Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  Hardcastle frowned, and looked about him. The grey figure was saying nothing new, and on the Street of Gods no one would have given him a second glance. So why was everyone so rapt? Why weren’t there any hecklers in the crowd? He muttered instructions to the nearest mercenary, who nodded and moved quickly through the crowd, passing the instructions on to the other mercenaries. Soon the silence was broken by jeers and insults and catcalls, and the crowd began to stir.

  The Grey Veil turned slowly to face the jeers, and some of the mercenaries’ voices faltered. The Veil stopped speaking, and raised his hands above his head. The day suddenly grew dark. Hardcastle looked up and saw the sky was full of angry, swollen clouds, cutting off the daylight and spreading a chill across the crowd. He frowned uncertainly. He would have sworn the sky had been clear only moments before. He looked back at the grey figure, just in time to flinch as lightning cracked down to strike the upraised hands. An eerie blue glow crackled around the Grey Veil’s hands, and then the lightning leapt out into the crowd, striking down each and every one of Hardcastle’s men who’d raised their voices in mockery. The crowd screamed and shrank back as the mercenaries burst into flames and fell dying to the ground. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but somehow the crowd still held their ground instead of scattering, bound together by the Grey Veil’s will. He slowly lowered his hands, and the sky began to clear.

  The Veil smiled at Hardcastle, and fixed with his disturbingly direct gaze. “What else would you have me do? Shall I call down the rain or call up a hurricane? Shall I fill your lungs with water, or cause your blood to boil in your veins? Or shall I heal the sick and raise the dead: I can do all those things, and more. The Lord of the Gulfs has given me power beyond your petty dreams.”

  “Want me to kill him?” said Roxanne.

  “You wouldn’t get within ten feet of him,” snapped Wulf. “Cameron, let me deal with him.”

  “Do it,” said’ Hardcastle. “Destroy him. No one murders my men and gets away with it.”

  “I wouldn’t stand any more of a chance than Roxanne,” said Wulf. “I told you; he has the Wild Magic in him.”

  “So what do we do?” said Hardcastle.

  “If we’re lucky, we make a deal.”

  Wulf made his way through the silent crowd and approached the platform. He and the Grey Veil spoke together for some time, and then Wulf bowed to him and made his way back to Hardcastle and Roxanne. His face was carefully impassive, but there was no hiding its pallor, or the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Well?” said Hardcastle.

  “He’s agreed to meet us privately,” said Wulf. “I think we can do business.”

  “Who the hell is he? And what’s this Lord of the Gulfs nonsense? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Wulf. “It’s a very old name. You probably know him better as the Abomination.”

  Hardcastle looked at him sharply. “The Abomination was destroyed. Every schoolchild knows that. Its Temple on the Street of Gods has been abandoned for centuries.”

  “Apparently he’s back. Not as powerful as he was, or he wouldn’t need to make deals with us.”

  Hardcastle nodded, back on familiar ground. “All right; what does he want?”

  “That’s what we’re going to discuss.” Wulf looked sharply at Hardcastle. “Cameron, we’ve got to get him on our side. Whatever it takes. With his power, he could hand us the election on a plate.”

  “What if the price is too high?” said Roxanne.

  “No price is too high,” said Hardcastle.

  5

  HARlEQUIN ANd OTHER BEiNGS

  Dressed in chequered black and white, with a white, clown’s face and a domino mask, Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods. No one has ever seen his eyes, and he casts no shadow. He dances with a splendid ease, graceful and magnificent, pirouetting elegantly to a music only he can hear. And he never stops.

  Morning, noon, and night, Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods.

  Everyone needs something to believe in. Something to make them feel safe and secure and cared for. They need it so badly they’ll give up anything and everything, just for the promise of it. They’ll pay in gold and obedience and suffering, or anything else that has a market value. Which is why religion is such big business in Haven.

  Right in the centre of the city, square in the middle of the high-rent district, lies the Street of Gods. Dozens of different churches and temples stand side by side and ostentatiously ignore each other. Then there are the smaller, more intimate meeting houses, for adherents of the lesser known or more controversial beliefs, who for the most part deal strictly in cash. And then there are the street preachers. No one knows where they come from or where they go, but every day they turn up by the hundreds to line the Street of Gods and spread the Word to anyone who’ll listen.

  There’s never any trouble in the Street of Gods. Firstly, the Beings wouldn’t like it, and secondly, it’s bad for business. The people of Haven firmly believe in the right of everyone to make a profit.

  Or prophet.

  Hawk and Fisher looked curiously about them as they accompanied Adamant down the Street of Gods. It wasn’t a part of Haven they knew much about, but they knew enough to be wary. Anything could happen on the Street of Gods. Not for the first time, Hawk wondered if they’d done the right thing in leaving the mercenaries behind, but Adamant had insisted. He’d left his followers behind as well. Apart from his bodyguards, only Medley and Dannielle remained with him now.

  We’re here to ask a favor, said Adamant. That means we come as supplicants, not as heads of a private army.

  Besides, said Medley, we’re here to make deals. We don’t need witnesses.

  The Street itself was a mess. The assorted temples and churches varied widely in size and shape and style of architecture. Fashions from one century stood side by side with modes and follies from another. Street preachers filled the air with the clamor of their cries, and everywhere there was the din of bells and cymbals and animal horns, and the sound of massed voices raised in praise or supplication. The Street itself stretched away into the distance for as far as Hawk could see, and his hackles stirred as he realised the Street of Gods was a hell of a lot larger than the official maps made it out to be. He pointed this out to Medley, who just shrugged.

  “The Street is as long as it has to be to fit everything in. With so many magics and sorceries and Beings of Power jammed together, it’s no wonder things get a little strange here from time to time.”

  “You got that right,” said Fisher, watching interestedly as a street preacher thrust metal skewers through his flesh. He showed no sign of pain, and no blood ran from the wounds. Another preacher poured oil over his body, and set himself on fire. He waited until he’d burned out, and then did it again.

  “Ignore them,” said Adamant. “They’re just exhibitionists. It takes more than spectacle to impress anyone here.” He looked expectantly at Medley. “What’s the latest news, Stefan?”

  Medley gathered together a handful of notes and papers, presented to him by messengers reporting on the day’s progress. “So far, not too bad. Hardcastle’s mercenaries are wiping the streets with ours whenever the two sides meet, but they can’t be everywhere at once. All the main polls show us running neck and neck with Hardcastle, which is actually pretty good this early in the campaign. We could even improve as the day goes on. Wait until the drink wears off and they’ve spent all their bribe money; then we’ll see how many Conservative voters stay bought....

  “Mortice has been keeping busy. Apparently. he’s broken up several Conservative meetings by teleporting rats into the crowd. His sense of humour’s got very basic since he died.

  “As for the other candidates: General Longarm has been making some very powerful speeches. He seems to be building quite a following among the city men-at-arms. Megan O’Brien isn’t getting anywhere. Even his fellow traders don’t believe he can win. And Lord Arthur Sinclair was last seen hos
ting one hell of a party at the Crippled Cougar Inn, and getting smashed out of his skull. No surprises there.”

  They walked on a while in silence. In the Street of Gods the time of day fluctuated from place to place, so that they walked sometimes in daylight and sometimes in moonlight. Once it snowed briefly, and rained frogs, and the stars in the sky outshone the sun. Gargoyles wept blood, and statues stirred on their pedestals. Once, Hawk looked down a side alley and saw a skeleton, held together by copper wire, beating its skull against a stone wall over and over again, and for a time a flock of burning birds followed Adamant’s party down the Street, singing shrilly in a language Hawk didn’t recognise. Adamant looked always straight ahead, ignoring everything outside of his path, and after a while Hawk and Fisher learned to do the same.

  “How many Gods are there here?” said Fisher finally.

  “No one knows,” said Medley. “The number’s changing all the time. There’s something here for everyone.”

  “Who do you believe in?” said Hawk to Adamant.

  Adamant shrugged. “I was raised orthodox, Brotherhood of Steel. I suppose I’m still a believer. It appeals to my pragmatic nature, and unlike most religions they’re not always bothering me for donations.”

  “Right,” said Medley. “You pay your tithes once a year, show up at meetings once a month, and they pretty much leave you alone. But it’s a good church to belong to; you can make very useful contacts through the Brotherhood.”

  “Tell me about the Brotherhood,” said Hawk. “Isobel and I haven’t had much contact with them here, and they’re not very well-known in the Northlands where we were raised.”

  “They’re pretty straightforward,” said Adamant. “Part militaristic, part mystical, based upon a belief in the fighting man. It started out as a warrior’s religion, but it’s broadened its appeal since then. They revere cold steel in all its forms as a weapon, and teach that all men can be equal once they’ve trained to be fighting men. It’s a particularly practical-minded religion.”

  “Right,” said Medley. “And if we can get their support, every man-at-arms in the High Steppes will vote for us.”

  “I would have thought they’d be more interested in Hardcastle,” said Fisher.

  “Normally, yes,” said Adamant. “But luckily for us, Hardcastle has not only not paid his tithes in years, he also had the effrontery to levy a special tax on the Brotherhood in his territory. And on top of that, just recently the Brotherhood’s been split down the middle by an argument over how involved they should get in local politics. The new militant sect already has one Seat on the Council: The Downs. Their candidate in the Steppes is General Longarm. We’re going to see the High Commander of the orthodox sect, and see if we can stir up some support for us, as part of their struggle against the militants.”

  “Great,” said Fisher. “Just what this campaign needed. More complications.”

  Adamant looked at Hawk. “How about you, Captain? What do you believe in?”

  “Hard cash, cold beer, and an axe with a good edge.” Hawk walked on in silence for a while, and then continued. “I was raised as a Christian, but that was a long time ago.”

  “A Christian?” Dannielle raised a painted eyebrow. “Takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose.”

  “Who exactly are we here to see?” said Fisher, changing the subject.

  “There are only a few Beings who will talk to us,” said Adamant. “Most of them won’t interfere in Haven’s civil affairs.”

  “Why not?” said Hawk.

  “Because if one got involved, they all would, and it wouldn’t be long before we had a God War on our hands. No one wants that, least of all the Beings. They’ve got a good racket here, and no one wants to rock the boat. But there are a few Beings who’ve developed a taste for a little discreet and indirect meddling. The trick is to get to them before Hardcastle does. I think we’ll start with the Speaking Stone.”

  The Speaking Stone turned out to be a huge jagged boulder of granite, battered and weather-beaten beyond all shape or meaning. Plainly robed acolytes guarded it with drawn swords all the time Adamant and his party were there. After all the things he’d seen so far on the Street of Gods, Hawk was very disappointed in the Stone. He tried hard to feel some holy atmosphere or mystical aura, but the , Stone looked like just another lump of rock to him. Adamant spoke with the Stone for some time, but if it had anything to say for itself, Hawk didn’t hear it. Adamant seemed.neither pleased nor displeased, but if he had got anything out of his visit, he kept it to himself.

  The Madonna of the Martyrs had a bad reputation. Her church was tucked away in a quiet little backwater of the Street of Gods. There were no signs to proclaim what it was; the people who needed to would always find their way there. There was a constant stream of supplicants to the Madonna’s doors; the lost and the lonely, the beaten and the betrayed. They came to the Madonna with heavy hearts, and she gave them what they asked for: an end to all pain. After they died, they rose again in her service, for as long as she required them.

  Some called her a God, some a Devil. There isn’t always that much difference on the Street of Gods.

  The Madonna herself turned out to be a plain, pleasant woman dressed in gaudily colored robes. She had a tray of sickly looking boiled sweets at her side and sucked one noisily all the time they were there. She didn’t offer them round, and Hawk, for one, was grateful. Dead men and women shuffled through her chamber on unknown errands. Their faces were colorless and slack, but once or twice Hawk thought he caught a quick glimpse of something damned and suffering in their eyes. He kept his hand near his axe, and his eye on the nearest exit.

  Adamant and the Madonna made a deal. In return for her withdrawing her support for the DeWitt brothers, Adamant would allow the Madonna access to the High Steppes hospitals. It wasn’t quite as cold as it sounded. The Madonna was bound by her nature only to take the willing, and every hospital has some who would welcome death as a release from pain. Even so ... Hawk studied Adamant thoughtfully. He’d always suspected the politician had a ruthless streak. He caught Medley’s eye on the way out, but the Advisor just shrugged.

  La Belle Dame du Rocher, the Beautiful Lady of the Rocks, refused to see them. So did the Soror Marium, the Sister of the Sea. They were both old patrons of Haven, and Adamant was clearly disappointed. He left an offering for each of them anyway, just in case.

  The Hanged Man was polite but noncommittal, the Carrion In Tears asked too high a price, and the Crawling Violet’s answer made no sense at all. And so it went down the Street of Gods. Even those few Beings who would allow Adamant to approach them were usually uninterested in his problems. They had their own affairs and vendettas to pursue. Adamant remained calm and polite throughout it all, and Hawk kept his hand near his axe. The various Beings were disturbing enough, but their followers gave him the creeps. They all had the same flat, unwavering stare of the fanatic.

  And finally, when they had been everywhere else, Adamant brought his party to the Brotherhood of Steel. Their Headquarters looked less like a church, and more like an upmarket barracks. The carved wood and stonework was only a few hundred years out of date, which made the place look almost modem compared to most of the Street of Gods. Armed guards patrolled the front of the building, but fell back respectfully once they recognised Adamant. Hawk looked at him sharply.

  “You’re not just a casual visitor here, are you?”

  “I’ve had dealings with the Brotherhood before,” said Adamant. “Every politician has.”

  A scarred man-at-arms in brightly shining chain mail led them through a series of open corridors to an impressively large library, where he left them. Fisher grabbed the most comfortable chair and sank into it, stretching out her long legs with a satisfied sigh. Hawk was tempted to do the same. His feet were killing him. But every instinct he had was telling him to keep alert. Every man he’d seen in the Headquarters had been wearing a sword, and looked like he knew how to use it. If by some chance Hard
castle had already been here and struck a deal with the Brotherhood, getting out of the Headquarters might prove a lot more difficult than getting in. He sat on the arm of Fisher’s chair and fixed Adamant with a steady gaze.

  “All right, sir Adamant. Who are we waiting to see?”

  “Jeremiah Rukker. He’s the Commander here. Not a bad sort; we can talk with him.”

  “How does he feel about Reform?”

  “Couldn’t care less, one way or the other. Officially, the Brotherhood is above politics. Actually, they’ll work with anyone, if it’s kept under the table and the price is right. And the Brotherhood strikes a very hard bargain.”

  “Fill me in on the Brotherhood,” said Fisher. “Just how much influence do they really have in Haven?”

  “More than you’d think,” said Medley. “Essentially, any man who can wield a sword or an axe can apply for membership in the Brotherhood. Once admitted, they can learn skills and tactics preserved over hundreds of years and become part of a mystical fellowship that owes loyalty to nothing save itself. A Brother of Steel will defy any law, ruler, or religion—if the Brotherhood requires it.”

  “And there are Brothers everywhere,” said Adamant. “In the Council, in the Guard, and in all the political parties.”

  Hawk frowned. “How can you be sure of that?”

  “This is Haven, remember? Nothing stays secret here for long.” Adamant looked at Hawk steadily. “According to my sources, the Brotherhood has spread throughout the Low Kingdoms; even among the King’s Advisors. So far, they’ve managed to avoid a purge by declaring themselves totally impartial when it comes to politics, but the new militants may change all that.”

  “So why have we come here?” said Hawk. “Why should the orthodox Brotherhood want to make a deal with Reform?” And then he paused, and his face cleared suddenly. “Of course; the most important thing for them is to see that the militants lose this election. In the Steppes, that means backing either Hardcastle or you, and they know they can’t trust Hardcastle. I think I’m getting the hang of politics.”