Guards of Haven Read online

  “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 Councillor 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 neighbouring 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 comers 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, heavyset 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 wonder-workers. 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 forget-table, 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 e
ye, 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 parlour, 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 parlour 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.