setup.

There are things going on here you don't know about. Listen to me, please, for

Haven's sake."

Ap Owen looked at her uncertainly. Burns glared at ap Owen.

"Don't listen to her. The bitch would say anything to save her neck."

"Watch your mouth, Burns," said ap Owen. "Stay where you are, men. No one is to

start anything without my order. Unless any of you really want to go one-on-one

with Captain Hawk."

The Constables lowered their swords and relaxed a little, some of them looking

openly relieved. Burns started to say something angrily, and then stopped when

he realized ap Owen's sword was pressed against his side.

"I think we've heard enough from you, Captain Burns," said ap Owen. "Now please

be quiet, while I listen to what Captain Fisher has to say."

"To start with," said Fisher, "take a look at Hawk. Does he really look like

he's gone kill-crazy? The only person here who fits that description is Burns,

the very person who's been supplying all the evidence against Hawk. As for me, I

was set up. Do you really think I'd have stuck around to defend the Talks if I'd

known there was an army of mercenaries on the way? Or retreated into the pocket

dimension with you if I'd known it was going to be under attack, too? No,

there's only one traitor here, and he's standing right beside you."

"You see," said Burns. "I told you she'd say anything. She'll be accusing you

next. We have to kill them, or the Outremer delegates will walk out! Dammit, ap

Owen, you follow your orders or I swear I'll see you hanged as a traitor

yourself!"

"Oh, shut up," said ap Owen. "I'm getting really tired of the sound of your

voice, Burns." He looked at Hawk and Fisher. "Let's assume, just for the moment,

that there may be something in what you say. That buys you a reprieve. But I've

still got to take you in. If you'll hand over your weapons, I give you my word

that I'll get you back to Headquarters alive and unharmed, and you can tell your

story to Commander Glen. Sound fair to you?"

"Very fair," said Fisher. "I promise you, you won't regret this."

Ap Owen smiled slightly. "I'm already regretting it. Ah hell; I was never that

interested in promotion anyway."

Burns stepped forward suddenly and addressed the Constables, who were stirring

uneasily and looking at each other. "Men, Commander Glen himself put me in

charge of you, along with ap Owen. You know what your orders are. Now, whose

orders are you going to follow—your Commander's, or a Captain who is clearly

allied with the traitors Hawk and Fisher?"

The Guards looked at ap Owen, and then back at Burns. They didn't have to say

anything; Burns could see the decision in their faces. They didn't trust him,

and they weren't going to take on Hawk and Fisher if they didn't have to. Burns

turned suddenly, slapped ap Owen's sword aside, and ran for the door. The

Constables moved instinctively to stop him, and Burns cut about him viciously

with his sword. Hawk and Fisher charged after him. Men fell screaming as blood

flew on the air. Burns plunged forward, his eyes fixed on the door.

He'd almost made it when Hawk brought him down with a last, desperate leap. They

rolled back and forth on the floor, kicking and struggling. The Constables

crowded in around them, hacking and cutting at Burns, furious at his treacherous

attack. Hawk fought back with his axe, as much to protect himself as Burns. He

shouted that they needed Burns alive, but the Guards were too angry to care. Ap

Owen yelled orders that no one listened to. Fisher threw herself into the fray,

hauling Guards away from the fight by main force and sheer determination, but

there were too many Guards between her and Hawk, and she knew it. The Constables

fought each other to get at Burns, blinded by blood and rage. Hawk tried to get

his feet under him, and failed. Swords flew all around him, and blood pooled on

the floor. He braced himself for one last effort, and hardened his heart at the

thought of the innocent Guards he'd have to kill. He couldn't let Burns die.

And then a thick fog boiled in through the open door, filling the inn in a

matter of moments. A hundred clammy tentacles tore the combatants apart and held

them firmly in unyielding misty coils. There was a pause as they all struggled

futilely, and then the sorceress Mistique stepped delicately in through the open

door. Hawk relaxed and grinned at her.

"I was wondering when you were going to turn up again."

"You didn't think I was going to miss out on the climax, after all I've been

through today, did you, darling?" Mistique smiled back at him, and then looked

around sternly. "I'm going to let you go now. But anyone who misbehaves will

regret it. Is that understood?"

The Constables nodded, their anger already cooling rapidly. Some of them

realized they'd been fighting Hawk and Fisher, and went pale as they considered

how lucky they were to still be alive. Mistique gestured gracefully, and the

mists fell away from everyone, dissipating quickly on the warm air. Hawk and

Fisher pushed the Guards out of the way and knelt down beside Burns. There was a

gaping wound in his side, and a lot of blood on the floor around him. Fisher

pulled out a clean folded handkerchief and pressed it against the wound, but it

was clearly too little too late. Burns turned his head slightly, and looked at

Hawk. His face was very pale, but his mouth and chin were red with blood.

"Almost had you," he said quietly.

"Why, Burns?" said Hawk. "You were one of the best. Everyone said so. Why betray

everything you ever believed in?"

"For the money, of course. I spent years overseeing transactions of gold and

silver and precious stones, protecting men who had more money than they knew

what to do with, and eventually I just decided I wanted some of that wealth for

myself. I wanted some of the luxuries and comforts I saw every day and couldn't

touch. Honor and honesty are all very well, but they don't pay the bills. I was

going to be rich, Hawk, richer than you've ever dreamed of. Almost made it.

Would have, too, if it hadn't been for you and that bitch."

"You were Morgan's contact inside the Guard, weren't you?" said Fisher

impatiently.

"Of course," said Burns. "I went to Morgan and suggested it. It was perfect. Who

would ever have suspected me?"

"People died because of you," said Hawk. "People who trusted you."

Burns grinned widely. There was blood on his teeth. "They shouldn't have got in

my way. I killed Doughty, you know. He was there when that little bastard at the

drug factory recognized me. So I killed him, and persuaded the informant to

implicate Fisher instead."

"You killed your own partner?" said Fisher, shocked.

"Why not?" said Burns. "I was going to be rich. I didn't need him anymore."

"Why did you betray the Peace Talks?" said Hawk.

Burns chuckled painfully, and fresh blood spilled down his chin. "I didn't. That

wasn't me. See, you're not as smart as you thought you were, are you?"

"Who was it, Burns?" said Hawk. "Who were you working for?"

"Go to hell," said Burns. He reared up, tried to spit blood at Hawk, and then

the light went out of his eyes and he fell back and died.

"Great," said Hawk. "Bloody marvelous. Every time I think I've found someone who

can explain what the hell's going on, they bloody up and die on me."

He closed Burns's staring eyes with a surprisingly gentle hand, and got to his

feet again. He made to offer ap Owen his axe, but ap Owen shook his head. Fisher

stood up, looked down at Burns a moment, and then kicked the body viciously.

"Don't," said Hawk. "He was a good man, once."

"I'm damned if I know what's happening anymore," said ap Owen. "But Burns's

dying confession seemed straightforward enough, so as far as I'm concerned,

you're both cleared. But you'd better stick with me until we can get back to

Headquarters and make it official. There's still a lot of people out on the

streets looking for you, with swords in their hands and blood in their eyes. The

Council has done everything but declare open season on you both."

"We can't go back," said Hawk. "It's not over yet. You heard what Burns said; he

didn't betray the Peace Talks. Someone else did that. Which means the delegates

are still in danger. And the two people who should be in charge of protecting

them are right here in this room with me. It's more than possible that Isobel

was deliberately set up to draw attention away from the real traitor, so that

security round the delegates would be relaxed."

"We've got to get back there," said Fisher. "Those poor bastards think they're

safe, now I'm not there! They're probably not even bothering with anything more

than basic security."

"Let's go," said ap Owen. "Anything could be happening while we're standing

around being horrified." He turned to the silently watching Constables. "You

stick with us. From now on, you do whatever Hawk and Fisher say. They're in

charge. Anyone have any problems with that?" The Guards coughed and shrugged and

looked at their boots. Ap Owen smiled slightly. "I thought not. All right, let's

move it. Follow me, people."

He led the way out of the inn at a quick, impatient pace, followed resignedly by

the Guards. Hawk and Fisher brought up the rear, along with Mistique. Hawk

cleared his throat.

"Thanks for the help," he said brusquely. "Of course, we could have beaten the

Guards by ourselves, if we'd had to."

"Oh, of course you could, darling," said Mistique. "But you wouldn't have wanted

to hurt all those innocent people, would you?"

"Of course not," said Fisher, looking straight ahead. "That's why we were

holding back. Otherwise, we could have beaten them easily."

"Of course," said Mistique.

The Peace Talks had ground to a halt yet again, and the four remaining delegates

were taking another break in the study. None of them minded much; they all knew

nothing important was going to be decided until the new delegates arrived to

replace the two who'd died. And in particular, the Haven delegation wasn't going

to agree to anything until they had a sorcerer on their side who could

counteract any subtle magics the Lord Nightingale might or might not be using to

influence things. No one admitted any of this out loud, of course, but everyone

understood the situation. They still kept the Talks going. They were, after all,

politicians, and there was always the chance someone might be manoeuvred into

saying something they hadn't meant to. Careers could be built by pouncing on

lapses like that.

Lord Nightingale selected one of the cut-glass decanters and poured out generous

measures for them all. The mood was generally more relaxed than it had been, now

that the traitor Fisher had been exposed, and they shared little jokes and

anecdotes as they emptied their glasses. Nothing like talking for ages and

saying nothing to work up a really good thirst. Their murmured conversation

wandered aimlessly. None of them were in any particular hurry to get back to the

Talks. The chairs were comfortable, the room was pleasantly warm, and in a while

it would be time to take a break for dinner anyway.

Lord Nightingale looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, heaved himself out of

his chair and left the room on a muttered errand. He shut the door, smiled

broadly, and then froze as someone in the hall behind him cleared his throat

politely. He looked round sharply, and found himself facing ap Owen and Fisher,

someone who by his appearance had to be Hawk, and a woman in sorcerer's black.

For a moment Nightingale just stood there, his face and mind utterly blank, and

then he drew himself up, and nodded quickly to ap Owen.

"Well done, Captain. You've apprehended the traitor Fisher. I'll see you receive

a commendation for this."

Ap Owen stared at him stonily. "I'm afraid that's not why we're here, my lord.

It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest."

"If this is some kind of joke, Captain, it's in very bad taste. I shall inform

your superiors about this."

Ap Owen continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "We've been here some time,

my lord, searching the house. Among your belongings we discovered—"

"You searched my room? How dare you! I have diplomatic immunity from this sort

of petty harassment!"

"Among your belongings, hidden inside the handle of one of your trunks, we found

a quantity of the super-chacal drug."

"A lot of things made sense, once we found the drug," said Fisher. "We knew the

drug tied into the Talks somehow, but we didn't have a connection, until we

found you. And once we started looking at you closely, all kinds of things

became clear. You gave away the location of the house, because you knew you'd be

safe inside the pocket dimension. When that didn't work as well as you'd hoped,

you used your sorcery to open a door into the dimension, knowing your sorcery

would protect you from the creatures you'd summoned. And of course you were able

to close the door once it became clear the creatures were getting out of hand

and might pose a threat to you. Finally, you've been subtly using your magic all

along, influencing the delegates to make sure nothing would ever be agreed.

You've gone very quiet, my lord. Nothing to say for yourself?"

"I admit everything," said Lord Nightingale calmly. "I'll admit anything you

like, here, in private. It doesn't matter anymore. You can't prove any of it,

and even if you could, I have diplomatic immunity from arrest. And I'm afraid

the whole matter is academic now, anyway. My fellow delegates have just drunk a

glass of wine from a decanter I dosed rather heavily with the super-chacal drug.

My sorcery protected me from suffering any effects, but we should begin to hear

the results on them any time now. They'll tear each other to pieces in an animal

frenzy, and that will be the end of the Peace Talks. Evidence is already being

planted in the right places that this was the work of certain leading factions

in Haven, to express their opposition to the thought of peace with Outremer."

"Why?" said Hawk. "Why have you done all this? What sane man wants to start a

war?"

Lord Nightingale smiled condescendingly. "There's money to be made in a war,

Captain. A great deal of money. Not to mention political capital, and military

advancement. A man in the right place at the right time, if properly forewarned,

can rise rapidly in wartime, no matter who wins. Whatever the outcome of the

war, my associates and I will end up a great deal richer and more powerful than

we could ever have hoped to be under normal conditions. The super-chacal was my

idea. I helped fund its creation, and oversaw its introduction into Haven. You

can think of this city as a testing ground for the new drug. If it does as well

here as we expect, it should prove an excellent means of sabotaging the Low

Kingdoms. We'll introduce the drug into selected foods and wines, poison some

strategic wells and rivers, and then just sit back and watch as your country

tears itself apart. All we'll have to do is come in afterwards and clean up the

mess. It could be the start of a whole new form of warfare.

"I hope you've all been listening carefully. It's so nice to be appreciated for

one's work. And it's not as if you'll ever get a chance to tell anyone else. My

fellow delegates should see to that."

He reached to open the study door, and then hesitated, listening. Hawk smiled

coldly.

"That's right, my Lord. Quiet in there, isn't it? Like ap Owen said, we've been

here for some time. Mistique's magic revealed that one of the decanters had been

drugged, so we switched it for another one. The original should make good

evidence at your trial. As for your citywide test of the drug, you can forget

that, too. We got it all back before it could hit the streets, and it's

currently being protected by some very trustworthy Guards. Morgan is dead. So is

Burns. You're on your own now, Nightingale."

"You can't arrest me," said Lord Nightingale. "I have diplomatic immunity."

"I think your people can be persuaded to waive that," said Hawk. "You'll be

surprised how fast they disown you, to avoid being implicated themselves. After

all, no one loves a failure. They'll probably let us hang you right here in

Haven, if we ask them nicely."

Lord Nightingale suddenly raised his hands and spoke a Word of Power, and

halfway down the hall the air split open. A howling wind came roaring out of the

widening split, carrying a rush of thick snow and a bitter blast of cold. Within

seconds, a blizzard raged in the narrow hallway, and the temperature plummeted.

Ice formed thickly on the doors and walls, and made the floor treacherous

underfoot. Hawk raised an arm to protect his face as the freezing wind cut at

his exposed skin like a knife. The cold was so intense it burned, and even the

shallowest breath was painful.

Hawk glared about him into the swirling snow, trying to locate Lord Nightingale,

but he and everyone else had become little more than shadows in the roaring

white. From behind him, he could hear something howling in the world beyond the

gateway that Nightingale had opened. It sounded huge and angry and utterly

inhuman. More howls sounded over the roaring of the blizzard and the buffeting

wind, growing louder all the time, and Hawk realised the creatures were slowly

drawing nearer. He staggered forward, head bent against the wind, until his

flailing arms found the nearest wall. Nightingale would be just as blind in this

storm as everyone else, so he had to be following the wall to find his way out.

All Hawk had to do was make his way down the wall after him—assuming he hadn't

got so turned around in the blizzard that he'd ended up against the wrong wall…

Hawk decided he wasn't going to think about that. He had to be right.

And then his heart leapt in his chest as a door suddenly opened to his right,

revealing the startled faces of the other delegates. The force of the storm

quickly threw them back into the study, where they struggled to close the door

again, but Hawk took little notice. He knew now that he'd found the right wall.

The howling of the creatures came again, rising eerily over the sound of the

storm. They sounded very close. Hawk ran down the corridor, slipping and sliding

on the ice, his shoulder pressed against the wall. A shadow loomed up before

him. Hawk threw himself forward, grabbed the figure by the shoulder, and slammed

it back against the wall. He thrust his face close up against the other's, and

smiled savagely as he recognized Nightingale's frightened face.

"We've got to get out of here!" shouted Nightingale, his voice barely audible

over the roar of the blizzard. "The creatures will be here soon!"

"I've got a better idea," said Hawk, not caring if the Outremer lord heard him.

He took a firm hold of Nightingale's collar and dragged him kicking and

struggling back down the corridor towards the gateway he'd opened.

Hawk had to fight the force of the storm with every step, as well as hang on to

Nightingale with a hand so numb he could barely feel his grip anymore, and he

thought for a while that he wasn't going to make it. But then suddenly he was

close enough to make out the split in the air, stretching from floor to ceiling,

and he lurched to a halt. The split was wider now. Huge dark shadows moved in

the blizzard beyond the gateway. The creatures were almost there. Their howls

were deafening. Hawk put his mouth against Nightingale's ear.

"Close the gateway! Close it, or I swear I'll throw you through that opening and

let those things have you!"

Nightingale lifted his hands and chanted something, the words lost in the tumult

of the blizzard and the creatures' incessant howling. For a long, heart-stopping

moment nothing happened, and then the split in the air snapped together and was

gone, and the blizzard collapsed. The sudden silence was shocking, and everyone

just stood where they were, numbly watching the last of the snow drift lazily on

the air before falling to the floor. The corridor seemed a little less cold, but

their breath still steamed on the air before them. Nightingale lurched away from

Hawk, and headed down the corridor at a shaky run. Hawk caught up with him

before he'd gone a dozen paces, and clubbed him from behind with the butt of his

axe. Nightingale fell limply into the thick snow on the floor, and lay still.

Hawk leaned over him and hit him again, just to be sure. Then he dragged him

back to the others. Ap Owen shook his head unhappily.

"They won't let us put him on trial, you know. He'd be an embarrassment to both

sides, and probably prevent any future Talks. And besides, diplomatic immunity's

too important a concept in troubled times like these. They'll never allow it to

be waived, no matter what the crime."

"You mean he's going to get away with it?" said Fisher, scowling dangerously.

Ap Owen shrugged. "Like I said; he's an embarrassment. His own people will

probably take away his position and privileges and send him into internal exile,

but that's about it."

"Right," said Hawk. "Technically, for what he tried to do, he should be

executed, but there's no way that will happen. Aristocrats don't believe in

passing death sentences on their own kind if they can avoid it. It might give

the peasants ideas." He looked down at Nightingale's unconscious body, his face

set and cold. "So many people dead, because of him. All the people who might

have died. And I almost raised my axe against Isobel… If I killed him now, no

one would say anything. They'd probably even thank me for getting rid of such an

embarrassment."

"You can't just kill him in cold blood!" protested ap Owen.

"No," said Hawk finally. "I can't. Even after all these years in Haven, I still

know what's right and what's wrong. I only kill when I have to. I know my duty."

"Look on the bright side," said Mistique cheerfully. "You found the drug before

it hit the streets, exposed the traitor in the Guard, and with Nightingale

removed from the Talks, they might actually start agreeing on things. You've

saved the city and possibly averted a war. What more do you want?"

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.

"Overtime," said Hawk firmly.

Chapter Ten

Loose Ends

As prisons went, it wasn't too bad. Certainly Lord Nightingale had spent longer

periods under far worse conditions during his travels. He'd known some country

inns that boasted accommodations so primitive even a leper would have turned up

what was left of his nose at them. His present circumstances were surprisingly

pleasant, and, all things considered, the Outremer Embassy in Haven had gone out

of its way to treat him with every courtesy. He was confined in one of the

Embassy's guest rooms, with every comfort the staff could provide, until such

time as he could be escorted back to Outremer. And given the current appalling

weather conditions, that could be quite some time.

Nightingale didn't mind. The longer the better, as far as he was concerned. He

was already filling his time writing carefully worded letters to certain people

of standing and influence back in Outremer. There were quite a few who shared

his feelings about the coming war, people who could be trusted to see that his

cause was presented to the King in its most positive light. He'd have to spend

some time in internal exile, of course; that was only to be expected. But once

the war began, as it inevitably would, and his associates became men of power at

Court, he would undoubtably be summoned again, and his present little setback

would be nothing more than an unfortunate memory. In the meantime, his current

captors were being very careful to treat him with the utmost respect, for fear

of alienating the wrong people. You could always rely on diplomats to appreciate

the political realities; particularly when their own careers might be at risk.

So, for the moment, Nightingale bided his time and was the perfect prisoner,

never once complaining or making any fuss, and the time passed pleasantly

enough. There were books to read and letters to write, and a steady stream of

visitors from among the Embassy staff, just stopping by for a chat, and dropping

not especially subtle hints of encouragement and support, in the hope of being

remembered in the future. True, his door was always locked, and there was an

armed guard in the corridor outside his room, but given the current

circumstances, Nightingale found that rather reassuring. If word of what he'd

intended were to get out in Haven, the populace would quite probably attempt to

storm the building and drag him out to hang him from the nearest lamppost. You

couldn't expect the rabble to understand the importance of concepts like

diplomatic immunity.

There was a sudden knocking at the door, and Nightingale jumped in spite of

himself. He cleared his throat carefully, and called for his visitor to enter. A

key turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung open to reveal Major de

Tournay, carrying a bottle of wine. Nightingale was somewhat surprised to see

the Major, but kept all trace of it from his face. De Tournay had taken the news

of Nightingale's treachery surprisingly calmly, given that his life had been one

of those threatened, but even so he was one of the last people Nightingale had

expected to drop by for a chat. Still, recent events had done much to turn up

unexpected allies.

"Come in, my dear Major," he said warmly. "Is that wine for me? How splendid."

He studied the bottle's label, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. "I'm obliged

to you, de Tournay. The Ambassador means well, but his cellar is shockingly

depleted."

"I need to talk to you, my lord," said de Tournay bluntly. He looked vaguely

round the room, as though embarrassed to be there and unsure how to proceed.

Nightingale waved for him to sit down on a chair opposite, and the Major did so,

sitting stiffly and almost at attention. "We need to discuss the present

situation, my lord. There are matters which need to be… clarified."

"Of course, Major. But first, let us sample this excellent wine you've brought

me."

De Tournay nodded, and watched woodenly as Nightingale removed the cork, sniffed

it, and poured them both a generous glass. They toasted each other politely, but

though de Tournay drank deeply, his attention remained fixed on Nightingale

rather than the wine.

"Before we begin, Major," said Nightingale, leaning elegantly back in his chair,

"perhaps you would oblige me by bringing me up to date on what is happening with

Captains Hawk and Fisher. I must confess I half expect every knock at my door to

be them, come to drag me off in chains to face Haven justice, or worse still,

administer it themselves."

"You needn't worry about them," said de Tournay. "They had their chance to kill

you, and chose not to. They understand the realities of the situation. And since

they've been cleared of all charges, they're not foolish enough to risk their

necks again by harassing you."

"I'm relieved to hear it." Nightingale drank his wine unhurriedly, ignoring de

Tournay's impatience to get to the point of his visit. Nightingale smiled. It

was very good wine. "Now then, Major, what exactly did you want to see me

about?"

"Are there really plans to use this super-chacal drug as a weapon in a war

against Haven?"

"Of course. I feel sure it will be very effective. The few test results we've

seen have been very promising."

"It's a dishonorable way to fight a war," said de Tournay flatly.

Nightingale laughed, honestly amused. "There's nothing honorable about war,

Major. It's nothing but slaughter and destruction on a grand scale, and the more

efficiently it's pursued, the better. The drug is just another weapon, that's

all."

"But your way leaves no room for heroes or triumphs. Only the spectacle of mad

animals, tearing each other to pieces."

Nightingale poured himself another glass of wine, and topped up de Tournay's. "I

take it you're one of those people who doesn't want this war, de Tournay. Allow

me to remind you that a war is vital if your career is to advance at all.

There's no other way for you to gain rank or position so quickly. Or are you

content to be a Major all your life?"

"I have ambitions. But I'd prefer to obtain my advances cleanly and honorably."

"Oh, don't worry, Major. There will be plenty of honest slaughter for you and

your troops to get involved in. The drug will be used mainly against the

civilian population, as a means of destroying morale. You should be grateful,

Major. The drug will make your job a great deal easier. Leave policy to the

politicians, de Tournay. It's not your province to worry about such things."

De Tournay shrugged. "Maybe you're right." He rose abruptly to his feet, gulped

down the last of his wine, and put down the empty glass with unnecessary force.

"I'm afraid I can't stay any longer, my lord. Business to attend to. Enjoy your

wine." He bowed formally and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Nightingale listened to the key turning in the lock, and shrugged. Poor,

innocent Major de Tournay. A good judge of wine, though. He raised his glass in

a sardonic toast to the closed door.

De Tournay walked unhurriedly down the corridor, and nodded to the bored guard

standing at the far end. "The Lord Nightingale doesn't wish to be disturbed for

the rest of the afternoon. See to it, would you?"

The guard nodded, and then smiled his thanks at the Major's generous tip. De

Toumay made his way through the bustling corridors of the Embassy and out into

the packed streets, paying no attention to anyone he passed, lost in his own

thoughts. The wine should be taking effect soon. There was a certain ironic

justice in Nightingale's falling prey to the very drug he'd championed so

highly. It hadn't been too difficult to obtain a small supply of the

super-chacal from Guard Headquarters, though procuring an antidote he could take

in advance had proved rather expensive. But he'd known he'd have to drink the

wine too, so Nightingale wouldn't be suspicious. The drug should be raging

through Nightingale's system by now. Left alone, locked in his room, Lord

Nightingale would tear himself apart, victim of his own murderous intentions.

Which only went to prove there was some justice in the world. You just had to

help it along now and again.

De Tournay smiled briefly, and walked off into the city, disappearing into the

milling crowds.

Hawk and Fisher stood together outside Guard Headquarters, watching the crowds.

They'd been officially cleared of all outstanding charges, officially yelled at

for getting themselves into such a mess in the first place by going off on their

own, officially congratulated for exposing the traitors Burns and Nightingale,

and very officially refused any extra overtime payments. At which point Hawk and

Fisher had decided it was time to leave, before things got even more

complicated. Hawk thought briefly about apologizing to Commander Glen for

hitting him, but one look at Glen's simmering glare was enough to convince him

it might not be the best time to bring the matter up.

He smiled regretfully, and looked about him. The streets were packed with people

trudging determinedly through the snow and slush, none of them paying Hawk and

Fisher any attention at all. Hawk grinned. He liked it that way. After

everything they'd been through, it made a pleasant change.

"I still can't believe how quickly everyone believed you were crazy and I was a

traitor," said Fisher. "When you consider everything we've done for this city…"

"Yeah, well," said Hawk. "That's Haven for you. And it has to be said, our

reputations didn't help. Half of Haven thinks we're crazy anyway for being so

honest, and thinking we can change things, and the other half is scared stiff

we're going to kill them on sight."

"We need our reputations; we couldn't get any work done without them. It's still

no reason to turn on us like that. You know, Hawk, the more I think about it,

the more I think Haven is such a worthless cesspool it's not worth saving. It's

crooked and corrupt and so steeped in sin we might have done the Low Kingdoms a