Wolf in the Fold h&f-4 Read online

  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

  easily. Always knows the right thing to do in a tricky situation. I'd trust him

  with my life. We'll take Greaves, too. He's another steady one; utterly

  dependable. As for Robbie Brennan… he's a stout enough man, and damned good with

  a sword in his younger days, from what Dad used to say. But that was a long time

  ago."

  "Once a soldier, always a soldier," said Alistair. "The old instincts will still

  be there, just needing the right moment to bring them out again."

  "If you say so. What about Marc?"

  Alistair frowned. "He's a cool one, I'll give him that, but I don't know if I'd

  trust him to guard my back. Still, he doesn't look the type to fold under

  pressure. And that just leaves Richard. And you know how I feel about him…"

  "He seems a solid enough sort," said Jamie. "Somewhat gauche and a bit of a

  bumpkin, but this is his first trip to the big city, after all. And he was the

  one who got us all organized when everyone else fell apart at the sight of the

  body."

  "Exactly," said Alistair. "I've seen a good many dead men in my time, but even

  so, what was left of that poor bastard's face stopped me in my tracks. It didn't

  throw Richard, though. He was right there, examining the body and cracking out

  orders. It's not natural, Jamie. And when I asked him about it, do you know what

  he said? He said murders fascinate him, so he spends all his time reading about

  them. Never trust a man who reads, Jamie; it gives him ideas. The wrong sort of

  ideas."

  "Maybe. But right now he seems to be the only one of us who knows what he's

  doing. He goes with us. If only so we can keep a close eye on him."

  "I don't trust him," said Alistair. "He's hiding something."

  "Everyone has something to hide," said Jamie. "All that matters right now is

  finding the freak before he kills again. This is my home. Whatever happened

  through the years, I always felt safe and secure here. The freak's taken that

  away from me, and I want it back. I want my home back."

  Alistair dropped a heavy hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Buck up, lad. We'll find the

  freak and kill him, and then things'll get back to normal again. You'll see."

  Greaves looked disapprovingly at Robbie Brennan as the minstrel helped himself

  to a second large snifter of brandy. "Look at the state of you. I don't know

  which makes your hands shake the more, the fear or the drink. The young master

  will have need of us soon, and he'll be none too pleased if he finds you the

  worse for drink. Get a hold of yourself, man!"

  "Go to hell," said Brennan flatly. "You're a cold fish, Greaves, and always have

  been. I've never seen an honest emotion cross that cold face of yours in all the

  years I've known you. It's always been 'yes sir, no sir, can I wipe your arse

  now, sir?' I've been with this Family for forty years, long before you came

  along, but I've always been my own man."

  Greaves looked at him unflinchingly. "Is this leading anywhere?"

  "When I was a man-at-arms in the Broken Flats campaign, I saw more dead men than

  you could imagine in your worst nightmare. I saw them cut down and ripped apart

  and piled up in huge heaps under the midday sun, and I never got used to it.

  Which is why I came out of that campaign sane when a lot of men didn't. Duncan

  would have understood. It's enough to be strong when you have to be. He never

  expected a man to be always unmoved
and unfeeling, like you. So, right now we've

  got a freak running loose in the Tower, out for revenge on all of us, but I bet

  at the end of the day I'll still be standing and you'll be crawling on your

  knees. Because I know when to bend with the wind, and you don't."

  "You always did have a way with words," said Greaves. "But then, that's all

  you've got left now, isn't it? Your soldier days were a long time ago. Look at

  you, shaking and quivering in every nerve, with your snout buried in your glass.

  And Mister Duncan was always so proud of you, and saying what a fine warrior you

  were on the battlefield. What would he say if he could see you now?"

  "Duncan would have understood." Brennan drained his glass and straightened up a

  little. "I'll do my bit. You worry about yourself."

  "It's not myself that fills my thoughts, Robbie Brennan. And what worries I have

  are not for you. It's the young master, the MacNeil himself, that we should be

  concerned about. He had no choice but to reveal the great Secret to all those…

  people, but it must not pass beyond these walls. If it were to get out, the

  MacNeil would be ruined. It's up to us to make sure that doesn't happen."

  Brennan frowned. "Just what are you suggesting, Greaves?"

  "What I am suggesting, Robbie Brennan, minstrel and sometime friend to the

  MacNeil Family, is that we make sure only those we can trust leave this Tower

  alive."

  "If Jamie knew what you're saying…"

  "He is not to know. It is our job to protect this Family, and do what must be

  done for its safety. The MacNeil is too young to understand."

  They looked at each other for a long moment, until Brennan finally nodded and

  put down his empty glass.

  Holly accepted a snifter of brandy from Lord Arthur, and nodded her thanks. Her

  hands were steadying, and some color was finally coming back into her cheeks.

  She smiled briefly around her, and then lowered her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm

  not usually like this. It's the shock."

  "It's all right," said Arthur. "We understand."

  "There's no need to hover over her like that, Arthur," said David Brook testily.

  "Give the poor girl room to breathe."

  Arthur nodded quickly, and stepped back a pace. Holly gripped his hand firmly,

  and reached out to take David's hand too.