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, heavy-set 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 wonderworkers. 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
questi
oning, 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 forgettable, 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 eye, 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 parlor, 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 parlor 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.
It was just her regulars this week. The Holbrooks, a middle-aged couple wanting
to contact their dead son. David and Mercy Peyton, still hopeful their dear
departed grandfather would reveal to them where he'd hidden the family fortune.
And old Mrs. Tyrell, timidly grateful for any fleeting contact with her dead
cat, Marmalade. The two couples were easy enough; all they needed were general
platitudes on the one hand and vague hints on the other, but having to make cat
noises was downright demeaning. If trade hadn't dropped off so much recently
she'd have drawn the line at pets, but times were hard, and Madam Zara had to
make do with what she could get.
She let her eyes roll back in her head, and produced her best sepulchral moan.
She was rather proud of her moan. It had something of the mystic and the eternal
in it, and was guaranteed to make even the most skeptical client sit up and take
notice. She took a firm grip on the hands of Graeme Holbrook and David Peyton on
either side of her, and let a delicate shudder run down her arms into her hands.
"The spirits are with us," she said softly. "They are near us in everything we
do, separated from us by only the thinnest of veils. They wish always to make
contact with us, and all we have to do is listen… Hush. I feel a disturbance in
the ether. A spirit draws near. Speak with my voice, dear departed one. Have you
a message for someone here?"
The atmosphere grew taut and strained as Madam Zara threw in a few more moans
and shivers, and then pressed her foot firmly onto the lever hidden in the
floorboards. A block of wood thudded hollowly against the underside of the
table, making the clients jump. She hit the lever a few more times, producing
more mysterious knockings, and then concentrated on getting the right
intonations for the Peyton grandfather's voice. People didn't appreciate what
mediums had to go through for their money. She could have been a legitimate
actress, if only she'd had the breaks.
"The spirit is drawing closer. I can feel a presence in the room. It's almost
here…"
The door flew open and the tall thin gentleman from upstairs charged in, glared
wildly about him, and then headed for the window. The Holbrooks screamed, and
Mercy Peyton fell backwards off her chair. Madam Zara looked confusedly about
her, completely thrown. Another figure burst in through the open door, his
clothes soaked with blood, fresh gore dripping from the axe in his hand. The
Holbrooks screamed even louder and clutched each other tightly, convinced that
the Grim Reaper himself had come to claim them for meddling in his affairs. The
gentleman from upstairs threw open the window and slung a leg over the
windowsill. The second figure charged forward, overturning the table. He grabbed
at the young gentleman's shoulder, and just missed as he dropped into the
alleyway outside. The second figure cursed horribly and clambered out the window
in hot pursuit. The Holbrooks were still clutching each other and whimpering,
Mercy Peyton was having hysterics, loudly, and David Peyton was thoughtfully
examining the block of wood on the underside of the overturned table. Madam Zara
searched frantically for something to say that would retrieve the situation. And
just at that moment a large orange cat jumped in through the window from the
alley outside and looked around to see what all the fuss was about. Mrs. Tyrell
snatched him up and hugged him to her with tears of joy in her eyes.
"Marmalade! You've come back to me!"
Madam Zara mentally washed her hands of the whole situation.
Out in the alley, Hawk found Fisher picking herself up out of a pile of garbage.
He started forward to help, and then hesitated as the smell hit him. Fisher
glared at him.
"Next time, you're going to watch the back door."
She headed quickly for the main street, brushing herself off as she went. Hawk
hurried after her.
"Did you see Fenris?"
"Of course I saw him! Who do you think knocked me into the garbage? And whatever
you're about to say, I don't want to hear it. How was I to know he'd come flying
Wolf in the Fold h&f-4 Page 3
