Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “Greetings, Captains. Isn’t it a simply lovely day?”

  “So it is,” said Fisher. “Chance, this is Gently Northampton; he knows the sewers under Haven better than anyone.”

  “Sewers are my life,” said Gently. He blew his nose on a filthy handkerchief that Hawk wouldn’t have touched with two pairs of gloves on, and then smiled again. “You can’t beat the sewers for a bit of peace and quiet. No one bothers you. I haven’t paid taxes for years. Though you’d be surprised what you can find down here some days. We’ve had to block off the tunnels under Magus Court. I don’t know what those magicians have been up to, but there’s something big and white in the passages now, and it’s giggling. We’ve had to call in the SWAT team. Mind you, the sewers under the East Side are lovely this time of year. There’s flowers there as beautiful as anything in the gentry’s gardens. And, of course, they eat the rats, which helps keep the numbers down.”

  “Fascinating as always, Gently,” said Fisher. “Did you get our message about what we need?”

  “Certainly,” said Gently. “Anything for you, Captains. One bagful, as requested.”

  He ducked back in his hole and then handed up a large cloth sack that writhed and bulged ominously. Fisher took the sack, tested its weight with one hand, and grinned unpleasantly. “Thank you, Gently. That will do nicely.”

  “Time to go see St. Christophe,” said Hawk as Gently’s head disappeared back into the sewers. He levered the iron grille back into place and stamped it down.

  “Then can we please go back to the Forest?” said Chance, just a little plaintively. “I didn’t feel this threatened during the Demon War.”

  “Some people just don’t know how to have a good time,” said Hawk, and Fisher nodded solemnly. The sack bulged and kicked.

  St. Christophe’s mansion was reputed to be the single largest personally owned residence in the city, and Chance could quite believe it. Four stories high and what looked like several acres wide, it dominated the quiet residential area. The thick stone exterior walls were topped with iron spikes and broken glass, and the only entrance into the grounds was a great stone archway that featured not only a lowered steel portcullis but also half a dozen heavily armed private guards. They took one look at who was approaching them and immediately sounded a general alarm. Hawk strolled unconcernedly up to the steel bars of the portcullis and smiled charmingly.

  “You know who we are. Just once, what say we do this the easy way? We’re here to see St. Christophe. You let us in, or else.”

  “Or else what?” asked the leader of the private guards.

  “Or else we’ll improvise,” said Fisher. “Suddenly and violently and all over the place.”

  The guard leader thought about it. Technically speaking, he was perfectly safe behind the thick steel weight of the portcullis … but this was Hawk and Fisher. Plus someone with a big axe, and a wolf. He looked unhappily at Chappie for some time, and then decided this was all too much for him. He sent one of his men up to the big house for instructions, and then everyone stood around and smiled patiently for a while. Fisher hefted her sack now and again to keep it quiet. Finally a butler turned up, in full frock coat and powdered wig, and ordered the portcullis raised. He would escort the Captains and company up to the mansion to meet St. Christophe.

  The private guards looked at each other, took it in turns to shrug unhappily, and then did as they were told. The wheels of the portcullis turned, the heavy steel bars rose, and Hawk and Fisher sauntered through the archway like they owned the place. The butler bowed briefly, and then led the way up a raked gravel path that meandered through the extensive lawns and gardens. Behind them came the sound of the portcullis crashing back into place. None of them looked back. The butler’s pace was nicely judged to suggest his master’s impatience, while at the same time slow enough for the company to be impressed by the specially imported trees and flowers and the exquisite landscaping. And then Chappie spoiled it all by chasing a peacock and coming back with a mouthful of feathers.

  The butler went berserk. Did they have any idea how rare peacocks were in this part of the world? How expensive they were to acquire and maintain? He wanted the wolf killed, stuffed, and mounted, not necessarily in that order. Chappie invited the butler to step right up and try his luck. A certain amount of unpleasantness followed, until Chance was finally able to coax Chappie back off the butler’s chest, and allow the man to get up again. The butler led the party the rest of the way in dignified silence, pretending nothing at all had happened.

  At the front door he passed them over to the head butler, resplendent in a uniform finer than most admirals, and he led the party down a great hall lined with ancestral portraits and two silent lines of armed men, and finally into a dining room, where St. Christophe sat at a feast. He was seated at the end of a long table of heavy mahogany, which was all but bowing under the weight of so much food. There was enough provender at that table to feed a dozen families, but St. Christophe was the only one eating. He dominated the room with his malign presence, his huge bulk contained in an exquisitely tailored suit of dazzling white, the only color a single bloodred rose on his lapel.

  St. Christophe was over six feet tall, and weighed four hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce, but rumor had it that there was a lot of muscle under all that fat. Rather more disturbing rumors had it that he got that big by eating his enemies. His great round face was blank, almost childish, his features stretched smooth by his fat until he had the enigmatic brooding look of an oversized baby.

  His gaze was flat and unwavering, and full of calm menace. He wore no weapons. It had been a long time since St. Christophe had fought for anything but his own pleasure. He left the necessary brutalities of his business to the twelve female bodyguards who went everywhere with him, each of them naked but for their swordbelts. They were reputed to be the twelve deadliest fighters in Haven, every one of them undefeated. So Hawk and Fisher made a point of ignoring them, and concentrated instead on the sumptuous furnishings and fittings of the dining hall. Hawk was particularly taken with the massive steel and glass and diamond chandelier hanging overhead. There were no visible supports, which suggested it was held aloft by some hidden magic. An expensive whim for something so monstrously tacky. St. Christophe casually threw a scrap of meat to one of his bodyguards. She caught it neatly on the point of her sword, conveyed it to her mouth, and chewed it calmly, all without once taking her eyes off the new visitors.

  “Show-off,” said Fisher.

  Chappie sneaked up behind one of the bodyguards and stuck his cold nose up her bottom. She squeaked loudly, and then tried very hard to look as though she hadn’t. The dog sniggered loudly. Chance didn’t know where to look. Spending most of his life in an all-boys private school had done nothing to help him deal with so much female nudity. He found it all very distracting, but he was still smart enough to realize that that was the point.

  “So, Captains,” said St. Christophe, in a slow voice as implacable as an avalanche. “What could be so important that you must disturb me at my repast?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” said Hawk easily. “We’re just here to kill you, burn down your house, and cripple your extensive criminal operations. We’re leaving Haven, you see, so we won’t get another chance. You should be flattered, Christophe; we saved the best for last.”

  St. Christophe chuckled fatly. “Insubordinate as ever, Captain Hawk. Must I remind you that I am a perfectly respectable businessman, with no criminal record of any kind? The law has no interest in me.”

  “We’re not the law anymore,” said Fisher. “We answer to a higher cause. How many lives have you ruined over the years, Christophe? Do you even know?”

  “Of course not,” said the big man, patting delicately at his rosebud lips with a monogrammed silk napkin. “I have people who keep track of such things for me. I really have no interest in continuing this conversation, Captains. Because of my admiration for your many exploits, I offer you this one chance. Leave
my home, and this city, and never look back. While you still can.”

  “Good thinking, having nude women as your bodyguards,” said Fisher calmly. “Men are so easily distracted by things like that. I, on the other hand, am not. So I considered the problem dispassionately, and decided to bring your bodyguards a little present. Or two.”

  She undid her sack, upended it with a flourish, and out of the sack dropped twenty of the foulest, fiercest, hugest, and most vicious sewer rats to be found in all of Haven. They all hit the floor running, mouths snapping, and went straight for the nearest undefended food; in this case, the dozen sets of bare female feet. The bodyguards shrieked, and scattered in disarray and confusion as the rats bit at their feet and tried to run up their legs. One rat made the mistake of going for Fisher, and she casually booted it the length of the room.

  St. Christophe surged to his feet, a squat giant in blinding white. He pushed back his chair, and snatched a sword from a bodyguard as she ran past him with a rat rooting in her hair. Hawk and Fisher drew their weapons and advanced on him. Chance slammed the only door shut and wedged it with a sturdy chair. Chappie meanwhile was having a fine time, chasing the darting rats and female bodyguards with equal glee.

  Hawk and Fisher closed in on St. Christophe, who wielded his sword with surprising strength and speed, parrying their every blow. He moved impossibly quickly for one of his great bulk, and there was real power in his attacks. Try as they might, Hawk and Fisher couldn’t pierce his defense, even when they came at him from two different sides at once. St. Christophe backed slowly away as Hawk and Fisher pursued him, not even breathing hard. Servants and guards were already hammering on the other side of the door Chance was guarding. Hawk and Fisher fought well and hard, but it had been a long day, and they were tiring fast. Steel clashed on steel, and St. Christophe smiled mockingly at his old adversaries. His fat face was slick with sweat. Both sides stopped for a moment, to regain their breath and call up new resources.

  “You can’t win,” said St. Christophe. “The best you can do is arrest me, and my lawyers will have me out in under an hour. There won’t be any trial. I am protected on levels you can’t even imagine. You’re just the city’s attack dogs, and I have the means to muzzle you. Leave my home, or die here.”

  “Somehow I just knew you’d say something like that,” said Hawk. “You think we can’t touch you, and you’re wrong.”

  He threw his axe at the point where the massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the rune-etched blade sheared through the simple magic supporting all that weight. St. Christophe looked up, and just had time to realize where Hawk and Fisher had maneuvered him into standing, and then the whole immense weight of crafted steel and glass and diamonds came crashing down, and smashed him to the floor. The reverberating sound seemed to go on for ages, and everyone turned to look. St. Christophe lay pinned beneath the chandelier, only his head and one hand showing. He tried to force himself up, throwing all the strength of his great bulk against the weight holding him down, and for a moment the chandelier actually moved; but it was only shifting its mass, and St. Christophe groaned loudly as his strength gave out, and the chandelier pressed him even more firmly to the floor.

  Those female bodyguards not immediately concerned with fighting off sewer rats stood watching numbly, bemused by a sight they’d never thought to see. The pounding on the closed door grew louder. Chance wedged another chair against it, and then backed away, sword in hand. Chappie came to join him.

  St. Christophe breathed heavily, and glared up at Hawk and Fisher. “My people will break through soon. They’ll free me. And then you’ll die slowly and horribly for this indignity. Because I’m St. Christophe, and you’re nobody!”

  “Shows what you know,” said Hawk. He reached out and retrieved his axe from among the glass and diamonds of the chandelier, and hefted it thoughtfully. And then he raised it with both hands and brought it swinging down with all his strength. The heavy steel blade sheared clean through St. Christophe’s thick neck, and buried itself in the floor beneath. The head rolled away across the floor, still wearing its last expression of outrage and surprise. Hawk watched the head roll until it finally came to a halt, and then nodded, satisfied.

  “I have to say,” Chance said slowly, “that wasn’t exactly honorable, was it?”

  “Bloody well is in Haven,” said Fisher.

  Sometime later Hawk and Fisher and Chance sat on their horses in a high place, and looked out over the city. There was chaos in the streets, with lots of shouting and screaming, and here and there a thick plume of black smoke from an out-of-control fire. Most of the Guards were out on the streets, struggling to maintain order while not looking terribly hard for the people responsible for it all. Chappie sat beside the horses, chewing happily on the last of something with a lot of feathers.

  “Time to leave,” said Hawk.

  “Right,” agreed Fisher. “I think we’ve done as much damage as we can for one day.”

  “Won’t you be at all sad to leave this place?” asked Chance. “I mean, it’s been your home for ten years now.”

  Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. “No,” they said together, and laughed.

  They had one last stop to make before they could leave; the retreat of an ex-con man Hawk and Fisher had known for some time. Zeb Tombs lived in a quiet little house in a quiet little cul de sac in a very respectable area that knew nothing of his checkered past. Hawk knocked on Tombs’ door.

  “He’s not in!” said a voice from behind the door. “He’s gone away, and he was never here anyway. Tombs? Never heard of the man. Stay away! This is a plague house!” There was the sound of really repulsive coughing. “And it’s haunted!”

  “Open the door, Zeb,” Hawk said calmly. “You wouldn’t want Fisher to have to kick it in, would you?”

  There was the sound of opening locks and sliding bolts, and then the door swung open. A distinguished-looking gentleman in his early fifties, resplendent in a fine embroidered smoking jacket, looked quickly up and down the deserted street and then glared at Hawk and Fisher. “You leave my door alone! I just had it painted. What did I do to deserve you back in my life? I haven’t shot an albatross in ages. Oh, hell, come in, come in, before the neighbors notice. If they haven’t already. Some days you can’t walk down this street for twitching curtains. And wipe your feet!”

  Hawk led the way in, followed by Fisher, who nodded cheerfully to Tombs as she barged past him. Chance and Chappie brought up the rear. Tombs gave the dog a hard look, but said nothing. He waved his guests into the parlor, a comfortable room furnished with all the ill-gotten gains of a long career of separating the more gullible well-off from as much cash as Tombs could carry away in one journey. He’d done very well for himself in Haven, until he made the mistake of trying to sell shares in a silver mine to Commander Dubois, who didn’t know much about mining, but was pretty sure you didn’t find much of it going on in land he knew to have been underwater for a hundred years. He set Hawk and Fisher on Tombs’ trail, and that was that.

  “What do you want with me now?” asked Tombs. “I’ve been good. It’s been ages since I’ve done anything … creative.”

  “We’re leaving Haven,” Hawk said briskly.

  “Allow me to be the first to wave good-bye.”

  “But we need disguises first.”

  “Good idea,” said Tombs. “If I were you, I’d want to look like someone else, too. And anything I can do to help you on your way will be a real pleasure.” He glanced dubiously at Chappie, and then at Chance. “Your wolf is house-broken, isn’t he?”

  “If one more person calls me a wolf, I am going to do something really distressing to them!” said Chappie, showing all his teeth.

  Tombs backed quickly away and put a heavy chair between him and the dog. “Hey, if it was up to me, you could be anything you want. But trust me, the teeth and claws and fur are a bit of a giveaway.”

  “Never mind Chappie,” said Fisher. “He’s just being hims
elf. Concentrate on coming up with disguises for Hawk and me. What have you got?”

  “Well,” said Tombs reluctantly, “it’s not as easy as it might have been, since certain people made me dispose of all my old gear, but I do just happen to have a transformation spell I was saving for a rainy day.”

  “They don’t work on us,” Hawk said immediately. “We were exposed to a hell of a lot of Wild Magic in the long night, and these days any change spells just slide right off us.”

  Tombs blinked a few times. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Captain? But I’ve nothing else to offer you except the standard makeup and hair dyes.”

  Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then they looked at Chance, who studied them both thoughtfully. “You really don’t look much like your official portraits, and it has been a long time. … I think the scars and the eye patch are really all you need, Your Highness.”

  “Highness?” said Tombs quickly.

  “Shut up, Tombs.”

  “Yes, Your Highness, shutting up right now.”

  “What about me?” said Fisher.

  “Dye your hair black and no one will know you,” said Chance, just a little hesitantly. “Nearly everyone you knew back then is dead. The few still alive probably only ever saw you briefly, and from a distance. The dye should be enough.”

  “Is she a highness too?”

  “Shut up, Tombs. Or I’ll let the wolf have you.”

  Dying Fisher’s long mane of hair jet black was a messy but fairly quick process, and there was no denying that afterward she looked different. She studied herself in Tombs’ bathroom mirror, scowling fiercely with her new dark eyebrows, and then looked back at Hawk lounging in the doorway.

  “Tell me the truth, or you’re dead meat.”

  “You look very striking,” Hawk assured her, careful to keep all traces of a smile off his face. “And most importantly, nothing at all like Julia. Settle for that. Now I really think we should be going. The Guard will probably do everything they can to avoid finding us, but you can bet all the villains we didn’t have time to get round to will be lining up for one last chance at us before we leave.”