Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  Walpole raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Plain speaking may be a virtue, James, but if I were you I’d keep it to myself. There’s no room for it in politics or business.”

  “You should know,” said Medley, and Walpole laughed briefly.

  “James, I can’t say I’m hopeful of your chances, because I’m not. High Steppes has been a safe Conservative Seat for more than thirty years. All right, Hardcastle is a bit of a rotter, but people will vote for the devil they’re familiar with rather than a Cause they don’t know.”

  “Even though the devil has bled them dry for years, and the Cause will fight on their behalf?” Adamant smiled. “Or perhaps you don’t believe in Reform?”

  “My dear chap, it hasn’t a hope.” Walpole took a cigar out of his pocket, looked at it wistfully, and put it away again. “Only allowed one a day,” he explained. “Doctor’s orders. I’d get another doctor, but he’s the wife’s brother. James, Reform is a nice idea, but that’s all. These fashions come and go, but they never last long. Too many vested interests concerned for it to get anywhere.”

  “Is that why you came here?” said Medley. “To tell us we can’t win?”

  Walpole laughed briefly. “Not at all. You asked me for money, James, and I’m here to give it to you. Who knows? you might win after all, and it wouldn’t do me any harm to have you owe me a favour. Besides, I’ve been a friend of your family most of my life. Fought beside your father in the Broken Ridges campaign. He was a good sort. I’m more than comfortably well-off these days, and I can afford to throw away a few thousand ducats.” He took a banker’s draft from his pocket and handed it to Medley. “Put it to good use, James, and let me know if you need some more. And after this nonsense is over, do come and see me. I’m sure I can put some business your way. Now I really must be going. Things to do, you know. Good luck in the election.”

  He didn’t say You’re going to need it. His tone said it for him.

  He rose unhurriedly to his feet, and stretched unobtrusively as Adamant got up and rang for the butler. Medley tucked the banker’s’ draft safely away in his wallet before rising to his feet. The butler came in, Walpole shook hands all around, and then the butler escorted him out. The room was suddenly very quiet. Adamant and Medley sat down again and turned their attention to Lucien Sykes. He glanced quickly at the two Guards, scowled unhappily, and then leant forward to face Adamant, his tone hushed and conspiratorial.

  “You know my position. I have to get my ships in and out of the docks soon, or I stand to lose every penny I’ve got. You know I’ve donated money to the Cause in the past. I’ve been one of your main backers. Now I need your help. I need your word that the first thing you’ll do as a Councillor is to put pressure on those bastards in the Dock-workers Guild to call off their strike. For a while, at least.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Adamant. “But I could put some pressure on the DeWitt brothers to be more reasonable. After all, they caused the strike, by refusing to spend the money needed to make the docks safe to work in.”

  Sykes’s scowl deepened. “That won’t do any good. I’ve already talked to Marcus and David DeWitt. They don’t give a damn for anyone but themselves. It’s become a matter of principle to them, not to give in to their workers. If they want to dig their own financial grave, that’s up to them, but I’m damned if I’m going to let them drag me down with them.”

  “You could always go to Hardcastle,” said Medley.

  “I tried,” said Sykes. “He wouldn’t see me. Three thousand ducats, Adamant. That’s my offer. I’ve got the bank draft right here.”

  “I’ll talk to the Guild and put what pressure I can on the DeWitts,” said Adamant. “That’s all I can promise you. If that’s not good enough, then we’ll have to do without your money.”

  Sykes took a folded bank draft out of his coat pocket, hefted it in his hand, and then tossed it onto the desk. “I’ll see you again, Adamant—if you win the election.”

  He pulled his coat around him, glared briefly at Hawk and Fisher, and left the study. The door swung shut behind him. Hawk turned slightly to look at Adamant.

  “Is it normally this blatant? I mean, when you get right down to it, those two were giving you bribes in return for future favours. Reform’s always campaigned against that kind of corruption in the past.”

  “Fighting an election costs money,” said Medley. “Lots of it. James couldn’t hope to pay all the bills on his own, and the Cause can’t do much to help. What money they have has to be spread around among the poorer candidates. All they could give us was this house. So, we take funds where we can find them. You can bet Hardcastle isn’t bothered by any such niceties. If his supporters don’t make big enough donations, all he has to do is threaten to raise property taxes. And it’s not as if we promised to do anything against our principles. In the end, all politics is based on people doing favours for each other. That’s what keeps the system going. It may not be a very pretty system, but then, that’s one of the things we’re fighting to change.”

  The door flew open, and Dannielle swept in. She glared at them all impartially, and then sank into her favourite chair. “I feel like I ought to open all the windows and set up incense sticks, just to get the smell of politics out of this room.”

  “Sorry, Danny,” said Adamant. “But they really wouldn’t have talked freely with you there, and we needed the money they were offering.”

  Dannielle sniffed. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Let’s,” said Medley. “Is there anything more you need to know before we start campaigning, Captain Hawk, Captain Fisher?”

  “Yes,” said Hawk. “I need more information on the other candidates. Hardcastle, for example. I gather he’s unpopular, even among his own people.”

  “The man’s a brute,” said Adamant. “He runs the High Steppes like his own private Barony. Even levies his own separate tax, though it’s not called that, of course. It’s an insurance policy. And people who don’t or can’t keep up their payments find their luck’s suddenly changed for the worse. It starts with beatings, moves on to fires, and ends with murder. And no one says anything. Even the Guard looks the other way.”

  Hawk smiled coldly. “We’re the Guard here now. Tell me about Hardcastle himself.”

  “He’s a thug and a bully, and his word is worthless,” said Medley unemotionally. “He takes bribes from everyone, and then welshes on the deal, as often as not. He’s been very successful in business, and it’s rumoured he knows where some very important bodies are buried. He has his own little army of men-at-arms and hired bullies. Anyone who tries to speak out against him gets their legs broken as a warning. I don’t think he has any friends, but he has acquaintances in high places.”

  “Anything else?” said Fisher.

  “He’s married,” said Dannielle. “But I’ve never met her.”

  “Not many have,” said Medley. “She doesn’t go out much. From what I hear, it was an arranged marriage, for business reasons. They’ve been married seven years now. No children.”

  “An army of men-at-arms,” said Hawk thoughtfully. “You mean mercenaries?”

  “That’s right,” said Medley. “It’s hard to get an accurate figure, but he’s got at least three hundred armed men under his personal command. Probably more.”

  “And this is the man you’re standing against?” said Fisher. “You must be crazy. You’re going to need your own private army just to walk the streets in safety.”

  “What do I need an army for?” said Adamant. “I’ve got you and Captain Hawk, haven’t I? Relax, Captain Fisher. We have our own mercenaries. Not as many as Hardcastle, but enough. They’ll keep the worst elements off our backs. We’ll just have to play the rest by ear.”

  “Terrific,” said Fisher.

  “Tell me about the other candidates,” said Hawk.

  Adamant looked at Medley, who frowned thoughtfully before speaking. “Well, first, there’s Lord Arthur Sinclair. Youngish chap, inheri
ted the title a few years back under rather dubious circumstances, but that’s nothing new in Haven. Plays politics for the fun of it as much as anything. Likes all the attention, and the chance to stand up in public and make a fool of himself. He’s standing as an independent, because nobody else would have him, and he wants to see an end to all forms of tax on alcohol. He has some backing, mostly from the beer, wine, and spirits industry, and he’s wealthy enough to buy himself a few votes, but the only way he’ll get elected is if all the other candidates drop dead. And even then there’d have to be a recount.”

  “He means well,” said Adamant, “but he’s no danger to anyone except himself. He drinks like a fish, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Then there’s Megan O‘Brien,” said Medley, having waited patiently for Adamant to finish. “He’s a spice merchant, also independent, standing for Free Trade. Given that a great deal of Haven’s income comes from the very taxes O’Brien wants stopped, I don’t think much of his chances. He’ll be lucky to get through the election without being assassinated.

  “And, of course, there’s General Longarm. Once a part of the Low Kingdoms army, now part of a militant movement within the Brotherhood of Steel. He’s been officially disowned by the Brotherhood, though whether that means anything is open to question. The Brotherhood’s always been devious. He’s campaigning as an independent, on the Law and Order ticket. Believes every lawbreaker should be beheaded, on the spot, and wants compulsory military service introduced for every male over fourteen. He’s crazier than a brewery-yard rat, and about as charismatic. His Brotherhood connections might get him a few votes, but otherwise he’s harmless.”

  “I wouldn’t count him out completely,” said Adamant. “Brotherhood militants took The Downs away from the Conservatives at the last election. I think it would be wise to keep a good weather eye on General Longarm.”

  “Any more candidates?” said Fisher, helping herself to more wine from the nearest decanter.

  “Just one,” said Medley. “A mystery candidate. A sorcerer, called the Grey Veil. No one’s seen or heard anything about him, but his name’s on the official list. Magicians aren’t actually banned from standing in the election, but the rules against using magic are so strictly enforced, most magic-users don’t bother. They say they’re unfairly discriminated against, and they may well be right. Mortice says he’s never even heard of the Grey Veil, so he can’t be that powerful.”

  Hawk frowned. “We had a run-in with a sorcerer, earlier today. It might have been him.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference,” said Fisher. “We ran him off. If he was the Grey Veil, I think we can safely assume he’s no longer standing. Running, maybe, but not standing. The report we filed will see to that.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Hawk. “Apart from us, there’s Hardcastle and his mercenaries, militant Brothers of Steel, and a handful of independents with whatever bullies and bravos they can afford. Adamant, this isn’t just an election, it’s an armed conflict. I’ve known battles that were safer than this sounds like it’s going to be.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it,” said Dannielle.

  “I think that’s covered everything,” said Adamant. “Now, would anyone like a quick snack before we leave? I doubt we’ll have time to stop to eat once we’ve started.”

  Hawk looked hopefully at Fisher, but she shook her head firmly. “Apparently we’re fine,” said Hawk. “Thanks anyway.”

  “It’s no trouble,” said Dannielle. “It’ll only take a minute to send word to the kitchen staff and the food taster.”

  Hawk looked at her. “Food taster?”

  “People are always trying to poison me,” said Adamant, shrugging. “Reform has a lot of enemies in Haven, and particularly in the High Steppes. Mortice sees to it that none of the attempts get past the kitchens, so the food taster’s really only there as a backup. Even so, you wouldn’t believe what he’s costing me in danger money.”

  “I don’t think we’ll bother with the snack,” said Hawk. Fisher gave the wine at the bottom of her glass a hard look.

  “You stick with us, Hawk,” said Medley, grinning. “And we’ll give you a solid grounding on politics in Haven. There’s a lot more to it than meets the eye.”

  “So I’m finding out,” said Hawk.

  3

  WOLVES IN The Fold

  Brimstone Hall stood aloof and alone in the middle of its grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall emblazoned with protective runes. Armed men watched from behind the massive iron gates, and guard dogs patrolled the wide-open grounds. Rumour had it the dogs had been fed human meat just long enough to give them a taste for it. There used to be apple trees in the grounds. Hardcastle had them torn up by the roots; they offered shelter to potential assassins.

  Cameron Hardcastle was a very careful man. He trusted nothing and no one, with good cause. He had destroyed many men in his time, one way or another, and helped to ruin many more. It was said he had more enemies than any other man in Haven. Hardcastle believed it, and took pride in the fact. In a city of harsh and ruthless men, he had made himself a legend. Constant death threats were a small price to pay.

  The Hall itself was a crumbling stone monstrosity held together by ancient spells and never-ending repair work. It was stiflingly hot in the summer and impossible to heat in the winter, but it had been home to the Hardcastles for years past counting, and Cameron would not give it up. Hardcastles never gave up anything that was theirs. They were supposed to have been instrumental in the founding of Haven, which might have been why so many of them had been convinced they should be running it.

  Cameron Hardcastle began his career in the Low Kingdoms army. It was expected of him, his class, and his family, and he hated every minute of it. He left the army after only seven years, retiring in haste before he could be court martialled. It was said the charges would have been extreme cruelty, but no one took that seriously. Extreme cruelty was usually what got you ahead in the Low Kingdoms army. The men fought so well because they were more afraid of their officers than they were of the enemy.

  More importantly, there were rumours of blood sacrifice behind locked doors in the officers’ mess, but no one talked about that. It wasn’t considered healthy.

  Hardcastle himself was an average-height, stocky man, with a barrel chest and heavily muscled upper arms. He was good-looking in a rough, scowling way, with a shock of dark hair and an unevenly trimmed moustache. He was in his mid-forties, and looked it, but you only had to meet him for a few moments to feel the strength and power that radiated from him. Whatever else people said about him—and there was a lot of talk, most of it unpleasant—they all admitted the man had presence. When he entered a crowded room, the room fell silent.

  He had a loud, booming laugh, though his sense of humour wasn’t very pleasant. Most people went to the theatre for their entertainment; Hardcastle’s idea of a good time was a visit to the public hangings. He enjoyed bear-baiting, prizefights, and kept a half-dozen dogs to go ratting with. On a good day he’d nail the rats’ tails to the back door to show his tally.

  He was Conservative because his family always had been, and because it suited his business interests to be so. The Hardcastles were of aristocratic stock, and no one was allowed to forget it. Of late, most of their money came from rents and banking, but no one was foolish enough to treat Hardcastle as a merchant or a businessman. Even as a joke. It wouldn’t have been healthy. When he thought about politics at all, which wasn’t often, Hardcastle believed in everyone knowing their place, and keeping to it. He thought universal suffrage was a ghastly mistake, and one he fully intended to rectify at the first opportunity. Reform was nothing more than a disease in the body politic, to be rooted out and destroyed. Starting with James bloody Adamant.

  Hardcastle sat in his favorite wing chair, staring out the great bow window in his study and scowling furiously. Adamant was going to be a problem. The man had a great deal of popular support, more than any previous Re
form candidate, and taking care of him was going to be difficult and expensive. Hardcastle hated spending money he didn’t have to. Fortunately, there were other alternatives. He turned his gaze away from the window, and looked across at his sorcerer, Wulf.

  The sorcerer was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a fine noble head that was just a little too large for his body. Thick auburn hair fell to his shoulders in a mass of curls and knots. His face was long and narrow, and heavy-boned. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. He dressed always in sorcerer’s black, complete with cape and cowl, and looked the part to perfection.

  Wulf was a newcomer to Haven, and as yet hadn’t shown much evidence of his power, but no one doubted he had it. A few weeks back he’d been attacked by four street thugs. It took the city Guard almost a week to find a horse and cart sturdy enough to carry the four stone statues away. They ended up on the Street of Gods. Tourists burn incense sticks before them, but the statues are still silently screaming.

  Sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, with head bowed and hands clasped neatly in her lap, was Jillian Hardcastle, Cameron’s wife. She was barely into her mid-twenties, but she looked twenty years older. She had been pretty once, in an unremarkable way, but life with Hardcastle had worn her away until there was no character left in her face; only a shape, and features that faded from memory the moment she was out of sight. She dressed in rich and fashionable clothes because her husband expected it of her, but she still looked like what she was: a poor little country mouse who’d been brought into the city and had every spark of individuality beaten out of her. Those who spent time in Hardcastle’s company had learned not to comment on the occasional bruises and black eyes that marked Jillian’s face, or the mornings she spent lying in bed, resting.