Winner Takes All

Chapter One

THE HOLLOW MEN

Every city has its favorite blood sports. Some cities prefer the traditional cruelties of bearbaiting or cockfights, while others indulge their baser appetites with gladiators and arenas. The city port of Haven gets its thrills from the dirtiest, bloodiest sport of all: politics.

It was election time in Haven, and the shutters were going up all over town. It was a time for banners and parades, speeches, and festivities, and the occasional, good old-fashioned riot. The streets were packed with excited crowds, pickpockets and cutpurses were having the time of their lives, and the taverns were making money hand over fist. Work in the city slowed to a standstill as everyone got caught up in election fever. Everyone except the Guards, who were working double shifts in an increasingly vain attempt to keep Haven from turning into a war zone.

It was autumn in Haven, and the weather was at its most civilized. The days were comfortably warm, and the nights delightfully cool. There was a constant breeze from off the ocean, and it rained just often enough to make people grateful for the times when it didn't. Just the kind of weather to make a man dissatisfied with his lot, and determined to get out and enjoy the weather while it lasted. Which meant there were even more people out on the streets than was usual for an election. The smart money was betting on a complete breakdown of law and order by mid-afternoon. Luckily the city only allowed twenty-four hours for electioneering. Anything more than that was begging for trouble. Not to mention civil war.

Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard, strolled unhurriedly down Market Street, and the bustling crowds parted quickly before them. Patience tended to be in short supply and tempers flared quickly around election time, but no one in Haven, drunk or sober, was stupid enough to upset Hawk and Fisher. There were quicker and less painful ways to commit suicide.

Hawk was tall and dark, but no longer handsome. A series of old scars ran down the right side of his face, pale against the tanned skin, and a black silk patch covered his right eye. He wore a simple white cotton shirt and trousers, and the traditional black cloak of the Guards. Normally he didn't bother with the cloak. It got in the way during fights. But with so many strangers come to town for the election, the cloak served as a badge of authority, so he wore it all the time now, with little grace and even less style. Hawk always looked a little on the scruffy side, and his boots in particular were old and battered, but a keen eye might have noticed that they had once been of very superior quality and workmanship. There were many rumors about Hawk's background, usually to do with whether or not his parents had been married, but no one knew anything for sure. The man's past was a mystery, and he liked it that way.

On the whole, he didn't look like much. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and beginning to build a stomach. He wore his dark hair at shoulder length, in defiance of fashion, swept back from his forehead and tied with a silver clasp. He had only just turned thirty, but already there were thick streaks of grey in his hair. At first glance he looked like just another bravo, past his prime and going to seed. But few people stopped at the first glance. There was something about Hawk, something in the scarred face and single cold eye that gave even the drunkest hardcase pause for thought. On his right hip Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He'd had plenty of practice, down the years.

Isobel Fisher walked at Hawk's side, echoing his pace and stance with the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six feet in height, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her mid- to late-twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face that contrasted strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Somewhere in her past something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Like Hawk, she wore a white cotton shirt and trousers, and the regulation black cloak. The shirt was half unbuttoned to show a generous amount of bosom, and her shirt sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle and lined with old scars. Her boots were battered and scuffed and looked as though they hadn't been cleaned in years. Fisher wore a sword on her left hip, and her hand rested comfortably on the pommel.

Hawk and Fisher were known throughout Haven. Firstly, they were honest, which was in itself enough to mark them as unusual amongst Haven's overworked and underpaid Guards. And secondly, they kept the peace; whatever it took. Hawk and Fisher brought in the bad guys, dead or alive. Mostly dead.

People tended to be very law-abiding while Hawk and Fisher were around.

They made their way unhurriedly down Market Street, enjoying the early morning warmth, and keeping an eye on the street traders. The election crowds meant good pickings for the fast-food sellers, souvenir stalls, and back-alley conjurers with their cheap charms and amulets. Stalls lined the streets from one end to the other without a gap, varying from tatty affairs of wood and canvas to established family concerns with padded silk and beaded awnings. The clamor of the merchants was deafening, and the more tawdry the goods, the louder and more extravagant were the claims made on their behalf.

There were drink stands everywhere, competing with the taverns by offering cheap spirits with the traditional sign:

DRUNK FOR A PENNY; DEAD DRUNK FOR TUPPENCE. There was beer as well, for the less adventurously minded. That came free, courtesy of the Conservatives. On the whole, they preferred the electorate to be well the worse for drink on polling day. That way, they were either grateful enough to vote Conservative in the hope of more free booze, or too drunk to raise any real opposition. And since the populace was also usually too drunk to riot, the Guards liked it that way too.

Everywhere Hawk and Fisher looked there were more traders' stalls, crowding the streets and spilling into the alleyways. There were flags and fireworks and masks and all kinds of novelties for sale, every one of them guaranteed to be worth a damn sight less than what you paid for it. If you wanted more upmarket souvenirs, like delicate china and glassware tastefully engraved with designs and slogans from the election, then you had to go uptown to find them. The Northside might have been upmarket once, but if so, it was so long ago that no one could remember when. These days the Northside was the harshest, poorest, and most dangerous area in Haven. Which was why Hawk and Fisher got the job of patrolling it. Partly because they were the best, and everyone knew it, but mainly because they'd made just as many enemies inside the Guard as out. It was possible to be too honest, in Haven.

Hawk looked wistfully at a stall offering spiced sausage meat on wooden skewers. It looked quite appetizing, if you ignored the flies. Fisher noticed his interest, and pulled him firmly away.

"No, Hawk; we don't know what kind of meat went into those sausages. You can't afford to spend the rest of the day squatting in the jakes with your trousers round your ankles."

Hawk laughed. "You're probably right, Isobel. It doesn't matter; if I remember correctly, there's a tavern down here on the right that does an excellent lobster dinner for two."

"It's too early for dinner."

"All right; we'll have a lobster lunch, then."

"You're eating too many snacks these days," said Fisher sternly. "It's a wonder you can still do up your sword belt."

"Everyone's entitled to a hobby," said Hawk.

They walked on in silence for a while, just looking around them, seeing what there was to be seen. People in the crowds waved and smiled, or ostentatiously ignored them. Hawk and Fisher gave them all the same polite nod, and walked on. They couldn't trust the smiles, and the rest didn't matter. Hawk's attention began to drift away. He'd been in Haven for five years now, and some days it seemed like fifty. He missed his homeland. He felt it most of all at autumn. Back in the Forest Kingdom, the leaves would be turning bronze and gold, and the whole sight and sound and smell of the Forest would be changing as the great trees prepared for winter. Hawk sighed quietly and turned his attention once again to the grimy stone houses and filthy cobbled streets of Haven. For better or worse, he was a city boy now.

Explosions shook the air ahead, and Hawk's hand went to his axe before he realized it was just more fireworks. The Haven electors were great ones for fireworks; the louder and more extravagant the better. Bright splashes of magically augmented colors burst across the sky, staining the clouds contrasting shades until they looked like a rather messy artist's pallet. There were several attempts at sign-writing in the sky, but they all got entangled with each other, producing only broken lines of gibberish. The various factions quickly grew bored, and began using the fireworks as ammunition against each other. There were shouts and yells and the occasional scream, but luckily the fireworks weren't powerful enough to do any real damage. Hawk and Fisher just looked the other way and let them get on with it. It kept the crowds amused.

Sudden movement up ahead caught Hawk's eye, and he increased his pace slightly. The crowd at the end of the street had turned away from the fireworks to watch something more interesting. Already there were cheers and catcalls.

"Sounds like trouble," said Hawk resignedly, drawing his axe.

"It does, doesn't it?" said Fisher, drawing her sword. "Let's go and make a nuisance of ourselves."

They pressed forward, and the crowd parted unwillingly before them, giving ground only because of the naked steel in the Guards' hands. Hawk frowned as he saw what had drawn the crowd's attention. At the intersection of two streets two rival gangs of posterers were fighting each other with fists, clubs, and anything else they could get their hands on. The crowd cheered both sides impartially, and hurried to lay bets on the outcome.

Since most of the electorate was barely literate, the main political parties couldn't rely on pamphlets or interviews in Haven's newspapers to get their message across. Instead, they trusted to open-air gatherings, broadsheet singers, and lots of posters. The posters tended to be simple affairs, bearing slogans or insults in very large type, councilor HARDCASTLE DOES IT WITH TRADESMEN was a popular one at the moment, though whether that was a slogan or an insult was open to interpretation.

Posters could appear anywhere; on walls, shopfronts, or slow-moving passersby. A gang of posterers moving at full speed could slap posters up all over Haven in under two hours. Assuming the paste held out. And also assuming no one got in their way. Unfortunately, most gangs of posterers spent half their time tearing down or defacing posters put up by rival gangs. So when two gangs met, as was bound to happen on occasion, political rivalry tended to express itself through spirited exchanges and open mayhem, to the delight of whatever onlookers happened to be around at the time. Haven liked its politics simple and direct, and preferably brutal.

Hawk and Fisher stood at the front of the crowd and watched interestedly as the fight spilled back and forth across the cobbles. It was fairly amateurish, as fights went, with more pushing and shoving than actual fisticuffs. Hawk was minded to just wander off and let them get on with it. They weren't causing anyone else any trouble, and the crowd was too busy placing bets to get involved themselves. Besides, a good punch-up helped to take some of the pressure off. But then he saw knives gleaming in some of the posterers' hands, and he sighed regretfully. Knives changed everything.

He stepped forward into the fight, grabbed the nearest posterer with a knife, and slammed him face first against the nearest wall. There was an echoing meaty thud, and the posterer slid unconscious to the ground. His erstwhile opponent rounded on Hawk, knife at the ready. Fisher knocked him cold with a single punch. Several of the fallen posterers' friends started forward, only to stop dead as they took in Hawk's nasty grin and the gleaming axe in his hand. Some turned to run, only to find Fisher had already moved to block their way, sword in hand. The few remaining fights quickly broke up as they realized something was wrong. The watching crowd began booing and catcalling at the Guards. Hawk glared at them, and they shut up. Hawk turned his attention back to the posterers.

"You know the rules," he said flatly. "No knives. Now, turn out your pockets, the lot of you. Come on, get on with it, or I'll have Fisher do it for you."

There was a sudden rush to see who could empty their pockets the quickest. A largish pile of knives, knuckledusters, and blackjacks formed on the cobbles. There were also a fair number of good-luck charms and trinkets, and one shrunken head on a string. Hawk looked at the posterers disgustedly.

"If you can't be trusted to play nicely, you won't be allowed to play at all. Understand? Now, get the hell out of here before I arrest the lot of you for loitering. One group goes North, the other goes South. And if I get any more trouble from any of you today, I'll send you home to your families in chutney jars. Now, move it!"

The posterers vanished, taking their wounded with them. Only a few crumpled posters scattered across the street remained to show they'd ever been there. Hawk kicked the pile of weapons into the gutter, and they disappeared down a storm drain. He and Fisher took turns glaring at the crowd until it broke up, and then they put away their weapons and continued their patrol.

"That was a nice punch of yours, Isobel."

"My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure."

"And because you wear a knuckle-duster under your glove."

Fisher shrugged. "On the whole, I thought we handled that very diplomatically."

Hawk raised an eyebrow. "Diplomatically?"

"Of course. We didn't kill anyone, did we?"

Hawk smiled sourly. Fisher sniffed. "Look, Hawk, if we hadn't stepped in when we did, the odds were that fight would have developed into a full-blown riot. And how many would we have had to kill to stop a riot in its tracks?" Fisher shook her head. "We've already had five riots since they announced the date of the election, and that was less than two days ago. Hawk, this city is going to the dogs."

"How can you tell?" said Hawk, and Fisher snorted with laughter. Hawk smiled too, but there wasn't much humor in it. "I don't think that bunch had it in them to riot. It was taking them all their time to work up to a disturbance of the peace. We didn't have to come down on them so hard."

"Yes, we did." Fisher gave Hawk a puzzled look. "This is Haven, remember? The most violent and uncivilized city in the Low Kingdoms. The only way we can hope to keep the lid on things here is by being harder than everyone else."

"I'm not sure I believe that anymore."

They walked a while in silence.

"This is to do with the Blackstone case, isn't it?" said Fisher eventually.

"Yeah. That witch Visage might be alive today if she and Dorimant had talked to us in time. But they didn't trust us. They kept their mouths shut because they were afraid of our reputation. Afraid of what we might do to them. We've spent too long in this city, Isobel. I don't like what it's done to us."

Fisher took his arm in hers. "It's not really that much different here than anywhere else, love. They're just more open about it in Haven."

Hawk sighed slowly. "Maybe you're right. If we had arrested those posterers, I don't know where we could have put them. The gaols are crammed full to bursting as it is."

"And there's still more than half a day to go before they vote." Fisher shook her head slowly. "I don't know why they don't just have a civil war and be done with it."

Hawk smiled. "About forty years ago they did. The Reformers won that one, and the result was universal suffrage throughout the Low Kingdoms. These days, the lead-up to the elections acts as a safety valve. People are allowed to go a little crazy for a while. They get to let off some steam, and the city avoids the buildup of pressures that leads to civil wars. After the voting's over, the winners declare a general amnesty, everyone goes back to work, and things get back to normal again."

"Crazy," said Fisher. "Absolutely bloody crazy."

Hawk grinned. "That's Haven for you."

They walked on in companionable silence, pausing now and then to intimidate some would-be pickpocket, or caution a drunk who was getting too loud. The crowds bustled around them, singing and laughing and generally making the most of their semiofficial holiday. The air was full of the smell of spiced food and wine and burning Catherine wheels. A band came marching down the street towards them, waving brightly colored banners and singing loudly the praises of Conservatism. Hawk and Fisher stood back to let them go by. A burly man wearing chain mail approached them, carrying a bludgeon in one hand and a collecting tin in the other. He took one look at their faces, thought better of it, and hurried after the parade. The crowd, meantime, showed its traditional appreciation of free speech by pelting the singers with rotten fruit and horse droppings. Hawk watched the banner holders disappear down the street with fixed smiles and gritted teeth, and wondered where the Conservatives had found enough idiots and would-be suicides to enter the Northside in the first place.

Nice banners, though.

"I'll be glad when this election nonsense is over," said Fisher as they started on their way again. "I haven't worked this hard in years. I don't think I've ever seen so many drunks and fights and street-corner rabble-rousers in my life. Or so many rigged games of chance, for that matter."

"Anyone in this city stupid enough to play Find the Lady with a perfect stranger deserves everything that happens to him," said Hawk unfeelingly. "And when you get right down to it, things aren't that bad, actually. You're bound to get some fights during an election, but there's hardly anyone here wearing a sword or a knife. You know, Isobel, I'm almost enjoying myself. It's all so fascinating. I'd heard all the stories about past elections, but I never really believed them till now. This is democracy in action. The people deciding their own future."

Fisher sniffed disdainfully. "It'll all end in tears. The people can vote till they're blue in the face, but at the end of the day the same old faces will still be in power, and things will go on just as they always have done. Nothing ever really changes, Hawk. You should know that."

"It's different here," said Hawk stubbornly. "The Reform Cause has never been stronger. There's a real chance they could end up dominating the Haven Council this time, if they can just swing a few marginal Seats."

Fisher looked at him. "You've been studying up on this, haven't you?"

"Of course; it's important."

"No, it isn't. Not to us. Come tomorrow, the same thieves and pimps and loan sharks will still be doing business as usual in the Northside, no matter who wins your precious election. There'll still be sweatshops and protection rackets and back-alley murders. This is Haven's dumping ground, where the lowest of the low end up because they can't sink any further. Let the Council have its election. They'll still need us to clean up the mess afterwards."

Hawk looked at her. "You sound tired, lass."

Fisher shrugged quickly. "It's just been a bad day, that's all."

"Isobel;"

"Forget it, Hawk." Fisher shot him a sudden smile. "At least we'll never want for work, while the Northside still stands."

Hawk and Fisher turned down Martyrs' Alley, and made their way out onto the Harbourside Promenade. The market stalls quickly disappeared, replaced by elegant shop-fronts with porticoed doors and fancy scrollwork round the windows, and an altogether better class of customers. The Promenade had been "discovered" by the Quality, and its fortunes had prospered accordingly. Of late it had become quite the done thing for the minor aristocracy to take the air on the Promenade, and enjoy a little fashionable slumming. There were goods for sale on the edge of the Northside to tempt even the most jaded palates, and it did no harm to a gentleman's reputation to be able to drop the odd roguish hint of secret dealings and watch the ladies blush prettily at the breath of scandal. Not that a gentleman ever went into the Northside alone, of course. Each member of the Quality had his own retinue of bodyguards, and they were always careful to be safely out of the Northside before dark.

But during the daylight hours the Promenade was an acknowledged meeting place for the more adventurous members of the Quality, and as such it attracted all kinds of well-dressed parasites and hangers-on. Scandalmongers did a busy trade in all the latest gossip, and confidence tricksters strolled elegantly down the Promenade, eyeing the Quality in much the same way as a cruising shark might observe a passing shoal of minnows. Hawk and Fisher knew most of them by sight, but made no move to interfere. If people were foolish enough to throw away good money on wild-sounding schemes, that was their business and nothing to do with the Guards. Hawk and Fisher were just there to keep an eye on things, and see that no one stepped out of line.

For their part, the Quality ignored Hawk and Fisher. Guards were supposed to know their place, and Hawk and Fisher were notorious throughout Haven for not having the faintest idea of what their place was. In the past, members of the Quality who'd tried to put them in their place had been openly laughed at and, on occasion, severely manhandled. Which was perhaps yet another reason why Hawk and Fisher had spent the past five years patrolling the worst section of Haven.

The sun shone brightly over the Promenade, and the Quality blossomed under its warmth like so many eccentrically colored flowers. Youngsters wearing party colors hawked the latest editions of the Haven newspapers, carrying yet more details of candidates' backgrounds, foul-ups, and rumored sexual preferences. A boys' brigade of pipes and drums made its way along the Promenade, following a gorgeously colored Conservative banner. The Conservatives believed in starting them young. Hawk stopped for a while to enjoy the music, but Fisher soon grew bored, so they moved off again. They left the bustling Promenade behind them, and made their way through the elegant houses and well-guarded establishments of Cheape Side, where the lower merchant classes held sway. They'd been attracted to the edge of the Northside by cheap property prices, and were slowly making their mark on the area.

The streets were reasonably clean, and the passersby were soberly dressed. The houses stood back from the street itself, protected by high stone walls and iron railings. And a fair sprinkling of armed guards, of course. The real Northside wasn't that far away. This was usually a quiet, even reserved area, but not even the merchant classes were immune to election fever. Everywhere you looked there were posters and broadsheet singers, and street-corner orators explaining how to cure all Haven's ills without raising property taxes.

Hawk and Fisher stopped suddenly as the sound of a gong resonated loudly in their heads. The sound died quickly away, to be replaced by the dry, acid voice of the Guard communications sorcerer:

Captains Hawk and Fisher, you are to report immediately to Reform candidate James Adamant, at his campaign headquarters in Market Faire. You have been assigned to protect him and his staff for the duration of the election.

A map showing the headquarters' location burned briefly in their minds, and then it and the disembodied voice were gone. Hawk shook his head gingerly. "I wish he wouldn't use that bloody gong; it goes right through me."

"They could do without the sorcerer entirely, as far as I'm concerned," said Fisher feelingly. "I don't like the idea of magic-users having access to my mind."

"It's just part of the job, lass."

"What was wrong with the old system of runners with messages?"

Hawk grinned. "We got too good at avoiding them."

Fisher had to smile. They made their way unhurriedly through Cheape Side and on into the maze of interconnecting alleyways popularly referred to as The Shambles. It was one of the oldest parts of the city, constantly due for renovation but somehow always overlooked when the budget came round. It had a certain faded charm, if you could ignore the cripples and beggars who lined the filthy streets. The Shambles was no poorer than anywhere else in the Northside, but it was perhaps more open about it. Shadowy figures disappeared silently into inconspicuous doorways as Hawk and Fisher approached.

"Adamant," said Fisher thoughtfully. "I know that name."

"You ought to," said Hawk. "A rising young star of the Reform Cause, by all accounts. He's contesting the High Steppes district, against a hardline Conservative Councilor.

He might just take it. Councilor Hardcastle isn't what you'd call popular."

Fisher sniffed, unimpressed. "If Adamant's so important, how did he end up with us as his bodyguards?"

Hawk grunted unhappily. The last time he and Fisher had worked as bodyguards, everything had gone wrong. Councilor Blackstone had been murdered, despite their protection, and so had six other people. Important people. Hawk and Fisher had caught the killer eventually, but that hadn't been enough to save their reputation. They'd been in the doghouse with their superiors ever since. Not that Hawk or Fisher gave a damn. They blamed themselves more than their superiors ever could. They'd liked Blackstone.

"Well," said Fisher finally, "you've always said you wanted a chance to study an election close-up, to see how it worked. It looks like you've got your chance after all."

"Yeah," said Hawk. "Wait till you see Adamant in action, Isobel; he'll make a believer out of you."

"It'll all end in tears," said Fisher.

They were halfway down Lower Bridge Street, not far from the High Steppes boundary, when Hawk suddenly noticed how quiet it had become. It took him a while to realize, being lost in his thoughts of actually working with a Reform candidate, so the quiet hit him all the harder when it finally caught his attention. At first everything looked normal. The usual stalls lined the street, and the crowds bustled back and forth, like any other day. But the sound of the crowd barely rose above a murmur. The stall-holders stood quietly in their places, waiting patiently for customers to come to them, instead of following their usual practice of shouting and haranguing until the air itself echoed from the noise. The crowd made its way from stall to stall with bowed heads and downcast eyes. No one exclaimed at the prices, or browbeat the stall-holders, or tried to bargain for a lower price. And strangest and most unsettling of all, no one stopped to speak to anyone else. They just went from stall to stall, speaking only when they had to, in the lowest of voices, as though they were just going through the motions. Hawk slowed to a halt, and Fisher stopped beside him.

"Yeah," said Fisher. "I noticed it too. What the hell's going on here? I've been to livelier funerals."

Hawk grunted, his hand resting uneasily on the axe at his side. The more he studied the scene before him, the more unnerving it became. There were no street-corner orators, no broadsheet singers, and the few banners and posters in evidence flapped forlornly in the drifting breeze, ignored by the crowd. There should have been street-conjurers and knife grinders and itinerant tinkers, and all the other human flotsam and jetsam that street markets attract. But there was only the crowd, quiet and passive, moving unhurriedly between the stalls. Hawk looked up and down the narrow street, and all around him the empty windows stared back like so many blank idiot eyes.

"Something's happened here," said Fisher. "Something bad."

"It can't be that bad," said Hawk. "We'd have heard something. News travels fast in Haven; bad news fastest of all."

Fisher shrugged. "Something still feels wrong. Very wrong."

Hawk nodded slowly in agreement. They started down the street again, cloaks thrown back over their shoulders to leave their sword-arms free. The crowd made way before them, their heads averted so as not to meet the Guards' eyes. Their movements were slow and listless, and strangely synchronized, as though everyone on the street was moving in step with each other. The hackles began to stir on Hawk's neck. He glared about him, and then felt a sudden rush of relief as he spotted a familiar face.

Long Tom was a permanent fixture of Lower Bridge Street. Other stalls might come and go, but his was always there, selling the finest knives any man could wish for. He'd sell you anything from a kitchen knife to matched dueling daggers, but he specialized in military knives, in all their variations. Long Tom had lost both his legs in the army, and stomped around on a pair of sturdy wooden legs that added a good ten inches to his previous height. Hawk had gone to great pains to cultivate him. Long Tom always knew what was happening.

Hawk approached the stall with a friendly greeting on his lips, but the words died away unspoken as Long Tom raised his head to meet Hawk's gaze. For a moment Hawk thought a stranger had taken over the stall. The moment passed, and he quickly recognized the size and shape of the face before him, but still something was horribly wrong. Long Tom's eyes had always been a calm and peaceful blue; now they were dark and piercing His mouth was turned down in a bitter, unfamiliar smile. He even held himself differently, as though his weight and figure had changed drastically overnight. They were small differences, and a stranger might not have noticed them, but Hawk wasn't fooled. He nodded casually to Long Tom, and moved off without saying anything.

"What was that all about?" said Fisher.

"Didn't you notice anything different about him?" said Hawk, looking unobtrusively about.

Fisher frowned. "He looked a bit off, but so what? Maybe he's had a lousy day too."

"It's more than that," said Hawk. "Look around you. Look at their faces."

The two Guards moved slowly through the quiet crowd, and Fisher felt a strange sense of unreality steal over her as she saw what Hawk meant. Everywhere she looked she saw strange eyes in familiar faces. Everyone had the same dark, piercing eyes, the same bitter smile. They even moved to the same rhythm, as though listening to the same silent song. It was like a childhood nightmare, where everyday friends and faces become suddenly cold, menacing strangers. Hawk reached surreptitiously inside his shirt and grasped the bone amulet that hung on a silver cord round his neck. It was a simple charm; standard issue for Guards during an election. It detected the presence of magic, and could lead you to whoever was responsible. Its range was limited, but it was never wrong. Hawk closed his hand around the carved bone, and it vibrated fiercely like a struck gong. He swore silently and took his hand away. He knew now why all the crowd shared the same dark eyes.

"They're possessed," he said softly. "All of them."

"Oh, great," said Fisher. "You any good at exorcisms?"

"I was never any good at Latin."

"Terrific."

They'd kept their voices low, little more than murmurs, but already the crowd seemed to sense that something was wrong. Heads began to turn in the Guards' direction, and people began to drift towards them. Long Tom moved out from behind his stall, a knife in each hand. Hawk and Fisher began to back away, only to discover there were as many people behind them as in front. Fisher drew her sword, but Hawk put a hand on her arm.

"We can't use our weapons, Isobel. These people are innocent; just victims of the spell."

"All right; so what do we do?"

"I don't know! I'm thinking!"

"Then think quickly. They're getting closer."

"Look, it can't be a demon, or something escaped from the Street of Gods. Our amulets would have alerted us long before this if something that powerful was loose. No, this has to be some out-of-town sorcerer, brought in to stack the vote in this district."

"I think we're in trouble, Hawk. They've blocked off both ends of this street."

"We can't fight them, Isobel."

"The hell we can't."

The crowd closed in around them. The same dark eyes blazed in every face, and every hand held a weapon of some kind. Hawk reluctantly drew his axe, his mind working furiously. The sorcerer had to be somewhere close at hand, to be controlling so many people. He grabbed at his amulet with his free hand. The carved piece of bone burned with an uncomfortable heat. He spun round in a circle, and the amulet burned more fiercely for a moment. Hawk grinned. The amulet had been designed to track down sorcerers, as well as react to their spells. All he had to do was follow where it led him. He spun quickly back and forth to get a fix on the right direction, and then he charged into the crowd, knocking men and women out of the way with the flat of his axe. Fisher hurried after him.

The crowd fought back, lashing out with knives and cudgels and broken glass. Hawk parried most of the blows, but couldn't stop them all. He hissed with pain as a knife grated raggedly across his ribs, but fought down the impulse to strike back. Everywhere he looked he saw the same twisted smile, the same dark and angry eyes. The possessed washed against Hawk and Fisher like waves breaking on a stubborn rock, a never-ending tide of hollow men and women, fuelled by an alien anger. Knives and cudgels rose and fell, and blood flew on the quiet morning air.

Hawk careered down the street, the amulet burning painfully hot in his hand, and then ducked suddenly into a side alley. Fisher followed him in, and pulled over a stack of barrels so that they fell and blocked the alley mouth. The Guards leaned together against a cold brick wall, gasping for breath. Hawk wiped sweat and blood from his face with a shaking hand. He glanced across at Fisher, and winced at the cuts and bruises she'd acquired in their short run down the street.

"I hope you're still thinking," said Fisher, her voice calm and steady. "Those barrels won't hold them back for long."

"The sorcerer's here somewhere," said Hawk. "Has to be. The amulet's practically burning a hole in my hand."

There was a rasping clatter at the end of the alley as the hollow men pulled aside the fallen barrels. Light gleamed on knives and broken glass. Hawk glared quickly about him. There was a door to his right, set flush with the brickwork so that he almost missed it. He tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He shot a glance at Fisher.

"I'm going in. Hold them here as long as you can."

"Sure, Hawk; I may have to kill some of them."

"Do what you have to," said Hawk. "Just hold the door. Whatever it takes."

Fisher moved forward to block the alleyway, and Hawk swung his axe at the door. The blade bit deeply into the rotten wood, and Hawk had to use all his strength to pull the blade free. He could hear the scuff of moving feet behind him, and the muffled thud of steel cutting into flesh, but he didn't look round. He swung his axe again and again, taking out his anger and frustration on the stubborn door. Finally it collapsed inward, and he forced his way past the splintered edges into the dark hallway beyond. A little light spilled in through the broken door, but it quickly faded away into an impenetrable gloom.

Hawk moved quickly away from the door. The light made him an easy target. He crouched down on his haunches in the dark, and waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He could still hear sounds of a struggle in the alleyway outside, and his hands closed tightly around the shaft of his axe. He tried to concentrate on the hall itself, and strained his ears for any sound in his vicinity, but there was only the dark and the quiet. Hawk had never liked the dark. His hands were sweaty, and he wiped them one at a time on his trousers. The hall and a long flight of stairs slowly formed themselves out of the shadows before him. Hawk moved forward, one foot at a time, alert for any sign of a trap. Nothing moved in the shadows, and the stairway grew gradually closer.

He'd just reached the foot of the stairs when he heard footsteps on the landing above. Hawk froze in his tracks as four armed men started down the stairs towards him. He lifted his axe threateningly, but there was no reaction from any of them. He couldn't make out their faces in the dim light, but he had no doubt they all shared the same dark eyes and smile. Hawk hesitated a moment, torn by indecision. They were innocent men, all of them. Victims of the sorcerer's will. But he couldn't let them stop him. He licked his dry lips once, and went forward to meet them.

The first man cut viciously at Hawk's throat with his sword. Hawk ducked under the blow, and slammed his axe into the man's gut. The force of the blow threw the man back against the banisters. Hawk jerked his axe free, and blood and entrails fell out of the hideous wound it left. The possessed man ignored the wound and swung his sword again. Hawk parried the blow and brought his axe across in a quick vicious arc that sank deep into the man's throat, nearly tearing his head from his shoulders. He fell backwards, still trying to swing his sword, and Hawk pushed quickly past him to face the other three men, who were already advancing down the stairs towards him.

There was a flurry of steel on steel, and blood flew on the air. For all their unnatural stubbornness, the hollow men weren't very good fighters. Hawk parried most of the blows, and his axe cut and tore at them without mercy. But still they pressed forward, blood streaming from hideous wounds, unfeeling and unstoppable. Even the broken figure on the stairs behind him tried to grab at his ankles to pull him down. Hawk swung his axe with both hands, already bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. The sheer force of his attack opened up a space for a moment, and he threw himself forward. He burst through the hollow men, and ran up the stairs onto the landing. He paused for a moment to get his bearings. Above the sound of his own harsh breathing he could hear the hollow men coming after him. Light showed round the edges of a closed door at the end of the hallway. Hawk ran towards it, the hollow men close behind.

He hit the door without slowing, and it burst open. Strange lights blazed and flared within the room, and Hawk flinched as the sudden glare hurt his eye. A crudely drawn pentagram covered the bare wooden floor, the blue chalk lines flaring with a fierce, brilliant light. Inside the pentagram sat a tall spindly man wrapped in a shabby grey cloak. He looked round, startled at Hawk's sudden entrance, and in his face Hawk saw the familiar dark eyes and a mouth turned down in a bitter smile. Hawk moved purposefully forward. The amulet round his neck burned fiercely hot.

The sorcerer gestured with one hand, and the lines of the pentagram blazed suddenly brighter. Hawk slammed into a wall he couldn't see, and staggered backwards, off balance. An arm curled round his throat from behind and cut off his air. Hawk bent sharply forward at the waist, and threw the hollow man over his shoulder. He crashed into the invisible barrier and slid to the ground, momentarily stunned. Hawk heard more footsteps outside on the landing. He swore briefly, and beat at the barrier with his fist, to no avail. He cut at it with his axe, and the great steel blade passed through, unaffected. Hawk grinned savagely. Cold iron. The oldest defense against magic, and still the best. He lifted his axe, and threw it at the sorcerer.

The axe cut through the barrier as though it wasn't there. The sorcerer threw himself frantically to one side, and the axe just missed him, but one of his hands inadvertently crossed one of the lines of his pentagram. The brilliant blue light snapped out in a moment. There was the sound of falling bodies in the doorway behind Hawk, and the hollow man at his feet stopped struggling to rise. He lay still, in a widening pool of his own blood. The sorcerer scrambled to his feet. Hawk drew a knife from his boot and started forward. The sorcerer turned and ran towards a full-length mirror propped against the far wall.

Hawk felt a sudden prickling of unease, and ran after him. The sorcerer threw himself at the mirror and vanished into it. Hawk skidded to a halt, and stood before the mirror, staring, at his own scowling reflection. He reached out a hand and hesitantly touched the mirror with his fingertips. The glass was cold and unyielding to his touch. He turned away and recovered his axe, and then smashed the mirror to pieces. Just to be sure.

Out in the alley. Fisher was sitting on one of the barrels, polishing her sword. There was blood on her face and on her clothes, some of it hers. She looked up tiredly as Hawk emerged from the house, but still managed a small smile for him. There were bodies scattered the length of the alley. Hawk sighed, and looked away.

"Seventeen," said Fisher. "I counted them."

"What happened to the others?"

"They snapped out of it when you killed the sorcerer, and made a break for it." She saw the look on his face, and frowned. "Not dead?"

"Unfortunately, no. He got away."

Fisher looked down the alley. "Then, this was all for nothing."

"Come on, lass; it's not that bad." He sat down on the barrel beside her, and she leaned wearily against him. He put an arm round her shoulders. "All right, he got away. But once we've spread the word, he won't be able to try this scam again for years."

"What was the point of it, anyway?"

"Simple enough. He possesses a whole bunch of people, as many as he can control. A first-class sorcerer could easily manage a thousand or more, as long as they didn't have to do much. When polling starts, they all troop off and vote for whoever was paying the sorcerer. Afterwards, the sorcerer would kill them all, so they couldn't talk out of turn. The mastermind is elected, becomes a Councilor, and there's no one left to say it was anything but fair and aboveboard. Don't take this so badly, Isobel. We may have killed a few people here today, but we've saved a hell of a sight more."

"Yeah," said Fisher. "Sure."

"Come on," said Hawk. "We've just got time for a quick healing spell before we have to meet Adamant."

They got to their feet and started down the alley. The flies were already settling on the bodies.

Chapter Two

A GATHERING OF FORCES

High Steppes wasn't the worst area in Haven. That dubious honor went to the Devil's Hook; a square mile of festering slums and alleyways bordering on the docks. The Hook was held together by abject poverty on the one hand, and greed and exploitation on the other. Some said it was the place plague rats went to die, because they felt at home there. Those who lived in the High Steppes thought about the Hook a lot. It comforted them to know there was at least one place in Haven where the people were worse off than themselves.

There was a time when the High Steppes had been a fairly respectable area, but that was a long time ago. The only reminders of that time were a few weathered statues, a public baths closed down for health reasons, and some of the fancier street names. The old family mansions had long since been converted into separate rooms and apartments, and the long, terraced streets were falling apart from a general lack of care and repair. Predators walked the streets day and night, in all their many guises. A few minor merchant houses had moved into the fringes, attracted by the relatively cheap property prices, but so far their efforts to improve the area had met with little success. As with so many other things in Haven, there were too many vested interests who liked things they way they were. Politically, the Steppes had always been neutral. Not to mention disinterested. The Conservatives won the elections because they paid out the most in bribes, and because it was dangerous to vote against them.

James Adamant might just be the one to change all that.

He'd been born into a minor aristocratic line, and seen it collapse as a child when the money ran out. The Adamants eventually made it all back through trade, only to find themselves snubbed by the Quality, because they'd lowered themselves to become merchants. Adamant's father died young. Some said as the result of a weak heart; some said through shame. All of this, plus first-hand experience of what it was really like to be poor, had given James Adamant a series of insights not common to those of his standing. On coming of age he discovered politics and, more particularly, Reform. They'd done well by each other.

Now he was standing for the High Steppes Seat: his first election as a candidate. He had no intention of losing.

James Adamant was a tall, powerful man in his late twenties. He dressed well, but not flamboyantly, and favoured sober colors. His dark hair was long enough to be fashionable but short enough that it didn't get in his eyes. Most of the time it looked as though it could use a good combing, even after it had just had one. He had strong patrician features, and a wide easy smile that made him a lot of friends. You had to know him some time before you could see past the smile to recognize the cool, steady gaze and the stubborn chin. He was a romantic and an idealist, despite being a politician, but deep within him he kept a carefully cultivated streak of ruthlessness. It had stood him well in the past, and no doubt would do so again in the future. Adamant valued his dreams too much to risk losing them through weakness or compromise.

His political Advisor, Stefan Medley, was his opposite in practically every way there was. Medley was average height and weight, with bland, forgettable features saved by bright red hair and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. He burned with nervous energy from morning till night, and even standing still he looked as though he were about to leap on an enemy and rip his throat out. He was several years older than Adamant, and had seen a great deal more of political life. Perhaps too much. He'd spent all his adult life in politics, for one master or another. He'd never stood as a candidate, and never wanted to. He was strictly a backstage man. He worked in politics because he was good at it; no other reason. He had no Cause, no dreams, and no illusions. He'd fought elections on both sides of the political fence, and as a result was respected by both sides and trusted by neither.

And then he met Adamant, and discovered he believed in the man, even if he didn't believe in his Cause. They became friends, and eventually allies, each finding in the other what they lacked in themselves. Working together, they'd proved unstoppable. Which was why Reform had given them the toughest Seat to fight. Adamant trusted Medley, in spite of his past. Medley trusted Adamant because of it. Everyone needs something to believe in. Particularly if they don't believe in themselves.

Adamant sat at his desk in his study, and Medley sat opposite him, perched on the edge of a straight-back chair. The study was a large, comfortable room with well-polished furniture and well-padded chairs. Superbly crafted portraits and tapestries added a touch of color to the dark-paneled walls. Thick rugs covered the floor, from a variety of beasts, few of them from the Low Kingdoms. There were wine and brandy decanters on the sideboard, and a selection of cold food on silver platters. Adamant liked his comforts. Probably because he'd had to do without so many as a child. He looked at the bank draft before him;the latest of a long line;sighed quietly, and signed it. He didn't like paying out money for bribes.

He shuffled the money orders together and handed them to Medley, who tucked them into his wallet without looking at them.

"Anything else you need, Stefan?" said Adamant, stretching slowly. "If not, I'm going to take a break. I've done nothing but deal with paperwork all morning."

"I think we've covered everything," said Medley. "You really should develop a more positive attitude to paperwork, James. It's attention to details that wins elections."

"Perhaps. But I'll still feel better when we're out on the streets campaigning. You do your best work with paper; I do my best with people. And besides, all the time I'm sitting here I can't escape the feeling that Hardcastle is hard at work setting up traps and pitfalls for us to fall into."

"I've told you before, James; let me worry about things like that. You're fully protected; Mortice and I have seen to that."

Adamant nodded thoughtfully, not really listening. "How long have we got before my people start arriving?"

"About an hour."

"Perhaps I should polish my speech some more."

"You leave that speech alone. It doesn't need polishing. We've already rewritten it within an inch of its life, and rehearsed the damn thing till it's coming out of our ears. Just say the words, wave your arms around in the right places, and flash the big smile every second line. The speech will do the rest for you. It's a good speech, James; one of our best. It'll do the job."

Adamant laced his fingers together, and stared at them pensively for a long moment before turning his gaze to Medley. "I'm still concerned about the amount of money we're spending on bribes and; gratuities, Stefan. I can't believe it's really necessary. Hardcastle is an animal and a thug, and everyone knows it. No one in their right mind would vote for him."

"It's not that simple, James. Hardcastle's always been very good at maintaining the status quo, and that's what Conservatism is all about. They're very pleased with him. And most Conservatives will vote the way their superiors tell them to, no matter whose name is on the ticket. Hardcastle's also very strong on law and order, and violently opposed to the Trade Guilds, both of which have made him a lot of friends in the merchant classes. And there are always those who prefer the devil they know to the devil they don't. That still leaves a hell of a lot of people unaccounted for, but if we're going to persuade them to vote for us, we've got to be able to operate freely. Which means greasing the right palms."

"But seven and a half thousand ducats! I could raise a small army for not much more."

"You might have to, if I didn't approach the right people. There are sorcerers to be paid off, so they won't interfere. There are Guard officers to sweeten, to ensure we get the protection we're entitled to. Then there's donations to the Street of Gods, to the Trade Guilds; do I really need to go on? I know what I'm doing, James. You worry about the ideals, and leave the politics to me."

Adamant fixed him with a steady gaze. "If something's being done in my name I want to know about it. All about it. For example, hiring mercenaries for protection. Apparently we have thirty-seven men working for us. Is that really the best we can do? At the last election, Hardcastle had over four hundred mercenaries working for him."

"Yeah, well; mercenaries are rather scarce on the ground this year. It seems there's a major war shaping up in the Northern countries. And wars pay better than politicians. Most of those who stayed behind had long-term contracts with the Conservatives. We were lucky to get thirty-seven men."

Adamant gave Medley a hard look. "I have a strong feeling I already know the answer to this;but why weren't these thirty-seven men already signed up?"

Medley shrugged unhappily. "Nobody else would take them;"

Adamant sighed, and pushed his chair back from the desk. "That's wonderful. Just wonderful. What else can go wrong?"

Medley tugged at his collar. "Is it me, or is it getting warm in here?"

Adamant started to reply, and then stopped as his Advisor suddenly stared right past him. Adamant spun round, and found that the great study window was completely steamed over, the glass panes running with condensation. As he watched, the lines of condensation traced a ragged face in the steam, with staring eyes and a crooked smile. A thick, choking voice eased through their minds like a worm through wet mud.

I know your names, and they have been written in blood on cooling flesh. I will break your bones and drink your blood, and I will see the life run out of you.

The voice fell silent. The eye patches slowly widened, destroying the face, and the air was suddenly cool again.

Adamant turned his back on it. "Nasty," he said curtly. "I thought Mortise’s wards were supposed to protect us from things like that?"

"It was just an illusion," said Medley quickly. "Very low power. Probably sneaked in round the edges. Believe me, nothing dangerous can get to us here. They're just trying to shake us up."

"And doing a bloody good job of it, from the looks on your faces," said Dannielle Adamant, sweeping into the study. Adamant got to his feet and greeted his wife warmly. Medley nodded politely, and looked away. Adamant took his wife's hands in his.

"Hello, Danny; I didn't expect you back for ages."

"I had to give up on the shops, dear. The streets are simply impossible, even with those nice men you provided to make a way for me. Oh, by the way; one of them is sulking, just because he dropped a few parcels and I was rude to him. I didn't know bodyguards were so sensitive. Anyway, the crowds got too much to bear, so I came home early. The Steppes must be bursting at the seams. I've never seen so many people out in daylight before."

"I know you don't like the area," said Adamant. "But it's politically necessary for us to live in the area I intend to represent."

"Oh, I quite understand, dear. Really."

She sank into the most comfortable chair, and nodded pleasantly to Medley. Away from Adamant, they didn't really get on. It was hardly surprising, considering the only thing they had in common was James Adamant.

Dannielle came from a long-established Society family, and until she met Adamant, she'd never even thought about politics. She voted Conservative because Daddy always had. Adamant had opened her eyes to a great many injustices, but like Medley she was more interested in the man than his politics. Still, her strong competitive streak made her just as enthusiastic a campaigner as her husband. Even though most of her family were no longer talking to her.

Dannielle was just twenty-one years old, with a neat figure, a straight back, and a long neck that made her look taller. She was dressed in the very latest fashion and wore it with style, though she had strong reservations about the bustle. She looked very lovely in ankle-length midnight-blue, and she knew it. She particularly liked the way it set off her powdered white shoulders and short curly black hair.

Her face was well-known throughout Haven, having been immortalized by several major portrait painters. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and dark eyes you could drown in. When she smiled, you knew it was for you, and you alone. James Adamant thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he wasn't alone in that. The younger aristocracy had marked Dannielle as their own from the moment she entered High Society. After she married Adamant several young blades from among the Quality declared a vendetta against him for stealing her away from them. They tended to be rather quiet about it after Adamant killed three of them in duels.

"So," said Dannielle, smiling brightly, "how are things going, darling? Are you and Stefan finished talking business?"

"For the moment," said Adamant, sinking back into his chair. "I haven't had much time for you lately, have I, my dear? I'm sorry, Danny, but it's been a madhouse round here these last few weeks. Still, there's a good hour or so before the big speech. Better get some rest while you can, love. After the speech we have to go out into the streets to shake hands and kiss babies. Or possibly vice versa."

"That can wait," said Dannielle. "Right now, your friend Mortice wants a word with you."

Adamant looked at Medley. "Have you ever noticed that whenever Mortice does something aggravating, he's always my friend?"

Medley nodded solemnly.

Market Faire had a bad reputation, even for the Northside, which took some doing. You could buy anything at the Faire, if you had the price; anything from a curse to a killing. You could place a bet or buy a rare drug, choose a partner for the evening or arrange an unfortunate fire for a bothersome competitor. Judges lived in the Faire, and high-ranking members of the Guard, along with criminals and necromancers and anarchists. The Faire was a meeting ground; a place to make deals. Hawk couldn't help wondering if that was why Adamant had chosen to place his campaign headquarters in Market Faire.

He and Fisher made their way unhurriedly down the main street, and the crowds made way before them. The two Guards nodded politely to familiar faces, but their hands never moved far from their weapons. Market Faire was an old, rather shabby area, for all its brightly painted facade. The stone walls were weathered and discolored, there were cracks in the pavements, and from the smell of it the drains had backed up again. Still, all things were relative. At least the Faire had drains. Bravos swaggered through the bustling crowds, thumbs tucked into their sword belts, eyes alert for anything they could take as an insult. None of them were stupid enough to lock stares with Hawk and Fisher.

Adamant's house was planted square in the middle of the main street, tucked away behind high stone walls and tall iron gates. There were jagged spikes on the gates and broken glass on top of the walls. Two armed men in full chain mail stood guard before the gates. The younger of the two stepped forward to block Hawk and Fisher's way as they approached the gates. Hawk smiled at him easily.

"Captains Hawk and Fisher, city Guard, to see James Adamant. We're expected."

The young guard didn't smile back. "Anyone can claim to be a Guard Captain. You got any identification?"

"You're new in town, aren't you?" said Fisher.

Hawk lifted his left hand, to show the Captain's silver tore at his wrist. "The man's just doing his job, Isobel."

"Things have been a little unsettled around here recently," said the older of the two guards. "I know you. Captain Hawk, Captain Fisher. I'm glad you're here. Adamant's going to need some real protection before this election's over."

The younger guard sniffed loudly. Hawk looked at him. "Anything the matter?"

The young guard looked insolently at him. "You're a lot older than I thought you'd be. Are you really as good as they say?"

Fisher's sword leapt into her hand, and a split second later the point of her sword was hovering directly before the young guard's left eyeball. "No," she said calmly. "We're better."

She stepped back and sheathed her sword in a single fluid movement. The young guard swallowed loudly. The older guard smiled, unlocked the heavy gates, and pushed them open. Hawk nodded politely, and he and Fisher entered the grounds of Adamant's house.

"Show-off," said Hawk quietly. Fisher grinned.

The gates swung shut behind them with a dull, emphatic thud. The house at the end of the gravel pathway was a traditional two-storey mansion, with gable windows and a front porch large enough to shelter a small army. Anywhere else in the Steppes, a place like this would have had a whole family living in each room. Ivy sprawled across most of the front wall, its thickness suggesting that it alone was holding the aged brickwork together. There were four squat chimney pots at one end of the roof, all of them smoking. Hawk looked unhappily around him as he and Fisher made their way through the grounds towards the house. The wide grass lawns were faded and withered, and there were no flowers. The air smelled rank and oppressive. The single tree was dark and twisted, its branches bare. It looked as though it had been poisoned and then struck by lightning.

"This," said Fisher positively, "is a dump. Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Hawk sniffed the air cautiously. "Nothing's grown here for years. Still, not everyone likes gardening."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Hawk strained his ears for some sound apart from their own boots on the gravel drive, but the grounds were unnaturally quiet. By the time they got to the massive front door, Hawk had managed to thoroughly unsettle himself. At the very least there should have been the bustling sounds of the heavy crowds outside, the everyday clamor of a city at work and at play. Instead, Adamant's house and grounds stood stark and still in their own little pool of silence.

There was a large and blocky brass knocker on the door, shaped like a lion's head with a brass ring in its jaws. Hawk knocked twice, raising loud echoes, and then quickly let go of the brass ring. He had an uneasy feeling the lion's head was looking at him.

"Yeah," said Fisher quietly. "I feel it too. This place gives me the creeps, Hawk."

"We've seen worse. Anyway, you can't judge a man by where he happens to be living. Even if he has got a graveyard for a garden."

They fell silent as the massive door swung silently open on its counterweights. The man standing in the doorway was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed immaculately in the slightly out-of-date formal wear that identified him immediately as a butler. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a supercilious expression, a bald head, and ridiculous tufts of white hair above his ears. He held himself very correctly, and his gaze said that he had seen it all before, and hadn't been impressed then, either. He bowed very politely to Hawk, and, after a moment's hesitation, to Fisher.

"Good morning, sir and madam. I am Villiers, Master Adamant's butler. If you'll follow me, Master Adamant is expecting you."

He stepped back a careful two paces, and then stood at attention while Hawk and Fisher entered. He closed the door quietly, and Hawk and Fisher seized the opportunity for a quick look around the hall. It was comfortably spacious without seeming overbearing, and the wood-paneled walls glowed warmly in the lamplight. Hawk approved of the lamps. Too many halls were oversized and underlit, as though there was something fashionable about eyestrain. He realized Villiers was standing politely at his side, and turned unhurriedly to face him.

"Villiers, you're standing on my shadow. I don't normally like people that close to me."

"I'm sorry, sir. I was just wondering if you and your; partner would care to remove your cloaks. It is customary."

"I don't think so," said Hawk. "Maybe later."

Villiers bowed slightly, his impassive face somehow managing to convey that of course they knew best, even when they were wrong. He led the way down the hall, without looking to see if they were following, and ushered them into a large, comfortably appointed library. All four walls were lined with bookshelves, and leather-bound book spines gleamed dully from every direction. There was one comfortable chair by the fireplace, which Fisher immediately appropriated, stretching her legs out before her. Villiers cleared his throat politely.

"If you would be so kind as to wait here, I will inform Master Adamant of your arrival."

He bowed again, to just the right degree, and left the library, closing the door quietly but firmly behind him.

"I never did like butlers," said Fisher. "They're always such terrible snobs. Worse than their employers, usually." She looked at the empty fireplace, and shivered. "Is it just me, or is it freezing cold in here?"

"Probably just feels that way, coming in from the warmth outside. These big places hold the cold."

Fisher nodded, looking absently around her. "Do you suppose he's really read all these books?"

"Shouldn't think so," said Hawk. "Probably bought them by the yard. Having your own library is quite fashionable, at the moment."

"Why?"

"Don't ask me. I've never understood fashion."

Fisher looked at him sharply. There had been something in his voice; "This isn't what you'd expected, is it?"

"No," said Hawk. "It isn't. James Adamant is supposed to be a man of the people, representing the poor and the downtrodden. This kind of lifestyle is the very thing he's always campaigned against A big house, a butler, books he's never read. Dammit, he can't even be bothered to look after the place properly."

"Don't blame me," said Adamant. "I didn't choose this monstrosity."

Hawk turned round quickly, and Fisher rose elegantly to her feet as James Adamant entered the library, followed by Dannielle and Medley.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," said Adamant. "Captains Hawk and Fisher, may I present my wife, Dannielle, and my Advisor, Stefan Medley."

There was a quick flurry of bows and handshakes. Dannielle extended a hand for Hawk to kiss. He shot a quick glance at Fisher, and shook the hand instead.

"I think we'd all be much more comfortable in my study," said Adamant easily. "This way."

He led them back down the hall and ushered them into the study, chatting amiably all the way. "My superiors insisted we take on this draught-ridden folly as Reform Headquarters, and in a moment of weakness, I agreed. It's quite unsuitable, of course, but the current thinking is that we have to put on as good a show as the Conservatives or the voters won't take us seriously. Personally, I think it's that kind of half-baked nonsense that's undermined Reform's credibility with the electorate these past few years. But since I'm only a very junior candidate, I don't get much say in these matters."

Medley brought in some more chairs, and Dannielle bustled around making sure that everyone was comfortably seated and had a brimming glass of wine in their hand.

"How do you feel about this place?" Hawk asked her politely.

"Ghastly old heap. Smells of damp, and half the time the toilets don't work properly."

"Your garden's not up to much, either," said Fisher. Hawk winced.

Dannielle and Adamant shared a look, their faces suddenly grim.

"We have enemies, Captain Fisher," said Adamant evenly. "Enemies not averse to using sorcery, when they can get away with it. Three days ago we had a splendid garden. Fine lawns, well-tended flower beds, and a magnificent old apple tree. And now it's all gone. Nothing will grow there. It's not safe even to walk far from the path. There are things moving in the dead earth. I think they come out at night, sometimes. No one's ever seen them, but come the morning there are scratches on the door and shutters that weren't there the night before."

There was a cold silence for a moment.

"It's illegal for political candidates to use sorcery in any form," said Hawk finally. "Directly or indirectly. If you can prove Hardcastle was responsible;"

"There's no proof," said Dannielle. "He's too clever for that."

There was another silence.

"You made good time in getting here," said Medley brightly. "I only put in my request for you this morning."

Hawk looked at him. "You asked for us specifically?"

"Well, yes. James has many enemies. I wanted the best people I could get as his bodyguards. You and your partner have an excellent reputation. Captain Hawk."

"That isn't always enough," said Fisher. "The last time we got involved with guarding a politician, the man died."

"We know about Councilor Blackstone," said Medley. "It wasn't your fault he died; you'd done everything you reasonably could to protect him. And you found his murderer, long after any other Guards would have given up."

Hawk looked at Adamant. "Are you happy with this arrangement, sir Adamant? It's not too late for you to find somebody else."

"I trust my Advisor," said Adamant. "When it comes to picking the right people for a job, his judgment is impeccable. Stefan knows about such things. Now then, if you and your partner are going to be spending some time with us, I'd better bring you up to date on what's happening in the election. What kind of things do you need to know, Captain Hawk?"

"Everything," said Hawk flatly. "Who your enemies are, what kind of opposition you'll be facing. Anything that might give us an edge."

Dannielle got to her feet. "If you're going to get all technical, I think I'll go and see how dinner's coming along."

"Now, Danny, you promised you wouldn't bother the cook anymore," said Adamant. "You know she hates people looking over her shoulder."

"For what we're paying her, she can put up with a little criticism," said Dannielle calmly. She smiled graciously at Hawk and Fisher, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Now then," said Adamant, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "When you get right down to it, there are only two main parties: Conservative and Reform. But there's also a handful of fringe parties, and a few well-supported independents, just to complicate things. There's Free Trade, the Brotherhood of Steel, No Tax on Liquor (also known as the Who's for a Party Party), and various pressure groups, such as the Trade Guilds and some of the better organized militant religions."

"The Conservatives are the main threat," said Medley. "They've got the most money. Free Trade is mainly a merchants' party. They make a lot of speeches, but they're short on popular support. Mostly they end up throwing their weight behind the Conservatives. No Tax on Liquor is the Lord Sinclair's personal party. He funds it and runs it, practically single-handed. There are always people willing to go along with him, if only for the free booze he dishes out. He's harmless, apart from this one bee in his bonnet. The Trade Guilds mean well, but they're too disorganized to mount any real threat to the Conservatives, and they know it. Usually they end up working hand-in-hand with Reform. That's where a lot of our funding comes from."

"What about the Brotherhood of Steel?" said Fisher. "I always thought they were more mystical than political."

"The two are pretty much the same in Haven," said Adamant. "Power and religion have always gone hand-in-hand here. Luckily most of the Beings on the Street of Gods are more interested in feuding with each other than getting involved in the day-to-day politics of running Haven. The Beings have always been great ones for feuds. But, over the past few years the Brotherhood of Steel has changed its ways. They're nowhere near as insular as they used to be; they're much better organized, and just lately a militant branch has started flexing its political muscle. They've even got a candidate standing in this election. He won't win; they're not that strong yet. But they could be a deciding factor in who does win."

Hawk frowned. "Who would they be most likely to side with?"

"Good question," said Medley. "I can think of any number of political fixers who'd pay good money for the answer. I don't know, Captain Hawk. Ordinarily I'd have said the Conservatives, but the Brotherhood's mystical bent confuses the hell out of me. I don't trust fanatics. There's no telling which way they'll jump when the pressure's on."

"All right," said Hawk. "Now that we're clear on that;"

"Speak for yourself," muttered Fisher.

"; perhaps you could explain exactly what's at stake in this election. A lot of people have been saying Reform could end up dominating the Council, even if the Conservatives still hold most of the Seats. I don't get that."

"It's really very simple," said Adamant, and Hawk's heart sank. Whenever people said that, it always meant things were about to become very, very complicated. Adamant steepled his fingers, and studied them thoughtfully. "There are twenty-one Seats on the Council, representing the various districts of Haven. After the last election. Reform held four Seats, the Conservatives held eleven, and there were six unaffiliated Seats. Which meant in practice that the Conservatives ran the Council to suit themselves. But this time there are at least three Seats that could go either way. All Reform has to do is win one extra Seat, and together with the six independents we could take control of the Council away from the Conservatives. Which is why this particular election is all set for some of the dirtiest and most vicious political infighting Haven has ever seen."

"Great," said Fisher. "Just what the people need. Another excuse to go crazy, riot in the streets, and set fire to things. How long is this madness going to go on for?"

"Not long," said Medley, smiling. "After the result has been announced this evening, there will be general fighting and dancing in the streets, followed by the traditional fireworks display and the paying off of old scores by the victorious party. After that, Haven will go deathly quiet, as everyone disappears to bind their wounds, get some sleep, and nurse their hangovers. Not necessarily in that order. Everything clear now?"

"Almost," said Hawk. "What are we doing here?"

Adamant looked at Medley, and then back at Hawk. "I understood you'd been told. You and your partner are here to act as my bodyguards until the election is over."

"You don't need us for that," said Hawk flatly. "You've got armed men at your gates, and probably quite a few more scattered around the house. And if you'd still felt the need for a professional bodyguard, there are any number of agencies in Haven that could have provided you with one. But you asked for us, specifically, despite our record. Why us. Adamant? What can we do for you that your own men can't?"

Adamant leaned back in his chair, and some of his strength seemed to go out of him for a moment, only to return again as he lifted his eyes and met Hawk's gaze squarely. "Two main reasons, Captain Hawk. Firstly, there have been death threats made against me and my wife. Quite nasty threats. Normally I wouldn't worry too much. Elections always bring out the cranks. But I have reason to believe that these threats may be genuine. There have been three separate attempts on my life already, all of them quite professional. Stefan tells me there are whispers that the attacks were sanctioned by Councilor Hardcastle himself.

"Secondly, it seems I have a traitor among my people. Someone has been leaking information, important information, about my comings and goings, and my security arrangements. That person has also been embezzling money from my campaign funds. According to Stefan's investigations, it's been going on for some months; small amounts at first, but growing larger all the time. What evidence we have been able to piece together suggests that traitor has to be someone fairly close to me; my friends, my servants, my fellow campaign workers. Someone I trusted has betrayed me. I want you two to act as my bodyguard, and identify the traitor."

Out in the hall, a woman screamed. Hawk and Fisher surged to their feet, reaching for their weapons. The scream came again, and was suddenly cut short.

"Danny!" Adamant jumped up from his chair and ran for the door. Hawk got there first, and yanked the door open. Out in the hall it was raining blood. Thick crimson gobbets materialized near the ceiling and poured down with unrelenting ferocity. The walls ran with blood, and the rugs were already soaked. The stench was sickening.

Dannielle had been caught halfway up the stairs. She was drenched in blood. Her dress was ruined, and thick rivulets of gore ran out of her matted hair and down her face. She ran down the stairs to Adamant, and he held her in his arms, glaring about him through the pouring blood. Hawk and Fisher stood back to back in the middle of the hall, weapons at the ready, but there was only the blood, streaming down around them, thick and heavy. Medley flailed about him with his arms, as though trying to swat the falling drops of blood like flies.

"Get your wife out of here!" Hawk yelled to Adamant. "This is sorcerer's work!"

Adamant started to hurry Dannielle towards the front door, and then stopped short as a dark shape began to materialize between them and the door. The falling blood ran together, drop joining with drop, to form the beginnings of a body. In the space of a few moments it grew arms, and legs and a hunched misshapen body. It stood something like a man, but the proportions were all wrong. It had huge teeth and claws, and swirling dark clots of blood where its eyes should have been. It moved slowly towards its prey, its body heaving and swelling with every movement.

Hawk stepped forward and cut at it with his axe. The heavy steel blade sliced through the creature's neck and out again without slowing, sending a wave of blood splashing against the wall. The creature stood its ground, unaffected. It was only blood, nothing more. Its substance ran away onto the floor, but more blood continued falling from the ceiling to replenish it.

Hawk and Fisher both cut at the figure, and it laughed silently at them. It lashed out at Hawk with a dripping arm. Hawk braced himself and met the blow with his axe, but even so, the impact sent him staggering backwards. The creature had weight and substance, when it chose to. It started towards Hawk, ignoring Fisher's attempts to draw its attention to her. It struck at Hawk again, and he ducked under the blow at the last moment. Its claws dug ragged furrows in the wall paneling. Hawk scuttled away from the creature, snarling curses at the thing as it turned to follow him.

"Right," he said breathlessly, "that's it. We're no match for this kind of magic. Adamant, get your people together and then herd them out the back door. We'll try and buy you some time. Most sendings can't travel far from where they materialize. Maybe we can outrun the bloody thing."

Adamant nodded quickly, and urged his wife down the hall away from the creature. The rain of blood suddenly increased, pouring down even more thickly than before. Through the crimson haze, Hawk could just make out a second shape beginning to form between them and the other exit. Hawk wiped blood from his face, and took a firmer grip on his axe.

He heard Fisher's warning scream behind him, and had just started to turn when the first blood-creature swept over him like a wave and all the world went red. As the creature enveloped him, he staggered back a pace, scrabbling frantically at the blood that covered his face, cutting off his air. Fisher was quickly at his side, trying to wipe the blood away from his nose and mouth, but it resisted her efforts and clung to his face like taffy. Hawk fell forward onto his hands and knees, shaking his head frantically as his lungs screamed for air. He caught a glimpse of Adamant hovering before him, and gestured weakly for him to make a run for the front door while he had the chance. Adamant hesitated; then lifting his head, he raised his voice in a carrying shout:

"Mortice! Help us!"

A blast of freezing air suddenly swept through the hall, a bitter icy wind that froze the falling blood into shimmering scarlet crystals. The creature enveloping Hawk cracked apart around him and fell away in hundreds of crimson slivers. He stayed hunched on his knees for a moment, gratefully drawing the icy air into his lungs, then rose slowly to his feet and looked around him. The bloody rain had stopped, and the hall was covered in a sheen of crimson ice. Fisher was standing nearby, beating scarlet ice from her cloak. Adamant, Medley, and Dannielle looked shocked but otherwise unhurt. Beyond them stood the second blood-creature, caught half-formed by the icy wind. It stood, crouching and incomplete, like an insane sculpture carved from blood-stained ice. Hawk walked over to it and hit it once with his axe. It fell apart and littered the hall floor with jagged shards of crimson ice. Hawk kicked a few of them around, just to be sure, and then turned to face Adamant.

"All right, sir Adamant; I think there are a few questions that need answering. Like, what was all that about, and who or what is Mortice?"

Adamant sighed quietly. "Yes. I was hoping you wouldn't have to know about him, but; I think you had better meet him."

"May I suggest we get out of these clothes first?" said Dannielle. "I'm soaked and half-frozen, and this dress is ruined."

"She has a point," said Fisher. "I look like I've been skinny-dipping in an abattoir."

"I'm sure we can find you and your partner some fresh clothes," said Dannielle. "Come with me. Captain Fisher, and I'll see what I can dig out for you. James, you look after Captain Hawk."

Fisher and Dannielle disappeared up the stairs together. Hawk looked at Adamant. "All right, first a change of clothes, but then I want to meet Mortice. No more delays; is that clear?"

"Of course, Captain," said Adamant. "But; do try and make allowances for Mortice's temper. He's been dead for some five months now, and it hasn't done a thing for his disposition."

Hawk walked up to the full-length mirror, and studied himself for some time. It didn't help. He still looked like a poor relation down on his luck. He and Adamant were roughly the same height, but Adamant had a much larger frame. As a result, the clothes Adamant had lent Hawk hung around him like he'd shrunk in the wash overnight. It wasn't even a particularly fetching outfit. Grey tights, salmon-pink knickerbockers, and a frilly white shirt; whatever the current fashion was, Hawk was pretty damn sure this wasn't it. The frilly shirt in particular worried him. The last time he'd seen a shirt this frilly a barmaid had been wearing it. And no matter what Adamant said, he was damned if he was going to wear that bloody silly three-cornered hat.

He looked at himself in the mirror one last time, and sighed deeply. He'd worn worse, in his time. At least he still had his Guardsman's cloak. He picked it up off the bed and put it on, pulling the heavy cloak around him so that it hid the clothes beneath. Luckily all Guards' cloaks came with a built-in spell that kept them clean and immaculate no matter what indignities they were subjected to. It was part of the Guard's image, and along with the occasional healing spell, was one of the few good perks of the job.

He ought really to be rejoining the others, but it wouldn't do them any harm to wait a while. He had several things he wanted to think through, while he had the chance. He looked around Adamant's spare bedchamber. It was clean, tidy, and very comfortably appointed. The bed itself was a huge four-poster, with hanging curtains. Very elegant, and even more expensive. What was a champion of Reform doing, living like a king? All right; no one expected him to live like a pauper just to make a point, but this ostentatious display of wealth worried Hawk. According to Adamant, the house had been provided by Reform higher-ups. So where were they getting the money from? Who funded the Reform Cause? The Trade Guilds, obviously, and donations from the faithful. Wealthy patrons like Adamant. But that wouldn't be enough to pay for houses like this. Hawk frowned. This wasn't really any of his business. He was just here to protect Adamant from harm.

Not that he was doing such a great job so far. The blood-creatures had caught him off guard. If Mortice hadn't saved their hides with his sorcery, the election would have been over before it had even begun. More mysteries. Mortice had to be a sorcerer of some kind. And Adamant had to know that associating with a sorcerer was grounds for disqualification. So why was he willing to let Hawk and Fisher meet him? And what was that crack about him being dead for five months? What was he? A ghost? Hawk sighed. He'd only been on the case an hour and already he had more questions than he could shake a stick at. This was going to be just like the Blackstone case all over again, he could tell. He settled his axe comfortably on his right hip, and made his way out onto the landing and down the stairs.

The hall was sparkling clean, with no trace of blood or ice. Mortice again, presumably. Fisher was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in her Guard's cloak. One look at the thunderclouds in her face was enough to tell Hawk that she'd been no luckier in her choice of new clothes than he. He went down to join her, looked ostentatiously round to make sure they were alone, and then whispered "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

Fisher snorted a quick laugh, and smiled in spite of herself. "You first."

Hawk opened his cloak with a flourish and stood posed in the traditional flasher's stance. Fisher shook her head. "Hawk, you look like a Charcoal Street ponce. And it's still not as bad as mine."

She opened her cloak, and Hawk had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Apparently they hadn't been able to find any of Dannielle's clothing that would fit Fisher, and had compromised by lending her men's clothing. Very old and very battered men's clothing. The shirt and trousers had probably started out white, but had degenerated over the years into an uneven grey. The cuffs were frayed, there were patches of different colors on the elbows and knees, and there were several important buttons missing.

"Apparently they originally belonged to the gardener," said Fisher through gritted teeth. "We can't go out looking like this, Hawk; people will laugh themselves to death."

"Then we'll just have to keep our cloaks shut and save what's underneath as a weapon of last resort," said Hawk solemnly.

"Ah, Captain Hawk," said Medley, poking his head out of the study door. "I thought I heard voices. Everything all right?"

"Fine," said Hawk. "Just fine."

Medley stepped out into the corridor, followed by Adamant and Dannielle. They were all in fresh clothes and looked very smart.

"If you're quite ready, could we please get a move on?" said Medley. "Mortice knows we're coming, and he hates to be kept waiting. The last time he got impatient, he called down a plague of frogs. It took us hours to get those nasty little creatures out of the house."

"If he's your friend," said Fisher dryly, "your enemies must really be something."

"They are," said Adamant. "If you'd care to follow me;"

He led them down the hall and through a series of corridors that opened eventually onto a simple stone-walled laundry room. There were tables and towels and a freshly scrubbed stone floor. Hawk looked expectantly around him, and wondered if he was supposed to make a comment of some sort. As he hesitated, Medley moved over to the middle of the floor and bent down. He took hold of a large steel ring set into the floor, and for the first time Hawk spotted the outlines of a trapdoor. Fisher looked at Adamant.

"You keep your sorcerer in the cellar?"

"He chose it," said Medley. "He finds the dark a comfort."

Hawk looked at Adamant. "You said Mortice was dead. Perhaps you'd care to explain that."

Adamant gestured for Medley to move away from the trapdoor, and he did. Adamant frowned unhappily. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, and he chose his words with care. "Mortice is my oldest friend. We've faced many troubles together. I trust him implicitly. He's a first-class sorcerer; one of the most powerful in the city. He died just over five months ago. I even went to his funeral."

"But if he's dead," said Fisher, "what have you got in your cellar?"

"A lich," said Medley. "A dead body, animated by a sorcerer's will. We don't know exactly what happened, but Mortice was defending us from a sorcerous attack when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The spell killed him, but somehow Mortice managed to trap his spirit within his dead body. In a sense he's both living and dead now. Unfortunately his body is still slowly decaying, despite everything he can do to prevent it. The pain and rot of corruption are always with him. It makes him rather; short-tempered."

"He's haunting his own body," said Adamant. "Trapped in a prison of decaying flesh, because he wouldn't leave me unprotected."

"His name was Masque, but he calls himself Mortice, these days," said Dannielle, a faint moue of distaste pulling at her mouth. "Igor Mortice. It's a joke. Sort of."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "All right," said Hawk. "Let's go meet the corpse."

"I can see you and he are going to get on like a house on fire," said Medley.

He reached down and took a firm hold of the steel ring set into the trapdoor. He braced himself and pulled steadily. The trapdoor swung open on whispering hinges, and a rush of freezing air billowed out into the laundry room.

Hawk shivered suddenly, gooseflesh rising on his arms. Adamant lit a lamp, and then started down the narrow wooden stairway that led into the darkness of the cellar. Dannielle lifted her dress up around her knees and followed him down. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. Hawk shrugged uneasily, and followed Dannielle, his hand resting on the axe at his side. Fisher followed him, and Medley brought up the rear, slamming the trapdoor shut behind him.

It was very dark and bitterly cold in the cellar. Hawk wrapped his cloak tightly around him, his breathing steaming on the still air. The stairs seemed to go a long way down before they finally came to an end. Adamant's lamp revealed a large square box of a room, packed from wall to bare wall with great slabs of ice. A layer of glistening frost covered everything, and a faint pearly haze softened the lamplight. In the middle of the room, in a small space surrounded by ice, sat a small mummified form wrapped in a white cloak, slumped and motionless on a bare wooden chair. There was no way of approaching it, so Hawk studied the still figure as best he could from a distance. The flesh had sunk clean down to the bone, so that the face was little more than a leathery mask, and the bare hands little more than bony claws. The eyes were sunken pits, with tightly closed eyelids. The rest of the body was hidden behind the cloak, for which Hawk was grateful.

"I take it the ice is here to preserve the body," he said finally, his voice hushed.

"It slows the process," said Adamant. "But that's all."

Fisher's mouth twisted in a grimace. "Seems to me it'd be kinder to just let the poor bastard go."

"You don't understand," said Medley. "He can't die. Because of what he did, his spirit is tied to his body for as long as it exists. No matter what condition the body is in, or how little remains of it."

"He did it for me," said Adamant. "Because I needed him." His voice broke off roughly. Dannielle put a comforting hand on his arm.

Hawk shivered, not entirely from the cold. "Are you sure he's still; in there? Can he hear us?"

The mummified body stirred on its chair. The sunken eyelids crawled open, revealing eyes yellow as urine. "I may be dead. Captain Hawk, but I'm not deaf." His voice was low and harsh, but surprisingly firm. His eyes fixed on Hawk and Fisher, and his sunken mouth moved in something that might have been meant as a smile. "Hawk and Fisher. The only honest Guards in Haven. I've heard a lot about you."

"Nothing good, I hope," said Fisher.

The dead man chuckled dryly, a faint whisper of sound on the quiet. "James, I think you'll find you're in excellent hands with these two. They have a formidable reputation."

"Apart from the Blackstone affair," said Dannielle.

"Everyone has their off days," said Hawk evenly. "You can trust us to keep you from harm, sir Adamant. Anyone who wants to get to you has to get past us first."

"And there's damn few who've ever done that," said Fisher.

"You weren't doing so well against the blood-creatures," said Dannielle. "If Mortice hadn't intervened, we'd have all been killed."

"Hush, Danny," said Adamant. "Any man can be brought down by sorcery. That's why we have Mortice, to take care of things like that. Is there anything you need while we're here, Mortice? You know we can't stand this cold for long."

"I don't need anything anymore, James. But you need to take more care. It would appear Councilor Hardcastle is more worried about your chances in the election than he's willing to admit in public. He's hired a first-class sorcerer, and turned him loose on you. The blood-creature was just one of a dozen sendings he's called up out of the darkness. I managed to keep out the others, but there's a limit to what my wards can do. I don't recognize my adversary's style, but he's good. Very good. If I were alive, I might even be worried about him."

Adamant frowned. "Hardcastle must know he's forbidden to use sorcery during an election."

"So are we, for that matter," said Medley.

"That's different," said Dannielle quickly, darting a quick glance at Hawk and Fisher. "Mortice just uses his magic to protect us."

"The Council isn't interested in that kind of distinction," said Mortice. "Technically, my very presence in your house is illegal. Not that I ever let technicalities get in my way. But the Council's always had ants in its pants about magic-users. Right, Captain Hawk?"

"Right," said Hawk. "That's what comes of living so near the Street of Gods."

"Tough," said Mortice. "All the candidates have some kind of sorcery backing them up. If they didn't, they wouldn't stand a chance. Magic is like bribery and corruption; everyone knows about it and everyone turns a blind eye. I don't know why I should sound so disgusted about it. This is Haven, after all."

"Being dead doesn't seem to have dulled your faculties at all," said Hawk.

Mortice's mouth twitched. "I find being dead unclutters the mind wonderfully."

"Where do you stand when it comes to sorcery, Captain Hawk?" said Dannielle sharply. "Are you going to turn us in, and get James disqualified from the election?"

Hawk shrugged. "My orders are to keep James Adamant alive. As far as I'm concerned, that has overall priority. I'll put up with anything that'll make my job easier."

"Well, if that's settled, we really should be going," said Adamant. "We've a lot to do and not much time to do it in."

"Do you really have to go, James?" said Mortice. "Can't you just stay and talk for a while?"

"I'm sorry," said Adamant. "Everything's piling up right now. I'll come down and see you again, as soon as I can. And I'll keep searching for someone who can help with your condition, no matter how long it takes. There must be someone, somewhere."

"Yes," said Mortice. "I'm sure there is. Don't worry about Hardcastle's sorcerer, James. He may have caught me by surprise once, but I'm ready for him now. Nothing can harm you as long as I am here. I promise you that, my friend."

His eyes slowly closed, and once again to all appearances he became nothing more than a mummified corpse, without any trace of life. Dannielle shivered quickly, and tugged at Adamant's arm.

"Let's get out of here, James. I'm not dressed for this kind of weather."

"Of course, my dear."

He nodded to Medley, who led the way out of the cellar and back into the laundry room. After the bitter cold of the cellar, the pleasant autumn day seemed uncomfortably warm. There was frost in their hair and eyebrows, and they all mopped at their faces as it began to melt. Adamant let the trapdoor fall shut, and blew out his lamp. Hawk looked at him.

"Is that it? Aren't you going to bolt it, or something? If Hardcastle is as ruthless and determined as you've made him out to be, what's to stop him sending assassins here to destroy Mortice's body?"

Medley laughed shortly. "Anyone stupid enough to go down there wouldn't be coming back out again. Mortice's temper wasn't very good when he was alive, and since he died he's developed a very nasty sense of humor."

Adamant's study seemed reassuringly normal after the freezing cold and darkness of Mortice's cellar. Hawk picked out the most comfortable-looking chair, turned it so he wouldn't have to sit with his back to the door, and sank down into it. Adamant started to say something and then thought better of it. He gestured for the others to take a seat, and busied himself with the wine decanters. Dannielle made as though to sit next to Hawk, and then quickly chose another chair when Fisher glared at her. Medley sat down beside Dannielle, who ignored him. Hawk leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. First rule of the Guard: If you get a chance to sit down, take it. Guards spend a lot of time on their feet, and it tends to color their thinking. The last of the cellar chill began to seep out of Hawk's bones, and he sighed quietly. Adamant poured him a drink from one of the more expensive-looking decanters. Hawk sipped it, and made appreciative noises. It seemed a good vintage, though Fisher always insisted he had no palate for such things. Just as well, on a Guard's wages. He put down his glass, and waited patiently for Adamant to finish pouring wine for the others. There were things that needed to be said.

"Sir Adamant, just how reliable is Mortice?"

Adamant finished putting the decanter away before answering. "Before he died;very. Now;I don't know. After everything he's been through it's a wonder he's still coherent, never mind sane. The experience would have broken a lesser man. It still might. As it is, his life now consists mainly of pain and despair. He has no hope and no future, and he knows it. His friendship with me is his last link with normality."

"What about his magic?" said Fisher. "Is he still as powerful as he used to be?"

"He seems to be." Adamant emptied his glass and poured himself another drink. His hand was perfectly steady. "In his day, Mortice was a very powerful sorcerer. He says he's as strong now as he ever was, but there's no denying his mind does tend to wander on occasion. No doubt that's how those blood-creatures got in. If he ever cracks and gives in to all that pain and madness, I think we could all be in very great trouble."

"You must realize this changes things," said Hawk. "I can't overlook something like this. Mortice could end up as a threat to the whole city."

"Yes," said Adamant. "He could. That's why I'm telling you all this. I didn't have to. Originally, I'd hoped you wouldn't have to know about him at all. That's why he took so long to deal with those blood-creatures. I'd instructed him not to give away his presence unless he absolutely had to. It wasn't until I met him just now, and saw him through your eyes, that I realized how much he's changed since his death. He used to be such a powerful man."

"But as things stand we're in no danger," said Medley quickly. "You saw for yourself how calm and rational he is. Look; you'll be right here with us all through the election. You can keep a close watch on him. If he shows any sign that his control's slipping, then you can report him. It's not as if he was that dangerous. There's no doubt he's a very powerful individual, but he couldn't hope to stand against the combined might of all the Guard's sorcerers. I mean those people take on rogue Beings from the Street of Gods. And Mortice isn't exactly the High Warlock, now is he? In the meantime, we need him. Adamant won't survive the election without Mortice's support."

Hawk looked at Fisher, who nodded slightly. "All right," he said finally. "We'll see how it goes. But once the election is over;"

"Then we can talk about it again," said Adamant.

"And if he turns dangerous?" said Fisher.

"Then you do what you have to," said Adamant. "I know my responsibilities, Captain."

An uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Dannielle cleared her throat, and everyone looked at her. "This isn't the first time you've worked with a magic-user, is it, Captain Hawk: I seem to remember the sorcerer Gaunt was involved in the Blackstone case, wasn't he?"

"Only marginally," said Hawk. "I never knew him very well. He left Haven shortly afterwards."

"Damn shame, that," said Medley. "His loss was a great blow to the Reform Cause. Gaunt and Mortice were the only sorcerers of any note ever to ally themselves openly with the Reformers."

"You're better off without them," said Hawk flatly. "You can't trust magic, or the people who use it."

Dannielle raised a painted eyebrow. "You sound as though you've had some bad experiences with sorcery, Captain Hawk."

"Hawk has a long memory," said Fisher. "And he bears grudges."

"How about you, Captain Fisher?" said Adamant.

Fisher grinned. "I don't get mad. I get even."

"Right," said Hawk.

"We haven't discussed your politics yet," said Adamant slowly. "What beliefs do you follow, if any? In my experience, Guards tend to be uninterested in politics, apart from the usual favors and payoffs. Most of the time they just support the status quo."

"That's our job," said Hawk. "We don't make the laws, we just enforce them. Even the ones we don't agree with. Not all the Guards in Haven are crooked. You've got to expect some bribery and corruption, that's how Haven works, but on the whole the Guard takes its job seriously. We have to; if we didn't, the Council would replace us with someone who did. Too much corruption is bad for business, and the Quality doesn't like its peace disturbed."

"But what do you believe in?" said Medley. "You, and Captain Fisher?"

Hawk shrugged. "My wife is basically disinterested in politics. Right, Isobel?"

"Right," said Fisher, holding out her empty glass to Adamant for a refill. "Only thing more corrupt than a politician is a week-old corpse after the blowflies have been at it. No offence, sir Adamant."

"None taken," said Adamant.

"As for me;" Hawk pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Isobel and I come from the far North. We were both raised under absolute monarchies. Things were different there. It's taken us both some time to adjust to the changes democracy has made in Haven and the Low Kingdoms. I don't think we'll ever get used to the idea of a constitutional monarch.

"On the whole, it seems to me that the same kind of people end up on top no matter what system you have, but at least in a democracy there's room for change. Which is why I tend to favor Reform. The Conservatives don't want any change because for the most part they're rich and privileged, and they want to stay that way. The poor and the commoners should know their place." Hawk grinned. "I've never known my place."

"But as far as this election is concerned, we're strictly neutral," said Fisher. "It's our job to protect you, and we'll do that to the best of our ability. No one will bother you while we're around. Not openly, anyway. But don't waste time preaching to us. That's not what we're here for."

"Of course," said Medley. "We quite understand. Still, you're being put to a great deal of trouble on our account. You'll become targets, just by being associated with us. Under the circumstances, perhaps you would allow James and myself to show our appreciation by providing you with a little extra money, for expenses and the like. Shall we say five hundred ducats? Each?"

He reached inside his coat for his wallet, and then froze as he took in Hawk's face. Silence fell across the room. Medley looked from Hawk to Fisher and back again, and a sudden chill went through him. A subtle change had come over the two Guards. There was a cold anger and violence in their faces; a violence barely held in check. For the first time. Medley realized how the two Guards had earned their grim reputation, and he believed every word of it. He wanted to look to Adamant for support, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the Guards.

"Are you offering us a bribe?" said Fisher softly.

"Not necessarily," said Medley, trying to smile. The joke fell flat. Medley could feel sweat beading on his forehead.

"Get your hand away from that wallet," said Hawk, "or we'll do something unpleasant with it. You don't want to know what."

"We don't take bribes," said Fisher. "Ever. People trust us because they know we can't be bought. By anyone."

"My Advisor meant no offence," said Adamant quickly. "He's just not used to dealing with honest people."

"Politics does that to you," said Dannielle.

"And you have to admit, you are rather; unusual, as Haven goes," said Adamant.

"As Haven goes, we're bloody unique," said Fisher.

Hawk grinned. "You got that right."

Medley pulled at his coat to straighten it, though it didn't need straightening, and looked at the ornate brass-bound clock on the mantelpiece. "We're running late, James. The faithful will be arriving soon for your big speech."

"Of course, Stefan." Adamant got to his feet, and smiled at Hawk and Fisher. "Come along, bodyguards. You should find this interesting."

"You got that right," said Dannielle.

Hawk leaned morosely against the landing wall and wished halfheartedly for a riot. Adamant's followers filled the ballroom below, all of them cheerful and excited and buoyantly good-natured. They listened politely to Adamant's stewards, and went where they were told without a murmur. Hawk couldn't believe it. Usually in Haven you tracked down a political meeting by following the trail of broken bottles and mutilated corpses. Adamant's followers were enthusiastic as all hell, particularly about him, but seemed uninterested in the traditional pastimes of cursing the enemy and planning his destruction. They actually seemed more interested in discussing the issues. Hawk shook his head slowly. As if elections in Haven had anything to do with issues. He'd bet good money that Hardcastle's people weren't wasting time discussing the issues. More likely they were busy planning death and bloodshed and general mayhem, and where best to make a start. Hawk glanced across at Fisher. She looked just as bored as he did. Hawk looked back at the crowd. Maybe someone would faint in the crush. Anything for a little excitement. Hawk had reached the stage where he would have welcomed an outbreak of plague, to relieve the tedium.

He looked hopefully at Adamant, but he seemed in no hurry to make his entrance. He sat quietly in his chair halfway down the landing, well out of sight of his followers. Thick velvet drapes had been hung the length of the landing, blocking off the view, just so that Adamant could make a dramatic entrance at the top of the stairs. He seemed cool and perfectly relaxed, hands laced together in his lap, his eyes vague and far away. Medley, on the other hand, was stalking back and forth like a cat with piles, unable to settle anywhere for a moment. He was clutching a thick sheaf of papers, and shuffling them back and forth like the cards in a losing hand. He kept up a muttered running monologue of comment and advice concerning Adamant's speech, even though it was obvious no one was listening to him. Dannielle glared at him irritably from time to time, but seemed mostly interested in studying her appearance in the full-length mirror on the wall.

Down below, the crowd was getting noisy. They'd been patient a long time, and some of them looked a little tired of being good-natured about it. Hawk moved a little to one side so that he could see the mirror opposite him more clearly. It was the last in a series of mirrors, all cleverly arranged so that he could see down into the ballroom without being seen himself. One of Medley's better ideas.

It wasn't a very big ballroom, as mansion ballrooms went, but the packed crowd made it seem larger. Massed lamps and candles supplied a blaze of light, though the air was starting to get a little thick. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors from the original owner's family lined the walls, all of them looking highly respectable. Hawk's mouth twitched. If they'd still been alive, they'd have probably had coronaries at what their house was being used for. Adamant's supporters filled the ballroom from one end to the other, latecomers pushed tight against the closed doors, while the front of the crowd spilled over onto the first few steps of the stairs to the second storey. They seemed to blend together into a mass of shiny faces and eager eyes. A handful of stewards stopped them from getting any further up the stairs. A few more moved slowly through the crowd, keeping an eye out for unfamiliar faces and paid saboteurs. They looked very alone and very vulnerable in the crowd. Everyone there was supposed to be Adamant's friend, but Hawk didn't trust any crowd that large. They'd been well-behaved so far, but Hawk had seen enough crowds in his time to know that they could turn ugly in a moment. Should things get out of hand, there was precious little Adamant's men would be able to do to restrain such a mob. They weren't even wearing swords. Hawk sniffed. It took more to handle a crowd than good intentions.

Hawk looked round as Adamant stirred in his chair, but the candidate was just shifting his weight more comfortably. He still looked cool and calm and utterly at ease. He could have been waiting for his second cup of tea at breakfast, instead of his first real test of popularity and support. At first, Hawk had thought it was all just a pose, a mask to hide his nervousness behind, but there was none of the over-stillness that betrayed inner tension. He shot a glance at Fisher, who nodded slightly to show she'd noticed it too. Adamant might be new to politics, but it seemed he already knew the first rule: Politicians inspire fervor, but they don't fall prey to it themselves. Or, to put it another way, Adamant was professional enough to be a coldhearted son of a bitch when he had to be. A point worth remembering.

Medley, on the other hand, looked as though he might explode at any moment. His face was covered with a sheen of sweat and his hands were shaking. His hair was a mess and he ran his fingers through it like a comb when he thought no one was looking. He kept glancing at the crowd's image in the mirror as they grew increasingly noisy, and his running monologue became even more urgent as he ran through a list of things Adamant absolutely had to remember once he got out there in front of the crowd.

Medley began to repeat himself, and Dannielle shot him another dark look before going back to fussing over her appearance. Her dress was stylish, her makeup immaculate, but she couldn't seem to assure herself of that without constant checking. Hawk smiled. Everyone had their own way of dealing with nerves. For the most part. Hawk dealt with them by keeping busy. He studied the scene in the mirror again, and stirred uneasily. The crowd was definitely getting restive. Some of them had started chanting Adamant's name. The thin line of stewards at the foot of the stairs looked thinner than ever.

Hawk smiled briefly. It was one thing to wish for a little action to relieve the boredom, but quite another when it came to actually having to deal with it.

Medley made one comment too many, and Dannielle snapped at him. They locked gazes for a moment, and then Dannielle turned to Adamant for support. He smiled at both of them, and got up out of his chair. He traded a few quiet, reassuring words with each, taking just long enough for some of his calm to rub off on them. Down in the ballroom, the crowd was chanting We want Adamant! more or less in unison. He smiled at Hawk and Fisher.

"There's an art to this, you know. The longer we make them wait, the greater their response will be when I finally appear. Of course, let it go on too long, and they'll riot. It's all in the timing." He strode purposefully out onto the top of the stairs, and the crowd went mad.

They cheered and stamped and waved their banners, releasing their pent-up emotions in a single great roar of love and acclaim. The sound rose and rose, beating against the walls and echoing back from the ceiling. Adamant smiled and waved, and Dannielle and Medley moved out onto the top of the stairs to join him. The cheers grew even wilder, if that was possible. Dannielle smiled graciously at the crowd. Medley nodded briskly, his face grave and impassive.

Back in the hidden part of the landing, Hawk's gaze darted across the viewing mirror, checking the crowd for trouble spots. Letting this much raw emotion loose in a confined space was a calculated risk; all it needed was one unfortunate incident and the whole thing could turn very nasty. The trick, according to Medley, was to concentrate all the emotion on Adamant, through a combination of speeches and theatrics, and then turn the people loose on the city while they were still boiling over with enthusiasm. A good trick, if you can pull it off. Adamant probably could. He was good with words. The right words at the right time can topple thrones and build empires. Or bring on rebellions and civil wars, and dead men lying in burning fields.

Fisher stirred uneasily at Hawk's side, picking up some of his tension, and he made himself relax a little. Nothing was going to happen. Adamant and Medley had everything planned, right down to the last detail. Hardcastle's people wouldn't interfere here. They might not know about Mortice himself, but they had to know some magic-user was looking out for Adamant. Hawk gnawed at his lower lip, and looked across at Adamant. He was still smiling and waving, milking the moment for all it was worth. Dannielle stood serenely at his side, doing her best to be openly supportive without drawing any attention away from her husband. Medley looked uncomfortable in the spotlight, but no one expected him to be charismatic. It was enough that he was there, openly allied with Adamant.

Hawk looked back at the crowd in the mirror, which still showed no signs of cooling down. They all had flags or banners or placards, and they all wore the blue ribbon of the Reform Cause. They were a mixture of types and classes, with no obvious connections. There were a large number of poorly dressed, hard-worn characters whose reasons for supporting Reform seemed clear. But there were others whose clothes and bearing marked them clearly as tradesmen and merchants, and there were even some members of the Quality. Usually the only place you'd find such a combination gathered peacefully together was in the city morgue or the debtors' prison. And yet here they were, standing happily shoulder to shoulder, united in friendship and purpose by the man they trusted and cheered for. Politics made for strange bedfellows. Adamant lifted his hands suddenly, and the crowd's cheering died quickly away, replaced by an expectant hush.

Hawk watched closely from the shadows of the landing. There was something different about Adamant now. Something powerful. He seemed to have grown suddenly in stature and authority, as though the crowd's belief in him had made him the hero they needed him to be. The man Hawk had met earlier had been pleasant enough, even charming. But this new Adamant had a power and charisma that set him ablaze like a beacon in the night. His presence filled the ballroom. For the first time, Hawk understood why Hardcastle was afraid of this man.

The room was totally silent now. All eyes were fixed on Adamant. There was a hungry, determined feel to the silence that Hawk didn't like. It occurred to him that the relationship between Adamant and his followers wasn't just a one-way street. These people worshipped him, they might even die for him, but in a way they owned him too. They defined what he was and what he might be.

Adamant's speech lasted the better part of an hour, and the crowd lapped it up. He talked about the dark side of Haven, the sweatshops and the work gangs, the company shops that made sure their employees stayed poor, and the company bullies who dealt with anyone who dared speak out. He talked about rotten food and foul drinking water, about houses with holes in the roof and rats in the walls; and the crowd reacted with shock and outrage, as though they'd never known such things existed. Adamant made them see their world with fresh eyes, and see how bad it really was.

He told them about the powerful and privileged men who cared nothing for the poor because they were born into the wrong class and therefore were nothing more than animals, to be used and discarded as their betters saw fit. He told them of the titled men and women who gorged themselves on six-course meals in gorgeous banquet halls, while the children of the poor died in the streets from hunger and exposure;and the raw hatred from the crowd was a palpable presence in the ballroom.

And then he told them things didn't have to be that way anymore.

He told them of the Cause. Of Reform, and how the evils of Haven would finally be done away with, not by violence and revolution, but by slow, continued change. By people working together, instead of against each other, regardless of class or wealth or position. It wasn't going to be easy. There were those in Haven who would fight and die rather than see the system change. Reform would be a long fight and a hard fight, but in the end Reform would win, because working together the people were stronger by far than the privileged individuals who sought to keep them in their place, in the gutter. Adamant smiled proudly down at the men and women before him. Let others call us trouble-makers and anarchists, he said quietly; We will show the people of Haven it isn't true. We are just men and women who have had enough, and will see justice done. Whatever it takes.

They can't kill us all.

Adamant finally stopped speaking, and for a moment there was silence. And then the crowd roared its agreement in a single, determined voice. Adamant had taken a crowd of individuals and forged them into an army, and they knew it. All they needed now was an enemy to fight, and they'd find that soon enough out on the streets. Hawk watched the crowd in the mirror, impressed but deeply disturbed. Raising violent emotions like these was dangerous for everyone involved. If Hardcastle could raise similar feelings in his followers, there would be blood and death in the streets when the two sides met.

Adamant raised his hands again, and the crowd grew still. He paused a moment, as though searching for just the right words, and then talked to them slowly and calmly about how they should deal with the enemy. Violence was Hardcastle's way, not theirs. Let the voters see who needed to resort to violence first, and then they'd see who spoke the truth, and who dared not let it be heard. Adamant looked out over his people. It was inevitable that people were going to be hurt in the hours ahead, maybe even killed. But whatever happened, they were only ever to defend themselves, and then only as much as was needed. It was easy to fall into the trap of hatred and revenge, but that was the enemy's way, not theirs. Reform fought to change, not destroy.

He paused again, to let the thought sink in, and then suddenly raised his voice in happiness and good cheer. He filled the audience's hearts with hope and resolve, wished them all good fortune, bowed once, and then strode unhurriedly off into the shadows of the landing, followed by Dannielle and Medley. His audience cheered him till their hearts were raw, and then filed slowly out of the ballroom, laughing and chattering excitedly about the day ahead. Back in the concealing shadows of the landing, Adamant sank wearily into his chair and let his breath out in a long, slow sigh of relief.

"I think that went rather well," he said finally. He put out a hand to Dannielle, and she took it firmly in both of hers.

"It should have," said Medley. "We spent long enough rehearsing it."

"Oh, never mind him," said Dannielle, glaring at Medley. "You were wonderful, darling! Listen to them, James; they're still cheering you!"

"It's a hard life being a politician," said Adamant solemnly. "All this power and adulation; How will I ever stand the pressure?"

Medley snorted. "Wait till we get out on the streets, James. That's when the real work starts. They do things differently out there."

Half an hour later the faithful had all departed, but Adamant and company were back in the study again. Adamant had visitors. Garrett Walpole and Lucien Sykes were businessmen, so successful that even Hawk and Fisher had heard of them. Their families were as old as Haven, and if their money hadn't come from trade, they could both have been leading members of the Quality. As it was, the lowest member of High Society wouldn't have deigned to so much as sneer in their direction. Tradesmen used the back door, no matter how wealthy they were. Which was at least partly why Walpole and Sykes had come visiting. Not that they would ever have admitted it, of course. They shook hands formally with Adamant, and nodded generally around them as Adamant made the introductions.

"Your Advisor can stay," said Sykes briskly, "but the others will have to leave. Our business here is confidential, Adamant."

Hawk smiled, and shook his head. "We're bodyguards. We stay with sir Adamant."

Walpole looked at Hawk and Fisher amusedly. "Call off your dogs, will you, James? Perhaps your wife could take them to the kitchens for a cup of tea, or something, until our business is finished."

"Don't care much for tea," said Fisher. "We stay."

"You'll do as you're damned well told!" snapped Sykes. "Now, get out, and don't come back till we call you. Adamant, tell them."

Hawk smiled slowly, and Sykes paled suddenly as his breath caught in his throat. Without moving a muscle, a change had come over Hawk. He suddenly looked; dangerous. The scarred face was cold and impassive, and Sykes couldn't help noticing how Hawk's hand rested on the axe at his side. The room suddenly seemed very small, with nowhere to turn.

"We're bodyguards," said Hawk softly. "We stay."

"Gentlemen, please!" said Adamant quickly. "There's no need for any unpleasantness. We're all friends here. Hawk, Fisher, these gentlemen are my guests. I would be obliged if you would show them every courtesy while they're in my house."

"Of course," said Hawk. His tone was impeccably polite, but the gaze from his single dark eye was still disturbingly cold. Sykes looked at Fisher, but if anything her smile was even more disturbing.

"There's no cause for alarm, my friends," said Adamant. "My bodyguards fully understand our need for confidentiality. You have my word that nothing discussed here will go beyond the walls of this room."

Walpole looked at Sykes, who nodded grudgingly. Hawk smiled. Fisher leaned against the mantelpiece and folded her arms.

"But your wife will still have to leave," said Sykes stubbornly. "This is not women's business."

Dannielle flushed angrily, and looked to Adamant for support, but he was already nodding slowly. "Very well, Lucien, if you insist. Danny, if you wouldn't mind;"

Dannielle shot him a quick look of betrayal, and then gathered her composure sufficiently to smile graciously round the room before leaving. She didn't slam the door behind her, but it felt as though she had. Adamant gestured for Walpole and Sykes to be seated, and waited patiently for them to settle themselves comfortably before pouring them wine from the most delicately fashioned decanter. Hawk and Fisher held out their glasses for a refill. Adamant handed them the decanter, and pulled up a chair opposite his visitors. The two Guards remained standing. Hawk studied the two businessmen surreptitiously over his wineglass. He didn't move in their circle, but he knew them both by reputation. Guards made it their business to know the movers and shakers of Haven's community by sight. You could avoid a lot of embarrassment that way.

Garrett Walpole was a bluff military type in his late fifties. He'd spent twenty years in the Low Kingdoms army before retiring to take over the family business, and it showed. He still wore his hair in a regulation military cut, and his back was straight as a sword blade. He wore sober clothes of a conservative cut, and sat back in his chair as though he owned the place.

Lucien Sykes was an overweight, ruddy-faced man in his late forties. He wore the latest fashion with more determination than style, and looked more than a little uneasy in present company. Sykes was big in the import-export business, which was why he'd come to Adamant. The Dock-workers Guild was in the second week of its strike, and nothing was moving in or out of the docks. The Conservative-backed DeWitt brothers were trying to break the strike with blackleg zombie workers, but so far that hadn't worked out too well. Zombies needed a lot of supervision, and weren't what you'd call efficient workers. As it was, the Dock-workers Guild had more reason than usual to be mad at the Conservatives, and had lined up firmly behind the Reformers. So if Sykes wanted to get his ships in or out of the docks any time soon, he was going to need help from the right people. Reform people.

Hawk grinned. He might be new to politics, but he knew a few things.

"Well," said Adamant finally, after everyone had sipped their drinks and the silence had dragged on uncomfortably long, "what exactly can I do for you, my friends? Normally I'd be only too happy to sit and chat for a while, but I have an election to fight, and very little time to do it in. If you'll just tell me what you want, I'll be happy to tell you what it will cost you."

Walpole raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Plain speaking may be a virtue, James, but if I were you I'd keep it to myself. There's no room for it in politics or business."

"You should know," said Medley, and Walpole laughed briefly.

"James, I can't say I'm hopeful of your chances, because I'm not. High Steppes has been a safe Conservative Seat for more than thirty years. All right, Hardcastle is a bit of a rotter, but people will vote for the devil they're familiar with rather than a Cause they don't know."

"Even though the devil has bled them dry for years, and the Cause will fight on their behalf?" Adamant smiled. "Or perhaps you don't believe in Reform?"

"My dear chap, it hasn't a hope." Walpole took a cigar out of his pocket, looked at it wistfully, and put it away again. "Only allowed one a day," he explained. "Doctor's orders. I'd get another doctor, but he's the wife's brother. James, Reform is a nice idea, but that's all. These fashions come and go, but they never last long. Too many vested interests concerned for it to get anywhere."

"Is that why you came here?" said Medley. "To tell us we can't win?"

Walpole laughed briefly. "Not at all. You asked me for money, James, and I'm here to give it to you. Who knows? You might win after all, and it wouldn't do me any harm to have you owe me a favor. Besides, I've been a friend of your family most of my life. Fought beside your father in the Broken Ridges campaign. He was a good sort. I'm more than comfortably well-off these days, and I can afford to throw away a few thousand ducats." He took a banker's draft from his pocket and handed it to Medley. "Put it to good use, James, and let me know if you need some more. And after this nonsense is over, do come and see me. I'm sure I can put some business your way. Now I really must be going. Things to do, you know. Good luck in the election."

He didn't say You're going to need it. His tone said it for him.

He rose unhurriedly to his feet, and stretched unobtrusively as Adamant got up and rang for the butler. Medley tucked the banker's draft safely away in his wallet before rising to his feet. The butler came in, Walpole shook hands all around, and then the butler escorted him out. The room was suddenly very quiet. Adamant and Medley sat down again and turned their attention to Lucien Sykes. He glanced quickly at the two Guards, scowled unhappily, and then leant forward to face Adamant, his tone hushed and conspiratorial.

"You know my position. I have to get my ships in and out of the docks soon, or I stand to lose every penny I've got. You know I've donated money to the Cause in the past. I've been one of your main backers. Now I need your help. I need your word that the first thing you'll do as a Councilor is to put pressure on those bastards in the Dock-workers Guild to call off their strike. For a while, at least."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," said Adamant. "But I could put some pressure on the DeWitt brothers to be more reasonable. After all, they caused the strike, by refusing to spend the money needed to make the docks safe to work in."

Sykes's scowl deepened. "That won't do any good. I've already talked to Marcus and David DeWitt. They don't give a damn for anyone but themselves. It's become a matter of principle to them, not to give in to their workers. If they want to dig their own financial grave, that's up to them, but I'm damned if I'm going to let them drag me down with them."

"You could always go to Hardcastle," said Medley.

"I tried," said Sykes. "He wouldn't see me. Three thousand ducats. Adamant. That's my offer. I've got the bank draft right here."

"I'll talk to the Guild and put what pressure I can on the DeWitts," said Adamant. "That's all I can promise you. If that's not good enough, then we'll have to do without your money."

Sykes took a folded bank draft out of his coat pocket, hefted it in his hand, and then tossed it onto the desk. "I'll see you again, Adamant;if you win the election."

He pulled his coat around him, glared briefly at Hawk and Fisher, and left the study. The door swung shut behind him. Hawk turned slightly to look at Adamant.

"Is it normally this blatant? I mean, when you get right down to it, those two were giving you bribes in return for future favors. Reform's always campaigned against that kind of corruption in the past."

"Fighting an election costs money," said Medley. "Lots of it. James couldn't hope to pay all the bills on his own, and the Cause can't do much to help. What money they have has to be spread around among the poorer candidates. All they could give us was this house. So, we take funds where we can find them. You can bet Hardcastle isn't bothered by any such niceties. If his supporters don't make big enough donations, all he has to do is threaten to raise property taxes. And it's not as if we promised to do anything against our principles. In the end, all politics is based on people doing favors for each other. That's what keeps the system going. It may not be a very pretty system, but then, that's one of the things we're fighting to change."

The door flew open, and Dannielle swept in. She glared at them all impartially, and then sank into her favorite chair. "I feel like I ought to open all the windows and set up incense sticks, just to get the smell of politics out of this room."

"Sorry, Danny," said Adamant. "But they really wouldn't have talked freely with you there, and we needed the money they were offering."

Dannielle sniffed. "Let's change the subject."

"Let's," said Medley. "Is there anything more you need to know before we start campaigning, Captain Hawk, Captain Fisher?"

"Yes," said Hawk. "I need more information on the other candidates. Hardcastle, for example. I gather he's unpopular, even among his own people."

"The man's a brute," said Adamant. "He runs the High Steppes like his own private Barony. Even levies his own separate tax, though it's not called that, of course. It's an insurance policy. And people who don't or can't keep up their payments find their luck's suddenly changed for the worse. It starts with beatings, moves on to fires, and ends with murder. And no one says anything. Even the Guard looks the other way."

Hawk smiled coldly. "We're the Guard here now. Tell me about Hardcastle himself."

"He's a thug and a bully, and his word is worthless," said Medley unemotionally. "He takes bribes from everyone, and then welshes on the deal, as often as not. He's been very successful in business, and it's rumored he knows where some very important bodies are buried. He has his own little army of men-at-arms and hired bullies. Anyone who tries to speak out against him gets their legs broken as a warning. I don't think he has any friends, but he has acquaintances in high places."

"Anything else?" said Fisher.

"He's married," said Dannielle. "But I've never met her."

"Not many have," said Medley. "She doesn't go out much. From what I hear, it was an arranged marriage, for business reasons. They've been married seven years now. No children."

"An army of men-at-arms," said Hawk thoughtfully. "You mean mercenaries?"

"That's right," said Medley. "It's hard to get an accurate figure, but he's got at least three hundred armed men under his personal command. Probably more."

"And this is the man you're standing against?" said Fisher. "You must be crazy. You're going to need your own private army just to walk the streets in safety."

"What do I need an army for?" said Adamant. "I've got you and Captain Hawk, haven't I? Relax, Captain Fisher. We have our own mercenaries. Not as many as Hardcastle, but enough. They'll keep the worst elements off our backs. We'll just have to play the rest by ear."

"Terrific," said Fisher.

"Tell me about the other candidates," said Hawk.

Adamant looked at Medley, who frowned thoughtfully before speaking. "Well, first, there's Lord Arthur Sinclair. Youngish chap, inherited the title a few years back under rather dubious circumstances, but that's nothing new in Haven. Plays politics for the fun of it as much as anything. Likes all the attention, and the chance to stand up in public and make a fool of himself. He's standing as an independent, because nobody else would have him, and he wants to see an end to all forms of tax on alcohol. He has some backing, mostly from the beer, wine, and spirits industry, and he's wealthy enough to buy himself a few votes, but the only way he'll get elected is if all the other candidates drop dead. And even then there'd have to be a recount."

"He means well," said Adamant, "but he's no danger to anyone except himself. He drinks like a fish, from what I've heard."

"Then there's Megan O'Brien," said Medley, having waited patiently for Adamant to finish. "He's a spice merchant, also independent, standing for Free Trade. Given that a great deal of Haven's income comes from the very taxes O'Brien wants stopped, I don't think much of his chances. He'll be lucky to get through the election without being assassinated.

"And, of course, there's General Longarm. Once a part of the Low Kingdoms army, now part of a militant movement within the Brotherhood of Steel. He's been officially disowned by the Brotherhood, though whether that means anything is open to question. The Brotherhood's always been devious. He's campaigning as an independent, on the Law and Order ticket. Believes every lawbreaker should be beheaded, on the spot, and wants compulsory military service introduced for every male over fourteen. He's crazier than a brewery-yard rat, and about as charismatic. His Brotherhood connections might get him a few votes, but otherwise he's harmless."

"I wouldn't count him out completely," said Adamant. "Brotherhood militants took The Downs away from the Conservatives at the last election. I think it would be wise to keep a good weather eye on General Longarm."

"Any more candidates?" said Fisher, helping herself to more wine from the nearest decanter.

"Just one," said Medley. "A mystery candidate. A sorcerer, called the Grey Veil. No one's seen or heard anything about him, but his name's on the official list. Magicians aren't actually banned from standing in the election, but the rules against using magic are so strictly enforced, most magic-users don't bother. They say they're unfairly discriminated against, and they may well be right. Mortice says he's never even heard of the Grey Veil, so he can't be that powerful."

Hawk frowned. "We had a run-in with a sorcerer, earlier today. It might have been him."

"Doesn't make any difference," said Fisher. "We ran him off. If he was the Grey Veil, I think we can safely assume he's no longer standing. Running, maybe, but not standing. The report we filed will see to that."

"Let me get this straight," said Hawk. "Apart from us, there's Hardcastle and his mercenaries, militant Brothers of Steel, and a handful of independents with whatever bullies and bravos they can afford. Adamant, this isn't just an election, it's an armed conflict. I've known battles that were safer than this sounds like it's going to be."

"Now you're getting the hang of it," said Dannielle.

"I think that's covered everything," said Adamant. "Now, would anyone like a quick snack before we leave? I doubt we'll have time to stop to eat once we've started."

Hawk looked hopefully at Fisher, but she shook her head firmly. "Apparently we're fine," said Hawk. "Thanks anyway."

"It's no trouble," said Dannielle. "It'll only take a minute to send word to the kitchen staff and the food taster."

Hawk looked at her. "Food taster?"

"People are always trying to poison me," said Adamant, shrugging. "Reform has a lot of enemies in Haven, and particularly in the High Steppes. Mortice sees to it that none of the attempts get past the kitchens, so the food taster's really only there as a backup. Even so, you wouldn't believe what he's costing me in danger money."

"I don't think we'll bother with the snack," said Hawk. Fisher gave the wine at the bottom of her glass a hard look.

"You stick with us, Hawk," said Medley, grinning. "And we'll give you a solid grounding on politics in Haven. There's a lot more to it than meets the eye."

"So I'm finding out," said Hawk.

Chapter Three

WOLVES IN THE FOLD

Brimstone Hall stood aloof and alone in the middle of its grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall emblazoned with protective runes. Armed men watched from behind the massive iron gates, and guard dogs patrolled the wide-open grounds. Rumor had it the dogs had been fed human meat just long enough to give them a taste for it. There used to be apple trees in the grounds. Hardcastle had them torn up by the roots; they offered shelter to potential assassins.

Cameron Hardcastle was a very careful man. He trusted nothing and no one, with good cause. He had destroyed many men in his time, one way or another, and helped to ruin many more. It was said he had more enemies than any other man in Haven. Hardcastle believed it, and took pride in the fact. In a city of harsh and ruthless men, he had made himself a legend. Constant death threats were a small price to pay.

The Hall itself was a crumbling stone monstrosity held together by ancient spells and never-ending repair work. It was stiflingly hot in the summer and impossible to heat in the winter, but it had been home to the Hardcastles for years past counting, and Cameron would not give it up. Hardcastles never gave up anything that was theirs. They were supposed to have been instrumental in the founding of Haven, which might have been why so many of them had been convinced they should be running it.

Cameron Hardcastle began his career in the Low Kingdoms army. It was expected of him, his class, and his family, and he hated every minute of it. He left the army after only seven years, retiring in haste before he could be court-martialed. It was said the charges would have been extreme cruelty, but no one took that seriously. Extreme cruelty was usually what got you ahead in the Low Kingdoms army. The men fought so well because they were more afraid of their officers than they were of the enemy.

More importantly, there were rumors of blood sacrifice behind locked doors in the officers' mess, but no one talked about that. It wasn't considered healthy.

Hardcastle himself was an average-height, stocky man, with a barrel chest and heavily muscled upper arms. He was good-looking in a rough, scowling way, with a shock of dark hair and an unevenly trimmed moustache. He was in his mid-forties, and looked it, but you only had to meet him for a few moments to feel the strength and power that radiated from him. Whatever else people said about him; and there was a lot of talk, most of it unpleasant;they all admitted the man had presence. When he entered a crowded room, the room fell silent.

He had a loud, booming laugh, though his sense of humor wasn't very pleasant. Most people went to the theatre for their entertainment; Hardcastle's idea of a good time was a visit to the public hangings. He enjoyed bear-baiting, prizefights, and kept a half-dozen dogs to go ratting with. On a good day he'd nail the rats' tails to the back door to show his tally.

He was Conservative because his family always had been, and because it suited his business interests to be so. The Hardcastles were of aristocratic stock, and no one was allowed to forget it. Of late, most of their money came from rents and banking, but no one was foolish enough to treat Hardcastle as a merchant or a businessman. Even as a joke. It wouldn't have been healthy. When he thought about politics at all, which wasn't often, Hardcastle believed in everyone knowing their place, and keeping to it. He thought universal suffrage was a ghastly mistake, and one he fully intended to rectify at the first opportunity. Reform was nothing more than a disease in the body politic, to be rooted out and destroyed. Starting with James bloody Adamant.

Hardcastle sat in his favorite wing chair, staring out the great bow window in his study and scowling furiously. Adamant was going to be a problem. The man had a great deal of popular support, more than any previous Reform candidate, and taking care of him was going to be difficult and expensive. Hardcastle hated spending money he didn't have to. Fortunately, there were other alternatives. He turned his gaze away from the window, and looked across at his sorcerer, Wulf.

The sorcerer was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a fine noble head that was just a little too large for his body. Thick auburn hair fell to his shoulders in a mass of curls and knots. His face was long and narrow, and heavy-boned. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. He dressed always in sorcerer's black, complete with cape and cowl, and looked the part to perfection.

Wulf was a newcomer to Haven, and as yet hadn't shown much evidence of his power, but no one doubted he had it. A few weeks back he'd been attacked by four street thugs. It took the city Guard almost a week to find a horse and cart sturdy enough to carry the four stone statues away. They ended up on the Street of Gods. Tourists burn incense sticks before them, but the statues are still silently screaming.

Sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, with head bowed and hands clasped neatly in her lap, was Jillian Hardcastle, Cameron's wife. She was barely into her mid-twenties, but she looked twenty years older. She had been pretty once, in an unremarkable way, but life with Hardcastle had worn her away until there was no character left in her face; only a shape, and features that faded from memory the moment she was out of sight. She dressed in rich and fashionable clothes because her husband expected it of her, but she still looked like what she was: a poor little country mouse who'd been brought into the city and had every spark of individuality beaten out of her. Those who spent time in Hardcastle's company had learned not to comment on the occasional bruises and black eyes that marked Jillian's face, or the mornings she spent lying in bed, resting.

They'd been married seven years. It was an arranged marriage. Hardcastle arranged it.

He glared at Wulf for a long moment, and when he finally spoke his voice was deceptively calm and even. "You told me your magics could break through any barrier Adamant could buy. So why is he still alive?"

Wulf shrugged easily. "He must have found himself a new sorcerer. I'm surprised anyone would work with him after what I did to his last magic-user, but then, that's Haven for you. There's always someone, if the money's right. It won't make any difference in the long run. It may take a little time to find just the right opening, but I doubt this magic-user will be any more difficult to dispose of than the last one."

"More delays," said Hardcastle. "I don't like delays, sorcerer. I don't like excuses, either. I want James Adamant dead and out of the way before the people vote. I don't care what it costs, or what you have to do; I want him dead. Understand, sorcerer?"

"Of course, Cameron. I assure you, there's no need to worry. I'll take care of everything. I trust the rest of your campaign is running smoothly?"

"So far," said Hardcastle grudgingly. "The posterers have been out since dawn, and my mercenaries have been dealing with Adamant's men quite successfully, in spite of the interfering Guard. If Adamant is foolish enough to try and hold any street gatherings, my men will see they don't last long. Commoners don't have the guts to stand and fight. Spill some blood on the cobbles, and they'll scatter fast enough."

"Quite right, Cameron. There's nothing at all to worry about. We've thought of everything, planned for every eventuality. Nothing can go wrong."

"Don't take me for a fool, sorcerer. Something can always go wrong. Adamant's no fool, either; he wouldn't still be investing so much time and money in his campaign if he didn't think he had a bloody good chance of beating me. He knows something, Wulf. Something we don't. I can feel it in my bones."

"Whatever you say, Cameron. I'll make further enquiries. In the meantime, I have someone waiting to meet you."

"I hadn't forgotten," said Hardcastle. "Your chief of mercenaries. The one you've been so mysterious about. Very well; who is it?"

Wulf braced himself. "Roxanne."

Hardcastle sat up straight in his chair. "Roxanne? You brought that woman into my house? Get her out of here now!"

"It's perfectly all right, Cameron," said Wulf quickly. "I brought two of my best men to keep an eye on her. I think you'll find her reputation is a little exaggerated. She's the best sword-for-hire I've ever come across. Unbeatable with a blade in her hand, and a master strategist. She works well on her own, or in charge of troops. She's done an excellent job for us so far, with remarkably few fatalities. She's a genuine phenomenon."

"She's also crazy!"

"There is that, yes. But it doesn't get in the way of her work."

Hardcastle slowly settled back into his chair, but his scowl remained. "All right, I'll see her. Where is she?"

"In the library."

Hardcastle sniffed. "At least there's not much there she can damage. Jillian, go and get her."

His wife nodded silently, got to her feet and left the study, being careful to ease the door shut behind her so that it wouldn't slam.

Hardcastle turned away from the bow window, and stared at the portrait of his father, hanging on the wall opposite. A dark and gloomy picture of a dark and gloomy man. Gideon Hardcastle hadn't been much of a father, and Cameron had shed no tears at his funeral, but he had been a Councilor in Haven for thirty-four years. Cameron Hardcastle was determined to do better. Being a Councilor was just the beginning. He had plans. He was going to make the name Hardcastle respected and feared throughout the Low Kingdoms.

Whatever it took.

Roxanne prowled restlessly back and forth in Hardcastle's library, her boots, sinking soundlessly into the thick pile carpet. The two mercenaries set to guard her watched nervously from the other side of the room. Roxanne smiled at them now and again, just to keep them on their toes. She was tall, six foot three even without her boots, with a lithe, muscular body. She wore a shirt and trousers of bright lime-yellow, topped with a battered leather jacket. She looked like a vicious canary. She wore a long sword on her left hip, in a well-worn scabbard.

At first sight she was not unattractive. She was young, in her early twenties, with a sharp-boned face, blazing dark eyes, and a mass of curly black hair held in place with a leather headband. But there was something about Roxanne, something in her unwavering gaze and disturbing smile that made even the most experienced mercenary uneasy. Besides, everyone knew her reputation.

Roxanne first made a name for herself when she was fifteen, fighting as a sword-for-hire in the Silk Trail vendettas. The rest of her company were wiped out in an ambush, and she had to fight her way back alone through the enemy lines. She killed seventeen men and women that night, and had the ears to prove it. The people who saw her stride back into camp that night, laughing and singing, covered in other people's blood and wearing a necklace of human ears, swore they'd never seen anything more frightening in their lives.

She went through a dozen mercenary companies in less than three years, and despite her swordsmanship they were always glad to see her go. She was brave and loyal, as long as she was paid regularly, and always the first to lead an attack, but there was no getting away from the fact that Roxanne was stark staring crazy. When there wasn't an enemy to fight she'd pick quarrels among her own people, just to get a little action. She was even worse when she got drunk. People who knew her learned to recognize the signs early, and head for the nearest exit. Roxanne had a nasty temper and a somewhat strange sense of humor. Her idea of a good night out tended to involve knife fights, terrorizing the locals, and burning down inns that expected her to pay her bar bills.

Not that she limited her arson to inns. Quite often she'd set fire to a tent or two in her own camp, for reasons that made sense only to her. Roxanne liked a good fire. She also liked betting everything she had on one roll of the dice, and then refusing to pay up if she lost. She worshipped a god no one had ever heard of, had an entirely unhealthy regard for the truth, and picked fights with nuns. She said they offended her sense of the rightness of things. If Roxanne had a sense of rightness of things, it was news to everyone who'd ever met her.

Everyone agreed that Roxanne would go far, and the sooner the better.

She ended up in Haven after a disagreement with a Captain of the Guard over the prices in a Jaspertown company store. When someone explained to her that she'd just killed the local Mayor's son, she decided it might be time to start looking for new employment. So she threw the Captain's head through the Mayor's front window, set fire to a post office as a distraction, and headed for Haven as fast as her stolen horse could carry her.

Roxanne roamed about Hardcastle's library, picking things up and putting them down again. She'd never seen so many resolutely ugly pieces of ornamental china in her life. And there wasn't a damn thing worth stealing. She broke a few ornaments on general principles, and because they made such a pleasant sound as they smashed against the wall. The two mercenaries stirred uneasily, but said nothing. Ostensibly they were there to keep her out of trouble and make sure she didn't set fire to anything, but Roxanne knew they wouldn't do anything unless they absolutely had to. They were scared of her. Most people were, particularly when she smiled. Roxanne smiled widely at the two mercenaries. They both paled visibly, and she turned away, satisfied. She started to pace up and down again, tapping her fingertips on her sword belt. She never could stay still for long. She had too much energy in her.

She looked round quickly as the library door swung open, and then took her hand away from her sword as a pale, colorless woman came in. At first Roxanne thought she must be a servant, but a quick glance at the quality of her clothes suggested she had to be very upper-class, even if she didn't act like it. She ignored the two mercenaries and addressed herself to Roxanne, without raising her eyes from the floor.

"My husband will see you now," she said quietly, her voice entirely free of inflection. "Please follow me and I'll take you to him."

The two mercenaries looked at each other, and one of them cleared his throat diffidently. "Pardon me, ma'am, but we're supposed to stay with her."

Jillian Hardcastle glanced at him briefly, and then looked back at the floor. "My husband wants to see Roxanne. He didn't mention you."

The mercenary frowned uncertainly. "I don't really think we should;"

"You stay put," said Roxanne flatly. "Don't touch the booze and don't break anything. Got it?"

"Got it," said the mercenary. "We'll stay right here." The other mercenary nodded quickly.

Roxanne followed Jillian Hardcastle out of the library and into the hall. It was a large hall, wide and echoing, and Roxanne did her best to look unimpressed. She quickly realized she needn't bother, as Jillian kept her gaze firmly on the ground at all times. Roxanne stared at her thoughtfully. This beaten-down little mouse was Hardcastle's wife? Perhaps the rumors about him were true after all.

Jillian opened the study door, and gestured politely for Roxanne to go in first. She did so, swaggering in with her thumbs tucked into her sword belt. Hardcastle and Wulf got to their feet. Hardcastle studied her narrowly. Roxanne smiled at them both, and didn't miss the little moue of unease that crossed their faces. She knew the effect her smile had on people. That was why she used it. She glanced quickly round the study. Not bad. Quite luxurious in its way. She did her best to look as though she'd seen better, in her time.

"Welcome to my house, Roxanne," said Hardcastle heavily. "Wulf tells me you've done good work for me. As a reward, I have a special assignment for you. You'll be working mostly alone, but there's an extra five hundred ducats in it for you."

"Sounds good," said Roxanne. "What's the catch?"

Hardcastle frowned. Out of the corner of her eye, Roxanne saw Jillian wince momentarily, and then her face was blank and empty again. Roxanne dropped insolently into the most comfortable-looking chair and draped one leg over the padded arm. Hardcastle looked at her for a moment, and then drew up a chair opposite her. Wulf and Jillian remained standing. Hardcastle met Roxanne's gaze for a moment, and then looked away, despite himself.

"James Adamant is standing against me in the election," he said finally. "I want him stopped. Hurt him, kill him, I don't care. Spend as much as you need, use whatever tactics you like. If there's any repercussions I'll get you out of Haven in plenty of time."

"The catch," said Roxanne.

"Adamant has two Captains of the city Guard as bodyguards," said Hardcastle steadily. "They're called Hawk and Fisher."

Roxanne smiled. "I've heard of them. They're supposed to be good. Very good." She laughed happily. It was an unpleasant, disturbing sound. "Hardcastle, I'd almost do this for free, just for the chance to go up against those two."

"They're not the target," said Hardcastle sharply. "If you have a grudge with them, you deal with it on your own time."

"Of course," said Roxanne.

"Even apart from them, Adamant's going to be hard to reach. He has his own mercenaries, and a new magic-user. I understand you have a special contact of your own among his people, so I'll leave the details to you. But it has to be done soon." He picked up his wineglass. "Jillian, get me some wine."

She moved quickly forward, took the glass from his hand, and went over to the row of decanters on the nearby table.

"Do I get any support on this?" said Roxanne, "Or am I working entirely on my own?"

"Use whatever people you need, but make sure there are no direct links to me. Officially, you're just another of my mercenaries."

Jillian brought him a glass of wine. Hardcastle looked at it without touching it. "Jillian, what is this?"

"Your wine, Cameron."

"What kind of wine?"

"Red wine."

"And what kind of wine do I normally drink when I have guests?"

"White wine."

"So why have you brought me red?"

Jillian's mouth began to tremble slightly, though her face remained blank. "I don't know."

"It's because you're stupid, isn't it?"

"Yes, Cameron."

"Go and get me some white wine."

Jillian went back to the decanters. Hardcastle looked at Roxanne, who was studying him thoughtfully. "Have you got something to say, mercenary?"

"She's your wife."

"Yes. She is."

Jillian came back with a glass of white wine. Hardcastle took it, and put it down on the desk without tasting it. "I'll talk with you about this later, Jillian."

She nodded, and stood silently beside his chair. Her hands were clasped so tightly together that the knuckles showed white.

"It's time you spoke to your people, Cameron," said Wulf softly. "We need them out on the streets as quickly as possible, and you need to speak to them before they go."

Hardcastle nodded ungraciously and got to his feet. He looked at Roxanne. "You'd better come too. You might learn something."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Roxanne.

The main hall at Brimstone Hall was uncomfortably large. Two chandeliers of massed candles spread a great pool of light down the middle of the hall, and oil lamps lined the walls. Even so, dark shadows pressed close around the borders of the light. Silence lay heavily across the hall, and the slightest sound seemed to echo on forever. Armed men stood at intervals along the walls, staring blankly straight ahead, somehow all the more menacing for their complete lack of movement. A wide set of stairs led up to a gallery overlooking the hall. Hardcastle stood at ease on the gallery, smiling faintly at some pleasant thought of things to come. Jillian stood at his side;quiet, pliant, head bowed, and eyes far away, as though trying to pretend she wasn't really there at all.

Roxanne stood back a way, hidden in the shadows of the gallery. Wulf sat on a chair beside her, legs casually crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He might have been waiting for a late dessert, or a promised glass of wine, but there was something unsettling in the air of anticipation that hung about him, something; unhealthy. Roxanne kept a careful watch on him from the corner of her eye. She didn't trust sorcerers. Not that she trusted anyone, when you got right down to it, but in her experience magic-users were a particularly treacherous breed.

Hardcastle finally nodded to the two armed mercenaries at the end of the hall, and they pulled back the bolts and swung open the heavy main doors. The crowd of Conservative supporters came surging in, herded by polite but firm stewards. There were flags and banners and a steady hum of anticipation, but it had to be said that the crowd didn't exactly look enthusiastic to be there. Roxanne couldn't help but wonder whether the armed guards were there to keep people out, or keep them in. The main doors slammed shut behind the last of the crowd. Hardcastle looked out over his supporters, and cleared his throat loudly. The hall fell silent.

Afterwards, Roxanne was never really clear what the speech had been about. It was an excellent speech, no doubt of that, but she couldn't seem to sort out what exactly had been so enthralling about it. She only knew that the moment Hardcastle began to speak he became magnetic. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, and she strained to hear every word. The crowd below were besotted with him, cheering and applauding and waving their banners frantically every time he paused. Even the stewards and mercenaries seemed fascinated by him. The speech finally came to an end, amid rapturous applause. Hardcastle looked out over the ecstatic crowd, smiling slightly, and then gestured for silence. The cheers gradually died away.

"My friends, there is one among you who has proved himself worthy of my special attention. Joshua Steele, step forward."

There was a pause, and then a young man dressed in the gaudy finery of the minor Quality made his way through the crowd to stand at the foot of the stairs. Even from the back of the gallery Roxanne could tell he was scared. His hands had clenched into fists at his sides, and his face was deathly pale. Hardcastle's smile widened a little.

"Steele, I set you a task. Nothing too difficult. All you had to do was use your contacts to find out whether James Adamant was still magically protected. You told me he wasn't. That's not true, is it, Steele?"

The young man licked his lips quickly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I did everything I could, Councilor. Honestly! His old sorcerer, Masque, is dead, and Adamant hasn't made any move to replace him. My informants were very precise."

Hardcastle shook his head sadly. "You lied to me, Steele. You betrayed me."

Steele suddenly turned and ran, pushing his way through the crowd. Hardcastle looked back at Wulf, and nodded quickly. The sorcerer frowned, concentrating. Steele screamed shrilly, and the crowd drew back from him in horror as he fell writhing to the floor. Blood spurted from his nose and ears, and then from his eyes. He clawed at his face, and then at his stomach as bloody spots appeared on his tunic. Small fanged mouths burst out of his flesh all over his body, as hundreds of bloodworms chewed their way out of him. One of them ruptured the carotid artery in his neck and blood flew out, soaking the nearest members of the crowd. They moaned in revulsion, but couldn't tear their eyes away. Steele kicked and struggled feebly for a few moments longer, and then let out his breath in a long, ragged sigh. His body continued to twitch and jerk as the bloodworms ate their way out. Some of the crowd stamped on the horrid things as they left the body, but it quickly became clear the worms were already dying. They couldn't survive for long once they'd left their host.

Roxanne looked thoughtfully at Hardcastle's back, and then at the sorcerer Wulf. There was a lesson here worth remembering. If she ever fell out with Hardcastle, she'd better make sure the sorcerer was dead first. She looked back at the crowd. They were silent and shocked, sullen now. Their holiday mood had been ruined. Hardcastle raised his voice to get their attention, and began to speak again.

And once more his marvelous oratory worked its magic.

In a matter of moments, the crowd was won over again, and soon they were stamping and cheering and shouting his name, just as they had before. They seemed to have forgotten all about the dead man in their midst. Hardcastle filled their hearts and minds with good cheer, and sent them out into the streets to campaign on his behalf. The crowd filed out of the hall, laughing and chattering animatedly among themselves. Soon the hall was empty, apart from the stewards and the mercenaries. Hardcastle looked down at the body lying alone in the middle of the floor.

"Have someone clean up the mess," he said coldly, and then turned and left the gallery, followed by Wulf and Jillian. Roxanne looked at the torn and blood-soaked body down below.

Hardcastle strode into his study and poured himself a large drink. The speech had gone down well, and that little bastard Steele had got what was coming to him. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all. He was just lowering himself into his favorite chair when the commotion began. Someone was shouting in the corridor, and there was the sound of running feet and general panic. Hardcastle rose quickly from his chair, and his gaze went immediately to the family long-sword hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It had been a good few years since he'd last drawn that in anger, but he'd had a strong feeling he'd need the blade sooner or later during his campaign. And with Wulfs war on Adamant's house finally beginning to warm up, it was only to be expected that Adamant would resort in kind. Hardcastle snorted angrily as he put down his glass and pulled the long-sword from its sheath. So much for Adamant's puerile insistence on playing by the rules. There was only one rule in politics, and that was to win.

It felt good to have a sword in his hands again. He'd spent too long in smoke-filled rooms, arguing with fools for money and support that should have been his by right. The commotion in the hall was growing louder. Hardcastle nodded grimly. Let them come. Let them all come. He'd show them he was a force to be reckoned with. He shot a quick glance at Jillian, who was standing uncertainly by the door, one hand raised to her mouth. Useless damned mouse of a wife. He'd tried to knock some backbone into her, and little good it had done him. He gestured curtly for her to get away from the door, and she fled to the nearest chair and stood behind it. The sorcerer Wulf stayed by the door, making hurried gestures with his hands and muttering under his breath.

"Well?" said Hardcastle impatiently. "What's out there? Are we under attack?"

"Not by magic, Cameron. My wards are still holding. The attack must be on the physical plane. Mercenaries, perhaps." He stopped suddenly, and sniffed at the air. "Can you smell smoke?"

They looked at each other as the same thought struck them both at the same time. They didn't need to say her name. Hardcastle hurried out into the hall, sword in hand, followed by Wulf. Roxanne had her back to the wall and her sword at the ready as she faced off against two of Hardcastle's mercenaries. She was grinning broadly. The mercenaries looked scared but determined. A little further down the hall, a huge wall tapestry was going up in flames. Several servants were trying to put it out with pans of water.

Hardcastle's face purpled dangerously. "Roxanne! What's the meaning of this?"

"Just having a little fun," said Roxanne easily. "I was doing all right till these two spoilsports interfered. I'll be with you in a minute, as soon as I've dealt with them."

"Roxanne," said Wulf quickly, before Hardcastle could say something unwise, "please put away your sword. These men belong to your employer, Councilor Hardcastle. They are under his protection."

Roxanne sniffed ungraciously, and sheathed her sword. The mercenaries put away their swords, looking more than a little relieved. Wulf gestured for them to leave, and they did so quickly, before he could change his mind. Wulf looked at Roxanne reproachfully.

"When you signed the contract to work for Councilor Hardcastle, there was a specific clause stating that you wouldn't start any fires except those we asked you to."

Roxanne shrugged. "You know I can't read."

"I read it aloud to you."

"It was an ugly tapestry anyway."

"That's as may be. But as long as you work for the Councilor you will abide by your contract. Or are you saying your word is worthless?"

Roxanne glared at him. Wulf's stomach lurched, but he stood his ground. He knew any number of spells that would stop her in her tracks, but he had a sneaking suspicion she'd still survive long enough to kill him, no matter what he did to her. Confronting her this early was a definite risk, but it had to be done. Either her word was binding or it wasn't. And if it wasn't, then she was too dangerous a weapon to be used. He'd have to let her go, and hope he could kill her safely from a distance.

Roxanne scowled suddenly, and leaned against the wall with her arms folded. "All right, no more fires. You people have no sense of fun."

"Of course not," said Wulf. "We're in politics."

"If you've quite finished," said Hardcastle acidly, "perhaps you'd care to accompany me back to my study. I'm expecting some very important guests, and I want both of you present. If you can spare the time."

"Of course," said Roxanne cheerfully. "You're the boss."

Hardcastle gave her a hard look, and then led the way back to his study. The DeWitt brothers were already there, waiting for him. Hardcastle silently promised his butler a slow and painful death for not warning him, and then smiled courteously at the DeWitts and walked forward to shake hands with them. At the last moment he realized he was still holding his sword, and handed it quickly to Wulf to replace on the wall. At least Jillian had had the sense to get the DeWitts a glass of wine. Perhaps the situation could still be saved.

Marcus and David DeWitt were both in their late forties, and on first impression looked much the same: tall, slender, elegant, and arrogant. Dark hair and eyes made their faces appear pale and washed out, giving their impassive features the look of a mummer's mask. There was a quiet, understated menace in their unwavering self-possession, as though nothing in the world would dare disturb them. They'd left their swords at the front door, along with their bodyguards, as a sign of trust, but Hardcastle wasn't fool enough to believe them unarmed. The DeWitts had many enemies and took no chances. Even with a supposed ally.

Between them, Marcus and David DeWitt ran a third of the docks in Haven, on the age-old principle of the minimum investment for the maximum gain. Their docks were notorious for being the worst maintained and the most dangerous work areas in Haven. If the DeWitts gave a damn, they hid it remarkably well. Life was cheap in Haven, and labor even cheaper. And the DeWitts' charges were attractively low, so they never wanted for traffic. But now the dock strike was crippling them, despite the zombie scab labor. The dead men were cheap enough to run and never got tired, but they weren't very bright and needed constant supervision. They were also easy targets for dock-worker guerrilla units armed with salt and fire.

A Conservative-backed Council would support the De-Witts against the Dock-workers Guild, even if it came down to open violence and intimidation. Reform would back the Guild. So the DeWitts were making the rounds before the election, buying themselves Councillors. Unfortunately for them, they needed Hardcastle more then he needed them. So if they wanted his support, they were going to have to pay through the nose for it.

Wulf leaned back in his chair and quietly studied the DeWitt brothers. They were an unpleasant pair, by all accounts, but he'd worked with worse in his time. Like Hardcastle, for example. A brute and a bully and not nearly as clever as he thought he was. Wulf had done a great many unpleasant things himself, down the years; his style of magic demanded it. But he did them in a businesslike way, because they were necessary. Hardcastle did unpleasant things because he enjoyed it. He was one of those people who can only prove how important they are by showing how unimportant everyone else is. Wulf frowned slightly. Such men are dangerous;to themselves, and those around them.

But for the moment, he was a man with power, a rising star; a man on the way up. Wulf could go far, riding the coattails of such a man. And when Hardcastle's star began to wane, Wulf would move on. He had ambitions of his own. Hardcastle was just a means to an end.

"Twenty thousand ducats," said Marcus DeWitt in his cold, flat voice. He took a folded bank draft from his coat pocket and laid it carefully on the table before him. "I trust that will be sufficient?"

"For the moment," said Hardcastle. He gestured easily to Wulf, who leaned forward and picked up the bank draft.

"James Adamant has a hell of a lot of followers out on the streets," said David DeWitt, opening a small silver snuff box and taking out a pinch of white powder. He sniffed delicately, and then signed slowly as the dust hit his system. He smiled, and looked steadily at Hardcastle. "Just how do you intend to deal with this very popular Reformer, sir Hardcastle?"

"The traditional way," said Hardcastle. "Money, and force of arms. The carrot and the stick. It never fails, providing it's applied properly. My people are already out on the streets."

"Adamant has money," said Marcus. "He also has Hawk and Fisher."

"They're not infallible," said Hardcastle. "They couldn't keep Blackstone from being killed."

"They caught his killer," said David DeWitt. "And made sure he didn't live to stand trial."

"There's no need to worry," said Wulf. "We have our own wild card. Gentlemen, may I present the legendary Roxanne."

She smiled at the DeWitt brothers, and they both flinched a little.

"Ah, yes," said Marcus. "I thought I smelt something burning as we came in."

"I always thought she'd be taller," said David. "Taller, and covered with fresh blood."

Wulf smiled. "She's everything the legends say she is, and more."

Marcus DeWitt frowned. "Does Adamant know she's working for you?"

"No," said Hardcastle. "Not yet. We're saving that for a surprise."

The sorcerer known as the Grey Veil huddled in a corner of the deserted church, shivering with the cold. He'd been there for several hours, gathering together what was left of his magic. He couldn't believe how fast everything had fallen apart. One moment he had been a force to be reckoned with, a sorcerer with hundreds of lesser minds under his command; and then suddenly his control was broken by an interfering Guard, and he'd had to run for his life like a thief in the night. His slaves were free again, and he was a wanted man with a price on his head.

It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Enter the election as a candidate, and then possess enough people to raise an army of voters. Once on the Council, all kinds of powerful men would have been vulnerable to his possession. A simple plan; so simple it seemed foolproof. He should have known something would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Veil hugged his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had no idea how the Guards had found him out. It didn't really matter. He'd staked everything he had on one roll of the dice and had nothing left with which to start again. He'd be lucky to get out of Haven alive.

He pulled his thin cloak tightly about him. He should have known it would come to this. All his life everything he'd turned his hand to had failed him. He'd been born into a debt-ridden family, which, as time went on, only slid further and further into poverty. He was put to work as soon as he was able, at the age of seven. He spent his childhood in the sweatshops of the Devil's Hook, and in his adolescence moved restlessly from one lousy job to another, searching always for the one lucky break that would change his life. Whatever money he made went on plans and schemes and desperate gambles, but none of them ever came to anything. Even the girl he loved went to another man.

And then he met the old man, who found in Veil a gift for magic. He worked himself to exhaustion to pay for the old man's lessons in sorcery, and when that wasn't enough he stole what he needed from his friends. When he was powerful enough he killed the old man, and took his grimoires and objects of power. He became the Grey Veil, and swore an oath on his own blood that whatever happened, whatever he had to do, he would never be poor again.

Veil smiled bitterly. He should have known better. A loser was still a loser, no matter what fancy new name he took. He breathed heavily on his hands, trying to coax some warmth into his numb fingers. It was very cold in the Temple of the Abomination.

There were many abandoned churches on the Street of Gods. A Being's power would wane, or its followers prove fickle, or perhaps simply the fashion would change, and overnight a church whose walls had once rung to the sound of hymns of adoration and the dropping of coins into offertory bowls would find itself suddenly deserted and abandoned. Eventually another congregation would take over the building, worshipping another god, and business would go on as usual. But some abandoned churches were left strictly alone, for fear of what might linger in the silence.

The Temple of the Abomination had stood empty and alone for centuries; a simple, square stone building on the lower end of the Street of Gods. It wasn't very large, and from the outside it looked more like a downmarket mausoleum than a church. It had no windows, and only the one door. It wasn't locked or bolted. The Temple of the Abomination had a bad reputation, even for the Street of Gods. People who went in tended not to come out again. Veil didn't give a damn. He needed a place to hide where no one else would think to look. Nothing else mattered.

It slowly occurred to him that the church didn't seem as dark as it had been. When he'd first crept inside the church, he'd pulled the door shut behind him, closing out the light. The pitch darkness had been a comfort to him then, an endless night that would hide him from prying eyes. But now he could clearly make out the interior of the church, such as it was. There wasn't much to see, just plain stone walls and a broken stone altar set roughly in the centre of the room. Veil frowned. Where the hell was the light coming from?

Curiosity finally stirred him from his hiding place in the corner, and he rose slowly to his feet. He moved forward, wincing as his stiff joints creaked protestingly. The small sounds seemed very loud on the quiet. Outside on the Street of Gods the clamor of a hundred priests filled the air from dawn to dusk, augmented by the hymns and howls of the faithful, but not a whisper of that turmoil passed through the thick stone walls.

Veil peered about him, but there seemed no obvious source to the dim blue light that filled the church. He glanced down at his feet to see which way his shadow was pointing, and his heart missed a beat. He didn't have a shadow. A cold hand clutched at his heart, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. There had to be a shadow; there were other shadows all around him. Some of them were moving. Veil stumbled back a step and looked quickly about him, but there was nothing and no one in the church with him, and the quiet remained unbroken. He took a deep breath and made himself hold it for a long moment before letting go. This was no time to be letting his imagination get the better of him. The light was nothing to worry about. There were bound to be stray vestiges of magic in a place like this.

He made himself walk over to the stone altar. It didn't look like much, up close. Just a great slab of stone, roughly the shape and size of an average coffin. He winced mentally at the comparison, and walked slowly round the altar. It was cracked from end to end, and someone had cut runes of power into the stone with a chisel. Veil's lips moved slowly as he worked out the meaning. The runes were part of a restraining spell, meant to hold something in the stone.

Veil frowned. All he knew about the Temple of the Abomination was what everybody knew. Hundreds of years ago, when the city was still young, a cult of death and worse than death had flourished on the Street of Gods, until the other Beings had joined together to destroy the Abomination and all its worshippers. It all happened so long ago that no one even remembered what the Abomination was anymore. On an impulse, Veil placed his hands on the altar and called up his magic, trying to draw out whatever impressions still remained in the stone.

Power rushed through him like a tidal wave, awful and magnificent, blinding and deafening him with its intensity. He staggered drunkenly back and forth as strange thoughts and feelings swept through him, none of them his own.

Memories of priests and carriers swept through him and were gone, blazing up and disappearing like so many candles snuffed by an unforgiving darkness. There were too many to count, but all of them had served the Abomination, and it had granted them power over the earth and everything that moved upon it.

Veil slowly lifted his head and looked about him. The church was lit as bright as day. He could feel the power surging within him, impatient to be released. He would use that power to gather followers, and bring them to what moved within him. And the thing that men had once called the Abomination would thrive and grow strong again.

That was not its true name, of course. Veil knew what the Abomination really was. He'd known it all his life. He laughed aloud, and the horrid sound echoed on and on in the silence.

Chapter Four

VARIOUS KINDS OF TRUTH

Hawk and Fisher lounged around Adamant's study, waiting impatiently for him to make an appearance. They were due to go out campaigning in the streets soon, but Adamant had promised them a chance to talk with everyone first. Hawk and Fisher still thought of themselves primarily as bodyguards, but there was still the problem of a possible traitor and embezzler somewhere in Adamant's inner circle. Hawk was determined to get to the bottom of that. He didn't like traitors.

Fisher helped herself to a large drink from one of the decanters, and looked enquiringly at Hawk. He shook his head. "You shouldn't either, Isobel. We're going to need clear heads to get through today."

Fisher shrugged, and poured half the drink back into the decanter. "Where the hell is Adamant, anyway? He promised us at least an hour for these interviews."

"We'll manage," said Hawk. "Maybe we should start with someone else. Adamant's got a lot on his mind right now."

"You like him, don't you?" said Fisher.

"Yes. He reminds me a lot of Blackstone. Bright, compassionate, and committed to his Cause. I'm not going to lose him as well, Isobel."

"Don't get carried away," said Fisher. "Remember, as Guards we're strictly neutral. We don't take sides. We're protecting the man, not his Cause. If you want to get enthusiastic about Reform, do it on your own time."

"Oh, come on, Isobel. Doesn't Adamant stir your blood even a little? Think of the things he could do once he gets elected."

"If he gets elected."

The door opened, and they quickly fell silent. Adamant nodded briskly to the two Guards, and pretended not to notice the drink in Fisher's hand. "Sorry I'm late, but Medley keeps coming up with problems he insists only I can deal with. Now, what can I do for you?"

"We need more detail on the death threats, the information leaks, and the embezzlement," said Hawk. "Let's start with the death threats."

Adamant sat on the edge of his desk, and frowned thoughtfully. "I didn't pay them much attention at first. There are always threats and crank letters. Reform has many enemies. But then the threats became specific. They said my garden would die, and it did. More magical attacks followed, including the one that killed Mortice. The last communication said I would die if I didn't resign. Blunt as that.

"There's not much I can tell you about the embezzling. My accountants stumbled across it quite by accident. Medley has the details. They've agreed to keep quiet about it until we can find the traitor, but they won't stay silent for long. They work for the Cause, not me personally."

"The information leaks," prompted Fisher.

"After the embezzlement I started checking through my records, and I found that what I'd thought of as nothing more than a run of really bad luck was actually something more than that. Something more sinister. Someone had been tipping off the Conservatives about my plans and movements. Crowds were dispersed before I could address them, potential allies were intimidated, and meetings were disrupted by planted thugs. Not everyone has access to that kind of information in advance. It has to be someone close to me."

"Assuming we identify the traitor," said Hawk slowly, "what if it turns out to be someone very close to you?"

"You let the law take its course," said Adamant flatly.

"Even if it's a friend?"

"Especially if it's a friend."

In the cellar, in the darkness, the sorcerer Mortice sat alone amid blocks of ice and felt his body decay. The pain howled within him, awful and never-ending, gnawing away at his courage and his sanity. At first the concentration needed to maintain Adamant's defenses had helped to protect him from the pain and the horror of his situation, but it wasn't enough anymore. Through all the endless hours of the day and night there was nothing for him to do but sit and think and feel.

He had gone through anger and acceptance and horror, and now existed from minute to minute in quiet desperation. He had long ago given up on hope. He would have gladly gone mad, if he hadn't needed to keep control to protect Adamant. He still might. More and more his thoughts tended to wander and fray at the edges.

No one had been to see him for a long time. He could understand that. It was cold in the cellar, and they all had things to do, important things. But time passed slowly in the dark, and no one had been to see him in a very long time. And Adamant, his good friend James Adamant, came least of all.

Mortice sat alone in the cold, in the dark, in the pain, going slowly insane and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Medley came breezing into the study with a sheaf of papers in his hand, and then stopped dead as he saw Hawk and Fisher.

"Oh, damn! You wanted to see me, didn't you? Sorry, but James has been running me off my feet this morning. What can I do for you?"

"To start with, tell us about the embezzlement," said Hawk. "Exactly how much money has gone missing?"

"A fair amount," said Medley, sitting casually on the edge of Adamant's desk. "About three thousand ducats in all, spread over a period of three months. Small amounts at first, but growing steadily larger."

"Who has access to the money?" said Fisher.

Medley frowned. "That's the problem; quite a few people. James and myself, of course; Dannielle, the butler Villiers and half a dozen other servants, and of course several Reform people who worked on the campaign with us."

"We'll need a list of names," said Hawk.

"I'll see you get it."

"How was the money taken?" said Fisher.

"I'm not actually sure," said Medley. "The accountants were the first to notice something was wrong. Do you want to take a look at the books?"

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "Maybe later," said Hawk. "Tell me about Adamant. How has he responded to the death threats?"

"Fairly coolly. They're not the first he's had, and they won't be the last. It's a part of politics in Haven. The magic attacks worry him, of course; Mortice isn't as reliable as he once was."

"Then why doesn't he hire a new sorcerer?" said Fisher.

"Mortice is James's friend. And he lost his life defending James from attack. James can't just abandon him. And besides, when he's in form, Mortice is still one of the most powerful sorcerers in Haven."

They sat in silence for a while, each looking expectantly at the other.

"If there's nothing else;" said Medley.

"You're in charge of Adamant's affairs," said Hawk. "Who do you think has been leaking information?"

"I don't know," said Medley. "It has to be someone with a grudge against James, but I'm damned if I know who. James is one of the fairest and most honorable men I know. The only enemies he has are political ones. Now if you'll excuse me;"

He dropped his papers on the desk, nodded briskly to the Guards to indicate the interview was over, and left the study. Hawk let him go. He leafed through the papers on the desk, but they told him nothing.

"For a political Advisor, he's either extremely tactful or not very bright," said Fisher. "I can think of several possible enemies among Adamant's own people. Mortice, to start with. He saves Adamant's life, and ends up a rotting corpse for his trouble. And then there's his wife, Dannielle. She wouldn't be the first woman to be mad at her husband because he was more interested in his work than he was in her. And finally, what about Medley himself? He's in charge of the day-to-day running of the campaign; who has a better chance to embezzle money without it being missed?"

"Wait a minute," said Hawk. "Mortice and Dannielle I'll go along with, but Medley? What's his motive?"

"As I understand it, he worked both sides of the political fence before he came to work for Adamant. He could still be on the Conservative payroll as an undercover agent."

Hawk scowled unhappily. "This is going to be another tricky one. If we point the finger at the wrong person, or even the right person but without enough proof, we could end up in a hell of a lot of trouble."

"You got that right," said Fisher.

Up in the Adamants' bedroom, Dannielle sat elegantly on the edge of the bed and watched critically as James held a shirt up against himself for her approval. It didn't look any better than the first two, but she supposed she'd better agree to this one or he'd get annoyed with her. She wouldn't have minded if he just got red in the face and shouted at her, but James tended more to looking terribly hurt and put upon, and being icily polite. When he wasn't sulking. Dannielle sometimes found herself picking fights with the servants just to have someone she could yell at. At least some of them would yell back at her. She realized James was still waiting patiently, and she quickly smiled and nodded her approval of the shirt. He smiled, and put it on.

Dannielle bit her lip. Better to say it now, while he was in a good mood. "James, what do you think of Hawk and Fisher?"

"They seem competent enough. And surprisingly intelligent, for Guards."

"But do you think they'll be good at their job? As bodyguards?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Then we don't need to rely on Mortice so much anymore, do we?" James looked at her sharply, and she hurried on before he could say anything. "You've got to do something about Mortice, James. We can't go on as we are. We need real magical protection. It was different when we had no one else we could trust, but now we've got Hawk and Fisher;"

"Mortice is one of the most powerful sorcerers in Haven," said Adamant flatly.

"He used to be; now he's just a corpse with delusions of grandeur. His mind's going, James. Those blood-creatures weren't the first things to get past his wards, were they?"

"He's friend," said Adamant quietly. "He gave his life for me. I can't just turn my back on him."

"When was the last time you went to see him, before today?"

Adamant came and sat down on the bed beside her. He suddenly looked very tired. "I can't bear to see him anymore, Danny. Just looking at him makes me feel sick and angry and guilty. If he'd just died, I could mourn for him and let him go. But he isn't dead or alive; Just being in the cellar with him makes my skin crawl. The sorcerer Masque was my friend, not that thing rotting in the darkness! But he was my friend, and if it wasn't for him I would have died. Oh, Danny, I don't know what to feel anymore!"

Dannielle put her arms around him and rocked him back and forth. "I know, love. I know."

Dannielle came into the study only a few minutes after Hawk sent for her. She smiled brightly at the two Guards, and sank gracefully into her favorite chair.

"I do hope this won't take long. James is almost ready to go."

"We just need to get a few things clear," said Hawk easily. "Nothing too difficult. How involved are you with the day-to-day running of Adamant's campaign?"

"Not very. Stefan handles all that. I've no head for organizing things, so I let the two men get on with it. My job is to stand conspicuously at James's side and smile at anyone who looks like they might vote for him. I'm rather good at that."

"What about the financial side?" said Fisher.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good with figures, either. It's all I can do to handle the household accounts. Once I went a few hundred ducats over budget and James was positively rude to me. Stefan handles all the money to do with the campaign. That's part of his job."

"Let's talk about the gossip," said Hawk.

Dannielle looked at him guilelessly. "What gossip?"

"Come on," said Fisher. "There's always gossip, and you're in the best position to know about it. Servants will talk to you where they wouldn't talk to Adamant or Medley. Or us."

Dannielle thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "Very well, but I can't vouch for how authentic any of this is. Stefan's been a bit; distracted recently. Apparently he's got a new girlfriend he's very fond of, but he's trying to keep it quiet because James wouldn't approve of her. It seems she's minor Quality, from a very Conservative family with strong connections to Hardcastle. You can imagine what the broadsheet singers would make of that, if it ever got out."

"How long has this been going on?" said Hawk.

"I'm not sure. About a month. I think."

"After the problems with the embezzlement began?"

"Oh, well after. Besides, Stefan would never betray James. He's far too professional."

Hawk caught the emphasis, and raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was why Adamant hired him?"

"There's such a thing as being too professional. Stefan lives, eats, and breathes his work. His word is never broken, and he defends his reputation the way some women defend their honor. What's more, he works all the hours God sends, and expects James to do the same. It's all I can do to get the pair of them to eat regularly. I'll be glad when this bloody campaign is over and we can all get back to normal."