Wolf in the Fold h&f-4

by Simon R. Green

  Arthur. You'd think I'd know better by now than to argue with you while you're

  drunk. Just… snap out of it. You've got a lot to live for. There's a lot more to

  life than drink."

  "I don't care for drugs," said Arthur. "I'm a traditionalist at heart."

  "You're just trying to annoy me, aren't you? Look, you can't kill yourself.

  Think how upset Holly would be. Now let's change the subject. Gods, you can be

  depressing at times, Arthur. You're not the only one with problems, you know. I

  have problems too, but you don't see me crying into my wine over them."

  Arthur looked at him steadily. "You've never had problems. You've always been

  handsome and popular. Your Family bend over backwards to indulge you. Women have

  been chasing you ever since your voice dropped. You have so many friends your

  parties often spill over into a second house. What problems do you have, Davey?

  Not being able to choose which shirt to wear next?"

  David looked at him for a long moment. "You know your trouble, Arthur? You're so

  wrapped up in your precious self-pity you can't see beyond the end of your own

  nose. Haven't you ever wondered why I spend so much time with you and Holly and

  Jamie, instead of running off to join the army and see the world, like the rest

  of our contemporaries ?"

  Arthur frowned. "That's right. Your Family's famous for its strong tradition of

  military service, isn't it? Practically obligatory, from what I've heard. I

  suppose I just assumed you had more sense than the rest of your Family. All

  right, tell me. Why aren't you in the army?"

  "Because the army wouldn't have me. I spent two years cramming with my tutors to

  get me past the Military Academy entrance exams, two years working my guts out,

  and I still didn't pass. I didn't even come close. "Whatever it takes to be an

  officer, I don't have it. There was nothing my Family could do. There were all

  kinds of strings they could have pulled on my behalf, once I got into the

  Academy, but not even their influence could persuade the Academy to accept such

  a spectacular failure as me.

  "They couldn't even get me into the diplomatic corps, where most of our Family's

  second-raters end up.

  "My father threatened to disown me. Most of my Family aren't talking to me, and

  those that are never miss an opportunity to remind me how badly I let them all

  down. And as for my friends, practically everyone I grew up with is in the army

  now, scattered across the Low Kingdoms, defending our borders. Some of them have

  already died doing it. And every time I find a familiar name in the death lists

  I think That could have been me. That should have been me. We've more in common

  than you think, Arthur."

  Arthur looked at him unflinchingly. "I'm sorry, Davey. You're right, I should

  have known, but I just never thought about it. You see, you're the only man I

  ever envied. Because you've got the only thing I ever wanted. You have Holly."

  There was a long pause as they looked at each other. To his credit, David didn't

  look away. "So it is her. We often wondered, but you never said anything. Holly

  and I love each other, Arthur. We always have. We're going to be married soon. I

  wish… things could have been different. We used to be so close, the three of

  us."

  "We were children then. Children grow up."

  There was a sudden knocking at the door. The two men jumped to their feet as the

  door burst open and Jamie hurried in.

  "What is it?" asked David, as Jamie shut the door behind him. "What's happened?"

  "Relax," said Jamie. "There's no emergency. I just needed someone to talk to. I

  don't know what to do. At the moment I'm pinning all my hopes on Dad's will,

  that there'll be something in it that can help us, but it's a slim hope at best.

  I'm not up to this. In the past, whenever there was a problem, I could always

  turn to Dad. He always knew what to do. Now there's just me, and everything's

  going wrong."

  "Oh hell," said David. "Another one."

  "Ignore him," said Arthur quickly. "You mustn't blame yourself, Jamie. You're

  doing everything you can. We understand how hard it is. It's not easy, learning

  how to stand on your own feet. Some people never do learn. But you're doing fine

  so far. Isn't he, Davey?"

  "Damn right," said David. "You found your father's papers, didn't you? Without

  them, we might never have found out what kind of monster we were dealing with."

  "I can't help feeling Dad would have done things differently," said Jamie. "He

  was the great warrior, after all; the great hero. Everyone said so, even the

  King. I was so proud of him… even though I never got to see much of him. He was

  away with the army a lot, especially after Mother died when I was young. But he

  was spending more time at the Tower just recently, and we were really getting to

  know each other. And then he had to go and die in that stupid little clash on

  the border. I couldn't believe it when I heard. How could he have been so

  stupid? He didn't have to go up there in person, not someone of his rank. He

  must have known it wasn't safe up there! But he went anyway, because he couldn't

  bear to miss out on the action. And he got himself killed, leaving Holly and me

  alone. And on top of all that, he hadn't even bothered to tell me the Secret, as

  he should have!"

  He was close to tears, his face bright red with anger and frustration. Arthur

  took him by the arm, and gently but firmly made him sit down on the nearest

  chair. "It's all right to be angry, Jamie," he said softly. "I was angry at my

  Family when they all died so suddenly, going off and leaving me all alone. But

  it wasn't your father's fault. He didn't mean to leave you. He just made a

  mistake, that's all; a simple mistake in judgment."

  "Right," said David, sitting on the arm of the chair. "Everyone makes mistakes,

  Jamie. Even a great hero like your dad."

  "The whole border situation is a mess right now," said Arthur. "Practically

  everyone I know has lost somebody to one border clash or another. If Outremer

  doesn't back down soon, we could find ourselves in a full-fledged war."

  "It won't come to that," said David. "No one wants a war, at least no one that

  matters, and no one really cares about the borders. It's just politics, that's

  all. The diplomats will sort it out. Eventually."

  "We're getting away from the point," said Arthur. "Which is, all you can ever do

  is give it your best shot, and hope that's enough. That's all your father would

  expect of you, Jamie. That's all any of us expect of you. You're doing fine.

  Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Right, Davey?"

  "Sure," said David. "We'll find the freak and kill him, and no one will ever

  have to know about it."

  "Right," said Arthur. "Care for a drink, Jamie?"

  Greaves looked round the library and nodded approvingly. Everything was where it

  should be, ready for the reading of the will. Duncan would have been proud to

  see all his wishes carried out to the letter. The chairs had been set up in a

  semicircle facing Duncan's favorite desk. The wax-sealed will had been placed

  neatly in the middle of the desktop, ready to be opened. All it lacked now was

  the man hims
elf.

  Greaves' breath suddenly caught in his chest, and he looked away. He'd known the

  master was dead for some time now, but somehow the reading of the will confirmed

  it, made it real. Duncan would never again come striding through that door, to

  warm his hands at the fire and roar for cigars and his best brandy. Once the

  will was read, Duncan would become just a memory, a portrait on the wall; and

  young Jamie would be the new MacNeil in fact as well as name. Greaves sighed.

  He'd serve Jamie faithfully, just as Mister Duncan had ordered, but it wouldn't

  be the same. Mister Duncan had been a great man, and Greaves would miss him.

  He felt suddenly tired, and sat down on one of the chairs, something he would

  never have done if anyone else had been present. But it was all right; there was

  no one to see him. Robbie Brennan was off on an errand, and Mister Jamie and the

  guests were all safely occupied upstairs. Greaves leaned back in the chair and

  looked slowly around him. The library had always been his favorite room. Many an

  evening he had served Mister Duncan and his guests as they sat in the library,

  telling and retelling marvelous tales of their younger, soldiering days. And

  Greaves had moved from chair to chair, handing out glasses of mulled wine and

  dispensing cigars, inventing extra tasks so that he could stay a little longer

  and listen, too.

  The butler scowled, pursing his lips tightly together. It was all gone now. No

  more evening stories. No more fine parties of great people for him to look

  after. And the MacNeil himself dead and lost on a battlefield too far away even

  to imagine, let alone visit. There had been little warmth in Greaves's life as a

  butler, only orders and duties and the comfort of knowing his place and keeping

  to it. But Greaves had always thought of himself as someone who might have been

  Duncan MacNeil's friend if things had been different. And now the man was dead,

  and Greaves would never be able to tell him that.

  The door opened and Greaves was quickly back on his feet, but it was only Robbie

  Brennan, carrying the extra candelabrum Greaves had sent him for. Greaves

  pointed silently to where he wanted it, and Brennan lowered it carefully into

  place. He straightened up and glared at Greaves.

  "That has to be it. We've moved everything in here that isn't actually nailed

  down."

  "The MacNeil was very particular in his wishes," said Greaves calmly.

  "Everything had to be just so. But we are finished now."

  "Good," said Brennan. "I think I've done my back in, shifting that desk. I'd

  better go and tell Jamie his guests can come down now."

  "Just a minute… Robbie. I want to talk to you."

  Brennan looked at the butler in surprise as Greaves sat down again and gestured

  for Brennan to pull up a chair facing him. He did so, and looked at Greaves

  curiously.

  "Robbie, tell me about Duncan," said Greaves quietly. "Tell me about the Duncan

  you knew, in your younger days."

  "Why?" said Brennan.

  "Because I want to know. Because I miss him."

  Brennan shrugged uncomfortably. "You've heard all the songs, but you can forget

  them. Songs are for entertainment, not history. I first met Duncan forty-four

  years ago, almost to the month. He was a young officer, the ink still wet on his

  commission. I was a mercenary out of Shadowrock, serving with Murdoch's

  Marauders. An impressive name for a bunch of killers, half of them running from

  the law under names their mothers wouldn't have recognized.

  "Duncan and I first saw action together at Cormorran's Bridge. The way the

  official histories tell it, it was a tactical defeat for the other side. I was

  there, and it was a bloody massacre. We lost five hundred men in the first half

  hour, and the river ran red with blood and offal. Murdoch's Marauders were wiped

  out; only a handful of us survived. The main army was broken and scattered,

  heading for the horizon with enemy troops snapping at their heels. There were

  bodies everywhere, blood and guts lying steaming in the mud. The flies came down

  in great black clouds, covering the dead and the dying like moving blankets.

  Duncan and I ended up fighting back to back in the shallows. We would have run,

  but there was nowhere to run to. We were surrounded, and the enemy weren't

  interested in taking prisoners. So, we made our stand, and vowed to take as many

  of them with us as we could. No one was more surprised than us when the enemy

  finally retreated rather than face approaching army reinforcements, and we were

  both still alive. We were a mess, but we were alive.

  "We stuck together after that; we knew a hint from the Gods when we saw one. We

  worked well together, and slowly became friends as well as allies. The army sent

  us here and there, and we saw a lot of action in the kinds of places minstrels

  like to call colorful. Arse-ends of the world, most of them. We fought in

  twenty-three different Campaigns down the years, and not one of them for a cause

  that was worth so much blood and dying. Still, we got to see some of the world.

  Had some good times together. Even had a few adventures that had nothing to do

  with the army; but none of them the kind of thing you'd want to make a song

  about.

  "Ah hell, Greaves. What can I tell you that you don't already know? Duncan was a

  good soldier and a better friend. He had a bit of a temper, but he was always

  sorry afterwards, and his word was good, unlike quite a few I could mention. He

  brought me here to the Tower, when my soldiering days were over, and made me a

  part of his Family in all but name. That's my old sword, hanging on the wall

  there. And you tell me you'll miss him? I miss Duncan with every breath I take.

  When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I remember is that he's dead.

  It's like there's a hole in my life that he used to fill, and now it's cold and

  empty. I should have been there, Greaves. I should have been there with him.

  Maybe I could have done… something. He never did watch his back enough. But I

  wasn't there, because we both thought I was too old. So he died alone, among

  strangers, and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have saved

  him if I'd been there.

  "What do you want me to say, Greaves? That he liked you? He did, as far as I

  know. Wait until after the will: I'll read his eulogy then. I wrote it myself

  years ago; just needs a little updating. I'll say all the right things, make all

  the proper comments, sing his praises and not mention any of the things he'd

  rather were forgotten. Things that might shock young Jamie and his friends. I'll

  polish up his memory one last time, and we can all say goodbye. You have to

  learn to say goodbye, Greaves. It's the first real lesson every soldier learns."

  Brennan finally ran down, and the old library was quiet again. Greaves nodded

  slowly. "Thank you, Robbie. There were many things Mister Duncan could not bring

  himself to tell me about his past, perhaps because he thought they might

  distress me. But I wanted to know them anyway. Because they were a part of him.

  But he is not really gone from us, you know. He has left behind the young

  master, Jamie. There is a lot of his father in him."


  "I suppose so," said Brennan. "Sure, he's a good kid. Is there anything else, or

  can I call the others down now?"

  "We have to protect Mister Jamie!" said Greaves fiercely. "He is the MacNeil

  now. I think I know who our killer is. He masquerades as Quality, but he does

  not have the true stamp of the aristocracy about him. Never mind who; I am not

  certain enough yet to point the finger. But when the time comes, he must die.

  And Mister Jamie may not be able to do the deed. He's young, and largely

  untested. If he should balk, we must do the task for him. The Secret must not

  get out. Or we betray Duncan's name and memory."

  Hawk hurried down the corridor to the bathroom, clutching at the right side of

  his face with his hand. He banged on the bathroom door with his fist, waited a

  moment to see if anyone would answer, and then pushed open the door and hurried

  in. He slammed the door behind him with his foot, and made for the washbasin. He

  splashed some water into the bowl, and then reached up and carefully eased the

  glass eye out of his aching eye socket. He leaned against the wall as the pain

  slowly receded, letting his breathing get back to normal, and then he dropped

  the eye into the basin. It stared up at him reproachfully, as though someone had

  told it about the problem being all in Hawk's mind. He turned his back on it,

  and massaged the right side of his face. He was already feeling a lot better.

  When this case was over he was going to have to have a stiff talk with himself

  as to which part of his mind was in charge.

  He turned back and studied himself in the wall mirror. With his right eyelid

  closed to hide the empty socket, he looked somehow furtive. Not to mention

  half-witted. If someone came up to him on the street looking like that, he'd

  arrest the man on general principles. He glared down at the offending glass eye.

  The pain was almost gone now, but he had no doubt it would start creeping back

  as soon as he replaced the eye. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. The

  case was complicated enough when he took it on, but now things were definitely

  getting out of hand. Not only was he nowhere near identifying the spy Fenris, he

  also had to find a magic-using killer freak before it killed everyone in the

  Tower; whilst, at the same time, keeping the increasingly paranoid others from