Guard Against Dishonor Page 9

  "Maybe Morgan's set up his own distribution network," said Burns.

  "No," said Hawk. "If he had, I'd have heard about it."

  "You didn't know about the super-chacal."

  "That was different."

  "How?"

  "The drug could be produced and guarded by relatively few people, hidden away in the pocket dimension. A new distribution system would need a lot of people, and someone would have been bound to talk. No, Morgan has to be using an established distributor. Maybe someone who doesn't normally move drugs, but has the right kind of contacts."

  "Maybe." Burns pulled his cloak tightly about him, and stamped his feet in the snow. "So, what's our next step?"

  "We go and talk with the one man who might know what Morgan is up to; the man who knows everything that's going on in the Northside, because nothing happens here without his approval. The big man himself: Saint Christophe."

  Burns looked at him sharply. "Wait a minute, Hawk, even I've heard of Saint Christophe. He takes a cut from every crime committed in Haven. Word is he has a dozen judges in his pocket, and as many Councilors. Not to mention a personal army of four hundred men, and a private mansion better protected than Guard Headquarters. We don't stand a chance of getting in to see him, and even if we did somehow manage it, he'd probably just have us killed on sight. Slowly and very horribly."

  "Calm down," said Hawk, amused. "We're not going anywhere near his house."

  "Thank all the Gods for that."

  "I've got a better idea."

  Burns looked at him suspiciously. "If it involves bursting in on him where he works and smashing up his desk, you are on your own. Saint Christophe is the only person in the Northside with an even worse reputation than you."

  "Have you finished?" said Hawk.

  "Depends," said Burns darkly. "Tell me your idea."

  "Every day, at the same time, Saint Christophe has a bath and sauna at a private little place not far from here. It's pretty well guarded, but there's a way to get in that not many people know about. I did the owner a favor once."

  "And at what time of day does Saint Christophe visit this bathhouse?" said Burns.

  "About now. "

  Burns nodded glumly. "I thought so. You've had this in mind all along, haven't you?"

  Hawk grinned. "Stick with me, Burns. I know what I'm doing."

  Burns just looked at him.

  The private baths turned out to be a discreet little place tucked away on a side street in a surprisingly quiet and upmarket area right on the edge of the Northside. It stayed quiet and upmarket because the Northside's more successful villains used the area for their own rest and relaxation, and everyone else had the sense to stay out of their way. Everyone except Hawk.

  He walked breezily down an alleyway and slipped into the baths through a door marked "Staff Only." Burns hurried in after him and shut the door quickly behind them, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Hawk looked around once to get his bearings, then set off confidently through a maze of corridors that Burns wouldn't have tackled without a map and a compass. Every now and again they encountered a member of the staff, but Hawk just nodded to each attendant briskly, as though he had every right to be there, and the attendant just nodded back and continued on his way. Burns grew increasingly nervous, and felt a growing need to find a privy.

  "Are you sure you know where you're going?" he whispered harshly.

  "You must learn to trust me, Burns," said Hawk airily. "The owner himself showed me this route. We'll find Saint Christophe in cubicle seventeen, just down this corridor here. Assuming he hasn't changed his routine."

  "And if he has?"

  "Then we'll just walk up and down the corridor, slamming doors open, till we find him."

  Burns realized with a sinking heart that Hawk wasn't joking. He thought about the number of major villains who were probably relaxing all unknowing behind the other doors, and swallowed hard. He started to plot an emergency escape route back through the corridors, realized he was hopelessly lost, and felt even worse.

  Cubicle seventeen looked like all the others, a plain wooden door with a gold filigree number. Hawk put his ear against the door and listened for a moment, then stood back and loosened the axe at his side. Then he kicked the door open, strolled casually into the steam-filled sauna and leaned against the door, holding it open. Burns stood in the doorway, keeping one eye on the corridor, in case some of the staff happened along. The steam quickly cleared as the temperature dropped, revealing Saint Christophe sitting at the back of the room, surrounded by twelve muscular female bodyguards wearing nothing but sword belts.

  The bodyguards surged to their feet, grabbing for their swords as they recognized the Guards' uniforms. Hawk just leaned against the door, and nodded casually to Saint Christophe. Burns wanted desperately to draw his sword, but had enough sense to know it wouldn't help him much if he did. His only hope was to brazen it out and hope Hawk knew what he was doing. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, and gave the bodyguards his best intimidating glare. If it bothered them at all, they did a great job of hiding it. And then Saint Christophe stirred on his wooden bench, and everybody's attention went to him. He gestured briefly to his bodyguards, and they all immediately put away their swords and sat down again, ignoring the two Guards. Burns blinked. He couldn't have been more surprised if they'd all started speaking in tongues.

  Saint Christophe was a big man, in more ways than one. Though no longer personally involved in any particular racket, every other villain in the city paid him homage, not to mention tribute. He funded a great many operations, and planned many more, but never took a single risk himself. He ran his organization with brutal efficiency and was reputed to be one of the richest men in Haven, if not the Low Kingdoms. He had a partner, once. No one knew what happened to him. It wasn't considered prudent to ask.

  The man himself was over six feet tall, and was reputed to weigh three hundred and fifty pounds. Sitting down, he looked almost as wide as he was tall, a mountain of gleaming white flesh running with perspiration. Rumor had it there was a surprising amount of muscle under all the fat, and Burns believed it. Even sitting still, Saint Christophe exuded an air of overwhelming menace—partly from his imposing bulk, and partly from his unwavering, lizardlike gaze. His face was blank and almost childlike, his features stretched smooth like a baby's by his fat, an impression heightened by his thin, wispy hair. He moved slightly, and the wooden bench groaned under his weight. His bodyguards were already beginning to shiver from the dropping temperature, but he didn't seem to notice it. His gaze was fixed entirely on Hawk, ignoring Burns, for which Burns was very grateful. When Saint Christophe finally spoke, his voice was deep and cultured.

  "Well, Captain Hawk. An unexpected pleasure. It's not often you come to see me."

  "I have a problem," said Hawk.

  "Yes, I know. You have a talent for annoying important people, Captain, but this time you have surpassed yourself. The Guard wants you suspended, a gang from the Devil's Hook has declared vendetta against you, and Morgan wants your head on a platter. You've had a busy morning."

  "It's not over yet. I need to know how Morgan is going to distribute his new drug."

  "And so you came to me for help. How touching. Why should I help you, Captain Hawk? It would make much more sense to have you killed, here and now. After all, you've caused me much distress in the past. You've shut down my operations, arrested and killed my men, and cost me a great deal of money. I really don't know why I didn't order your death long ago."

  Hawk grinned. "Because you couldn't be one hundred percent sure they'd do the job. And you know that if they didn't kill me, I'd kill them, and then I'd come after you. And all the bodyguards in Haven couldn't keep you alive if I wanted your head."

  Saint Christophe nodded slowly, his face impassive. "You always were a vindictive man, Captain. But one day you'll push me too far, and then we'll see how good you really are with that axe. In the meantime, my offer to you still
stands. Leave the Guard, and work for me. Be my man, I could make you rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams."

  "I'm my own man," said Hawk. "And there isn't enough money in Haven to make me work for you. You deal in other people's suffering, and the blood won't wash off your money, no matter how many times you launder it through legitimate businesses."

  "Anyone would think you didn't like me," said Saint Christophe. "Why should I help you. Captain? You spurn my friendship, throw my more-than-generous offers back in my face, and insult me in front of my people. What is it to me if Morgan is pushing a new drug? If it wasn't him, it would be somebody else. The market's appetite is always bigger than we can satisfy."

  "This drug is different," said Hawk flatly. "It turns its users into maddened, unstoppable killers. A few hours after the drug hits the streets, there'll be hundreds of homicidal maniacs running loose in the city. The death toll could easily run into thousands. You can't sell your precious services to dead people, Christophe. You need me to stop Morgan because he threatens your markets. All of them. It's as simple as that."

  "Perhaps." Saint Christophe leaned forward slightly, and his wooden bench groaned loudly. His bodyguards tensed for a moment, and then relaxed. "This is important to you, isn't it, Captain?"

  "Of course. It's my job."

  "No, this is more than just your job; it's become personal to you. One should never get personally involved in business, Captain; it distorts a man's judgment and makes him… vulnerable. Let us make a deal, you and I. You want something from me, and I want something from you. I will agree to shut down all distribution networks in Haven for forty-eight hours. More then enough time for you to find Morgan and put a stop to his plans. In return… you will leave the Guard and work for me. A simple exchange, Captain Hawk. Take it or leave it."

  "No deal," said Hawk.

  "Think about it, Captain. Think of the thousands who'll die if you don't find Morgan in time. And you won't, without my help. You really don't have a choice."

  "Wrong. You're the one who doesn't have a choice." Hawk fixed Saint Christophe with his cold glare, and the bodyguards stirred restlessly. "The Guard still has some of the super-chacal we confiscated from Morgan's factory. Whoever made the drug disappear from Headquarters missed one batch. So either you cooperate, and tell me what I need to know, or I'll see that when the drug finally gets loose, you'll personally get a good strong dose. If Haven's going to be torn apart because of you, I'll see you go down with it."

  "You wouldn't do that," said Saint Christophe.

  "Try me," said Hawk.

  For a long moment, nobody spoke. The atmosphere in the sauna grew dangerously tense. Burns glanced from Hawk to Saint Christophe and back again, but neither of them looked to be giving way. He let his hand drift a little closer to his sword. All it would take was one sign from Saint Christophe, and the twelve bodyguards would attack. Hawk might actually be able to handle six-to-one odds with that bloody axe of his, but Burns had no false illusions about his own fighting skills. Maybe, if he was quick enough, he could jump back and slam the door in their faces, slow them down enough for him to make a run for it. That would mean abandoning Hawk…

  "Very well," said Saint Christophe. "I agree. I will see to it that the distribution networks are shut down for twenty-four hours."

  "You said forty-eight," said Hawk.

  "That was a different deal. You have twenty-four hours. Captain. I suggest you make good use of them, since regretfully I have no idea as to where Morgan might be at present. He seems to have disappeared into a hole and pulled it in after him. But Captain, when this is over, you will answer to me for your threats and defiance. Please close the door on your way out."

  Hawk turned and left without speaking. Burns hurried after him, shut the cubicle door firmly, and then ran after his partner as he strode off down the corridor.

  "I don't believe what I just saw," said Burns in amazement. "You faced down Saint Christophe without even drawing your axe, and got him to agree to help the Guard. That's like standing in the harbor and watching the tides go out backwards."

  Hawk shrugged. "It was in his interests to help, and he knew it."

  "Where did you find the extra batch of super-chacal? I thought it had all disappeared."

  "It did. I was bluffing." Burns looked at him speechlessly. Hawk grinned. "There's more to surviving in the Northside than knowing how to use an axe."

  Hawk was never sure how he knew when he was being followed, but over the years he'd learned to trust his instincts. He glanced at Burns, but he was apparently lost in his own thoughts and hadn't noticed anything. Hawk slowed his pace a little, and found various convincing reasons to look innocently around him. He frowned as he spotted not one tail but several, moving casually through the crowd after him and Burns. Whoever they were, they must be pretty good to have got so close without his noticing them before. His frown deepened as he realized the tails were gradually moving so as to surround him and Burns. It was looking more and more like an ambush, and they'd chosen a good spot for it. The street was growing increasingly narrow, and was blocked off at both ends by market stalls. There were alleyways leading off to both sides, but none of them seemed to lead anywhere helpful. And the next main intersection was too far away, if it came to running. Besides, Hawk didn't believe in running. He let his hand fall casually to the axe at his side, and looked for the place to make a stand.

  "I make it seven," said Burns quietly. "They picked us up not long after we left the baths."

  "I wasn't sure you'd even noticed we were being followed."

  "Working in the Westside, I spent a lot of time escorting gold- and silversmiths to the banks with their week's receipts. There's nothing like guarding large amounts of money in public to make you aware of when you're being followed. So what are we going to do? Make a stand?"

  "I don't think we've much choice. And it's eight, not seven. See that man in the doorway, just ahead, pretending not to watch us?"

  "Yes. Damn. And if we can see eight, you can bet there are just as many more lurking somewhere handy out of sight, just in case they're needed. I don't like the odds, Hawk."

  "I've faced worse."

  "I wish you'd stop saying that. It's very irritating, and I don't believe it for a moment. Who do you think they are? Morgan's people?"

  "Seems likely. He must have known I'd have to go to Saint Christophe eventually, so he just staked the place out and waited for us to turn up. Damn. I hate being predictable."

  "We could go back to Saint Christophe and ask for protection."

  "You have got to be joking. He'd love that. Besides, I have my reputation to think of."

  "If we don't think of something fast, you're going to be the most reputable corpse in the Northside!"

  "Calm down, Burns. You worry too much. If the fighting ground is unfavorable, then the obvious thing to do is change the fighting ground. You see that fire-escape stairway, to your right?"

  "Yeah, what about it? Hey, wait a minute, Hawk. You can't be serious…"

  "Shut up and run."

  Hawk sprinted forward, with Burns only a pace or two behind. Their followers hesitated a moment, and then charged after them, forcing their way through the crowd with brutal efficiency. Hawk reached the metal stairway, and ran up it without slowing, taking the steps two at a time. Burns hurried after him, the fire escape shuddering under their combined weight. Hawk pulled himself up onto the roof and scurried across the uneven tilework to crouch beside the nearest chimney. Burns clattered unsteadily across to join him, and clutched at the chimney stack to steady himself. Hawk shot him a grin.

  "Check the other side of the roof; see if there's any other way to get up here. I'll prepare a few nasty surprises."

  "You're just loving this, aren't you?" said Burns through clenched teeth, hugging tight to the chimney.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "I hate heights!"

  "Oh, stop complaining, and get over to the other side. This is
the perfect spot to take them on; lots of hiding places, and they're just as much at a disadvantage as we are. Trust me, I've done this before."

  Burns scowled at him, reluctantly let go of the chimney, and moved cautiously across the tiles towards the spine of the roof. "All right, what's the plan, then?"

  "Plan? What do we need a plan for? Just find something to hide behind, and jump out on anything that moves!"

  Burns disappeared over the roof ridge, muttering to himself. Hawk looked quickly about him, taking in the gables, cornices, and chimney stacks that jutted from the undulating sea of roofs to either side. He drew his axe and waited patiently in the shadows of the chimney, listening for the first giveaway sound. It was at times like this that he wished he carried a length of tripwire.

  He looked around him, taking in the state of the roof. A lot of snow had fallen away from the tiles, pulled loose by its own weight and the vibrations of passing traffic below, but there was enough left to make the tiles suitably treacherous. A sudden thud followed by muffled curses from the other side of the roof suggested that Burns had reached the same conclusion. Hawk grinned suddenly, as an idea hit him. He moved carefully away from the chimney, unbuttoned his fly and urinated over a stretch of apparently safe tilework. It steamed on the air, but froze almost as soon as it spread out across the tiles. Hawk finished and quickly buttoned up again, wincing at the cold. He looked round sharply as he caught the muffled sound of boots treading quietly on the metal stairway, and he scurried back to crouch down on the opposite side of the chimney stack. He breathed through his nose so that his steaming breath wouldn't give him away, and clutched his axe firmly.

  He listened carefully as the first man stepped off the stairway onto the roof, hesitated, and then moved slowly forward. Timing his move precisely, Hawk suddenly emerged from behind the chimney, swinging his axe in both hands. Morgan's man spun round just in time to receive the heavy axehead in his shoulder. The blade sheared clean through his collarbone, and blood flew steaming on the bitter air. The impact drove the man to his knees. Hawk pulled the axe free, put a boot against the man's shoulder and pushed. The man-at-arms screamed once as he slid helplessly across the roof and over the side.