Guard Against Dishonor Page 8

  "Good to have you with us, Captain. Your reputation precedes you."

  "You don't want to believe everything you hear," said Fisher easily. "Only the bad bits."

  Regis smiled politely. "Is your partner, Captain Hawk, not here with you?"

  "He's working on a case of his own at the moment, and can't leave it, I'm afraid. But not to worry, my lord. You're safe in our hands."

  "I'm sure we shall be."

  "I trust you'll pardon my interruption," said Lord Nightingale, looking only at Lord Regis, "but we are rather short of time. Perhaps you could continue this conversation later…"

  "Of course," said Regis.

  He nodded politely to Fisher and ap Owen, and turned to face the far wall. The door reappeared, and swung silently open. Fisher shivered suddenly. She tried to see what lay beyond the door, but there was only an impenetrable darkness. The delegates filed through, and the door swung shut behind them and vanished. Fisher sank back into her chair and stretched out her legs. This was going to be a long, hard job, she could tell. She looked thoughtfully at the food left on the table, but didn't have the energy to get up and go after it. She hoped Hawk was taking it easy, wherever he was, but doubted it. Without her to keep an eye on him, there was no telling what he'd get up to.

  Chapter Four

  A Matter of Trust

  Hawk led Captain Burns into the rotten heart of the Northside. The streets grew steadily narrower, choked with filthy snow and slush, and bustling crowds that made way for the two Guards without ever looking at them directly. Even so, they made slow progress, and Hawk had to fight to control his impatience. The pressure seemed to be bearing down on him from every side now, but he knew his only hope of dealing with it was to stay calm and controlled. His enemies would be delighted to see him striking out blindly in all directions and missing the real targets. Besides, he didn't want to spook Burns. And yet behind his grim, impassive face, Hawk's thoughts danced restlessly from one problem to another, searching for answers that eluded him. The super-chacal was out there somewhere, poised to sweep across the city in a tidal wave of blood and death. Morgan was out there too, hidden somewhere safe and plotting the deaths of everyone who knew the truth about his new drug. Not to mention Hammer, the gang leader from the Devil's Hook, and his threatened vendetta.

  And also back at the Hook, the little girl Hawk had rescued from underneath the wreckage was lying in a hospital bed, still in a coma. The doctors didn't know whether she'd ever regain consciousness.

  On top of all that, the Guard wanted his scalp for screwing up, and they'd taken Isobel away from him. Some days you just couldn't get a break. Hawk realized Burns was speaking to him, and looked round sharply.

  "I'm sorry. What?"

  "I said," Burns repeated patiently, "is it always this bad here? I'd heard stories, of course, but this place is disgusting."

  Hawk looked around at the squalid buildings and the ragged people, and the overriding sense of violence and despair that rose from them like an almost palpable mist. After five years working the Northside he'd grown inured to most of the misery and suffering, for the sake of his sanity, but it still disturbed him enough to appreciate how bad it must seem to an outsider. Haven was a dark city wherever you looked, but the Northside was dark enough to stamp out the light in anyone's soul eventually. Hawk realized Burns was still looking at him for an answer, and he shrugged harshly.

  "It's quiet today, if anything. The snow and the cold are keeping most people off the streets, even the beggars, and those who are out and about aren't hanging around long enough to start any trouble. But you can bet that somewhere, someone is starting a fight, or stabbing someone in the back for no good reason. There's all sorts of crime here, everything you'd expect in an area as poor as this, but the violence never ends. To a Northsider, everyone is an enemy, out to steal what little he has, and most of the time he's right. There's little love or comfort here, Burns, and even less hope. And the only thing the Northsiders hate more than each other is an outsider. Like us."

  "How do you cope with working here?" said Burns. "I'd go crazy in a week."

  Hawk shrugged. "I've seen worse. All you can do is try and make a difference for the best, where you can. What brought you here from the Westside?"

  "Doughty and I were filling in for some Guards who were down with the flu. When I heard they were sending us here, I seriously thought about calling in sick myself, but of course it was too late by then. Doughty didn't mind. There wasn't much that bothered him."

  "I'm sorry about your partner," said Hawk.

  "Yeah. He had a wife, you know. Separated three years back, but… Someone will have told her by now. I should have done it myself, but she never liked me anyway."

  They walked in silence for a while, not looking at each other.

  "So, what's the plan?" said Burns finally. "Are we headed anywhere in particular?"

  "I thought we'd start off with Short Tom," said Hawk. "Has a nice little distribution setup, down on Carlisle Street. He'll move anything for anyone, as long as the money's right. Not one of the biggest, but certainly one of the longest established. I doubt he's handling the super-chacal himself, but he'll probably have a damned good idea who might be."

  "Will he talk to us? Do you have a good relationship with him?"

  Hawk looked at Burns. "This is the Northside, no one here talks to the Guard willingly. We're the enemy, the ones who enforce the laws that keep them in their place. The poverty here's so bad, most people will do anything to escape it. They don't care who they rob or who they hurt. All they care about is making that one big score that will finally get them out of the Northside. You can't reason with people like that. Short Tom will talk to me because he knows what will happen to him if he doesn't."

  Burns stared straight ahead of him, his face expressionless. "I don't approve of strong-arm tactics. I put on this uniform to help people, not oppress them."

  "You've spent too long in the Westside, Burns. They still like to pretend they're living in a civilized city over there. Here in the Northside, they'd quite happily cut you down for the loose change in your pockets, or a chance at your boots. The only thing that keeps them off my back is the certain knowledge that I'll kill them if they even think of raising a hand against me. I have to be obviously more dangerous than they are at all times, or I'd be a dead man. Look… I used to think the same as you, once. There are good people here, same as there are good people everywhere, and I do my best to help and protect them. Even if it means bending or ignoring the rules to do so. But when you get right down to it, my job is to enforce the law. Whatever it takes."

  "Being a Guard doesn't give us the right to beat up someone just because we think they might have information that might help us. There are procedures, proper ways of doing things."

  Hawk sighed. "I know. I've read the Manual too. But the procedures take time, and for all I know, the super-chacal's already seeping out onto the streets. I could threaten to arrest Short Tom, maybe even drag him down to Headquarters and throw him in a cell to think things over. But I couldn't hold him for long, and he knows it. I don't have the time to be a nice guy about this, and to be blunt, I don't have the inclination. My way works, and I'll settle for that. I've never laid a finger on an innocent man, or killed a man who didn't deserve it."

  "How can you be sure? How can you be sure you haven't killed an innocent man by accident? The dead can't defend themselves from other people's accusations. We're Captains in the Guard, Hawk—not judge, jury, and executioner."

  "I go by what works," said Hawk flatly. "When the people in the Northside start playing by the rules, so will I. Look, there are just four Captains and a dozen Constables to cover the whole Northside. We can't be everywhere at once, so we have to let our reputations go ahead of us. It's a big area, Burns, and rotten to the core. All we can ever hope to do is keep the lid on. Now, I don't care if you approve of how I do my job or not; just watch my back and don't interfere. The only thing that matters n
ow is stopping Morgan and his stinking drug."

  Burns nodded slowly. "Of course, finding the super-chacal would go a long way towards reinstating you in the Guard, wouldn't it?"

  Hawk looked at him coldly. "If you think that's the only reason I'm doing this, then you don't know me at all."

  "Sorry. You're right, of course. Hawk, can I ask you something… personal?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. What?"

  "What happened to your eye?"

  "Oh, that. I pawned it."

  Short Tom's place was a two-storey glorified lean-to, adjoining a battered old warehouse on Carlisle Street. The street itself was blocked from one end to the other by an open-air market and the tightly packed crowd it had drawn. The tattered, gaudy stalls crowded up against each other, and the vendors behind them filled the air with their aggressive patter. Most of them were bundled up to their ears in thick winter furs, but it didn't seem to be slowing them down any. Some of them were all but jumping up and down on the spot in their attempt to explain just how magnificent and amazingly affordable their goods were. Hawk glanced at a few stalls, but wasn't impressed. Still, with Haven's Docks closed by the winter storms, goods of all kinds were getting scarce, and even rubbish like this was starting to look good. The smell was pretty bad, particularly around the food stalls, and Burns pulled one face after another as he and Hawk made their way slowly through the crowd. Even their Guards' uniforms couldn't make them any room in such a crush.

  Short Tom's lean-to loomed up before them, looking more and more unsafe the closer they got. It looked like it had been thrown together on the cheap by a builder in a hurry, trying to stay one step ahead of his reputation. The walls weren't straight, the wood was stained and warped, and the door and window frames were lopsided. It was a mess, even by Northside standards. Still, it was no doubt cheap to rent, and for a man in Short Tom's line of business, that was all that really mattered.

  Two large bravos in heavy sheepskin coats stood before the main door, arms folded, glaring impartially about them. Hawk walked up to the one on the left, and punched him out. The second bravo yelped in disbelief and started to unfold his arms. Hawk kicked him in the knee, waited for him to bend forward, and then knocked him out with the butt of his axe. No one in the milling crowd paid any attention. It was none of their business. Burns looked at Hawk.

  "Was that really necessary?"

  "Yes," said Hawk. "They wouldn't have let us in without a fight, and if I'd given them a chance to draw their swords, someone would have got seriously hurt. Most probably them, but you never know. Now follow me, watch my back, and let me do all the talking. And try to at least look mean."

  He stepped over the unconscious bravos, pushed open the door and stepped through, followed closely by Burns. Inside, all was surprisingly neat and tidy, with clerks sitting behind two rows of desks, shuffling pieces of paper and making careful entries in two sets of ledgers. One of the clerks shouted for them to shut the bloody door and keep the bloody cold out, and Burns quickly did so. Hawk glanced at him, and shook his head. Far too long in the Westside. He looked back at the clerks, who had finally realized who the newcomers were. One clerk opened his mouth to shout a warning.

  "Don't," said Hawk.

  The clerk looked at the axe in Hawk's hand, thought about it, and shut his mouth.

  "Good boy," said Hawk. He looked about him, and the clerks shrank down behind their desks. Hawk smiled coldly. "My partner and I are going upstairs to have a nice little chat with Short Tom. Just carry on as normal. And by the way, if anyone was to come up after us and interrupt our little chat, I will be most upset. Is that clear?"

  The clerks nodded quickly, and did their best to look as though the idea had never entered their heads. Hawk and Burns strolled casually between the desks and up the stairway at the back of the room. Burns watched the clerks' faces out of the corner of his eye. They'd all recognized Hawk by now, and there was real terror in their faces, and not a little awe. Burns frowned thoughtfully. He'd heard stories about Hawk—everyone had—but he'd never really believed them. Until now.

  They found Short Tom in his office, right at the top of the stairs. It was a nice little place, neat and tidy and almost cosy, with thick rugs on the floor, comfortable furniture, and attractive watercolor landscapes on the walls. Short Tom looked up as they entered, and his face fell. Not surprisingly, given his name, he was a dwarf, with stubby arms and legs and a large head. He wore the very latest fashion, and it was a credit to his tailor that he didn't look any more ridiculous than anybody else. He was sitting at a normal-sized desk, on a custom-made chair, and he pushed it back slightly as he reached for a desk drawer.

  "I wouldn't," said Hawk. "I really wouldn't."

  Short Tom nodded glumly, and took his hand away from the drawer. "Captain Hawk. How nice to see you again. Absolutely marvelous. What do you want?"

  "Just a little chat," said Hawk. "I've got a problem I thought you might be able to help me with."

  "I'm clean," said Short Tom immediately. "One hundred per cent. I'm entirely legitimate these days."

  "Of course you are," said Hawk. "In which case, you won't mind my bringing in the tax inspectors to go through all your invoices, will you?"

  Short Tom sighed heavily. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

  "Morgan's got a small mountain of drugs on his hands that he has to move in a hurry."

  "He hasn't contacted me. I swear he hasn't."

  "I know he hasn't. You're not big enough for this. But you can give me some names. With a deal this urgent, there's bound to have been talk already."

  "I've heard about your run-in with Morgan," said Short Tom carefully, "and I can't afford to get involved. I'm just a small-time operator, dealing in whatever odds and ends the big boys can't be bothered with. As long as I know my place, no one bothers me. If I start talking out of turn, Morgan will send some of his heavies round to shut me up permanently. You'll have to find your help somewhere else."

  "Thousands of people could die if we don't stop this drug hitting the street."

  "That's not my problem."

  Hawk raised his axe above his head and brought it sweeping down in one swift, savage movement. The axe-head buried itself in Short Tom's desk, splitting the polished desktop apart. Hawk yanked the axe free and struck the desk again, putting all his strength into it. The desk caved in, sheared almost in two. Splinters flew on the air, and papers fluttered to the floor like wounded birds. Short Tom sat very still, looking down at the wreckage of his desk. He raised his eyes and looked at Hawk, standing before him with his axe at the ready.

  "On the other hand," said Short Tom very politely, "I've always believed in cooperating with the forces of law and order whenever possible."

  He came up with four names and addresses, all of which Hawk recognized. He nodded his thanks, and left. Burns hurried after him, having almost missed his cue. His last glimpse was of Short Tom staring glumly at what was left of his desk. Burns followed Hawk down the stairs and back through the rows of clerks, all of whom were careful to keep their eyes glued to their work as the Guards passed. Hawk and Burns stepped out into the street again, and Burns winced as the bitter cold hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of the offices. He stubbed his toe on something, and looked down to find the two bravos who'd guarded the front door still lying where they'd fallen. Only now they were stark-naked, having been stripped of everything they owned. Their flesh was a rather pleasant pale blue, set against the dirty grey of the snow. Hawk chuckled.

  "That's the Northside for you."

  "We can't just leave them like this," protested Burns. "They'll freeze to death."

  "Yeah, I know. Give me a hand and we'll dump them back in the offices. Short Tom will take care of them. But let this be a lesson to you, Burns. Never give a Northsider an opening, or he'll steal you blind. And the odds are there's not one person in this crowd who would have lifted a finger to help these two bravos. They'd have just left them there to freeze. In the Northside
, people learn from an early age not to care for anyone but themselves."

  "Is that where you learned it?" said Burns.

  Hawk looked at him, and Burns had to fight down an urge to look away from the glare of the single cold eye. When Hawk finally spoke, his voice was calm and unhurried.

  "I think we're going to get on a lot better if you stop acting like a character from a religious pamphlet. I don't know how you've managed to survive this long in Haven; I can only assume they've had a hot flush of civilization in the Westside since I was last there.

  "Look, Burns, let's get this clear once and for all. I'm only as hard as I need to be to get the job done. I take no pleasure in violence, but I don't shrink from it either, if I decide it's necessary. I didn't see you holding back when we were fighting for our lives in Morgan's factory."

  "That was different!"

  "No, it wasn't. We're fighting a war here in the Northside, against some of the most evil and corrupt sons of bitches this city has produced, and we're losing. For every villain we put away, there are ten more queuing up to take his place. The only satisfaction we get out of this job is knowing that things would be even worse without us. Now, am I going to have any more problems with you?"

  "No," said Burns. "You've made yourself very clear."

  "Good. Now help me get these two bravos inside before they freeze their nuts off."

  It didn't take long to discover that none of the distributors knew anything about Morgan's super-chacal. The word from every one of them was that Morgan had gone to ground after his release from custody, and no one had heard anything about him since. Hawk gave them all his best, menacing glare, but they stuck to their story, so in the end Hawk decided he believed them. Hawk and Burns stood together in the street outside the last distributor's warehouse, and looked at each other thoughtfully.