Wolf in the Fold

Wolf in the Fold by Simon R. Green

Hawk & Fisher 04

Chapter One

A Head Start

When you are tired of life, come to Haven. And someone will kill you.

The city port of Haven was a bad place to be after dark. It wasn't much better

during the day. If there was a viler, more corrupt and crime-ridden city in the

whole of the Low Kingdoms, its existence must have been kept secret to avoid

depressing the general populace. If Haven hadn't been settled squarely on the

main trade routes, and made itself such a vital part of the Low Kingdoms'

economy, it would undoubtedly have been forcibly evacuated and burnt to the

ground long ago, like any other plague spot. As it was, the city thrived and

prospered, brimming with crime, intrigue, and general decadence.

It also made a lot of money from tourism.

Such a dangerous city needed dangerous men and women to keep it under something

like control. So from Devil's Hook to the Street of Gods, from the Docks to High

Tory, the city Guard patrolled the streets of Haven with cold steel always to

hand, and did the best they could under impossible conditions. Apart from the

murderers, muggers, rapists, and everyday scum, they were also up against

organized crime, institutionalized brutality and rogue sorcerers; not to mention

rampant corruption within their own ranks. They did the best they could, and for

the most part learned to be content with little victories.

They should have been the best of the best: men and women with iron nerves, high

morals, and implacable wills. Unstoppable heroes, ready to take on any odds to

overthrow injustice. But given the low pay, appalling working conditions and

high mortality rate, the Guard settled for what it could get. Most were

out-of-work mercenaries, marking time until the next war, but there was always a

ripe mixture of thugs, idealists, and drifters, all with their own reasons for

joining a losing side. Revenge was a common motive. Haven was a breeding ground

for victims.

The Guard squadroom was a large, cheerless office at the rear of Guard

Headquarters. It was windowless, like the rest of the building. Windows made the

place too vulnerable to assault. The Headquarters made do with narrow archery

slits and ever-burning oil lamps. The walls and ceilings were covered with grime

from the lamps and open fireplaces, but no one gave a damn. It fitted the

general mood of the place. Half the squadroom had been taken up by oaken filing

cabinets, spilling over from the cramped Records Division. At any hour of the

day or night, it was a safe bet you'd find somebody desperately searching for

the one piece of paper that might help them crack a case. There was a lot of

useful information in the files. If you could find it. They hadn't been properly

organized in over seventeen years, when most of the original files were lost in

a fire-bombing.

Rumor had it that if ever the files were successfully reorganized, there'd just

be another fire-bombing. So no one bothered.

And three times a day, regular as the most expensive clockwork, the squadroom

filled with Guard Captains waiting for the day's briefing before going out on

their shift. It was now almost ten o'clock of the evening, and twenty-eight men

and women were waiting impatiently for the Guard Commander to make his

appearance and give them the bad news. They knew the news would be bad. It

always was.

Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the Guard for more than five

years, stood together at the back of the room, enjoying the warmth of the fire

and trying not to think about the cold streets outside. Hawk was tall, dark, and

no longer handsome. The series of old scars that marred the right side of his

face gave him a bitter, sinister look, heightened by the black silk patch over

his right eye. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and building a

stomach, but even standing still the man looked dangerous. Anyone who survived

five years as a Captain had to be practically unkillable, but even those who

didn't know his reputation tended to give him plenty of room. There was

something about Hawk, something cold and unyielding, that gave even the hardest

bravo cause to think twice.

He wore the standard furs and black cloak of the Guard's winter uniform with

little style and less grace. Even on a good day Hawk tended to look as though

he'd got dressed in the dark. In a hurry. He wore his dark hair at shoulder

length, swept back from his forehead and tied at the nape with a silver clasp.

He'd only just turned thirty, but already there were streaks of grey in his

hair. On his right hip Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He

was very good with an axe. He'd had lots of practice.

Isobel Fisher leant companionably against him, putting an edge on a throwing

knife with a whetstone. 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 heading into her late twenties, and handsome rather

than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face that suggested

strength and stubbornness, only slightly softened by her deep blue eyes and

generous mouth. Sometime in the past, something had scoured all the human

weaknesses out of her, and it showed. She wore a sword on her hip in a battered

scabbard, and her prowess with that blade was already legendary in a city used

to legends.

A steady murmur of conversation rose and fell around Hawk and Fisher as the

Guard Captains brought each other up to date on the latest gossip and exchanged

ritual complaints about the lousy coffee and the necessity of working the

graveyard shift. As in most cities, the night brought out the worst in Haven.

But the graveyard shift paid the best, and there were always those who needed

the extra money. As winter approached and the trade routes shut down one by one,

choked by snow and ice and bitter storms, prices in the markets rose

accordingly. Which was why every winter Hawk and Fisher, and others like them,

worked from ten at night to six the next morning. And complained about it a lot.

Hawk leant back against the wall, his arms folded and his chin resting on his

chest. He was never at his best at the beginning of a shift, and the recent

change in schedules had just made him worse. Hawk hated having his sleeping

routine changed. Fisher nudged him with her elbow, and his head came up an inch.

He looked quickly round the squadroom, satisfied himself the Commander wasn't

there yet, and let his chin sink back onto his chest. His eye closed. Fisher

sighed, and looked away. She just hoped he wouldn't start snoring again. She

checked the edge on her knife, and plucked a hair from Hawk's head to test it.

He didn't react.

The door flew open and Commander Dubois stalked in, clutching a thick sheaf of

papers. The Guard Captains quieted down and came to some sort of attention.

Fisher put away her knife and whetstone and elbowed Hawk sharply. He

straightened up with a grunt, and fixed his bleary eye on Dubois as the

Commander glared out over the squadroom. Dubois was short and stocky and bald as

an egg. He'd been a Commander for twenty-three years and it hadn't improved his

disposition one bit. He'd been a hell of a thief-taker in his day, but he'd

taken one chance too many, and half a dozen thugs took it in turn to stamp on

his legs till they broke. The doctors said he'd never walk again. They didn't

know Dubois. These days he spent most of his time overseeing operations,

fighting the Council for a higher budget, and training new recruits. After three

weeks of his slave-driving and caustic wit most recruits looked forward to

hitting the streets of Haven as the lesser of two evils. It was truly said among

the Guard that if you could survive Dubois, you could survive anything.

"All right; pay attention!" Dubois looked sternly about him. "First the good

news: The Council's approved the money for overtime payments, starting

immediately. Now the bad news: You're going to earn it. Early this morning there

was a riot in the Devil's Hook. Fifty-seven dead, twenty-three injured. Two of

the dead were Guards. Constables Campbell and Grzeshkowiak. Funeral's on

Thursday. Those wishing to attend, line up your replacements by Tuesday latest.

It's your responsibility to make sure you're covered.

"More bad news. The Dock-Workers Guild is threatening to resume their strike

unless the Dock owners agree to spend more money on safe working conditions.

Which means we can expect more riots. I've doubled the number of Constables in

and around the Docks, but keep your eyes open. Riots have a way of spreading.

And as if we didn't have enough to worry about, last night someone broke into

the main catacombs on Morrison Street and removed seventy-two bodies. Could be

ghouls, black magicians, or some nut cult from the Street of Gods. Either way,

it's trouble. A lot of important people were buried in the catacombs, and their

families are frothing at the mouth. I want those bodies back, preferably

reasonably intact. Keep your ears to the ground. If you hear anything, I want to

know about it.

Now for the general reports. Captains Gibson and Doughty: Word is there's a

haunted house on Blakeney Street. Check it out. If it is haunted, don't try to

be heroes. Just clear the area and send for an exorcist. Captains Briars and

Lee: We've had several reports of some kind of beast prowling the streets in

East Gate. Only sightings so far, no attacks, but pick up silver daggers from

the Armory before you leave, just in case. Captains Fawkes and ap Owen: You

still haven't found that rapist yet. We've had four victims already and that's

four too many. I don't care how you do it, but nail the bastard. And if

someone's been shielding him, nail them too. This has top priority until I tell

you otherwise.

"Captains Hawk and Fisher: Nice to have you back with us after your little

holiday with the God Squad. May I remind you that in this department we prefer

to bring in our perpetrators alive, whenever possible. We all know your fondness

for cold steel as an answer to most problems, but try not to be so impulsive

this time out. Just for me.

"Finally, we have three new rewards." He smiled humorlessly as the Captains

quickly produced notepads and pencils. Rewards were one of the few legitimate

perks of the job, but Dubois was of the old school and didn't approve. Rewards

smelt too much like bribes to him, and distracted his men from the cases that

really needed solving. He read out the reward particulars, deliberately speaking

quickly to make it harder to write down the details. It didn't bother Fisher.

She was a fast writer. A low rumble at her side broke her concentration, and she

elbowed Hawk viciously. He snapped awake and put on his best, interested

expression.

"One last item," said Dubois. "All suppressor stones are recalled, as of now.

We've been having a lot of problems with them just recently. I know they've

proved very useful so far in protecting us from magical attacks, but we've had a

lot of reports of stones malfunctioning or otherwise proving unreliable. There's

even been two cases where the damn things exploded. One Guard lost his hand. The

stone blew it right off his arm. So, all stones are to be returned to the

Armory, as soon as possible, for checking. No exceptions. Don't make me come

looking for you."

He broke off as a Constable hurried in with a sheet of paper. He passed it to

Dubois, who read it quickly and then questioned the Constable in a low voice.

The Captains stirred uneasily. Finally Dubois dismissed the Constable and turned

back to them.

"It appears we have a spy on the loose in Haven. Nothing unusual there, but this

particular spy has got his hands on some extremely sensitive material. The

Council is in a panic. They want him caught, and they want him yesterday. So get

out there and lean on your informants. Someone must know something. The city

Gates have all been sealed, so he's not going anywhere.

"Unfortunately, the Council hasn't given us much information to go on. We know

the spy's code name: Fenris. We also have a vague description: tall and thin

with blond hair. Apart from that, you're on your own. Finding this Fenris now

has top priority over all other cases until we've got him, or until the Council

tells us otherwise. All right, end of briefing. Get out of here. And someone

wake up Hawk."

There was general laughter as the Captains dispersed, and Fisher dragged Hawk

towards the door, Hawk protesting innocently that he'd heard every word. He

broke off as they left the squadroom, and Fisher headed for the Armory.

"Isobel, where are you going?"

"The Armory. To hand in the suppressor stone."

"Forget it," said Hawk. "I'm not giving that up. It's the only protection we've

got against hostile magic."

Fisher looked at him. "You heard Dubois; the damned things are dangerous. I'm

not having my hand blown off, just so you can feel a bit more secure."

"All right then, I'll carry it."

"No you won't. I don't trust you with gadgets."

"Well, one of us has to have it. Or the next rogue magician we run into is going

to hand us our heads. Probably literally."

Fisher sighed, and nodded reluctantly. "All right, but we only use the thing in

emergencies. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

They strode unhurriedly through the narrow Headquarters corridors and out onto

the crowded street. Just a few weeks ago there'd been snow and slush everywhere,

but the city's weather wizards had finally got their act together and deflected

the worst of the weather away from Haven, sending it out over the ocean. This

wasn't making them too popular with passing merchant ships, but no one in Haven

cared what they thought.

Not that the weather wizards had done anything more than buy Haven a few extra

weeks, a month at most. Once the real winter storms started there was nothing

anyone could do but nail up the shutters, stoke up the fire, and pray for

spring. But for the moment the sky was clear, and the chilly air was no worse

than an average autumn day. Hawk turned up his nose at the bracing air and

pulled his cloak tightly around him. He didn't like cloaks as a rule, they got

in the way during fights, but he liked the cold even less. The weather in the

Low Kingdoms was generally colder and harsher than in his homeland in the North,

and it was during fall and winter that he missed the Forest Kingdom most of all.

He smiled sourly as he looked out over the slumped buildings and grubby streets.

He was a long way from home.

"You're thinking about the Forest again, aren't you?" said Fisher.

"Yeah."

"Don't. We can't go back."

"We might. Some day."

Fisher looked at him. "Sure," she said finally. "Some day."

They strode down the packed street, the crowd giving way before them. There were

a lot of people about for the time of night, but with winter so close, everyone

was desperate to get as much done as they could before the storms descended and

the streets became impassable. Hawk and Fisher smiled and nodded to familiar

faces, and slowly made their way into the Northside, their beat and one of the

worst areas in Haven. You could buy or sell anything there; every dirty little

trade, every shape and form of evil and corruption grew and flourished in the

dark and grimy streets of the Northside. Hawk and Fisher, who had worked the

area for over five years, had grown blase and hardened despite themselves. Yet

every day the Northside came up with new things to shock them. They tried hard

not to let it get to them.

They made a tour of all the usual dives, looking for word on the spy Fenris, but

to a man everyone they talked to swore blind they'd never even heard of the

fellow. Hawk and Fisher took turns smashing up furniture and glaring up close at

those they questioned, but not even their reputations could scare up any

information. Which meant that either the spy had gone to ground so thoroughly

that no one knew where he was, or his masters were paying out a small fortune in

bribes to keep peoples mouths shut. Probably the former. There was always

someone in the Northside who'd talk.

They left the Inn of the Black Freighter till last. It was a semirespectable

tavern and restaurant right on the outer edge of the Northside; the kind of

place where you paid through the nose for out-of-season delicacies, and the

waiter sneered at you if your accent slipped. It was also a clearing house for

information, gossip, and rumor, all for sale on a sliding scale that started at

expensive and rose quickly to extortionate. Hawk and Fisher looked in from time

to time to pick up the latest information, and never paid a penny. Instead, they

let their informants live and promised not to set fire to the building on the

way out.

They stood outside the Black Freighter a moment, listening to the sounds of

conversation and laughter carry softly on the night air. It seemed there was a

good crowd in tonight. They pushed open the door and strolled in, smiling

graciously about them. The headwaiter started towards them, his hand positioned

just right for a surreptitious bribe for a good table, and then he stopped dead,

his face falling as he saw who it was. A sudden silence fell across the tavern,

and a sea of sullen faces glared at Hawk and Fisher from the dimly lit tables.

As in most restaurants, the lighting was kept to a minimum. Officially, this was

to provide an intimate, romantic atmosphere. Hawk thought it was because if the

customers could see what they were eating, they wouldn't pay for it. But then he

was no romantic, as Fisher would be the first to agree.

The quiet was complete, save for the crackling of the fire at the end of the

room, and the atmosphere was so tense you could have struck a match off it. Hawk

and Fisher headed for the bar, which boasted richly polished chrome and veneer

and all the latest fashionable spirits and liqueurs, lined up in neat, orderly

rows. A large mirror covered most of the wall behind the bar, surrounded by

rococo scrollwork of gold and silver.

Hawk and Fisher leaned on the bar and smiled companionably at the bartender,

Howard, who looked as though he would have very much liked to turn and run, but

didn't dare. He swallowed once, gave the bartop a quick polish it didn't need,

and smiled fixedly at the two Guards. He might have been handsome in his heyday,

but twenty years of more than good living had buried those good looks under too

much weight, and his smile was weak now, from having been too many things to too

many people. He had a wife and a mistress who fought loudly in public, and many

other signs of success, but though he now owned the Inn where he'd once been

nothing more than a lowly waiter, he still liked to spend most of his time

behind the bar, keeping an eye on things. None of his staff was going to sneak

up on him, the way he had on the previous owner. Hawk shifted his weight

slightly, and the bartender jumped in spite of himself. Hawk smiled.

"Good crowd in tonight, Howard. How's business?"

"Fine! Just fine," said Howard quickly. "Couldn't be better. Can I get you a

drink? Or a table? Or… Oh hell, Hawk, you're not going to bust up the place

again, are you? I only just finished redecorating from the last time you were

here, and those mirrors are expensive. And you know the insurance people won't

pay out if you're involved. They class you and Fisher along with storm damage,

rogue magic, and Acts of Gods."

"No need to be so worried, Howard," said Fisher. "Anyone would think you had

something to hide."

"Look, I just run the place. No one tells me anything. You know that."

"We're looking for someone," said Hawk. "Fenris. It's a spy's code name. You

ever heard it before?"

"No," said the bartender quickly. "Never. If I had, I'd tell you, word of honor.

I don't have any truck with spies. I'm a patriotic man, always have been, loyal

as the day is long…"

"Pack it in," said Fisher. "We believe you, though thousands wouldn't. Who's in

tonight that might know something?"

Howard hesitated, and Hawk frowned at him. The bartender swallowed hard.

"There's Fast Tommy, the Little Lord, and Razor Eddie. It's just possible they

might have heard a thing or two…"

Hawk nodded, and turned away from the bar to stare out over the restaurant.

People had started eating again, but the place was still silent as the tomb,

save for the odd clatter of cutlery on plates. It didn't take him long to spot

the three faces Howard had named. They were all quite well known, in their way.

Hawk and Fisher had met them before; in their line of business, it was

inevitable.

"Thank you, Howard," said Hawk. "You've been a great help. Now, tell that

bouncer of yours, who thinks he's hidden behind the pillar to our left, that if

he doesn't put down that throwing knife and step into plain sight, Isobel and I

are going to cut him off at the knees."

Howard made a quick gesture, and the bouncer stepped reluctantly into view, his

hands conspicuously empty. "Sorry," said the bartender. "He's new."

"He'd better learn fast," said Fisher. "Or he's never going to be old."

They turned their backs on Howard and the bouncer, and threaded their way

through the packed tables. Glaring faces and hostile eyes followed the two

Captains as they headed for Fast Tommy's table. As usual, Tommy was dressed in

the height of last month's fashion, had enough heavy rings on his fingers to

double as knuckle-dusters, and was accompanied by a gorgeous young blonde half

falling out of her dress. Tommy glared at Hawk and Fisher as they pulled up

chairs opposite him, but made no objections. He undoubtedly had a bodyguard or

two somewhere nearby but had enough sense not to call them. Hawk and Fisher

might have taken that as an affront, and then he'd have had to find some new

bodyguards. No one messed with Hawk and Fisher. It was quicker and a lot safer

just to tell them what they wanted to know, and hope they'd go away and bother

someone else.

Fast Tommy was a gambling man. He got his name as a lightning calculator, though

some uncharitable souls suggested it had more to do with his love life. He was a

short, squarish, dark-haired man in his early forties, with a gambler's easy

smile and unreadable eyes. He nodded politely to Hawk and Fisher.

"My dear Captains, so good to see you again. May I purchase you wine, or cigars?

Perhaps a little hot chocolate; very warming in the inclement weather…"

"Tell us about the spy, Tommy," said Hawk.

"I'm afraid the name Fenris is unknown to me, Captain, but I can of course

inquire of my associates…"

"You're holding out on us, Tommy," said Fisher reproachfully. "You know how it

upsets us when you do that."

"Upon my sweet mother's grave…"

"Your mother is alive and well and still paying interest on the last loan you

made her," said Hawk.

Fisher looked thoughtfully at the gambler's blond companion. "Little old for

you, isn't she, Tommy? She must be all of seventeen. Maybe we should check our

records, make sure she isn't some underage runaway."

The young blonde smiled sweetly at Fisher, and lifted her wineglass so she could

show off the heavy gold bracelet at her wrist.

"She's sixteen," said Tommy quickly. "I've seen the birth certificate." He

swallowed hard, and smiled determinedly at the two Guards. "Believe me, my dear

friends, I know nothing of this Fenris person…"

"But you can find out," said Hawk. "Leave word at Guard Headquarters, when you

know something."

"Of course, Captain, of course…"

Fisher leaned forward. "If we find out later that you've been holding something

back from us…"

"Do I look suicidal?" said Fast Tommy.

Hawk and Fisher got to their feet, and made their way through the tangle of

tables to join the Little Lord in her private booth at the back. No one knew the

Little Lord's real name, but then, nobody cared that much. Aliases were as

common as fleas in the Northside, and a damn sight easier to live with. The Lord

was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-thirties who always dressed as a man. She

had close-cropped dark hair, a thin slash of a mouth, and dark piercing eyes.

She dressed smartly but formally, in that old male style that never really goes

out of fashion, and affected an upper class accent that was only occasionally

successful. She always had money, though no one knew where it came from. Truth

be told, most people weren't sure they wanted to know. She peered

short-sightedly at Hawk and Fisher as they sat down opposite her, and screwed a

monocle into her left eye.

"As I live and breathe, Captain Hawk and Captain Fisher. Damned fine to see you

again. Care to join me in a glass of bubbly?"

Hawk eyed the half bottle of pink champagne in the nearby ice bucket, and

shuddered briefly. "Not right now, thank you. What can you tell us about the spy

Fenris?"

"Not a damned thing, old boy. Don't really move in those circles, you know."

"You're looking very smart," said Fisher. "Those diamond cuff links are new,

aren't they?"

"Present from me dear auntie. The old girl and I were up at Lord Bruford's the

other day, meeting that new Councilor chappie. Adamant, I think his name was…"

"Never mind the social calendar," said Fisher. "A set of matched diamonds

disappeared mysteriously during a Society bash last week. You wouldn't know

anything about that, I suppose?"

"Not a thing, m'dear. Shocked to hear it, of course."

"Of course," said Hawk. "Are you sure you haven't heard something about Fenris,

my Lord? After all, someone such as yourself, moving in your circles, would be

bound to hear something; perhaps spoken in confidence in an unguarded moment?"

The Little Lord raised an elegant eyebrow, and her monocle fell out. She caught

it deftly before it hit the tabletop, and screwed it back in place. "My dear

chap, surely you're not asking me to peach on a friend? Just ain't done, you

know."

"Those diamond cuff links are looking more and more familiar," said Fisher.

"Perhaps the three of us should take a little walk down to Headquarters, so we

can compare them with the artist's rendering of the missing items…"

"I assure you, Captain, I haven't heard a thing about your beastly spy! But of

course I'd be only too happy to keep my eyes and ears alert for any morsel of

gossip that might float my way."

"That's the spirit," said Hawk. "Noblesse oblige, right? And by the way, I've

met Councilor Adamant, and I know for a fact he's never bloody heard of you."

He and Fisher left the spluttering Lord in her booth, and made their way through

the last of the tables to their final port of call, a single table at the rear

of the tavern, half hidden in shadows. Razor Eddie wasn't fond of even dim

light. Hawk and Fisher borrowed chairs from nearby tables, and sat down facing

him. Razor Eddie was a slight, hunched figure wrapped in a tattered grey cloak

apparently held together only by accumulated filth and grease. Even across a

table the smell was appalling. He was said to be so dirty, plague rats wouldn't

go near him in case they caught something. He was painfully thin, with a

hollowed face and fever-bright eyes. At first glance he looked like just another

down and out, but you only had to be in the man's presence a few moments to know

there was something special about him. Special… and not a little disturbing.

Razor Eddie got his name in a street fight over territory between two

neighboring gangs. He was fourteen at the time, a slick and vicious killer, and

already more than a little crazy. He spent the next few years working for anyone

who'd have him, just for the action. And then, at the age of seventeen, he

visited the Street of Gods and got religion in a big way. He turned his back on

his violent past and walked the streets of the Northside, preaching love and

understanding. A few people laughed at him, and threw things. Later, they were

found dead, under mysterious circumstances. They weren't the last. After a while

people learned to leave Razor Eddie strictly alone. He walked through the most

dangerous areas in Haven, spreading his message, and came out unscathed. Once, a

gang of ten bravos went into the Devil's Hook after him. No one ever saw them

again. Razor Eddie had no fixed abode or territory; he slept in doorways and

wandered where he would. Neither heat nor cold affected him, and he always

seemed to have a little money, even in the hardest of times.

He knew a lot of things, about a lot of people—if you could persuade him to

talk. Most couldn't, but he'd taken a shine to Hawk and Fisher. Probably because

unlike most other people, they weren't frightened of him. Hawk leant back in his

chair and smiled easily at the hunched figure opposite him.

"Hello, Eddie. How's life treating you?"

"Mustn't grumble, Captain," said Razor Eddie. His voice was low and calm and

very reasonable, but his eyes shone with a wild light. "There's always someone

worse off than yourself. I've been waiting for you. You'll find the spy Fenris

in the house with three gables on Leech Street. He uses it as a drop for passing

information. You'll know Fenris by his bright green cravat. It's a signal for

his contact."

"You're not normally this forthcoming, Eddie," said Fisher, frowning. "What's so

special about this Fenris?"

"Unless someone stops him, two great houses will go down in flames. Blood will

run in gutters and the screams will never end. There are wolves running loose

among the flock, and they will bring us all down."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other briefly, and when they looked back, Razor

Eddie's chair was empty. They looked quickly about them, but there was no sign

of him anywhere in the tavern.

"I hate it when he does that," said Fisher. "Well, what do you think? Is it

worth a trip to Leech Street?"

Hawk scowled. "Anyone else, I'd take it with a pinch of salt. But Eddie's

different. He knows things. And if he thinks we're all in danger because of this

Fenris…"

"Yeah," said Fisher. "Worrying, that."

"It's the best lead we've got."

"It's the only lead we've got."

"Exactly."

Fisher shook her head. "Let's go check it out."

They grinned at each other, got up, and made their way back through the crowded

tables. The restaurant was still utterly silent, their every move followed by

hostile eyes. They got to the door, and Hawk paused and looked back. He smiled,

and bowed courteously to the sea of unfriendly faces. Fisher blew the room a

kiss, and then the two Guards disappeared into the night.

Leech Street was bold and brassy and more than a little shop-soiled. Brightly

painted whores gathered together on street corners like so many raucous birds of

paradise, or leaned out of first-floor windows in revealing underwear, watching

the world go by with knowing mascarad eyes. Street traders hawked jewelry so

freshly stolen the true owners hadn't even realized it was gone yet, and

hole-in-the-wall taverns provided cheap shots of spirits so rough they all but

seethed in the bottle. The air was full of chatter and laughter and the harsh

banter of the strip-show barkers. Here and there, gaudily dressed pimps leant

casually in open doorways, ostentatiously cleaning their fingernails with the

point of a knife, alert for the first sign of trouble. Prospective clients,

trying to appear anonymous, thronged one end of the street to the other, eyeing

the various merchandise and working up their courage to the sticking point.

Hawk, watching the bustling scene from the concealing shadows of an alley mouth,

yawned widely. He and Fisher had been in position for almost an hour waiting for

Fenris to show up, and what little tawdry glamour the street possessed had long

since worn thin. When you got past the noise and the bright colors, Leech Street

seemed more sad and sleazy than anything else, with everyone trying desperately

to pretend they were something other than what they really were. Hawk derived

some amusement from the attempts of most of the would-be customers to give the

impression they just happened to be passing through, but the street itself held

no attractions for him. He'd seen the official figures on violence and robbery

in this area, not to mention venereal disease. In some establishments, the crabs

were reputed to be so big they jumped out on dithering passersby and dragged

them bodily inside.

Bored, Hawk leant gingerly back against the grimy alley wall and kicked at an

empty bottle on the ground. It rolled slowly away, hesitated, and then rolled

back again. After a fruitless hour standing watch, this was almost exciting.

Hawk sighed deeply. He hated doing stakeouts. He didn't have the patience for

it. Fisher, on the other hand, actually seemed to enjoy it these days. She'd

taken to watching the passersby and making up little histories about who they

were and where they were going. Her stories were invariable more interesting

than the case they were working on, but now, after a solid hour of listening to

them, Hawk found their charm wearing a bit thin. Fisher chattered on, blithely

unknowing, while Hawk's scowl deepened. His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding

him of missed meals. Fisher broke off suddenly, and Hawk quickly looked round,

worried she'd noticed his inattention, but her gaze was fixed on something down

the street.

"I think we've finally struck gold, Hawk. Green cravat at three o'clock."

Hawk followed her gaze, and his interest stirred. "Think he's our man?"

"Would you wear a cravat like that if you didn't have to?"

Hawk smiled. She had a point. The cravat was so bright and virulent a green it

practically glowed. The suspect looked casually about him, ignoring the birdlike

calls of the whores. He fit the description, what there was of it. He was

definitely tall, easily six foot three or four, and decidedly lean. His clothes,

apart from the cravat, were tastefully bland, with nothing about them to

identify the kind of man who wore them. For a moment his gaze fell upon the

alley from which Hawk was watching. Hawk damped down an impulse to shrink

further back into the shadows; the movement would only draw attention to him.

The spy's gaze moved on, and Hawk breathed a little more easily.

"All right," said Fisher. "Let's get him."

"Hold your horses," said Hawk. "We want whoever he's here to meet as well, not

just him. Let's give him a minute, and see what happens."

One of the bolder whores advanced aggressively towards the spy. He smiled at her

and said something that made her laugh, and she turned away. He can't just stand

around much longer, thought Hawk. That would be bound to attract attention. So

what the hell's he waiting for? Even as the thought crossed Hawk's mind, the spy

turned suddenly and walked over to a building on the opposite side of the

street. He produced a key, unlocked the door and slipped quickly inside, pulling

the door shut behind him. Hawk counted ten slowly to himself and then stepped

out of the alley, Fisher at his side. The house the spy had gone into looked

just like all the others on the street.

"I'll take the front," said Hawk. "You cover the back, in case he tries to make

a run for it."

"How come I always have to cover the back?" said Fisher. "I always end up in

someone's back yard, trying to fight my way through three weeks' accumulated

garbage."

"All right. You take the front and I'll cover the back."

"Oh, no; it's too late now. You should have thought of it without me having to

tell you."

Hawk gave her an exasperated look, but she was already heading for the narrow

alley at the side of the building. Sometimes you just couldn't talk to Fisher.

Hawk turned his attention back to the house's front door as it loomed up before

him. A faded sign hanging above the door gave the name of the place as mistress

lucy's establishment. The sign boasted a portrait of the lady herself, which

suggested she'd looked pretty faded even when the sign was new. Hawk casually

tried the handle. It turned easily in his grasp, but the door wouldn't open.

Locked. Surprise, surprise. Maybe he should have let Fisher have the front door

after all. She was a lot better at picking locks than he.

On the other hand… When in doubt, be direct.

He knocked politely on the door, and waited. There was a pause and then the door

swung open, and a hand shot out and fastened on his arm. Hawk jumped in spite of

himself, and his hand started towards his axe before he realized the person

before him was very definitely not the spy Fenris. Instead, Hawk found himself

facing a large, heavy-set woman wrapped in gaudy robes, with a wild frizz of

dark curly hair and so much makeup it was almost impossible to make out her

features. Her smile was a wide scarlet gash and her eyes were bright and

piercing. Her shoulders were as wide as a docker's, and she had arms to match.

The hand on his arm closed fiercely, and he winced.

"I'm glad you're here," said the woman earnestly. "We've been waiting for you."

Hawk looked at her blankly. "You have?"

"Of course. But we must hurry. The spirits are restless tonight."

Hawk wondered if things might become a little clearer if he went away and came

back again later. Like maybe next year.

"Spirits," he said, carefully.

The woman looked at him sharply. "You are here for the sitting, aren't you?"

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

The woman let go of his arm as though he'd just made an indecent proposal, drew

herself up to her full five-foot-nine, and fixed him with a steely glare. "Do I

understand that you are not Jonathan DeQuincey, husband of the late and much

lamented Dorothy DeQuincey?"

"Yes," said Hawk. That much he was sure of.

"Then if you have not come to see me in my capacity as Madam Zara, Spirit Guide

and Pathway to the Great Beyond, why are you here?"

"You mean you're a spiritualist?" said Hawk, the light slowly dawning. "A

medium?"

"Not just a medium, young man; the foremost practitioner of the Art in all

Haven."

"Then why are you based here, instead of on the Street of Gods?" asked Hawk

innocently.

Madam Zara sniffed haughtily. "Certain closed minds on the Council refuse to

accept spiritualists as genuine wonderworkers. They dare to accuse us of being

fakes and frauds. We, of course, know different. It's all part of a conspiracy

by the established religions to prevent us taking our rightful place on the

Street of Gods. Now, what do you want? I can't stand around here chatting with

you; the Great Beyond calls… and I have customers waiting."

"I'm looking for the gentleman who just came in here," said Hawk. "Tall, thin,

wears a green cravat. I have a message for him."

"Oh, him." Madam Zara turned up her nose regally. "Upstairs, second on the left.

And you can tell the young 'gentleman' his rent's due."

She turned her back on Hawk in a swirl of billowing robes, and marched off down

the narrow hall. Hawk stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. By

the time he turned back, Madam Zara had disappeared, presumably to rejoin her

clients, and the hall was empty. A single lamp shed a dirty yellow glow over a

row of coats and cloaks on the left-hand wall and a tattily carpeted stairway

that led up to the next floor. Hawk took a small wooden wedge from his pocket

and jammed it firmly under the front door. That should slow Fenris down if he

made a run for it. Hawk carried lots of useful things in his pockets. He

believed in being prepared.

He drew his axe. The odds were that the spy Fenris was alone with his contact.

He wouldn't want to risk unnecessary witnesses. So, two-to-one odds. Hawk

grinned, and hefted his axe. No problem. Things were looking up. If he and

Fisher could bring in both the spy and his contact alive and ready for

questioning, then maybe he and Fisher could finally get transferred out of the

Northside permanently…

He padded silently forward, and made his way slowly up the stairs. With any

luck, even if the spy had heard him at the door, he'd just assume Hawk was

another of Madam Zara's clients. Which should give Hawk the advantage of

surprise if it came to a fight. Hawk firmly believed in making use of every

possible advantage when it came to a fight. He ascended the stairs slowly,

checking each step first to see if it was likely to creak. He had a lot of

experience when it came to sneaking around houses, and he knew how far a sudden

sound could carry on the quiet.

He reached the landing without incident and padded silently over to the second

door on the left. Light shone around the doorframe. He put his ear to the wood,

and smiled as he heard a voice raised loudly in argument. He stepped back,

hefted his axe once, and braced himself to kick in the door. At which point the

door swung open, revealing the spy Fenris standing in the doorway with a

startled expression. For a moment he and Hawk just stood there, staring at each

other, and then Hawk launched himself at the spy. Fenris fell back, shock and

alarm fighting for control of his features. Hawk glanced quickly round the room,

and his gaze fell on the spy's contact—a grey, anonymous man with an icily calm

face.

"Stand where you are, both of you!" barked Hawk. "You're under arrest. Throw

down your weapons!"

The contact drew his sword and advanced on Hawk. The spy fumbled for a throwing

knife. Oh hell, thought Hawk tiredly. Just once, why can't they do the sensible

thing and give up without a fight? He decided he'd better take out the contact

first; he looked to be the more dangerous of the two. Once the contact had been

subdued, Fenris would likely give himself up without a struggle. Hawk closed in

on the contact; the man's face was utterly bland and forgettable, but his eyes

were cold and deadly calm. Hawk began to have a very bad feeling about him. He

pushed the thought aside and launched his attack. The grey man brushed aside

Hawk's axe effortlessly, and Hawk had to retreat rapidly to avoid being

transfixed by the contact's follow-through.

The grey man moved quickly after him, cutting and thrusting with awesome skill,

and it was all Hawk could do to hold him off. Fenris' contact was an expert

swordsman. Hawk's heart sank. When all was said and done, an axe was not

designed as a defensive weapon. Hawk usually won his fights by launching an

all-out attack and not letting up until his opponent was beaten. As it was, only

frantic footwork and some inspired use of the axe was keeping him alive. Hawk

had been an excellent swordsman in his younger days, before he lost his eye, but

even then he would have been hard pressed to beat the grey man. He was fast,

brilliant, and disturbingly methodical. Unless Hawk could come up with something

in a hurry, he was a dead man, and both he and the grey man knew it. Out of the

corner of his eye, Hawk could see Fenris circling around them with a throwing

knife in his hand, looking for an opening. That settled it. When in doubt, fight

dirty.

He struck at the grey man's head with his axe, forcing him to raise his sword to

parry the blow, and while the two blades were engaged, Hawk pivoted neatly on

one foot and kicked the grey man squarely in the groin. The man's face paled and

his sword arm wavered. Hawk brought his axe across in a sudden, savage blow that

sliced through the man's throat. Blood spurted thickly as the grey man

collapsed. Hawk spun quickly to face Fenris. He might have lost the contact, but

he was damned if he'd lose the spy as well, Fenris aimed, and threw his knife in

a single fluid movement. Hawk threw himself to one side, and the knife shot past

his shoulder but pinned his cloak firmly to the wall. Hawk scrabbled frantically

at the cloak's clasp as Fenris turned and bolted out the door. Some days,

nothing goes right.

The clasp finally came undone, and he jerked free, leaving the cloak hanging

pinned to the wall behind him. He charged out of the room and onto the landing.

He'd come back for the cloak later. He peered over the banister and caught a

glimpse of Fenris standing at the foot of the stairs, looking frantically about

him. Hawk clattered down the stairs, cursing quietly to himself. He hated

chases. He was built for stamina, not speed, and he was already out of breath

from the exertions of the fight. Still, Fenris wouldn't get that far. The wedge

under the front door should see to that.

In the darkened parlor, the seance was well under way. A mysterious pool of

light illuminated a small circular table, throwing sinister shadows on the faces

of the six people gathered hopefully around it. Darkness pressed close about the

circle of light, hiding the pokey little parlor and giving the six participants

a feeling of being adrift in eternity. The air was heavy with the scent of

sandalwood, and over all there was an atmosphere of unease and anticipation.

Madam Zara rocked back and forth on her chair, as though all around her spirits

were jostling for possession of her voice, desperate to pass on messages of hope

and comfort to those they had left behind. Madam Zara's head lolled limply on

her neck, but her eyes kept a careful if unobtrusive watch on her clients.

It was just her regulars this week. The Holbrooks, a middle-aged couple wanting

to contact their dead son. David and Mercy Peyton, still hopeful their dear

departed grandfather would reveal to them where he'd hidden the family fortune.

And old Mrs. Tyrell, timidly grateful for any fleeting contact with her dead

cat, Marmalade. The two couples were easy enough; all they needed were general

platitudes on the one hand and vague hints on the other, but having to make cat

noises was downright demeaning. If trade hadn't dropped off so much recently

she'd have drawn the line at pets, but times were hard, and Madam Zara had to

make do with what she could get.

She let her eyes roll back in her head, and produced her best sepulchral moan.

She was rather proud of her moan. It had something of the mystic and the eternal

in it, and was guaranteed to make even the most skeptical client sit up and take

notice. She took a firm grip on the hands of Graeme Holbrook and David Peyton on

either side of her, and let a delicate shudder run down her arms into her hands.

"The spirits are with us," she said softly. "They are near us in everything we

do, separated from us by only the thinnest of veils. They wish always to make

contact with us, and all we have to do is listen… Hush. I feel a disturbance in

the ether. A spirit draws near. Speak with my voice, dear departed one. Have you

a message for someone here?"

The atmosphere grew taut and strained as Madam Zara threw in a few more moans

and shivers, and then pressed her foot firmly onto the lever hidden in the

floorboards. A block of wood thudded hollowly against the underside of the

table, making the clients jump. She hit the lever a few more times, producing

more mysterious knockings, and then concentrated on getting the right

intonations for the Peyton grandfather's voice. People didn't appreciate what

mediums had to go through for their money. She could have been a legitimate

actress, if only she'd had the breaks.

"The spirit is drawing closer. I can feel a presence in the room. It's almost

here…"

The door flew open and the tall thin gentleman from upstairs charged in, glared

wildly about him, and then headed for the window. The Holbrooks screamed, and

Mercy Peyton fell backwards off her chair. Madam Zara looked confusedly about

her, completely thrown. Another figure burst in through the open door, his

clothes soaked with blood, fresh gore dripping from the axe in his hand. The

Holbrooks screamed even louder and clutched each other tightly, convinced that

the Grim Reaper himself had come to claim them for meddling in his affairs. The

gentleman from upstairs threw open the window and slung a leg over the

windowsill. The second figure charged forward, overturning the table. He grabbed

at the young gentleman's shoulder, and just missed as he dropped into the

alleyway outside. The second figure cursed horribly and clambered out the window

in hot pursuit. The Holbrooks were still clutching each other and whimpering,

Mercy Peyton was having hysterics, loudly, and David Peyton was thoughtfully

examining the block of wood on the underside of the overturned table. Madam Zara

searched frantically for something to say that would retrieve the situation. And

just at that moment a large orange cat jumped in through the window from the

alley outside and looked around to see what all the fuss was about. Mrs. Tyrell

snatched him up and hugged him to her with tears of joy in her eyes.

"Marmalade! You've come back to me!"

Madam Zara mentally washed her hands of the whole situation.

Out in the alley, Hawk found Fisher picking herself up out of a pile of garbage.

He started forward to help, and then hesitated as the smell hit him. Fisher

glared at him.

"Next time, you're going to watch the back door."

She headed quickly for the main street, brushing herself off as she went. Hawk

hurried after her.

"Did you see Fenris?"

"Of course I saw him! Who do you think knocked me into the garbage? And whatever

you're about to say, I don't want to hear it. How was I to know he'd come flying

out of a window? Now, let's move it. He can't be more than a few minutes ahead

of us."

They pounded down the alley and out into Leech Street. Fenris was halfway down

the street and running well. Hawk and Fisher charged after him. The crowds

turned to watch. Some laughed, a few cheered, and the rest yelled insults and

placed bets. A few up ahead took in Fisher's black cloak and moved to block the

street. Guards weren't much respected in Leech Street. Hawk glared at them.

"We're Hawk and Fisher, city Guard. Get the hell out of the way!"

The crowd parted suddenly before them, falling back on all sides to give them

plenty of room. Fenris glanced back over his shoulder and redoubled his efforts.

Fisher nodded approvingly at the more respectful crowd.

"I think they've heard of us, Hawk."

"Shut up and keep running."

Fenris darted down a side alley, and Hawk and Fisher plunged in after him. Hawk

was already breathing hard. Fenris led them through a twisting maze of narrow

streets and back alleys, changing direction and doubling back whenever he could.

Hawk and Fisher stuck doggedly with him, breath burning in their lungs and sweat

running down their heaving sides. Fenris ran through a street market,

overturning stalls as he went, to try and slow them down. Hawk just ploughed

right through the wreckage, with Fisher close behind. Furious stallholders shook

their fists and called down curses on the heads of pursued and pursuers alike.

Hawk's scowl deepened as he ran. Fenris was leading them deep into the rotten

heart of the Northside, but Hawk was damned if he could figure out exactly where

the man was headed. He must have some destination in mind, some bolt-hole he

could hide in, or a friend who'd protect him. Hawk smiled nastily. He didn't

care if the spy ended up in the Hall of Justice, protected by all twelve Judges

and the King himself; Fenris was going to gaol, preferably in chains. It had

become a matter of honor. Not to mention revenge. Hawk hated chases.

And then Fenris rounded a corner at full speed, and darted up an exterior

stairway on a large squat building of stained and patterned stone. Hawk started

after him, but Fisher grabbed him by the arm and brought them both to a sudden

halt. Fenris disappeared through a door into the building. Hawk turned on

Fisher.

"Before you say anything, Hawk. Look where we are."

Hawk glared around him, and then grimaced, his anger draining quickly away.

Fenris had brought them to Magus Court, home to all the lowlife magicians and

sorcerers in Haven. The place looked deserted for the moment, but that could

change in a second. On the whole, Guards tended to walk very quietly in and

around Magus Court and not draw attention to themselves. Certainly, no one ever

tried to make arrests there without massive support from the Guard, and, if

necessary, the army. Otherwise they'd have been safer playing brass instruments

in a cave full of hibernating bears.

"That's not all," said Fisher. "Look whose house he's holed up in."

Hawk looked, and groaned. "Grimm," he said disgustedly. "All the magic-users

Fenris could have known, and it had to be the sorcerer Grimm."

He and Fisher leant against the wall at the bottom of the exterior stairway and

grabbed a few minutes' rest while they tried to work out what the hell to do

next. Hawk and Fisher knew Grimm, and he knew them. They'd crossed swords

before, metaphorically speaking, but Hawk and Fisher had never been able to pin

anything on him. People were too scared to talk.

Grimm was a medium-level sorcerer with unpleasant personal habits who

specialized in shape changing. He could do anything from a face-lift to a full

body transformation, depending on the needs, and wealth, of his client. He had

no scruples; he'd do anything, to anyone. Criminals found his services very

useful, either for themselves, to change an appearance that had grown too

well-known, or for taking revenge on their enemies. The Guard had found one

up-and-coming crime boss wandering the streets in the early hours of the

morning, leaving a bloody trail behind him. It took them some time to identify

him. He'd been flayed, every inch of skin removed from head to toe, but he was

still alive, and screaming. He took a long time to die in the main city

hospital, and he only stopped screaming when his voice gave out.

It figured Fenris would know someone like Grimm. All the spy had to do was

acquire a new face and build and he could disappear into the crowds right under

Hawk's and Fisher's noses. On the other hand, they couldn't just go barging in

after him. Grimm was a sorcerer and took his privacy very seriously. Officially,

any Guard could enter any premises in Haven, providing they could demonstrate

good cause in the Courts afterwards. In practice, it all depended on whose home

you were talking about. Having a Court declare you posthumously correct wasn't

much of a comfort, and sorcerers tended to throw spells first and think

afterwards. Constant industrial espionage among magic-users had produced a

general paranoia and split-second reflexes.

"What do you think?" said Hawk finally.

"I think we should think about this very carefully," said Fisher. "I have no

desire to spend the rest of my life as a combination of several small,

unpleasant, and very smelly animals. Shapechange sorcerers are renowned for

having a very warped sense of humor. I say we stay put and call for backup."

"By the time anyone gets here, Fenris will have his new face and we'll have lost

him."

Fisher scowled. "Given the alternatives, I say let him go.

It's not as if he was a murderer or something. Hell, Haven's full of spies.

What's one more or less going to make any difference?"

"No," said Hawk firmly. "We can't let him go. It would be bad for our

reputation. People would think we'd got soft, and take advantage."

Fisher shook her head. "There has to be an easier way to make a living. All

right, let's go in after him. No point in sneaking around. Grimm's bound to have

the place covered with security spells to warn of intruders. So, crash straight

in and trust to the suppressor stone to protect us. Right?"

"Sounds good to me," said Hawk. "Let's do it."

He handed Fisher the suppressor stone, and she muttered the activating phrase.

The stone glowed fiercely in her hand like a miniature star. They started up the

exterior stairway, Hawk in the lead, axe at the ready. The stairs creaked

loudly. Great, thought Hawk, Just great. They hurried up the steps to the door

at the top of the stairway. Hawk listened carefully, his ear pressed against the

wood, but he couldn't hear anything. He tried the door handle and it turned

stiffly in his grasp. He eased the door open an inch, and then stepped back. He

glanced at Fisher for reassurance, and found she was doing the same to him. He

smiled briefly. They both counted to three under their breath, kicked the door

in and burst into the room beyond, weapons at the ready.

The sorcerer Grimm was escorting a robed and hooded figure to a door at the far

end of the room. He spun round and glared at the intruders, and then pushed the

hooded figure towards the far door. The Guards started forward, but the figure

was out the door and gone before they got anywhere near him. Which left them

facing the sorcerer. Grimm was a huge, broad-chested man dressed in sorcerer's

black, with a thick beard and an impressive mane of jet-black hair. He was

smiling unpleasantly, like a vulture about to feed on a dead man's eyes.

"You're under arrest, in the name of the Guard!" said Hawk resolutely, and then

flung himself to one side as Grimm snatched a ball of fire out of thin air and

threw it at him. The fireball hit a chair and incinerated it. Fisher threw a

knife while the sorcerer was distracted, and it sank deep into Grimm's arm. He

cursed briefly, pulled the knife out, and threw it aside. Hawk and Fisher

charged across the room towards him. The sorcerer drew himself up and spoke a

Word of Power. The suppressor stone flared up, canceling out his magic. Hawk and

Fisher hit the sorcerer together, throwing him to the floor. There was a short,

confused struggle, and then Fisher clubbed him unconscious with the hilt of her

sword. Grimm went limp, and Hawk and Fisher rolled off him. They sat together,

backs against the wall, and waited for their breathing to get back to normal.

"Well, at least we've got something to show for the chase," said Hawk.

"Yeah," said Fisher. "Pity about Fenris, though. We were that close to getting

him…"

"Forget it," said Hawk. "He's long gone by now, with a new face and build, the

crafty bastard. We'll have to start over from scratch."

"Right. Our superiors are not going to be pleased with us."

They sat in silence for a while.

"There isn't a reward on Grimm, by any chance, is there?" said Hawk hopefully.

"No chance. There's never been any real evidence against him. Still, he's

dropped himself right in it this time. Aiding and abetting a fugitive, resisting

arrest, assaulting the Guard…"

"Right," said Hawk. "Once he wakes up, he's going to have some very leading

questions to answer."

"Assuming he hasn't got concussion, and lost his memory."

Hawk groaned. "Don't. It would be just our luck if we had accidentally scrambled

his brains. Come on, let's have a look round the place while we're here. Maybe

we'll get lucky and find a clue or something."

They moved cautiously round Grimm's quarters, being very careful not to touch

anything without checking it out first. Magic-users were often fond of setting

booby traps for the unwary. Hawk's usual method of searching the premises was to

trash the place until it looked like a hurricane had hit it, but this room

already looked as if someone had beaten him to it. Grimm was one of those people

who lived in a permanent mess and liked it that way. His quarters took up the

whole of the first floor—a single long room littered with junk and debris of

every description.

There were racks of chemicals, glass vials and tubing, pewter mugs and mixing

bowls, all scattered over two huge tables. Together with papers and books and

what appeared to be the remains of at least three different meals. Hawk tossed

aside a discarded shirt and grimaced as he discovered a dead cat, dissected into

its component parts and neatly pinned to a display board. Beneath the cat were

detailed instructions on how to put the animal back together again. Either Grimm

had a really nasty sense of humor, or… Hawk decided very firmly that he wasn't

going to think about that.

The bed looked as though Grimm had left it exactly as he'd crawled out of it.

Fisher peered underneath, just in case, but there was nothing there except dust

and a chamber pot. A combination desk and writing table looked more interesting.

She eased the drawers open one by one with the tip of her sword, and smiled as

she came across a thick sheaf of papers. She ran the suppressor stone over the

desk, and then carefully removed the papers, watching all the time in case there

was a mechanical booby trap as well. She leafed quickly through the papers,

scowling as she tried to make out Grimm's scratchy handwriting.

Hawk looked into a recessed alcove, and his breath caught in his throat. A dozen

different faces lined the wall; skins so skillfully taken and mounted they

seemed almost alive. Hawk fought down his disgust and looked them over

carefully. They were all unique, no two even remotely alike. Presumably they

were models for the faces Grimm could give his customers. He'd better get a

Guard sketch artist in to make copies. Fenris might be wearing one of these

faces. He moved closer and studied them thoughtfully. Whatever else you could

say about Grimm, he knew his stuff. The faces were incredibly lifelike. He

reached out a hand to touch one, and then snatched his hand back as the face

opened its eyes and looked at him. A grimace of pain moved slowly across the

flat features, and the mouth stretched in a soundless scream. The other faces

stirred, eyes opening across the wall to fix Hawk with the same unblinking look

of agonized despair. Hawk's stomach lurched as he realized they were all still

alive, pinned up and endlessly suffering.

Whatever happened, Hawk swore he'd see Grimm brought to justice for this, at

least.

"Isobel, get over here, fast."

Fisher ran quickly to join him, sword in hand, and stared numbly at the writhing

faces on the wall. "My God, Hawk. What kind of bastard… We've got to do

something. We can't leave them like this."

"No, we can't. Try the suppressor stone. Maybe it'll cancel out the magic that's

keeping them alive."

Fisher nodded, and ran the stone slowly over the staring faces. One by one the

eyes closed and did not open again. The life went out of the faces, and soon

they were nothing more than empty masks, pinned to a wall. At rest, at last.

Fisher touched a few of them tentatively, but they didn't respond. The skin was

soft, but already cooling. Just to be sure, Hawk had her run the suppressor

stone over the dissected cat as well.

They took turns examining the papers Fisher had found in Grimm's desk. They

seemed to be records of services Grimm had provided in the past, but no names

were ever mentioned, only initials. It was mostly cosmetic sorcery, though some

of the more bizarre requests made Hawk blink. There was no accounting for taste.

But interesting though the documents were, there was nothing in them to tie

Grimm in with the spy Fenris. Or at least, nothing Hawk could recognize. He

threw the papers back onto the desk, and looked frustratedly around him.

"We're not going to find anything here. He's too careful, too meticulous.

Probably keeps the important information locked up in his head."

So let the Guard sorcerers get it out of him," said Fisher. "Let them earn their

money for a change."

There was a low groan from behind them, and they looked quickly round. At the

other end of the room the sorcerer Grimm was rising unsteadily to his feet. He

shook his head once to clear it, and then his gaze fell on Hawk and Fisher and

his face darkened. He smiled slowly, removed his robe and threw it to one side.

Ropes of muscle bulged suddenly across his bare chest and shoulders, pushing out

the taut skin. Hawk and Fisher watched transfixed as the sorcerer changed. His

body stretched and swelled, impossible muscles crawling over an inhumanly

magnified frame. His face trembled, the features shifting grotesquely as his

inner rage expressed itself in distorted flesh and bone. His eyes became

featureless black pools, and sharp jagged teeth distorted the shape of his

mouth. Grimm padded slowly forward, his crooked hands growing razored claws.

"I think we may have a problem here," said Hawk, taking a firm hold on his axe.

"You always did have a gift for understatement," said Fisher. "What the hell's

happening to him?"

"From the look of it, I'd say the sorcerer wasn't averse to sampling his own

wares. He's got to the stage where he can shapechange at will."

"You know, this strikes me as a good time to get the hell out of here and yell

for reinforcements."

"We can't. He's between us and the nearest door. We're going to have to stop him

ourselves."

"Oh, great. How?"

"I'm thinking!"

Grimm lurched forward, his jaws snapping shut like a steel trap. There was no

longer anything human in his face. Hawk and Fisher quickly separated, to attack

him from different sides, and each of the sorcerer's eyes crawled to different

positions on his head so that he could watch both Guards at once. Hawk darted in

and cut at Grimm with his axe. The heavy steel head sheared through the

sorcerer's waist and out again, but no blood flew. The wound closed immediately,

the unnatural flesh flowing seamlessly back together again. Fisher cut at Grimm

from the other side, to no better effect. The sorcerer reached for Hawk with a

gnarled, clawed hand. Hawk quickly retreated, but the hand just kept coming

after him as the arm stretched to an impossible length.

"The stone!" yelled Hawk, backing frantically away. "Try the suppressor stone on

him!"

"I've already tried that! It doesn't seem to affect him!"

"Well, keep trying!" Hawk threw himself to one side and the clawing hand dug

deep furrows in the wall behind him. He darted behind the writing desk. Grimm

demolished it with one blow of a spiked arm. Hawk looked quickly round the room,

checking for possible escape routes. Fisher clutched the suppressor stone in her

hand, muttering the activating phrase over and over again. The stone suddenly

flared with light, bright and dazzling, burning her hand with sudden heat.

Fisher threw the stone straight at the sorcerer's misshapen face. He snatched it

out of midair and looked at it curiously. The stone exploded, ripping the

sorcerer's head from his body and shattering every window in the room.

For a long moment there was silence, broken only by soft settling sounds as

debris from the explosion pattered to the floor. Hawk and Fisher got slowly to

their feet, brushing dust from their clothes. Where the hideous creature had

been, lay a headless human body. Hawk shook his head gingerly, trying to shift

the ringing in his ears. Fisher put an arm round his shoulders, and they leaned

companionably together for a moment.

"We didn't do too well with this one, did we, Hawk?"

"You could say that. Fenris has escaped, with a new face and body. The one man

who could have helped us find him is now dead. And on top of all that, we've

lost our suppressor stone. Some days you just shouldn't get out of bed."

"Well," said Fisher, "at least this time they can't blame us for being

impulsive." Hawk looked at her. Fisher gestured at Grimm's body. "After all,

he's the one who lost his head."

Chapter Two

Fenris Gone to Ground

The cleanup squad finally made its appearance, with a meat wagon not far behind.

Two Guard Constables chalked a rough outline round the headless body, and made

laborious notes about the state of the corpse. The forensic sorcerer waited

impatiently for them to finish, already in a foul mood at being dragged from his

bed so early in the morning. Hawk and Fisher leant against a wall together,

drinking the late sorcerer's wine and trying to put together some kind of report

that wouldn't get them both busted down to Constable, or beyond.

The two Constables unhurriedly compared notes, and then got out of the way so

that the forensic sorcerer could do his stuff. He glared venomously at them,

then knelt down by the body and rolled up his sleeves. Hawk and Fisher looked at

each other and unanimously decided this might be a good time to get some fresh

air. On-the-spot autopsies tended to be thorough, but messy. Hawk drained the

last of the wine from the bottle he and Fisher had been passing back and forth,

and his lips thinned away from the dregs. It had been a piss-poor vintage, but

the sourness suited his mood. No matter what kind of report he and Fisher

eventually handed in, he had no doubt they were both in real trouble.

They left Grimm's quarters and clattered down the exterior stairway to the

street below. The meat wagon's horses tossed their heads and snorted loudly,

their breath steaming on the chill air. Hawk looked away. Reminders of his own

mortality made him uncomfortable. Strange lights flared in the windows above as

the forensic sorcerer set about dismantling Grimm's remaining wards and shields,

and defusing any booby traps that hadn't yet been triggered. Fisher hugged

herself as a cold wind swept by.

"I can't help thinking we're missing something, Hawk. We know why Fenris came

here; to get a new face. But how did Grimm get involved with Fenris in the first

place? He had a nice little racket going here. Judging by the records we found,

he was already making more money than he knew what to do with. So why risk it

all, by dealing with a traitor? He didn't need the money, and there's nothing in

his file to suggest he was at all political."

"Maybe he just liked the excitement, the intrigue," said Hawk. "He wouldn't be

the first fool to be seduced by dreams of making history, of playing with the

real shakers and movers. Or maybe he just had some kind of grudge against the

Council, and saw this as his chance for revenge. I've known stranger motives.

Doesn't make much difference now, anyway. The man is dead, and our case died

with him. Odds are we'll never find out what it was all about."

The low, steady clamor of a brass bell filled both their heads as the Guard

communications sorcerer made contact. Hawk shook his head gingerly as the deep

ringing sound faded away. "I think I preferred it when he used the gong. That

bloody bell goes right through me." He broke off as the bell gave way to the

rasping voice of the communications sorcerer.

Captains Hawk and Fisher are to report to Commander Dubois at Guard Headquarters

immediately. This instruction has top priority. All other orders are rescinded.

Hawk and Fisher waited a moment to see if there was any more, and then looked at

each other. "Didn't take long for the news to reach our superiors, did it?" said

Hawk.

Fisher shrugged. "Haven loves bad news. And you can bet there were people lining

up for the chance to drop us in it. We've always been too honest to be popular."

"What the hell," said Hawk. "We've weathered worse storms than this."

"Right," said Fisher. "Just keep our heads down, and it'll all blow over."

"You really believe that?"

"No. How about you?"

"No. Even so, Dubois had better not shout at me," said Hawk firmly. "I'm not in

the mood to be shouted at. In fact, if he raises his voice to me I think I'll

hit him somewhere low and painful."

"How is that going to help us?"

"It couldn't hurt."

"True."

Hawk and Fisher had barely walked through the front door at Guard Headquarters

when a Constable appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and insisted on escorting

them straight to Dubois' office. Other Guards avoided Hawk's and Fisher's eyes

as they made their way through the Headquarters building. Word had got around

and no one wanted to risk guilt by association. Hawk smiled humorlessly, and let

his hand drift down to the axe at his side. He glanced across at Fisher, and saw

that her hand was already resting on the pommel of her sword.

The Constable brought them to Dubois' office and knocked briskly on the door.

There was barely a pause before the Commander's voice summoned them in. The

Constable opened the door, and stood back for Hawk and Fisher to enter. Hawk

strolled casually in, Fisher at his side. The door shut behind them. Hawk

listened carefully, but didn't hear any sound of the Constable departing. Now,

that was interesting. It meant that the man was still there. Presumably on guard

to keep people out… or in. Hawk smiled inwardly as he and Fisher bowed formally

to Commander Dubois. If he and Fisher decided it was in their best interests to

leave in a hurry, it would take a lot more than one Guard Constable to stop

them.

Dubois glared at Hawk and Fisher from behind his desk and sniffed disgustedly.

"Gods, you're a mess. I've seen beggars in the Devil's Hook who looked more

presentable than you two do right now. You're a disgrace to your uniform."

Hawk looked down at himself, and had to admit the Commander had a point. His

clothes were badly torn and soaked with blood from the various fights he'd got

involved in that evening. A quick glance at Fisher revealed she hadn't fared any

better. Her furs were stained and matted from the garbage she'd fallen in

outside Madam Zara's. And what with all the exertions of the evening, the fact

was they both smelled pretty bad. Hawk had a sudden intense desire to stand

downwind of himself. He looked back at Dubois, and put on his best innocent

face. Dubois glared at him even harder. The complete lack of hair on his head

somehow made his scowl all the more impressive.

"And you've lost your cloak again, Hawk! What happened this time? Someone sneak

up behind you and steal it while you weren't looking? Where the hell is your

cloak?"

Hawk had to stop and think, so Fisher quickly answered for him. "It's pinned to

a wall in a spiritualist's house."

Dubois winced. "I'm not even going to ask you what you were doing at a

spiritualist's. I don't think my nerves could stand it. Do you realize, Hawk,

you go through more new cloaks in a year than most Guards use up in a lifetime's

service to the city? Do you know how much those cloaks cost?"

"Yes," said Hawk. "Because you always deduct the cost from my wages."

"Damn right!" said Dubois. "You're not screwing up my budget for the year.

Perhaps you would also like to explain why you failed to turn in your suppressor

stone to the Armory, as ordered."

"Would that help to get us off the hook?" said Hawk.

"Not in the least."

"Then I don't think I'll bother."

Fisher butted in quickly as Dubois' face darkened. "Be fair; it saved both our

arses tonight. If the stone hadn't blown up in Grimm's face when it did, we

might both have been killed."

"I could live with that," said Dubois.

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and frowned at it. Hawk studied the

Commander's bowed head thoughtfully. Something was going on. Dubois should be

tearing strips off them for letting Fenris get away, not carping about their

appearance, or niggling over lost cloaks and the illegal use of a suppressor

stone. Dubois had never made any secret of the fact that he didn't approve of

Hawk and Fisher's methods, and was usually only too happy to find something

about their work he could criticize. The Fenris debacle should have been just

what he needed to bust them down to Constable, or worse. Instead, he hadn't even

mentioned the spy. If he hadn't known better, Hawk would have sworn Dubois was

trying to avoid telling them something unpleasant.

Hawk's mind raced furiously. Maybe the Council had found out about Fenris

getting away, and had decided to blame everything on the two Guards. It wouldn't

be too hard for the Council to make out a case of treason against them. They

could claim the Guards had deliberately let the spy escape, and then killed

Grimm to cover their tracks. Hawk forced himself to calm down. It needn't be

that bad. It could be that Dubois just had some really nasty job lined up for

them, as penance for failing to bring in Fenris. Now, that was much more likely.

Hawk began to relax a little. Whatever it was, he and Fisher could handle it.

After five years working the Northside they could handle anything.

Dubois carefully put down the piece of paper, tapped it with his fingers a few

times, and then looked up at Hawk and Fisher. "For once in your lives, you've

struck it lucky. We know where Fenris is. The Council circle of sorcerers knew

that Grimm was somehow involved with the traitors, and kept an unobtrusive watch

on him. So when Fenris did a runner with his new face, they were able to follow

him magically, all the way to his new hiding place."

"Wait a minute," said Fisher. "If we know where he is, why can't we just walk

right in and grab him?"

"Unfortunately, it's not that simple."

"Somehow I didn't think it would be," said Hawk.

Dubois sniffed. "Fenris has gone to ground at Tower MacNeil, just outside the

city wall. That much the sorcerers are certain of. But it seems our man has some

sorcerous protection of his own, presumably supplied by his superiors. Our

people couldn't get close enough to see what his new face looks like."

"No problem," said Hawk. "We burst in there, arrest everyone, and sort out which

is Fenris later."

"I thought you'd come up with something like that," said Dubois. "Don't even

think about it. The MacNeils are one of the oldest and most respected Families

in Haven. We don't dare touch them. If it should turn out one of the MacNeils

was the traitor, it would be a major scandal. We have very explicit orders to

avoid any such thing. And that, Gods help us, is where you come in."

"All right," said Fisher. "I'll bite. Why us?"

"Well, thanks to you and your partner's incompetence, what description we did

have of Fenris is now obsolete. But at least you two have met the man in person.

There's always the chance you'll recognize some mannerism or habit that'll give

him away. So you are going in there after him, suitably disguised. Your job is

to identify Fenris, and get him out of the Tower without anyone else catching

on. It's not much of a plan, so the fact that we're going ahead with it will

give you some idea of how desperate we are. Any questions so far?"

"Yeah," said Hawk. "What kind of place is Tower MacNeil?"

"Home to the MacNeils for fourteen generations. Protected by old sorcery and one

of Haven's finest security firms. The head of the Family, Duncan MacNeil, died

last month. Which means, luckily for us, that things are in something of a

turmoil at the moment. Duncan's son Jamie is to be the new head of the Family,

the MacNeil, as he's called. And, as is customary, all living members of the

Family will be gathering at Tower MacNeil to pay their respects to the new head,

and jockey for positions of influence and power. Nothing like a Family funeral

to bring out the vultures. Fenris will presumably be trying to pass himself off

as one of the more remote cousins. This is how we're going to get you in."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.

"Wait a minute," said Hawk. "You mean we're going to be masquerading as

Quality?"

"Got it in one," said Dubois. "What's the matter? Don't you think you can do

it?"

"That's not the point," said Fisher. "The last I heard, passing yourself off as

Quality was still punishable by death. Is that being waived in our case?"

"No," said Dubois. "Whatever the outcome, officially you were never there. If

you do get caught, we'll disclaim all knowledge of you. This is a very delicate

situation."

Hawk thought for a moment. "Is this a volunteer situation?"

"Yes," said Dubois. "I volunteered you. Given the alternatives, I wouldn't argue

if I were you."

Fisher looked at him steadily. "We don't like being pressured, Dubois. We don't

like it at all."

Dubois fought down an urge to shrink back in his chair as a sudden chill ran

through him. Without moving a muscle, Hawk and Fisher had suddenly become

dangerous. An air of menace and imminent violence filled the tiny office, as

though a slumbering wolf had suddenly awakened and shown its teeth. Dubois paled

slightly, but didn't flinch.

"Renegade Guards tend to have very short life spans," he said evenly. "If

anything was to happen to me, you wouldn't even make it to the city gates."

Hawk smiled. "You might be right, Dubois. But I wouldn't count on it if I were

you. We've faced worse odds in the past. We'll do your dirty work for you, this

time. I think we owe it to the Council, for letting Fenris get away from us. But

if you ever try to pressure us like this again, Dubois, I'll kill you. Believe

it."

Dubois met Hawk's cold stare for a moment, and then looked away. When he looked

back, Hawk and Fisher were just Guards again. The air of violence was gone, as

though it had never been. For the first time, Dubois understood how they'd

gained their reputation. He got to his feet and cleared his throat carefully. He

didn't want to sound nervous or uncertain. "Let's go. We've got just under two

hours to turn the pair of you into regular young flowers of the aristocracy and

deliver you to Tower MacNeil."

"No problem," said Hawk. "We can be as aristocratic as the next man, if pushed."

"Right," said Fisher, with an impeccable upper-class accent. "All we have to do

is act arrogant and obnoxious at all times, and remember not to blow our noses

on our sleeves without crooking our little fingers. What could go wrong?"

Dubois swallowed hard, but said nothing. There were times when mere words seemed

inadequate.

He hustled them out of his office and through the bustling corridors to an

anonymous file room safely out of everyone's way. He ushered them in, and then

locked the door behind them. A Guard medical sorcerer rose quickly to his feet,

nodded stiffly to the two Guards and looked enquiringly at Dubois. The Commander

nodded, and the sorcerer shrugged. He was a dark and intense-looking man in his

early forties, with a professional smile and large, powerful hands. He was

overdressed in a dark, formal way, as though he were about to attend a funeral.

Hawk looked at him suspiciously. He didn't trust Haven doctors. They seemed to

believe in suppositories for everything, from warts to deafness. He started to

turn to Dubois, but Fisher beat him to it.

"What's the doctor doing here? We're not sick."

"This is Wulfgang. You can trust him completely."

"Why?" said Hawk. "You got something on him too?"

"Wulfgang specializes in shapechange magic, in a minor way," said Dubois. "Since

you both have something of a reputation in Haven, we can't have you walking into

Tower MacNeil with your own faces, can we? Wulfgang will give you new faces,

which won't be recognized."

Hawk scowled at the sorcerer. "I'm not feeling too fond of flesh-sculptors right

now. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned illusion spell?"

Dubois sighed impatiently. "Tower MacNeil, like most Quality households, has

security spells to show up such things. The Families take their security very

seriously. The shapechange won't register because the spell will have finished

its work long before you get there. After you return, with your mission

successfully completed, we'll give you your own faces back."

"And if we don't succeed?" said Hawk.

Dubois smiled coldly. "You screw up in Tower MacNeil, Hawk, and you won't be

coming back. Now, stop holding things up, and let the sorcerer get to work on

you. We're running out of time."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then sat down on the chairs Wulfgang

indicated. The sorcerer smiled reassuringly and ran his hands through a series

of practiced gestures, muttering under his breath as he did so. A gradual

feeling of pressure filled the room, and Hawk's skin crawled as static moved in

his hair. The pressure peaked uncomfortably, and then vanished as the sorcerer

made a final, decisive gesture. Hawk waited a moment, and then looked down at

his hands. They still looked the same to him. He looked across at Fisher, and

she looked the same too. He looked back at the sorcerer Wulfgang, who was

staring dumbfounded at the two Guards.

"Why isn't anything happening?" demanded Dubois.

"I don't know!" snapped Wulfgang. "I can't understand it; the spell just seemed

to slide off them." A sudden thought struck him, and he glared at Hawk. "Are you

still carrying your suppressor stone?"

"No, he isn't," said Dubois. "And don't ask what happened to it. That's

confidential."

Wulfgang frowned thoughtfully. "There's nothing wrong with the spell, they're

not shielded, so what… ? Wait a minute. Have you two ever been exposed to Wild

Magic?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" said Dubois.

"There's a big difference between the High Magic that most sorcerers use, and

the much rarer Wild Magic," said Wulfgang patiently. "High Magic manipulates

aspects of the real world; Wild Magic changes reality itself. So if your people

have been exposed to Wild Magic…"

"We have," said Hawk. "We were up North when the Blue Moon rose."

Dubois and Wulfgang stared at the two Guards almost respectfully. "You were

there, during the long night?" said Dubois.

"We were there," said Fisher. "And no, we don't want to talk about it."

"That's why my spell won't work on them," said Wulfgang. "If they were exposed

to the Blue Moon's influence, it'll take more than a simple shapechange spell to

affect them. I'm sorry, Commander. There's nothing I can do."

Dubois sighed. "I might have known you two were going to be trouble. All right.

Thank you, Wulfgang. That will be all. The wardrobe mistress should have arrived

by now; perhaps you'd be good enough to ask her to step in here on your way out.

And Wulfgang, remember: This meeting never took place. You were never here."

"Of course," said the sorcerer. He bowed politely to Hawk and Fisher, and waited

patiently for Dubois to unlock the door so he could leave. Dubois locked the

door again after he'd gone.

"While we're waiting," said Hawk, "there's a few things I'd like to get clear.

In particular, why Fenris chose Tower MacNeil as his hiding place. Surely among

so many Quality he'd be bound to give himself away sooner or later."

Dubois pursed his lips. "We have reason to believe Fenris may be of the

Quality," he said carefully. "So he'd have no problem passing himself off as a

distant MacNeil cousin."

"Why the hell would one of the Quality want to act as a spy?" said Hawk. "Most

spies work strictly for cash, or occasionally political gain. If there's one

thing the Quality aren't short of, it's money, and most of them don't give a

damn about politics. So what happened to turn Fenris into an agent for a foreign

power?"

"If we knew that, we'd know who he was," said Dubois.

"Can you at least tell us something about the information he's stolen?" said

Fisher. "That might help when it comes to identifying him."

"I can't tell you anything," said Dubois flatly. "That's being handled on a

strictly need-to-know basis. Even I haven't been told. But it must be pretty

damned important to have got everyone running round in circles like this. You

wouldn't believe the pressure that's been coming down from Above. Let me put it

this way: Under no circumstances is the spy Fenris to be allowed to escape from

Tower MacNeil. If he tries, you're to stop him, whatever it takes."

"You mean kill him?" said Fisher.

"Whatever it takes," said Dubois.

Hawk smiled sourly. "In other words, it's up to us whether or not we kill a

member of the Quality. But if anything goes wrong afterwards, everyone will

swear blind we were never given any such order. Right?"

"Got it in one," said Dubois. "You have a natural gift for politics, Hawk."

They sat in silence for a while, each thinking their own separate thoughts.

There was a knock at the door. Dubois went over and quietly asked who it was. On

getting a satisfactory answer, he unlocked the door. But he still stood well

back as it opened, one hand resting on his sword till he saw the newcomer was

alone. The wardrobe mistress bustled in, in a hurry as usual. Mistress Melanie

was tall and scrawny, with a sharp-boned face and a wild frizz of dark curly

hair barely restrained by a leather headband. She was one of those people who

had so much nervous energy she made everyone else feel tired just looking at

her.

"Are they ready?" she said sharply to Dubois, not even bothering to look at Hawk

and Fisher.

Dubois nodded briskly. "The shapechange didn't take.

We'll have to rely on standard disguise techniques. Do what you can with them."

Mistress Melanie made a short tutting sound and glared at the two Guards. "As if

we weren't already running behind schedule. All right. Follow me and don't

dawdle."

And with that, she disappeared back out the door while her words were still

ringing on the air. Hawk and Fisher hurried after her.

A short footrace later, they ended up in the wardrobe department. Hawk had never

been there before and looked around with interest. Hundreds of costumes hung in

neat rows on wire hangers—everything from the latest Quality fashions to a

filthy ragpicker's outfit. A great deal of the Guard's work had to be done

undercover; inevitable in a city like Haven, where no one shared confidences

unless they had to and absolutely no one spoke to the authorities. Unless there

was money in it. Half the Guard's annual budget went to information-gathering, a

fact which never failed to infuriate the more penny-pinching members of the

Council.

Mistress Melanie sat Hawk and Fisher down in front of the makeup mirrors and

studied them thoughtfully. "Yes," she said finally, drawing out the word till it

sounded more like no, "The scars are going to be a problem, but a good coat of

makeup should cover them. No one'll be able to tell, even at close quarters, but

don't let anyone kiss you."

"I hadn't planned on it," said Hawk.

Mistress Melanie sniffed. "We're going to have to do something about that eye,

of course. A patch is out of the question." She looked hard at Hawk's single eye

for a moment, then opened a small lacquered box and rummaged around inside it,

finally producing a single glass eye. "Try this."

"No," said Hawk flatly. "Forget it. I hate the damned things."

"I can assure you, you'll find it a perfect match," said Mistress Melanie

frostily.

"I said no!"

"Be reasonable, Hawk," said Fisher. "You can't wear your patch. Any member of

the Quality who suffered that kind of injury would have it put right at once

with a shape-change spell. And since you can't do that, you'll have to use the

glass eye. It won't be for long."

Hawk growled something indistinct, and accepted the glass eye with bad grace. He

scowled at it for a moment, then took off his patch, put it to one side, and

gingerly eased the glass eye into the empty socket. He blinked experimentally a

few times, and then glared into the mirror. "Hate wearing a glass eye," he

growled. "Makes my face ache."

Fisher looked over his shoulder into the mirror. "She's right, Hawk; they're a

perfect match. No one will be able to tell it isn't real."

Hawk sniffed loudly, unimpressed. Mistress Melanie produced a set of clothes for

each of them, and thrust them unceremoniously into Hawk and Fisher's arms. "Try

these for size. They're based on the statistics in your official records, but

I've had to make some allowances. From the look of you, you've both put on some

weight since then. Come on, get a move on; I've got to know if I have to make

more alterations, and we've still got your makeup to do."

Hawk looked at her and raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Mistress Melanie's mouth

twitched. "I'll wait outside while you change. Call me if you have any

problems."

She left, closing the door firmly behind her. Hawk took his first good look at

his new clothes, and his heart sank. The latest male fashion for the Quality

still consisted of tightly cut trousers, a padded jerkin with a chin-high

collar, and knee-length leather boots. Plus some rather utilitarian long

underwear. The jerkin and trousers were both navy blue with gold thread trim.

The military look was in this Season. He looked across at Fisher, and smiled as

he saw she was even less enchanted with her new clothes. There was a long

flowing gown of lilac blue with frothy lace trim, a great deal of frilly

underwear, a formidable-looking corset, and a pair of fashionable shoes that

looked hideously uncomfortable. Fisher picked up the corset with a thumb and

forefinger and held it out at arm's length, studying it dubiously.

"Look on the bright side," said Hawk. "At least there isn't a bustle."

"Do we really have to do this, Hawk?" said Fisher.

"Well, we could fight our way out of here, and make a run for it."

"Don't tempt me." Fisher sighed heavily, and began stripping off her furs. "The

things I do in the line of duty…"

It took them the best part of half an hour to climb into their new clothes.

There were endless buttons and hooks and eyes, and they all had to be done up in

just the right order. Hawk could only just get into the trousers. Even with

Mistress Melanie's allowances for his somewhat expanded waistline, it was a very

tight fit. Fisher had even more trouble with the corset. Hawk ended up having to

put a knee in the middle of her back while he pulled the cords tight. Fisher's

language became increasingly awful, until finally she was forced to give up from

lack of breath. Finally, the ordeal was over, and they stood together before a

full-length mirror, judging the effect.

Despite everything, Hawk had to admit they looked the part. Before them in the

mirror stood a gentleman and young lady of the Quality, dressed impeccably in

the latest finery. Hawk looked splendid and striking, though the scars on his

face still gave him a sinister air, and Fisher looked absolutely stunning. The

corset had given her a magnificent hourglass figure, and the long gown made her

look even taller. She winked at Hawk coquettishly over her paper fan, and they

both laughed.

"Been a long time since we looked this good," said Hawk finally.

"A long time," said Fisher.

Mistress Melanie knocked loudly, and swept in without waiting for an answer. She

looked them both up and down, and nodded curtly. "You'll do. Now let's see what

we can achieve with a little makeup."

Another half hour passed before the wardrobe mistress allowed Hawk and Fisher to

look into a mirror again, and what they saw kept them silent for a long moment.

Their skin was now fashionably pale instead of their usual tan. Fisher's face

had been expertly made up with rouge and eye shadow, taking the edge off the

harsh lines, and softening the aggressive chin. Her long blond hair had been

piled up on top of her head in a complicated design. Hawk's face had changed

completely; with the patch gone and the scars hidden under makeup he looked ten

years younger, and somehow more at peace with himself and the world. Fisher

looked at him and smiled tenderly.

"I often wondered what you looked like, before the scars."

"Well?" said Hawk awkwardly. "What do you think?"

"I think you look very handsome, my love. But then, I always did."

Hawk leant forward to kiss her, and Mistress Melanie yelled at him. "No touching

till the makeup's set! I don't want to have to fix her face all over again!"

Hawk and Fisher shared a wry smile. There was a loud knocking at the door.

"Are you two decent?" called Commander Dubois from outside.

"Near as we ever get," said Hawk loudly, and nodded for Mistress Melanie to let

the Commander in. Hawk and Fisher struck carefully aristocratic poses and stared

haughtily at Dubois as he came in. He walked slowly over to them, and looked

from one to the other and back again.

"I'm… impressed," he said finally. "You might just bring this off after all. I

wish we had time to give you a full briefing on how to behave, all the little

tricks of etiquette and the like, but we're way behind schedule as it is."

"Don't worry," said Hawk. "We know which fork to use, and which way to pass the

port. We've been around."

"Right," said Fisher. "You'd be surprised."

"Yeah, well," said Dubois. "We've worked out a rough background for you. You're

going to be remote country cousins of the MacNeils; a brother and sister from

the wilds of Lower Markham. That's way out on the Eastern border, so no one

should be able to trip you up on local details. Make up anything you like; they

won't know the difference. But keep it simple. You don't want to end up

contradicting each other. Also, they'll expect a certain amount of gaucherie and

unfamiliarity with the latest styles, so that should help excuse any foul-ups

you do make. Now then, you're going to have to get used to your new names.

Captain Fisher can use her given name of Isobel. That's quite a fashionable name

at the moment. But we don't seem to have a given name on the files for you,

Captain Hawk."

"There isn't one. I'm just Hawk."

"You only have the one name?"

"I've had others. But I'm just Hawk now."

"Be that as it may," said Dubois, in the tone of someone determined not to ask

questions he's sure he wouldn't like the answers to. "As far as you're

concerned, from now on you're Richard MacNeil. Got it?"

"Richard…" said Hawk. "Yeah, I can live with that."

"I'm so pleased," said Dubois. "One last thing: Leave your axe here. We'll

supply you with a standard dueling sword. And Captain Fisher will have to go

unarmed, of course. No young lady of the Quality would wear a sword. It simply

isn't done."

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.

"No axe."

"No sword."

"Tight trousers."

"And a bloody corset."

They looked hard at Dubois. "We want a bonus," said Hawk flatly.

"In cash," said Fisher.

"In our hands, before we go."

"I can arrange that," said Dubois.

Hawk looked at Fisher. "They must really be desperate."

"Maybe we should hit them for overtime while we're at it," said Fisher.

"Don't push your luck," said Dubois.

Chapter Three

Ghosts And Memories

Haven was an old city, but the dark and brooding cliffs that overlooked it were

older still. Huge and forbidding, they rose out of the restless sea like grim,

watchful guardians, protecting Haven on three sides from the raging storms that

swept in off the sea. The waves pounded endlessly at the jagged spurs of rock,

throwing spray high into the wind even on the calmest of days. Tower MacNeil

stood firm and unyielding on an outcropping of dark basalt that jutted from the

cliff face like a clenched fist against the encroaching sea.

The Tower was tall and elegant, built entirely from the local white stone, with

its distinctive pearly sheen. Its lines were clean and functional, the wide

glass windows its only concession to comfort and luxury. It stood five stories

tall, surmounted by open crenellated battlements. Down the centuries, Tower

MacNeil had defied both time and the elements, as well as countless enemy

attacks. Often scarred, and as often restored, it had never once fallen to its

adversaries. Brilliant engineering and subtle sorceries maintained the Tower, as

it maintained and protected the Family who dwelt within.

But like the cliffs on which it stood, and the dark city it overlooked, Tower

MacNeil had its grim and bloody secrets. Within the Tower, something had

stirred; something strange and awful, free of its chains at last.

Hawk trudged up the single narrow path, his cloak pulled tightly about him, his

head bowed against the gusting wind. This high up on the cliffs the wind blew

hard and bitter cold. The wild grasses seemed permanently flattened by the

weather, and nothing else grew about him for as far as he could see. Hawk wasn't

surprised, given the force of the winds. Anything that dared thrust its head

above the ground was probably ripped out by the roots for its impertinence. He

raised his head slightly, and scowled as he saw Fisher waiting for him some way

ahead, standing on the edge of the cliff and looking out to sea. He took a few

deep breaths, fighting to get his breathing back to normal before he joined her.

The long steep trail had winded him, but he didn't want her to know that. She'd

only make pointed comments about his being out of condition and put him on

another diet. Hawk hated diets. Why did everything that was good for you have to

taste so bloody bland?

He crossed over to stand beside Fisher on the cliff edge, careful to keep a

respectful distance between him and the crumbling stone brink. The wind tugged

at his hair and drew tears from his eyes. Fisher nodded at him happily, and

indicated the view with a sweeping wave of her arm. Hawk had to admit it was

pretty breathtaking. Far below, waves pounded the rocks with unrelenting fury,

falling reluctantly back in streams of froth and spume. The choppy sea stretched

away to the horizon in endless shades of blue and green and grey, empty of sails

for once. Winter was closing in, and ships now were few and far between. The

steely blue sky was clear of clouds for the moment, thanks to the city weather

wizards, and gulls hung on the air like drifting shadows, tossed here and there

by the gusting wind. Their mournful keening was all that broke the morning

quiet, save for the distant crash of breakers down below.

"Listen to the sea and the gulls," said Fisher. "So wild, so free. We really

should get out here more often, Hawk."

"Maybe we will, come the summer. And you'd better call me Richard from now on,

even when there's no one around. We don't want to get caught out on something

that simple."

"Sure. Why did we have to be brother and sister? Why couldn't we be husband and

wife?"

"Beats me. Maybe we're supposed to get information out of people by romancing

them."

Fisher wrinkled her nose. "Not really our style, that."

"True."

"I never get tired of looking at the sea. I never even saw the ocean before we

left the North."

"I like the view too, Isobel, but we can't stay here. We have a job to do, and

time is pressing."

"I know. It's just that we never seem to have any time to ourselves these days."

"When did we ever?"

"True. Let's go."

They turned away from the cliff edge and made their way back through the grass

to the narrow stony trail. The Tower loomed ahead of them, straight and

uncompromising against the skyline, silent and enigmatic. Its height made it

look deceptively slim until you got close enough to realize just how huge the

Tower really was. Hawk thought for a moment on how backbreaking it must have

been, hauling building stone up the cliffs to this spot, and then decided firmly

that he wasn't going to think about it anymore. Just trying to visualize the

logistics was enough to make his head ache. He realized Fisher was staring at

the Tower too, and deliberately quickened his step.

"Come on, Isobel," he said briskly. "There's no telling how long Fenris will

stay put in the Tower. If he decides to leave before we can get there to stop

him, Dubois will have our heads. Probably literally."

"I don't know why Fenris didn't just keep running," said Fisher, picking up the

pace. "I would have. What made him think he'd be safe here?"

"The longer he stayed in the open, the more likely it was he'd be spotted," said

Hawk. "And the Tower's a good place to go to ground. It's within easy reach of

the city but out of everyone's thoughts. I wouldn't have thought to look for him

here. If it hadn't been for the Council's sorcerers, he'd have probably got away

with it. And let's face it. If worst came to worst, and for some reason the

MacNeils decided not to hand him over, we'd have one hell of a job getting him

out of the Tower. You'd need an army and every sorcerer in the city to breach

those walls, by all accounts. No, my guess is Fenris is probably biding his time

in there, looking over his shoulder a lot and waiting for one of his own people

to contact him with a safe route out to the Low Kingdoms. Assuming someone

hasn't already done so."

"I still haven't figured out what we're going to do once we're inside the

Tower," said Fisher. "I mean, we've no idea what he looks like now. He could be

anybody. He could be passing himself off as an out-of-town MacNeil cousin, like

us, or a friend of one, or a newly hired servant, or… Hell, I don't know. The

man's a spy, after all; he's used to pretending to be someone he isn't. How are

we going to trip up someone like that? This case is a mess, and we've barely

even started yet. Do you think we're going to be able to recognize him?"

"Not a hope," said Hawk. "If I had to fight him again I might recognize his

style, but I'm damned if I'm going to go round challenging everyone to a duel.

Especially without my axe. Have you seen this stupid sword they've given me? One

good parry and it'll snap in half. I'd be better off sneaking up behind my

opponent and clubbing him to death with the hilt."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Same as usual, lass. Ask lots of questions, keep our eyes open, and hopefully

make enough of a nuisance of ourselves that the killer will do something stupid

to try and shut us up."

"Great," said Fisher. "I just love being a target."

They both fell silent as they finally drew near the Tower MacNeil. The large,

squarish front door was a different shade of white from the surrounding

stonework, and Hawk felt a sudden, unsettling thrill go through him as he

realized the door had been carved from a single huge slab of polished ivory. He

tried to visualize the size of the whale that could donate such a bone, and

quickly decided he'd rather not know. He tugged briskly at the bell pull, and

then he and Fisher took turns using the black iron boot-scraper. They were

Quality now, and had to keep up appearances.

The door swung smoothly open on well-oiled counterweights, revealing a

medium-height, heavyset man in his mid-forties, wearing the slightly outdated

formal wear that was the accepted hallmark of the Haven butler. He had dark,

lifeless hair, a flat immobile face that might have been carved from stone, and

a general air of gloomy efficiency for which the long black frock coat was the

perfect finishing touch. He bowed formally to Hawk and Fisher, each bow nicely

calculated to the inch to show respect for his betters whilst reminding them

that as butler of the household he was a force to be reckoned with in his own

right. It was a masterful performance. Hawk felt like applauding.

"I am Richard MacNeil of Lower Markham," he said gravely. "This is my sister,

Isobel. We've come to pay our respects to the new head of the Family."

"Of course, sir and madam. I am Greaves, butler of Tower MacNeil. Please come

in."

He stood back to allow them to enter. He seemed faintly disapproving, possibly

because they came from a backwater like Lower Markham, but most likely because

butlers always seemed faintly disapproving. Hawk suspected it was part of the

job description. He strolled into the hallway as though he owned the place, with

Isobel on his arm, smiling demurely. The smile didn't suit her, but Hawk admired

the effort that had gone into it. Greaves closed the door behind them, and

Hawk's ears pricked up as he heard the sound of heavy bolts being thrown home.

It could be that the Tower MacNeil household was routinely security-minded… or

it could be that right now they had reason to be. He took off his cloak, and

found the butler already there waiting to receive it. Fisher handed Greaves her

cloak, and raised a painted eyebrow enquiringly.

"Are you the only staff here, Greaves? Surely it's not a butler's place to take

the cloaks from guests. Don't you have any maids under you?"

Greaves's expression didn't alter in the least as he arranged the cloaks neatly

on the wall by the door. "Alas, madam, I'm afraid Tower MacNeil is extremely

short staffed at present. Normally we have a staff of twenty-two, but everyone

else left some time ago."

Hawk looked at him sharply. "And why is that?"

"It's not really my place to say, sir. If you and the young lady would care to

follow me, I'll take you to the MacNeil himself. I'm sure he will be happy to

answer any questions you may have."

He turned his back on them, politely but firmly, and started off down the hall.

Hawk and Fisher exchanged a look behind his back, shrugged pretty much in

unison, and followed him. They'd only been in the place a few moments and

already they were up to their ears in questions. What the hell could have

happened here to drive all the servants out? And since it had happened recently,

could it have something to do with Fenris' arrival? The butler worried Hawk as

well. The man was being far too calm and pleasant. Most butlers were worse snobs

than their masters and would have had coronaries at the mere mention of their

doing maids' work. And yet Greaves seemed to be implying he was doing all the

servants' work at Tower MacNeil. What kind of hold could keep him at his duty,

despite the humiliation?

Hawk shrugged inwardly. Perhaps Greaves was just angling for a larger than usual

gratuity when Hawk left. In which case, he was going to be disappointed.

Wardrobe might have provided Hawk with aristocratic clothes, but they'd

absolutely declined to fill the purse on his belt. He'd had to do that, with his

bonus money, and he was damned if he was going to part with one penny more than

he absolutely had to.

The butler led Hawk and Fisher down a stylishly appointed passage and ushered

them into a large and spacious drawing room. Early morning light streamed

through the immaculately polished windows, reflecting brightly from the pure

white of the stonework, illuminating the room like a vision of paradise. The

whole ceiling was covered with a single delightful piece of art depicting nymphs

and shepherds at play. In a romantic and extremely tasteful way, of course.

Everywhere there were luxurious chairs and couches, fine displays of wines and

spirits, silver trays bearing all kinds of cold food, and every other comfort

the mind could imagine. Hawk did his best to look unimpressed.

Standing with his back to the roaring fire was a tall, well-built young man with

broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He couldn't have been more than twenty, and

his unruly mop of tawny hair made him look even younger. Nevertheless, there was

a dignity and strength in his stance, and a composure in his face, that was

quietly impressive. Hawk didn't need Greaves to tell him this was their host,

Jamie MacNeil. The MacNeil, as he now was. He was dressed all in black, being

still in mourning for his father, but the clothes were of the finest cut and

impeccably fashionable. He stepped forward as the butler introduced them, and

greeted his two cousins warmly, kissing Isobel's hand with style, and shaking

Hawk's hand in a grip that was firm without being overbearing. He gestured for

the butler to leave them, and Greaves bowed and backed out, closing the door

after him. Jamie led Hawk and Fisher over to the drinks cabinet and politely

enquired as to their pleasure. He seemed genuinely pleased to see them, and yet

somehow preoccupied, as though part of his attention was always somewhere else.

"So good of you to come," he said graciously. "Did you have a good journey?"

"Bearable," said Hawk, accepting his drink with a nod. "We left our belongings

in Haven, ghastly place, and came straight here. Though I gather from your

butler that we may have arrived at a bad time… he said something about all the

servants leaving?"

Jamie MacNeil smiled easily, but Hawk could see the effort it took. "Just a

minor domestic crisis, but I'm afraid we're all going to have to rough it for

the moment. Please accept my apologies, and bear with us. Do feel free to stay

for as long as you wish; there are plenty of spare bedrooms, and Haven's inns

are notoriously unsafe."

"That's very kind of you," said Hawk.

"Not at all, not at all. I'll just let Greaves know, and he'll prepare rooms for

you and your sister."

He reached for the bell pull by the fireplace, but had barely taken hold of it

when the door swung open and Greaves entered. Hawk blinked bemusedly at such a

quick response, and then smiled slightly as Greaves stepped to one side and two

ladies of the Quality swept in, not even deigning to notice the butler's bow.

Jamie smiled at them both, a genuine smile full of warmth and affection, and

more than a little concern. Hawk sipped his wine thoughtfully as Jamie spoke

quietly to the butler. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about Tower

MacNeil. Something was going on here; something he was beginning to suspect had

nothing to do with the spy Fenris. He took a healthy gulp of his wine, careful

to keep his little ringer crooked. On the other hand, he could just be getting

paranoid. If Jamie MacNeil knew about the spy, then getting rid of a bunch of

gossiping servants was a sensible precaution. But according to Greaves, the

servants had left some time ago, long before Fenris could have arrived… Hawk

quickly put the thought to one side for later consideration as Jamie dismissed

the butler and turned to him and Fisher.

"Dear cousins, allow me to present my sister Holly, and my aunt, Katrina

Dorimant."

Hawk bowed and the women curtsied, Fisher with more efficiency than grace. Holly

MacNeil was a blazing redhead in her late twenties, almost as tall as her

brother, but as slightly built as he was broad. Hawk's first thought was that

the poor lass could do with a good meal or two. Her pale face was gaunt and

strained, though still attractive, her large green eyes giving her an innocent,

vulnerable look, like a young fawn suddenly confronted with a pack of wolves.

Whatever was going on at Tower MacNeil, it was clear she knew about it too. Like

her brother, Holly MacNeil was formally but stylishly dressed in black, which

against the paleness of her skin only served to emphasize her frailty. She

offered Hawk a trembling hand, and he had to steady it with his own before he

could kiss it. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it, and

thought he glimpsed a quick smile. Holly and Fisher embraced each other briefly.

There was no warmth in it, and Holly held the contact only as long as convention

demanded.

Jamie's aunt, Katrina Dorimant, was a roguishly attractive woman in her

mid-forties, with a broad grin and flashing eyes. She wore a long, wine-red

gown, and enough jewelry to finance a minor war or two. She was average height,

with a tight, compact body and a brisk, captivating manner. She smiled widely at

Hawk as he kissed her hand, and her eyes lingered on him for a long moment

before she turned to embrace Fisher. Once again the embrace was over almost as

soon as it had begun, and the two women exchanged a cool, appraising look before

dismissing each other with averted eyes. Hawk hid a smile. Fisher had better

keep her guard up. Katrina looked like a scrapper.

"Welcome to Tower MacNeil!" said Katrina brightly. "I'm so glad you're here. We

need some new blood to stir things up. The place has been awfully gloomy just

lately, though I can't think why. Dear Duncan never approved of sour faces when

he was alive, and he certainly wouldn't have expected us to wander around

sobbing and beating our breasts just because he's dead."

"You never did believe in tears or regrets, did you, Aunt?" said Holly flatly.

"Certainly not. They make your eyes puffy and give you wrinkles."

"Are you here for the reading of the will?" asked Fisher politely.

"Actually, no, my dear. I'm currently separated from my husband, bad cess to the

man, and dear Jamie has been kind enough to allow me to stay here until the

divorce is finalized."

"I had in mind a few weeks, Auntie," said Jamie good-naturedly. "In actual fact,

you've been here five months now."

"Don't exaggerate, dear. It's four and a bit."

"Are we the only guests?" said Hawk. "I can't believe we're the only Family come

to pay our respects to the MacNeil."

"There are other guests," said Jamie. "They're upstairs in their rooms at

present, but they'll be joining us for a late breakfast soon. We keep very

relaxed hours here, especially since the servants left. But it must be said

there aren't nearly as many Family here as one might have wished for."

"Why not?" asked Fisher bluntly.

The three MacNeils exchanged a quick glance. "I take it you've never heard of

the MacNeil Curse," said Jamie slowly. "Not really surprising, I suppose, buried

as you are in the depths of Lower Markham. It's not something we're proud of,

and we don't care to discuss it with outsiders. But since you are both Family,

and you've come all this way to be here… The Curse is the reason why so few have

come to pay their respects, even with the reading of the will to tempt them.

It's why the servants ran away, and why the Quality no longer accept invitations

to Tower MacNeil. Please, be seated, all of you, and I'll tell you of the secret

Shame of the MacNeils, and how it has come back to haunt us. I think it's time

for the truth."

Everyone found themselves chairs, and drew them up in a semicircle facing the

fireplace. Jamie stayed where he was, with his back to the fire, standing almost

to attention, with his hands clasped behind his back, so the others wouldn't see

them shaking. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even and very

controlled.

"Most people have heard something about the Curse of the MacNeils. That there is

a monster which haunts us, and has done for generations. There have been many

songs about it, and even one or two plays. Romantic fictions, all of them. We

don't object; they help conceal the reality behind the myth. There is a Secret

in our Family, handed down from father to eldest son alone, from generation to

generation.

"Long ago, in the days before proper records were kept, a child was born to the

MacNeils, to the head of the Family at that time. That child was the eldest son,

destined to continue the Family bloodline. Unfortunately, he was also horribly

deformed. He should have been killed at birth, but the MacNeil was a kind and

tender-hearted man. The creature was, after all, his son. Perhaps a cure could

be found. The MacNeil all but bankrupted the Family trying to find it, paying

for doctors and sorcerers and healers of all kinds, but no cure was ever found.

"The creature became increasingly violent, and eventually had to be put away,

for everyone's safety. The MacNeil took full responsibility for his awful son,

and none of the Family or servants ever saw it again. Finally, some years later,

the creature died, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The normal second son

became the eldest son, the bloodline continued through him, and everything

returned to normal.

"That is not the Secret. The songs and the romances and the plays are based

loosely on what I have just told you, and from those distorted stories come the

vague rumors that most people mean when they refer to the Curse of the MacNeils.

The Secret, handed down from father to eldest son, is very simple. The creature

did not die.

"The MacNeil had finally despaired of his monstrous son, and decided it should

die, to free the Family of its burden. He gave the creature poison to drink, and

walled up its room. He and the second son did the job themselves, rather than

risk bringing in workmen or servants who might have talked. And all the time

they labored with bricks and mortar, they could hear the creature pacing

restlessly back and forth in its cell. The poison did not kill it. Time and

again the MacNeil and his son returned to listen at the wall they'd built, but

though the creature had no access to food or water, still it lived. They could

hear it moving about in its cell, and sometimes scratching at the walls.

"Years passed. The MacNeil died, and later so did his son, but the creature

lived on. No one ever knew of its existence save the head of the Family and the

eldest son, the Secret passing from generation to generation to generation when

the son reached his majority. And so it went, down all the many years.

"Only this time, something went wrong. My father passed on the Secret to his

eldest son, my brother William. But William died just three weeks ago, in a

riding accident, and then my father was killed in a border clash, before he

could pass on the details of the Secret to me. I was able to piece together what

I've just told you from studying his papers after his death, but that's as far

as his notes go. Presumably there are other papers somewhere, prepared in case

of an emergency, but I've been unable to find them,. No doubt Dad would have got

around to telling me where they were, just in case… but who would ever have

thought he'd die so suddenly…"

Jamie stopped abruptly as his voice broke. Holly rose quickly from her seat and

moved forward to hug her brother's arm protectively.

"Is that why the servants left?" said Hawk. "Because the Secret got out?"

Jamie shook his head. "Not long after Dad died, the servants began seeing

things. A dark figure, padding through the corridors late at night, or in the

early hours of the morning. It always disappeared when challenged. I had the

Tower searched from top to bottom by my security people, but they never found

anyone. Then, things started to be broken. Vases, glasses, crockery. A chair was

found smashed to pieces. Noises were heard at night; something that might have

been screams, or laughter. My people began to leave, despite all I could offer

them in the way of money or reassurances.

"Even my security people wouldn't stay. They all thought it was the ghost of my

father, come back to haunt the Tower. Only I knew better. After all these years,

the creature had finally got out. Obviously some part of the Secret dealt with

how to keep it confined, and since I didn't know what to do… So far, it hasn't

been able to leave Tower MacNeil; the Tower's protective wards see to that."

"Why haven't you called in the city Guard?" asked Fisher. "Maybe their experts

could find the creature…"

"No!" said Jamie sharply. "This is Family business, and it has to stay within

the Family. If the Secret ever gets out, the whole world will know the MacNeil

Family is based on a lie. That all of us are descended from a second son. The

Quality would declare that we had betrayed our bloodline and inheritance, and

the MacNeils would be disgraced. Already there are rumors. That's why so few

Family have come to declare their fealty to me."

"Apart from us, who else knows the Secret?" said Hawk.

"Just Greaves, my immediate Family, and my other guests, so far."

"This… creature," said Fisher slowly. "Has it tried to hurt anyone?"

"Not so far," said Jamie. "But it is getting more destructive. Why? Do you want

to leave?"

Hawk smiled slightly. "I don't think so. Isobel and I don't scare easily."

Katrina stirred in her chair. "I can't believe Duncan kept the Secret so long. I

had no idea… You're quite right, of course, Jamie. The Secret must never get

out. We would be ostracized in High Society. Now then, the creature undoubtedly

hides by day in the room that used to be its cell. Are you still unable to

locate it?"

"I'm afraid so." Jamie's brow furrowed, and he ran a hand through his hair. "The

Tower is riddled with secret passages and sliding panels. I know some of them,

and Dad's papers revealed a few more, but I still haven't been able to find

where the creature is hiding. Presumably the room's location was part of the

Secret."

"This is crazy," said Fisher. "If this creature was walled up for centuries,

what kept it alive? Everything feeds on something…"

"I don't know," said Jamie. "But whatever the creature is, it's definitely not

human. Maybe it hasn't died because it can't…"

For a long moment, nobody said anything. The crackling of the fire seemed very

loud in the quiet.

"All this started because your father died unexpectedly," said Hawk finally.

"Just how did he die?"

Katrina looked at him sharply. "You don't know?"

"Word often gets garbled when it has to travel long distances," said Fisher

smoothly. "We want to make sure we've got it right."

"I was just wondering," said Hawk carefully, "if perhaps there had been

something unusual about your father's death… something that might give us a clue

as to how the creature got out of its cell, after centuries of confinement. I

mean, its room was supposed to have been bricked up. So, how did it finally get

out?"

"I see." Jamie nodded respectfully. "I hadn't thought of that. But no, there was

nothing suspicious about my father's death. He was killed in a skirmish with

Outremer troops up in the Northern borderlands. He shouldn't really have been

there, an officer of his rank. But there had been rumors of new troop movements,

and he wanted to see for himself. Dad was like that. Never really trusted

anyone's opinion but his own. Anyway, he was in the wrong place at the wrong

time, and he and his whole column were wiped out. Just another borderland

skirmish. There's been a number of them just recently. Men are dying up there

every day, just because our King and the Outremer Monarch can't agree on exactly

where the bloody border is. Good men dying for a line on a map… I'm sorry. But

it's hard not to be bitter sometimes. Dad was a good soldier. He deserved a

better end than this. But I don't see how it could have had anything to do with

the creature's escape."

"Did anything unusual happen here at the Tower, before the servants started

seeing and hearing things?" said Fisher…

Jamie thought for a moment. "I don't think so. I remember we were a bit

short-staffed for a while about then. A lot of the servants had been going down

with colds, but you expect that at this time of the year. A day off, and they

were back at work again."

"There's really nothing to worry about," said Katrina firmly. "You'll be quite

safe here, I assure you. There's no indication the creature's ever tried to hurt

anyone. That is right, isn't it, Jamie?"

"Yes, it is. But I felt it only fair you should all know what the situation is.

You see, before the will can be read, the Tower has to be isolated behind

protective wards for twenty-four hours. That's traditional."

"You mean, once the wards are up, no one can leave the Tower for a full day?"

said Hawk. "No matter what happens here?"

He and Fisher exchanged a quick glance.

"That's right," said Jamie. "But trust me, nothing's going to happen. If the

creature had meant any harm, it would have acted by now. AH those years of

imprisonment must have knocked the fight out of it."

"I'm sure you're right," said Fisher. "But you couldn't have known that, at the

beginning. In fact, it must have been pretty scary, especially when the servants

started leaving, rather than face whatever it was. So why did you stay? Wouldn't

it have been safer to evacuate the Tower?"

"This is my home," said Jamie. "Home to my Family for generations. I won't be

driven out of it."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Well," said Katrina brightly, "if all else fails, we can always call on the

Guardian!"

"Who?" said Hawk.

There was another, longer pause as the MacNeils looked at him strangely. Hawk

silently cursed. He knew he should have insisted on a full briefing. Nothing was

more likely to trip him and Fisher up than not recognizing some Family in-joke

or reference, and this was clearly one of them. Still, the harm was done now.

All he could do was try and face it down. He stared innocently back at Jamie and

Katrina. and noticed for the first time that Holly wasn't paying any attention

to the conversation. Instead, her eyes were far away, as though she were lost in

some world of her own. Then Katrina started speaking, and Hawk quickly switched

his attention back to her.

"You must have heard of the MacNeil Guardian," said Katrina, speaking slowly and

carefully, as though to a rather backward small child. "Perhaps you know him by

a different name. The Guardian is one of our more pleasant and comforting Family

legends. One of our more remote ancestors is supposed to haunt the Tower, duty

bound to protect his descendants from harm. Apparently it's a penance for some

bloody crime he later came to regret but was unable to put right while he lived.

The legend doesn't say exactly what his crime might have been."

"That's often the way with legends," said Hawk. "You're right, of course. I

recognize it now. Has anyone seen this ghost in recent times?"

"No one's seen him for centuries," said Jamie. "Though there have been any

number of times when the Family could have used his help. So I'm afraid it is

just a legend, after all."

"I believe in him," said Holly suddenly. "I pray every night he'll come to save

me. But he never does."

Everyone looked at her strangely for a moment. For the first time, there had

been real passion in her voice, and something that might have been despair.

Jamie looked at her worriedly, but said nothing, and Holly quickly subsided into

silence again. Katrina cleared her throat loudly.

"That's supposed to be a portrait of the Guardian," she said brightly,

indicating a dark and gloomy portrait directly over the fireplace. "Painted not

long before his death. It's certainly old enough, so who knows?"

They all looked at the portrait. The pigments had darkened gradually over the

years, but the image was still clear. The portrait showed a grim, unsmiling

middle-aged man, posed uncomfortably in a large upholstered chair. He was

dressed in battered leather amour, and his face was lined and weathered. He

looked as though he would have been more at home riding a horse into combat than

sitting for an official Family portrait. There was an air of strength and

wildness about him, and his great mane of white hair and sharp, beaked nose

reminded Hawk uncannily of a bird of prey, trained to duty but never tamed. Hawk

had no trouble at all seeing him as a man who would do bloody crimes in the heat

of passion.

Everyone jumped slightly as the door behind them swung suddenly open and the

butler Greaves entered. He stepped to one side, and formally announced the

arrival of Marc and Alistair MacNeil. The two men entered together, though with

enough space between them to suggest they were neither comfortable nor happy in

each other's company. They both bowed briefly to Jamie MacNeil.

Marc was tall and slender, with a broad, bland face and a cool, unhappy smile.

He looked to be in his late twenties, if you ignored his prematurely thinning

hair, and he wore the latest fashion poorly, as though indifferent to the effect

it was supposed to achieve. He looked like the kind of man who attaches himself

to groups at parties, in the hope someone will talk to him. His handshake was

harsh and perfunctory, and his lips lingered almost obnoxiously over Fisher's

hand. Jamie introduced him as another distant cousin, from Upper Markham.

"That makes him almost a neighbor of yours," said Jamie, smiling happily at Hawk

and Fisher. "I'm sure you'll have lots in common to talk about."

"Oh good," said Hawk.

Marc sniffed. "I rather doubt it. No one worth knowing ever came out of Lower

Markham."

There was an icy silence. Hawk's hand fell to his belt, before remembering he

didn't have his axe anymore. Fisher quickly dropped a restraining hand on his

arm. Marc smiled stiffly, almost as though daring Hawk to take offense at such

an obvious truth.

"That's enough!" said Jamie sharply. "There will be no duels in the Tower while

I'm the MacNeil. Now apologize, Marc."

"Of course," said Marc. "I'm sorry."

His tone made the apology sound like another insult, Hawk's scowl deepened.

Fisher tightened her grip on his arm. Hawk bowed stiffly, and turned his back on

Marc to greet Alistair MacNeil. Marc sniffed again, and turned away to help

himself to a drink from one of the wine decanters set out on the sideboard.

Fisher breathed a silent sigh of relief, let go of Hawk's arm, and took a long

drink from her glass.

Alistair shook Hawk's hand firmly, and kissed Fisher's hand with old-fashioned

style. He smiled at them both, an open, friendly smile that did much to dispel

the cool atmosphere left by Marc's comments. "Good of you to make such a long

journey; it can't have been easy, getting here from Lower Markham at this time

of year."

"We felt we ought to be here," said Fisher. "Did you have far to come?"

"Quite a way. I'm another of those cousins the Family doesn't like to admit to

knowing. I was brought up here in the Tower, but the Family packed me off to the

Red Marches when I was a young man. Got a parlor maid into trouble and couldn't

pay my gambling debts. Nothing too outrageous, but someone thought I needed to

be made an example of, so off I went. Can't say I regret it. I could have come

back long ago, but never saw the point. Lovely area, the Red Marches. Marvelous

scenery, good hunting, and always a chance for some action on the borders.

That's how I heard about Duncan's death. Beastly bad luck, by all accounts. So,

I decided it was time to come back and pay my respects to the new MacNeil. Good

of you to put me up, Jamie. I couldn't stick Haven. Place has gone to the dogs.

Not at all how I remember it."

Hawk studied the man unobtrusively while he spoke. Alistair MacNeil was tall and

muscular, though obviously well into his fifties. His stomach was intimidatingly

flat, his back poker straight, and if Alistair was carrying a few extra pounds

anywhere, Hawk was damned if he could spot them. His clothes were undeniably

old-fashioned but exquisitely cut, and Alistair wore them with unconscious

style. His iron-grey hair was cropped close to his head, military fashion, but

he had the same beaked nose and piercing eyes as the man in the portrait.

Alistair caught Hawk glancing from him to the portrait over the fire, and

chuckled dryly.

"There is a resemblance, isn't there? You're not the first to spot it. Doesn't

look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to

keep him occupied."

"Don't glorify the man," said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in

his hand. "A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his

masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose.

Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way."

"They were hard times," said Alistair coldly. "The Low Kingdoms faced threats on

all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honor and glory, but there's damn all

glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There's just the blood and the

flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should

try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things."

"If you say so," said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at

Jamie. "May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the

will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The

Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in

Haven."

"We'll get to the will soon enough," said Jamie evenly. "There are two more

guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we'll all feel

better for a good meal before getting down to business."

"I'm not hungry," said Marc.

"You speak for yourself," said Hawk.

The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the

butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn't see any other

reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death

threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the

death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous

energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like

his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar

nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume

looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy

coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had

burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative,

had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man's hand, and

his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.

"My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for

almost thirty years, haven't you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play

something for my guests; some tale of my father's exploits, in his memory."

Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into

an uptempo ballad. He sang three songs altogether, each of them highly

romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil's past. They were all cut from the same

cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn't

seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a

devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were

irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much

feeling, and Brennan's voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing

voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a

blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down

an octave when he couldn't reach the right note.

Hawk's hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second,

Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively

to his arm. Hawk didn't care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this

definitely wasn't, and he had a particular loathing for this kind of smug,

cleaned-up hero worship. He usually tended to express this unhappiness by

throwing the offending minstrel through the nearest window. Fisher, feeling

strongly that this might not go down too well with Jamie MacNeil, clung firmly

to Hawk's sword arm with both hands.

Brennan finally ground to a halt in a series of crashing chords and bowed more

or less gracefully to his stunned audience. There was scattered applause,

possibly out of relief that the performance was over. Hawk was grinding his

teeth behind a fixed smile.

"Clap him, dammit," said Fisher, out of the corner of her mouth.

"Forget it," growled Hawk. "If we encourage him, he might do an encore. And I

swear if I hear one more hey-nonny-no out of him, I'm going to ram his fingers

up his nose till they stick out his ears."

Katrina got the minstrel a drink, and the two of them stood chatting together.

Jamie came back into the room and went over to join Hawk and Fisher. He checked

to make sure Brennan wasn't watching, and then shook his head ruefully.

"He's not very good, is he? Sorry to put you through that, but it's expected of

me that I have my own minstrel. Family tradition and all that. Robbie was my

father's minstrel, and I seem to have inherited him. He hasn't improved over the

years. Dad had cloth ears, but liked to sing, even though he couldn't carry a

tune in a bucket. Robbie suited him very well. Besides, when all is said and

done, he and Dad fought back to back on a dozen major campaigns, when they were

both a lot younger. Least I can do is give Robbie a safe berth at the end of his

days. I just wish I could convince him to retire…"

He looked round as the door opened yet again, and the butler Greaves ushered in

two more guests. Hawk looked too, and his stomach lurched as though one of his

feet had just slipped over the edge of a precipice. He knew one of the men in

the doorway, and worse still, that man knew Captain Hawk. Jamie moved quickly

over to greet the new arrivals, grinning broadly. Hawk struck his best

aristocratic pose, and smiled determinedly. It seemed he was about to find out

just how good his disguise really was.

Lord Arthur Sinclair smiled graciously at Jamie and strolled amiably forward

into the drawing room, wineglass in hand, blinking vaguely about him. He was

short, barely five foot tall, and sufficiently overweight so that he looked even

shorter. He had a round, guileless face and smiled a lot at nothing in

particular, but his uncertain blue eyes gave him a lost, confused look. He was

in his mid-thirties, with thinning yellow hair and the beginnings of a truly

impressive set of jowls. He was also a drunk.

He had no talents and no abilities, and thanks to his Family, little or no

self-esteem. He spent most of his time at parties, while the more conservative

members of High Society murmured darkly that he'd no doubt come to a bad end. To

the surprise of everyone, not least himself, he'd inherited all his Family's

wealth, and for want of anything better to do had spent the last few years

trying to drink himself to death. All in all, he was making a pretty good job of

it; the first and only time he'd made a success of anything. He dabbled

occasionally in politics, just for the fun of it, and had briefly been a member

of the infamous Hellfire Club. Which was where Hawk had met him, while working

on a case. Hawk tried not to feel too worried. Sinclair had been pretty drunk

when they met. But then, he usually was…

Fisher, meanwhile, had been keeping an eye on the other new arrival. Jamie had

introduced him to the room at large as David Brook, an old friend. Like most

people in Haven, Fisher had heard of the Brook Family; they had a long tradition

of high achievement in the army and the diplomatic corps. To excel in one or the

other was not unusual, but to excel in both was almost unheard of. Particularly

in Haven, where diplomacy was usually just another way of sneaking up on an

enemy when he wasn't looking. But, that was the Brooks for you; brave and

intelligent. A deadly combination.

David himself was a brisk, heavyset man of slightly less than average height,

well into his late twenties, and dressed impeccably if somewhat gaudily in the

very latest fashion. He clapped Jamie companionably on the shoulder, and strode

forward to shake hands with the bemused Hawk. He lingered acceptably over

Fisher's hand as he kissed it, and Fisher's smile widened approvingly, almost in

spite of herself. David Brook was devilishly handsome, in a dark, swarthy way.

And he knew it.

He excused himself with polished regret, and moved quickly over to join Holly.

She smiled shakily at him with open relief, and for the first time that morning,

some of the fear seemed to go out of her. She and David smiled and murmured

together with the ease of long affection, their heads so close as to be almost

touching. Lord Sinclair shook Hawk's hand and kissed Fisher's, smiling vaguely

all the while, and then wandered over to join David and Holly, blinking owlishly

as he waited to be noticed. They broke apart reluctantly, and Holly smiled at

Sinclair with the kind of resigned affection usually reserved for puppies that

are cute and lovable but only barely housebroken.

Jamie returned to top up Hawk's glass, and he nodded gratefully. Jamie noticed

Hawk's interest in Holly's admirers, and he raised an eyebrow. "Do you know

David or Arthur?"

"No," said Hawk quickly. "But I have heard of Lord Arthur. I understand he likes

his drink…"

Jamie snorted. "That's like saying a fish likes swimming. But you don't want to

believe everything you hear. Arthur's a decent enough sort, when you get to know

him. He and David have always been close. And Holly and David have been

practically engaged since they were ten. Childhood sweethearts, and all that.

And I'll say this for Arthur; he stuck by us when all our other so-called

friends ran for cover."

"He wouldn't be the first to find courage in a bottle," said Marc, appearing as

usual seemingly out of nowhere. "Probably too drunk and too foolish to be

scared."

"You think so?" said Jamie. His voice was polite, but his eyes were hard.

Marc sniffed. "I know his sort."

"No," said Jamie. "You don't know him at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have

to consult with Greaves about breakfast."

He smiled at Hawk and Fisher, nodded briefly to Marc, and left. Hawk didn't

blame him. Marc's voice had the kind of insensitive arrogance that would have

had a saint's hands curling into fists. Fisher fixed Marc with a thoughtful

stare.

"You don't approve of Lord Arthur?"

"He's weak. I despise weakness. You have to be strong in this world or it'll

grind you under."

"We can't all be strong," said Fisher.

Marc smiled coldly. "You don't have to be. You're beautiful. There will always

be someone ready to be strong for you."

He turned away, ignoring Hawk's glare, and went to stare out the wide window at

the morning sunlight.

"Take it easy," said Fisher amusedly to Hawk. "We're supposed to be brother and

sister, remember?"

"So I'm a very protective brother. Watch yourself with that one, Isobel. I don't

trust him."

"I don't trust any of them, but I take your point. Don't worry; I know how to

handle his sort."

Hawk looked at her quickly. "We're Quality now; if there's to be any rough

stuff, I'll take care of it. You concentrate on being demure and ladylike."

Fisher raised an eyebrow, and Hawk had to smile. "Or at least as close as you

can get."

Fisher gestured surreptitiously, and Hawk fell silent as Katrina Dorimant came

over to join them. She nodded briefly to Fisher and then unleashed the full

force of her smile on Hawk. It was a warm, intimate smile, suffused with

promise, backed up by dark and unsettlingly direct eyes. Hawk smiled

uncomfortably back, unconsciously standing a little taller and sucking in his

gut. If Isobel hadn't been there he might have just relaxed and enjoyed it, but

as it was… He glanced at Isobel and was relieved to find she was smiling,

apparently amused at his discomfort. Hawk decided he'd better play this very

carefully. On the one hand, he couldn't afford to antagonize his host's Aunt,

but on the other hand, if Isobel stopped finding this funny long enough to get

jealous… Hawk winced inwardly.

"I'm so glad you're here, Richard," said Katrina smoothly.

"Really?" said Hawk, his voice nowhere near as even as he would have liked.

"Oh yes," said Katrina. "I was starting to think I'd have to spend this weekend

all alone. I do so hate to be alone."

"There are other guests here," Fisher pointed out.

Katrina shrugged, without taking her eyes off Hawk. "Alistair's too old,

Arthur's too fat, David only has eyes for Holly, and Marc gives me the creeps. I

don't like the way he looks at me. I'd begun to despair, until you arrived,

Richard."

"I understand you're… separated from your husband," said Hawk, out of a feeling

he ought to be contributing something to the conversation.

"That's right. My husband's Graham Dorimant, a sort of somebody in local

politics. We're going to be divorced as soon as I can get the goods on him."

Hawk felt a strong inclination to turn and beat his head against the nearest

wall. Was this case going to be nothing but one complication after another? Not

only did he have to worry about Arthur Sinclair recognizing him, but now the

woman who was making eyes at him turned out to be the estranged wife of someone

else who knew him. Hawk and Fisher had met Graham Dorimant on a previous case,

not all that long ago. If by some chance Graham had discussed that case with

Katrina… A sudden thought sobered Hawk like a rush of cold water. Hawk and

Fisher had made a great impression on Graham Dorimant. It could be that he'd

described the two Guards he'd met fully enough for Katrina to recognize them

even through their disguises. And if she had, what better way to distract them

than by making a play for Hawk? But that assumed she had a reason for

distracting them, which meant…

The door opened, and Greaves entered to announce that breakfast would be served

shortly in the dining room. As everyone present moved towards the door, Katrina

quickly latched onto Hawk's arm.

"It is good of you to escort me into breakfast, Richard. You will sit with me,

won't you?"

"I ought really to sit with my sister," said Hawk, knowing how feeble it sounded

even as he said it.

"Oh, don't mind me," said Fisher promptly. "You enjoy yourself, Richard."

Hawk gave her a hard look.

"Breakfast won't be much, I'm afraid," said Katrina chummily as they moved out

into the corridor. "Cook left two days ago, along with what was left of the

kitchen staff. But Greaves and Robbie Brennan have been managing between them

until the new staff arrive."

Hawk looked at her sharply. "I thought you couldn't get servants to stay here,

because of the sightings?"

Katrina laughed. "This is Haven, Richard. Money can buy anything here. They

won't be top-notch staff, of course, but they'll do. Until we can sort this mess

out. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes; breakfast. Cold collation, I'm afraid, but

I suppose I shouldn't complain. It's very good for the figure, and I have been

putting on a little weight recently."

She glanced coquettishly at Hawk, obviously expecting some chivalrous denial. He

was still trying to come up with an answer that was both polite and noncommittal

when they reached the dining room, at the end of the long, twisting corridor.

The room was grand in design, if not in scale, most of it taken up by the single

great table, which looked as though it could easily seat thirty, and another

dozen or so if everyone was feeling chummy. A magnificent white tablecloth lay

half hidden under the glistening silver service and three blazing candelabra.

Everyone took seats at one end of the table with a minimum of fuss, and Hawk

ended up with Katrina on one side and Fisher on the other. Arthur Sinclair was

sitting opposite him, and Hawk's heart missed a beat as that gentleman suddenly

leaned forward and addressed him.

"Tell me… Richard?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Richard… something I've been meaning to ask you. Why is your hair black

and your sister's yellow?"

"Mother was frightened by an albatross," said Hawk solemnly.

Lord Arthur blinked at him, nodded, and returned his attention to his wineglass.

Hawk looked at the setting in front of him and panicked briefly as he found he

didn't even recognize some of the more sophisticated cutlery. Start at the

outside and work inwards, he told himself firmly, reaching for the outer knife

and fork. It's got prongs on it; it's got to be a fork… Greaves and Robbie

Brennan appeared through the swinging service door, carrying trays of cold meats

and artfully arranged raw vegetables.

"When you're ready, Greaves, do you think you could do something about the

fire?" said Jamie. "It seems rather cold in here today."

"Of course, sir." Greaves gestured for Brennan to put his trays down on the

table and see to the fire. Brennan gave him a look, but did as he was bid.

For a while, there was only the occasional murmur of conversation as everyone

heaped their plates and then set about the serious business of breakfast. Hawk

in particular tucked into his food with gusto, but Marc, sitting opposite

Fisher, seemed to be just toying with his. Hawk assumed he was one of those

people who couldn't face a heavy meal first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, the

minstrel had called on Greaves to help him get the fire going. Hawk smiled

slightly. The butler obviously didn't care at all for being involved in such a

menial task. He gave Brennan a hard look, and then reached gingerly up into the

chimney to tug at some obstruction. Whatever it was, it didn't want to budge,

and Greaves had to try again, harder. And then he and Brennan jumped back from

the fireplace with cries of shock and horror as a body fell down out of the

chimney and crashed into the grate. It was a man, entirely naked and stained

with soot, and very obviously dead. The whole of his face had been burned away

by the fire.

Chapter Four

Wolf in The Fold

For a long moment nobody stirred, and then there was a general scramble round

the table as people surged to their feet. Greaves backed away from the body,

unable to take his eyes off it, until he bumped into the edge of the table

behind him. Brennan stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Hawk pushed past

them both and knelt down beside the dead man. Jamie and Alistair crowded in

behind him, peering over his shoulder but apparently unwilling to get any closer

than that to the body. Fisher leaned gingerly into the fireplace and peered up

the chimney, just in case it held any more nasty surprises. Everyone else

huddled together at the far end of the table, torn between edging closer for a

better look and making a mad dash for the door. Holly's face was bone white, and

she clung desperately to Katrina for support. Katrina patted her niece's hands

in an absent-minded, comforting way while she craned her neck to see what was

happening. David and Arthur had both moved to put themselves between the ladies

and the dead man, as much out of gallantry as anything. Marc stood beside them,

gazing with fascination at the dead man.

Hawk did his best to ignore Jamie and Alistair breathing down his neck, and

looked the dead man over carefully, starting at what was left of the head and

working his way slowly down the body. There were a number of cuts and scrapes,

presumably from being wedged up the chimney, but no sign of any death wound. He

turned his attention back to the burned face, and winced despite himself. The

eyes and nose were gone, and the teeth grinned horribly through a mask of

charred flesh and bone. There was no hair left, and the ears were nothing more

than blackened nubs. Hawk breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to avoid

the smell. He'd seen many dead men in his time, often in worse condition than

this, but there was something disturbingly cold and calculating in the manner of

this man's death. He touched the man's shoulder gently with his fingertips. The

flesh was cold to the touch, already showing the purplish bruises caused by

blood sinking to the lowest part of the body. The dead man had been in the

chimney for some time. Maybe overnight. Hawk tried the neck, but it didn't seem

to be broken. He worked the dead man's arm gently, and it bent easily at the

elbow, indicating rigor mortis either hadn't set in yet or had been and gone.

Hawk frowned. That was probably a clue as to how long the man had been dead, but

he didn't understand such things. He'd never needed to. That was what forensic

sorcerers were for. He looked round sharply as Jamie MacNeil crouched down

beside him. Alistair leaned in closer, one hand resting supportively on Jamie's

shoulder.

"How did he die, do you think?" said Jamie steadily.

"Hard to tell," said Hawk. "There's no actual death wound that I can see, just

the damage to the face."

"Nasty way to go," said Alistair. "I once knew a tribe of savages who killed

their prisoners this way; hung them over an open fire till their brains boiled.

Nasty."

"I don't think that's what happened here," said Hawk slowly. "Look at the back

of the head." He gingerly lifted the burned head off the floor so they could

see. "The face has been totally destroyed, but the back of the head is barely

touched. I think someone pushed this poor bastard's face into the fire and held

it there till he died."

"Gods!" Jamie looked suddenly as though he might vomit, and turned his head

away, eyes squeezed shut.

"There's no sign of any struggle here, as far as I can see," said Fisher, her

voice coming hollowly from inside the chimney. She ducked her head back out, and

beat soot from her hair and shoulders. "Looks to me like he was already dead

when the killer stuffed him up the chimney."

She started towards the group round the body, but Alistair moved quickly to

block her way. "That's quite close enough, my dear. Please return to the others.

This is no sight for a young lady such as yourself."

Fisher was about to ask sarcastically whether he was referring to the dead man's

injuries or his nakedness, when she caught Hawk glaring at her. At which point

she remembered she was supposed to be a sheltered young flower of the Quality,

not a hardened city Guard, and she went reluctantly back to join the others. She

put a comforting arm round Holly's snaking shoulders and listened carefully to

what was being said about the dead man.

"Any idea who this is? Or rather, was?" said Hawk to Jamie.

The MacNeil looked back at the body. His face was very pale, but his gaze was

steady and his mouth was firm. "Whoever he is, he shouldn't be here. The last of

the servants left two days ago, and the only guests I know of are all in this

room."

"Maybe one of the servants came back," said Alistair.

"Not without Greaves knowing, and he would have told me." Jamie shook his head

slowly. "None of this makes any sense. No one could have got in past the Tower's

wards without setting off all kinds of alarms. It's impossible. And who would

want to kill a man here, and like… that? It's insane!"

Alistair gripped Jamie's shoulder firmly. "Easy, lad. Don't go to pieces on us

now. You're the MacNeil, and the others will be looking to you for guidance. We

have a murderer loose in the Tower somewhere, and we have to find him. Before he

strikes again."

"He's right," said Hawk. "This is a very nasty business, Jamie. You'd better

call in the Guard."

"No!" said Alistair sharply. "This is a Family matter. We don't bring outsiders

into Family business."

Hawk got to his feet and stared at Alistair. "What century are you living in?

You can't keep the Guard out of something like this! This is murder we're

talking about, not who put some chambermaid up the stick. Our best bet is to get

the hell out of here, send for the Guard, and then block off all the exits till

they get here. Let them find the killer; they're experts."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said Jamie, rising to his feet. "I've already

raised the final wards. I did it just now, so that we could get on with the

reading of the will. I never thought… The wards can't be lowered for another

twenty-four hours. That's the way they're designed. I'm sorry; there's nothing I

can do. None of us can leave the Tower."

David Brook stepped forward, staring disbelievingly at Jamie. "Are you saying

that we're all trapped in here with a killer? That whatever happens, there's no

way out?"

"Yes," said Jamie. "I'm afraid so." He stopped abruptly and looked at Hawk, who

was frowning down at the body. "What is it, Richard?"

"I was just wondering why the killer took the time to strip the body naked.

Presumably the killer didn't want us to be able to identify the victim. Which

suggests that at least one of us would have recognized him. That explains the

burned face, as well."

There was a short pause, broken by Fisher. "Something else to think about. That

body had been wedged quite a way up the chimney, going by the traces I found.

Whoever the killer is, he must be pretty strong. It can't have been easy,

stuffing a limp dead body feet first up a chimney."

Holly moaned quietly, and several of the others looked quite disturbed by

Fisher's remark.

"The man must have been mad," said David. "Madmen are supposed to be incredibly

strong, aren't they?"

Alistair cleared his throat meaningfully. "Thank you for sharing your thoughts

with us, Isobel, but I really feel you and the other ladies should withdraw.

This is not a subject suitable for your tender ears."

"No!" said Hawk quickly. "I don't want anyone going off on their own. Unless

they like the idea of being an easy target. Until we know what the hell's going

on here, we'd do better to stick together. There's safety in numbers."

Jamie looked at him strangely. "You sound almost as though you've had experience

with this sort of thing before, Richard."

Being called Richard brought Hawk up short, as he remembered who he was supposed

to be. He shrugged, thinking quickly. "There was a murder at one of the inns

Isobel and I stayed at on our way here. I did a lot of thinking about it

afterwards, and all the sensible things I should have done. But you're the

MacNeil, Jamie, and this is your home. You're in charge. I wasn't trying to

usurp your authority."

"Don't be daft," said Jamie. "This is all new to me. If you've got any ideas on

what we ought to be doing, speak out."

"Well, to start with I think we should get back to the drawing room. I don't

think we ought to move the body, and we can't hope to discuss this mess sensibly

while it's lying right there in front of us."

"Are you saying we should just leave the body here?" said Robbie Brennan.

"Why not?" said Alistair. "It's not going anywhere."

"At least cover him," said Katrina unsteadily. "Give the poor man some dignity."

"And just what are we supposed to cover him with?" asked Marc. "I'm afraid I

didn't think to bring a shroud with me to breakfast."

"Maybe someone could fetch a cloak from the main hall," said David.

"No!" said Holly quickly. "You heard Richard; it's not safe for anyone to go off

on their own."

"We can't just leave the man like this!" said Katrina shrilly, with a

stubbornness that bordered on hysteria. "He's got to be covered decently!"

Fisher grabbed one end of the magnificent white tablecloth and gave it a good

hard jerk. Food, china, cutlery, and flowers went flying in all directions. The

candelabra collapsed, and rivers of spilled wine cascaded over the sides of the

table as she kept pulling. The last of the tablecloth finally came free, and

Fisher draped it roughly over the dead man. Jamie stared speechlessly at the

mess she'd made, and then looked at her. She smiled back at him.

"Can we get the hell out of here now?" she said pointedly. "This place makes me

nervous. Besides, I need a good stiff drink, and the good brandies are back in

the drawing room."

Hawk fought to keep the smile off his lips. He should have known Fisher wouldn't

be able to keep up the demure young lady pose for long. He supposed he should be

grateful that at least she hadn't hit anyone yet. He coughed loudly to draw

everyone's attention back to him.

"If we're going to move, let's move. If nothing else, I think we'll be safer in

the drawing room. It's a lot easier to defend than this place. There are too

many doors here for my liking."

Alistair nodded approvingly. "Good thinking, lad. The drawing room's only got

one door, and we can barricade that if necessary."

Katrina's hand rose unsteadily to her mouth, and her eyes widened. "You mean the

murderer might try and attack us?"

"It's possible," said Hawk. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet."

"I think you're all worrying needlessly," said Marc. "This is one man we're

talking about, not an army. If worst comes to worst, there are more than enough

of us here to overpower him."

"It might not be that simple," said Jamie slowly. "There's only one man who

could have done something like this. The freak. He's got out, after all these

years, and he wants revenge. Revenge on the Family that walled him up alive."

Silence fell across the dining room as they all looked at each other, the

tension almost crackling on the air. Hawk silently cursed the young MacNeil.

He'd already worked out that the freak was most likely the murderer, but he'd

wanted the others safely back in the drawing room before he told them. The last

thing he needed was a panic here. He tried his cough again, and everyone's eyes

shot to him.

"There'll be time to discuss all this later," he said firmly. "Right now, I want

everyone concentrating on getting back to the drawing room safely."

"What gives you the right to give everyone orders?" said Marc. "Why should we

listen to you?"

"Because he's talking sense," said Jamie. "All right, Richard, let's take a look

out in the corridor and make sure it's clear."

The two of them moved over to the main door, eased it open a crack, then took

turns peering out down the corridor. Nothing moved in the clear morning light,

and the few shadows were comfortingly small. Jamie looked at Hawk.

"How do you want to do this, Richard?"

Hawk frowned. "First thing, all the men draw their swords. Just in case. I'll go

first, then you and Alistair. The women will come after us, with the rest of the

men bringing up the rear." He looked back at the others and gave them his best

reassuring smile. "There's no reason for anyone to be worried. We're just taking

sensible precautions, that's all."

None of them looked particularly convinced. Hawk sighed, and gave up on the

smile. He'd always done better with a glare than a smile. He looked at Jamie for

help, and the MacNeil quickly got everyone moving with a brisk mixture of tact

and authority. Hawk nodded approvingly. Jamie had the right touch; that

particular mixture of arrogance and charm that was the hallmark of the

aristocracy. Hawk led them out into the corridor, and headed back to the drawing

room at a carefully unhurried pace. It wouldn't do to take it too quickly; most

of them were so rattled they'd break into a run first chance they got. And that

would be a real recipe for disaster. Once they were all just running wildly, the

freak could pick any one of them off without being noticed. So Hawk strode along

at a casual pace, carefully checking each turn of the corridor as he came to it.

Luckily he had a good head for direction. Unlike Isobel. She could get lost

going to the jakes in a strange inn, and had done, before now.

The corridor seemed subtly different than it had the last time he'd walked it.

The light grew dimmer as they left the windows behind them, and came to depend

more and more on the wall lamps. The shadows grew darker and larger, and it was

easy to imagine something cruel and menacing waiting patiently in the darkness

for them to pass. Every door was a potential threat, every turn in the corridor

a potential trap. The quiet seemed increasingly sinister, broken only by the

soft scuffing and shuffling of their feet on the polished floor. Hawk hefted the

light dueling sword in his hand, and wished more than ever for his axe.

He scowled furiously as he tried to figure out what to do next. The last time he

and Fisher had been trapped in an isolated house with a group of guests and a

killer on the loose, things had gone terribly wrong. He and Fisher had put a

stop to the killings eventually, but not before too many innocent people had

died. Hawk's frown deepened. He was damned if he'd let that happen again. He

tensed and lifted his sword as someone came up alongside him, but it was only

Alistair.

"Hold your water, lad, it's just me. Wanted to congratulate you on how you're

handling things. You've had military experience, haven't you?"

"Actually, no," said Hawk. "I know it's not really my place to be taking charge

and giving orders, but everyone else seemed too shaken, and there were things

that needed to be done. We weren't safe in the dining room."

"You'll get no arguments from me on that, lad. I haven't felt easy in the Tower

since I arrived. Place feels… secretive. But… do you really think the freak is

that dangerous? He's only one man."

Hawk scowled unhappily. "I don't know. He's a mystery, and I don't like

mysteries. When you get right down to it, the freak is most dangerous because he

doesn't fit any normal pattern. Most murders involve people who know each other,

people who kill either for business reasons or in the heat of passion. But we're

dealing with someone who's spent centuries in solitary confinement, building his

madness year by year and honing his hate to a cutting edge. He could do

anything, for any reason; which means we haven't a hope in hell of out-thinking

him. All we can do is stack the odds in our favor as much as we can."

"Very sensible," said Alistair. He looked thoughtfully at Hawk. "No offence,

Richard, but you do seem to know an uncommon lot about murders and murderers.

Mind telling me how you came by that knowledge?"

"Of course not," said Hawk, thinking quickly. "There's not much to do in Lower

Markham, so I read a lot. Crime fascinates me. Especially murders. So that's

what I read about. Mostly."

Alistair made no comment, just nodded and dropped back to rejoin Jamie. Hawk

signed. It wasn't the best answer he could have come up with, but then, thinking

on his feet had never been what he did best. Except when he was fighting. But he

was going to have to be more careful. He had to think like a Guard if he was

going to solve this case, but he couldn't afford to act like one. If Jamie was

to find out he'd revealed his Family's darkest Secret to an outsider, and a city

Guard at that…

There was a collective sigh of relief as they hurried down the last stretch of

corridor and reached the drawing room without incident. Hawk was first in, and

quickly checked the room was secure. He then ushered the others in, and checked

the door for bolts. There weren't any, so he wedged a chair up against the door

and settled for that. Some of the tension went out of him, and he let out a

long, weary sigh. In a situation like this, looking out for yourself was tiring

enough, without having to worry about a bunch of civilians, half of whom were

jumping at their own damn shadows.

They were already splitting up into smaller groups, turning to those they

trusted most for comfort and support. Jamie and Alistair were talking urgently

together, with a fair amount of arm waving from both of them. David Brook and

Lord Arthur were trying to help Katrina soothe Holly, who was still trembling

pitifully. Marc stood with them, holding a drink for Holly, his face as calm and

composed as ever. Hawk studied him a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Of them all,

Marc had coped best with the situation. He might well prove a useful ally if

things started getting out of control. Whatever else you could say about Marc,

the man had guts. Hawk looked away, and his gaze settled on Brennan and Greaves.

They were standing patiently together not far from Jamie and Alistair, waiting

for orders. Fisher came over to join Hawk with a snifter of brandy in each hand.

Hawk accepted his gratefully.

"Well?" said Fisher. "How do you read this? What the hell's going on here?"

Hawk shrugged. "You got me. What little evidence there is points in half a dozen

different directions at once. I did some thinking on the way here, and I've

managed to narrow it down to three main possibilities. First, and most obvious,

is that the freak really has got loose, and has graduated from breaking up the

furniture to killing people. That doesn't explain who the dead stranger is,

though, or why the freak chose him as his first victim, rather than one of us.

"Second choice, equally obvious: This is all something to do with the spy

Fenris. Perhaps the dead man was to be Fenris' contact, and someone killed him

to prevent that contact taking place. Or, the dead man could be Fenris, killed

by his contact for screwing up his mission. That would explain why the man's

face was burned away, so that we wouldn't be able to tell who Fenris really

was."

"And finally, there's choice number three: Someone in this room is a murderer,

and killed that man for personal reasons that have nothing to do with Fenris or

the freak."

"Great," said Fisher. "Just what we needed. As if this case wasn't complicated

enough, we now have a murder mystery on our hands. Great. Bloody marvelous. All

right, what do we do? Reveal who we are and take charge?"

"Are you crazy?" said Hawk. "The penalty for impersonating Quality is death by

dismemberment, remember? Besides, we don't dare risk our cover until we've got

some kind of lead on which of these people is Fenris. Our orders were to prevent

Fenris escaping, no matter what. We're going to have to do what sleuthing we can

undercover, and keep our ideas to ourselves."

"That shouldn't be too difficult," said Fisher. "I haven't got two ideas to rub

together."

"Then you haven't been paying attention. We already know Alistair isn't being

honest about where he comes from."

"We do?" Fisher looked at him sternly. "You're showing off again, Richard. All

right, what did I miss this time?"

Hawk couldn't keep all the smile off his lips. "According to Alistair, he comes

from the Red Marches. He grew almost lyrical about the marvelous countryside,

and the good hunting to be found there. But we passed through the Red Marches on

our way to Haven, seven years ago. They've been flooded for the past eighty

years. Most of the land is under water now. There's some good fishing here and

there, but no hunting. He also talked about getting involved in fighting down on

the border, but thanks to the floods, it's been peaceful down there for years.

It's the most secure border in the Low Kingdoms these days. But Alistair didn't

know that. Interesting, eh?"

"Very," said Fisher. "But why didn't any of the others pick up on it?"

Hawk shrugged. "The Red Marches are pretty remote, and about as far from High

Society as you can get. It's probably just a name to most people here. Which is

probably what Alistair was counting on."

"I'll tell you who else we ought to keep an eye on," said Fisher, "and that's

Katrina. She's still married to Graham Dorimant, who was heavily involved in the

local political scene. Since they're separated now, and not at all amicably,

it's just possible she might have got involved in outsider politics as a way of

getting back at her husband. She could be Fenris' contact. She's been here at

the Tower for some time; that could explain why Fenris went to ground here."

"But if he's already met his contact, why hasn't he left?"

"Perhaps he's waiting for her to arrange a safe route out."

"Hold your horses," said Hawk suddenly. "There's another possibility, and one we

should have spotted sooner. What if the dead man had been Fenris' contact, and

had threatened to abandon Fenris to the authorities, rather than risk any more

of the outsider network being discovered? Fenris must know he's facing a death

penalty, even if he is Quality. He could have killed his contact to protect

himself, and then hidden the body while he tried to figure out what to do next."

"Right," said Fisher. "But he left it too late, and Jamie put the wards up.

We've got to identify him before tomorrow, Hawk, or he'll do a runner the moment

the wards go down."

"Isobel, will you please call me Richard! Walls have ears, you know, especially

in a situation like this."

"Sorry. But if Fenris is our killer, it means we can stop wasting time looking

for some imaginary murderous freak. I mean, what proof have we the creature ever

existed, apart from Jamie's story?"

Hawk shrugged. "We've seen stranger things in our time."

On the other side of the room, Jamie looked at Alistair almost pleadingly. "We

can talk about Richard and Isobel later, Alistair. I've more important things to

worry about. What am I going to do about the killing? I'm the MacNeil, the head

of the Family; they'll all be looking to me for reassurance and answers I

haven't got, and I don't know what to do!"

"To start with, calm down," said Alistair sharply. "Getting hysterical won't

help. Let's look at this logically. Now that we know the freak's a killer, what

matters most is tracking it down before it strikes again. Which means we have to

find the hidden cell. We'll search the Tower from top to bottom, checking each

room as we go for hidden panels and secret passages. If the freak got out of his

room, there must be a way in. We can split into two groups to save time. I'll

take one group, you lead the other. Right?"

"Yes. Right." Jamie breathed deeply twice, and pinched the bridge of his nose

hard. It seemed to help. The panic that had all but paralysed him was dropping

swiftly away, now that he had a definite goal to focus on. He smiled quickly at

Alistair and looked around him. "There's no point in taking everyone with us.

The women will be safer here, out of harm's way."

"We'd better leave Lord Arthur behind as well." Alistair's voice was mild, but

his gaze was unyielding. "I think he means well, but you can't trust a drunk in

a crisis. What about David Brook? Good man?"

"The best," said Jamie. "Good with a sword, levelheaded, and doesn't scare