Guard Against Dishonor

by Simon R. Green

  Creatures with insane shapes that hurt and disturbed the human eye fought and oozed and squirmed out of nowhere, and fell writhing to the floor. There were things with splintered bones and snapping mouths, and nauseating shapes that twisted through strange dimensions as they moved. Creatures with flails and barbs and elongating limbs. A monstrous slug with grinding teeth in its belly fell heavily onto the conference table, its weight cracking the thick wood from end to end. A clump of ropy crimson intestines squeezed out of the split in the air, and dropped squirming to the floor, where it dripped acid, eating holes in the carpet. The conference room rang to a cacophony of screams and howls and roars, drowning out the madly tolling bell.

  For a moment everyone froze where they were, and then Fisher threw herself forward, swinging her sword in wide, vicious arcs. Strangely colored blood flew steaming on the air as her blade sank deep into unnatural flesh, and howling shapes rose up in fury all around her. Ap Owen was quickly at her side, and together they forced the demons back. Major Comber and Major de Tournay drew their swords and fought back to back, old enmities forgotten in the face of a common foe. They cut and thrust with professional efficiency, and nothing could stand against them for long.

  The two traders, Rook and Gardener, retreated into a corner and defended themselves with unfamiliar swords as best they could. Creatures swarmed eagerly about them, scenting easy prey. Lord Regis fought stubbornly with his back to a wall, barely keeping the fangs and claws from his throat but determined not to give in. Lord Nightingale cleared a space around him with inspired swordsmanship, chanting all the while in a harsh forced rhythm. Human blood flowed as the creatures pressed closer, forcing their way past flashing steel by sheer force of numbers. And still more shapes poured through the split in the air, and there seemed no end to them.

  "We've got to get out of here!" Fisher yelled to ap Owen.

  "We can't," he answered, grunting with the effort of his blows. "Only Regis and Nightingale can open the door. And they both look a bit busy at the moment. See if you can work towards them, take some of the pressure off."

  Fisher tried, but the growing tide of creatures forced her back foot by foot, and ap Owen had to struggle to keep his place at her side. A jagged cut on his forehead leaked blood steadily down one side of his face, and he had to keep blinking his eye to clear it. A raking claw suddenly opened up a long, curving gash across Fisher's hip and stomach, and she stumbled and almost fell as the pain flared through her. Ap Owen darted in to try and cover her, and a long, serrated tentacle whipped around his shoulders and snatched him up into the air. Fisher hacked at the tentacle, but it wouldn't let him go. Comber and de Tournay were soaked with blood from a dozen minor wounds, but were still holding their ground and grimly defying the creatures to move them. Rook and Gardener had already fallen and disappeared beneath a heaving throng of frenzied shapes. Lord Regis was struggling, tears of exhaustion running down his cheeks, but Lord Nightingale ignored him, concentrating on his rhythmic chanting.

  And then Nightingale's voice rose sharply to a shout, and the split in the air slammed together and was gone. The creatures burst into flames, screaming and thrashing as a searing golden fire consumed them, leaving nothing but ash. The faraway bell was quiet, and the only sound in the hidden room was the harsh breathing and groans of the two Guards and the surviving delegates.

  Fisher sat with her back braced against a wall, watching exhaustedly as ap Owen slowly picked himself up from where the burning tentacle had dropped him. The two Majors leaned on each other, exchanging quiet compliments. Lord Regis bent wearily over two bodies lying twisted and still in a corner, then straightened up and turned away. Rook and Gardener were beyond help. Regis looked across at Lord Nightingale, calmly cleaning the blood from his sword in the middle of the room.

  "I didn't know you were a sorcerer, Nightingale."

  The Outremer lord shrugged easily. "I'm not, really. I just like to dabble."

  "Still, I would have expected you to mention it," said Regis. "Since one of the conditions for these Talks was that none of the delegates be a sorcerer."

  "I told you," said Nightingale. "I'm not a sorcerer. Just a gifted amateur."

  "That's not the point…"

  "Can we discuss this later?" said Fisher sharply. "We need a doctor in here."

  "I'm afraid that's out of the question," said Nightingale. "We're under orders not to reveal our presence. Officially, no one is to know we're here."

  "You have got to be joking," said Fisher. "If there's one thing we can be certain about, it's that our enemies know where we are. Both the mercenaries and those stinking creatures knew exactly how best to catch us off guard. Somebody's talked. We're not a secret anymore. So forget the low profile nonsense, and get some real protection in here. We were lucky this time. We won't be again. And get me a bloody doctor, dammit! If this wound gets infected, I'll sue."

  Some time later, after a number of hasty but effective healing spells, Fisher and ap Owen made their rounds of the house, looking over their new, improved security force and checking the faces of the dead mercenaries before they were carried out. None of the mercenaries had been taken alive. Those who hadn't managed to escape before Guard reinforcements arrived killed themselves rather than be captured.

  "Which suggests to me they were under a geas," said ap Owen. "It had to be some kind of magical compulsion. Mercenaries don't believe in that kind of loyalty to a cause. Any cause. We fight strictly for cash; nothing else. I had wondered if I might know any of these poor bastards, but I don't recognize any faces. Probably hired outside Haven, to prevent any rumors of the attack from getting out. You couldn't hope to hire this many men in Haven and keep it quiet."

  "Right," said Fisher. "Somebody always talks. Which brings us back to the attack on the pocket dimension. Someone betrayed us. But who knew?"

  "Not many. The delegates, you and I and the ten Guards working inside the house, and Commander Glen, of course." He stopped suddenly, and he and Fisher looked at each other. "Glen?" said ap Owen finally.

  "Why not?" said Fisher. "He's the only one who had nothing to risk by talking."

  Ap Owen shook his head firmly. "Glen's a hard bastard, but he's no traitor. Much more likely one of my people talked to the wrong person before they came here, and that person sold us out."

  Fisher nodded unhappily. She couldn't ask any of ap Owen's people about it; none of them had survived the mercenaries' attack.

  "That's not our only problem," said ap Owen dourly. "Nightingale's knowledge of magic has got everyone worked up. Admittedly he saved all our arses when the creatures broke through, but now Regis and Major Comber are worried sick he could be using his magic to influence their minds during the Talks. But they accepted him as a delegate and if they reject him now, Outremer will undoubtably retaliate in kind, and what progress they have achieved so far will all have been for nothing. So, for the moment the Talks are officially in abeyance until Rook and Gardener can be replaced. And you can bet Haven's replacement will know some sorcery, just to be on the safe side."

  Fisher growled something unpleasant, and then shrugged. "At least the Talks will continue. That's something."

  "Until the next attack."

  "You think there'll be another one?"

  "Bound to be. Too many interests want these Talks to fail. And we're stuck right in the middle. And I thought being a Guard would be a nice cushy number after being a mercenary…"

  Chapter Six

  Naming The Traitor

  "This is where the Guard Advisory Council meets? I've seen more impressive outhouses." Hawk shook his head disgustedly. "Maybe you were right after all, Burns. Anyone who has to meet in a dump like this isn't going to be in any position to help us."

  Burns kept a diplomatic silence, but his shrug spoke volumes. Hawk glared at the building before him, and wondered if there was any point in going inside. The Guard Advisory Council held its meetings in a rented room over a corner grocer's shop; the kind that stays op
en all hours and sells anything and everything. The two-storey building was fairly well-preserved, but looked like it hadn't seen a coat of paint in generations. Hawk peered into the shop through the single, smeared window, and one glance at the interior was enough to convince him he'd have to be bloody hungry before he ate anything that came from this grocer. He could practically see plague and food poisoning hiding in the shadows and giggling together. And he didn't want to think about what the unfamiliar cut of meat optimistically labeled "Special Offer" might be. He turned away and looked around the street. Passersby kept their heads down to avoid his gaze and hurried by the two Guards, trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. Mostly they just succeeded in looking furtive. It was that kind of neighborhood.

  "I did try to tell you, Hawk," Burns said finally. "These people are Advisors, and that's all. They have no real power or influence, even if they like to think they have. They come up with the odd good idea on occasion, and they're good public relations, so the Guard tolerates them, but that's as far as it goes."

  "Maybe," said Hawk. "But none of that's important.

  What matters is that these people are connected to the Guard, but not a part of it. They ought to know some of what's going on but still be distanced enough that they can talk to us without fear of retribution. Dammit, Burns, I need someone to talk to me. I need information. We're flailing about in the dark and getting nowhere, and Morgan's sitting out there somewhere safe and secure, laughing at us. We need a lead, something to point us in the right direction at least."

  "And you think we're going to get that from the Guard Advisory Council?"

  "It's worth a try, dammit! We've got to do something!"

  He strode angrily forward, ignored the shop doorway and stomped up the iron fire escape that clung uncertainly to the side of the building. Burns followed him silently. His partner was getting desperate, and it was beginning to show. Hawk stopped before the plain wooden door at the top of the fire escape, and banged loudly on it with his fist. Someone inside pulled back a sliding panel and studied Hawk for a long moment. Then the panel slid shut and there was the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door swung open, and Hawk and Burns stepped inside. The door closed quickly behind them.

  The rented room turned out to be surprisingly cosy. Oil lamps shed a golden glow over the wood-paneled walls and chunky furniture, and large, comfortable-looking chairs had been set out before a crackling fire. Two men stood together by the chairs, facing Hawk and Burns with determined casualness. They looked embarrassed, and perhaps just a little frightened. Hawk studied them both, letting the silent moment stretch uncomfortably. Burns stirred at his side, but made no move to intervene. The man to their left coughed nervously.

  "Good evening, Captains. It's good of you to visit us. It's not often the Guard takes an interest in our work. I'm Nicholas Linden, the lawyer. Perhaps you've heard of me… And this is my associate, Michael Shire, once a Captain in the Guard, now retired."

  Hawk nodded politely. Burns had already filled him in on who he'd be meeting, and he had no trouble recognizing these two from Burns's descriptions. Nicholas Linden was tall and fashionably slender, with watchful eyes and a practiced smile. He'd started out as a meat-wagon chaser specializing in insurance cases, and had graduated through a series of well-publicized cases and well-bribed juries to a fairly successful practice in Low Tory. At which point he suddenly developed a civic conscience, and started agitating to put an end to the kind of sharp practices that had got him where he was. His fellow lawyers had persuaded him to join the Guard Advisory Council, in the hope of distracting him from things best left alone. To no one's surprise, it worked.

  Michael Shire had been a Captain in the Guard for twenty years, before taking early retirement to go into business for himself as a private security consultant. He'd done well for himself over the past few years, and was now responsible for most of the hired muscle in the Westside. He was a large, squarish man in his late forties, wearing fashionably garish clothes that didn't suit him. He had a calm, self-satisfied face, with cold, expressionless eyes.

  And these were two of the people who'd set themselves up as the Guard's conscience.

  "Will any of the others be joining us?" Hawk said finally, his voice flat and cold.

  "I'm afraid not, Captain," said Linden, perhaps just a little too quickly. "You must understand, we all lead very busy lives outside the Advisory Council, and it isn't always possible for all of us to attend meetings called at such short notice. However, your message did say your business was both urgent and important, so Michael and I agreed to… represent the others. Do please sit down, Captains. And help yourselves to some wine, if you will."

  Hawk shook his head shortly, and sat down. Burns also declined the wine, and he and the Advisors joined Hawk in the chairs before the fire. Linden and Shire looked at Hawk and Burns expectantly. Hawk set out the situation as clearly and concisely as he could, taking it from the raid on Morgan's factory to his growing belief that Morgan must be bribing someone fairly high up in the Guard. There was a pause, and then Shire snorted loudly.

  "Don't see what all the fuss is about," he said gruffly, meeting Hawk's gaze unflinchingly. "There's always been a certain amount of… private enterprise in the Guard. It's only natural for Guards to augment their income on occasion, given the low wages. Everyone takes a special payment now and again; it's a sort of unofficial tax. If people want real protection, they've got to be prepared to pay for it. After all, a contented Guard is much more likely to look out for you, isn't he? I think you're taking this too seriously, Captain Hawk."

  "I'm not talking about half-arsed protection rackets," said Hawk. "I'm talking about a high-ranking Guard who's been bought and paid for by one of the city's biggest drug barons."

  "So what?" said Shire flatly. "This is Haven, remember? There are people here it doesn't pay to cross, and Morgan is very definitely one of them. It's not in the Guard's interest to start a war it couldn't win."

  "This time it's different," snapped Hawk. "Morgan's new drug is too dangerous to be ignored. And whoever's helping him in the Guard is putting the whole damned city at risk, just to earn himself a nice little bonus. This isn't just corruption anymore; it's treason. I want this bastard, and you're going to help me identify him. You're both in a position to hear things, know things; people will talk to you who wouldn't talk to me. I want to know what they've been saying. I want the name."

  Shire and Linden glanced at each other, and then Linden leaned forward. He fixed Hawk with an earnest gaze, and chose his words carefully. "You must understand, Captain, that my associate and I are taking a not inconsiderable risk in seeing you at all. You've made yourself dangerous to know. You've been making enemies, the wrong sort of enemies. The word is that Morgan has important friends, very well-connected people, who aren't taking kindly to your enquiries. Anyone who openly helped you would be putting his own neck in the noose."

  "Refusing to talk to me can be pretty risky too," said Hawk calmly. "I'm not playing by the rules anymore. I don't have the time."

  Shire sniffed. "Threats won't get you anywhere. To put it bluntly, Morgan is connected to people who are scarier than you'll ever be."

  "Then why are you talking to us at all?" asked Burns.

  "Because I was a Captain in the Guard for twenty years…" said Shire slowly, "… and there are some things I won't stand for. I might have taken the odd gratuity in my time, and looked the other way when I was told, but I was always my own man. No one tells me to roll over on my back and play dead, like a good dog. Not then or now. Linden came to see me earlier today. He was scared. He overheard something he shouldn't have, from one of Morgan's people, and he knew he wouldn't be safe as long as he was the only one who knew it. So he told me, and now he's going to tell you. There's no doubt that Morgan, or the people he's associated with, have infiltrated the Guard at practically every level. From the bottom right to the top. But for once, we have a name. Morgan's bought himself a Guard Cap
tain, someone so loyal and honorable as to be above suspicion."

  "Tell me the name," said Hawk.

  Linden swallowed hard, and looked briefly at Shire for support. "You're not going to like this, Hawk. I don't have any proof or evidence; this is just what I heard. I could be wrong."

  "Just tell me the bloody name!"

  "Fisher," said Linden. "Captain Isobel Fisher."

  Hawk launched himself out of his chair, both hands reaching for Linden. Burns grabbed at him, but Hawk shook him off. He took two handfuls of Linden's shirt and lifted him up into the air. The lawyer's face lost all its color, and his mouth worked soundlessly. Shire and Burns pulled at Hawk's arms, but he ignored them, thrusting his face close to Linden's.

  "You're lying, you bastard. They put you up to this, didn't they? Didn't they! Tell me the name, you bastard. Tell me the real name!"

  Linden struggled to get his breath, his eyes wide and staring. "Please… please don't hurt me. I'm sorry…"

  "He's telling the truth," said Shire urgently, almost shouting in Hawk's ear to get his attention. "Let him go, Hawk. He's just telling you what he heard."

  "That's right," said Burns. "Let him go, Hawk. Come on, let him go."

  Hawk dropped the lawyer back onto his chair, and turned away, breathing heavily. Linden clawed at his collar, trying to get some air into his lungs. Bums and Shire backed away from Hawk, watching him carefully.

  "Take it easy, Hawk," said Burns soothingly. "It's just hearsay, that's all. They said themselves they had no proof or evidence."