Wolf in the Fold h&f-4 Read online

  Wolf in the Fold

  ( Hawk & Fisher - 4 )

  Simon R. Green

  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 o
pen 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