Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  The afternoon dragged slowly on towards evening as Adamant led his party through the bustling streets of the High Steppes, making speeches, addressing gatherings, and generally beating the drum for Reform. The crowds were thicker than ever as even those who’d been working spilled out onto the streets to make the most of the unofficial holiday. Street traders sold out their wares, closed their stalls, and joined the celebrations. Conjurers and mummers provided traditional entertainments, innkeepers ran low on stock and began hauling dusty bottles from off the back shelves, and fireworks splattered the darkening sky.

  Adamant finally took a break from the crowds, who were more interested in partying than politics, and led his people into the more upmarket sections of the Steppes. He was looking for personal endorsements and promises of funds. What he got were kind words, good wishes, and vague promises. When anybody could be bothered to speak to him. Adamant declined to be disheartened, and pressed on with unfailing enthusiasm.

  And along the way two new members joined his party and walked along with him: Laurence Bearclaw and Joshua Kincaid.

  Bearclaw was a. big man in his late forties, with broad shoulders, and a barrel chest that was slipping slowly towards his belt. He first won fame by killing a bear with nothing but a knife, and he still wore the animal’s claws on a chain around his neck to prove it. His shoulder-length hair was still jet-black because he dyed it regularly. He’d served in a hundred different campaigns as a freelance mercenary, and he’d come away with credit and scalps from all of them. He didn’t really give much of a damn for Reform, but he liked Adamant, and the idea of supporting the underdog appealed to him.

  Kincaid was an average-height man in his mid-forties, with a shock of butter-yellow hair and icy blue eyes. He was muscular in a lean kind of way, didn’t smile much, and was even more dangerous than he looked. He’d made his reputation by fighting in the infamous Bloody Ridges campaign alongside the legendary Adam Stalker. He was famous throughout Haven, and moderately well-known outside it. There were several broadsheets and songs telling of his heroic deeds, all of them written by Kincaid under an assumed name. Like his friend and sometime fighting companion Bearclaw, Kincaid wasn’t what you’d call political. But it had been too long since his last campaign, and he was bored sitting around waiting for a call to action that never came. He hated just sitting around; it make him feel old. If nothing else, working with Adamant was bound to supply enough material for a new broadsheet.

  The afternoon wore on, and took its toll from all of them. Adamant seemed as full of bounce and vinegar as ever, but some of his party were beginning to wilt under the strain. Dannielle in particular seemed to be having an increasingly hard time keeping up with him. She’d disappear now and again for a quick sit-down and a rest, and return later revi talised and full of bounce. But it never lasted. Dark bruises began to appear under her eyes. Medley was becoming increasingly distracted as he tried to keep up with the growing number of reports on how the campaign was going. Hawk and Fisher stayed close by Adamant and kept their eyes open for trouble. As Guards, they were used to spending long hours on their feet, but the pace was getting to them too. Things nearly came to a head when Adamant visited the few members of the Quality who lived on the edges of the Steppes, in a last-ditch gamble for funding and support. Mostly they got the door slammed in their faces; the rest of the time they were invited in, only to be subtly sneered at or not so subtly threatened. This did not go down well with Fisher. She tended to take it personally when she got looked down on. In fact, she tended to get very annoyed and hit people. After one unfortunate incident, Adamant decided it would be better if she waited outside thereafter.

  But finally even Adamant had to admit they’d done all they could. Evening was falling, and the voting would begin soon. He looked out over the milling crowds for a long moment, his eyes far away, and then he smiled and shook his head and took his people home.

  Back in Adamant’s study, Hawk and Fisher sank immediately into the nearest chairs, put their feet up on his desk, and watched interestedly as Adamant bustled around checking reports and planning future strategy. Medley did his best to listen and pay attention, but he was beginning to look decidedly wilted round the edges. Dannielle had already disappeared upstairs for a little lie-down. Hawk for one did not blame her. He could quite happily have spent the next few months just sitting in his chair doing nothing. He smiled slightly. He’d always suspected he was officer material.

  Bearclaw and Kincaid had gone in search of the kitchens to do a little restorative foraging. The butler Villiers came and went bearing messages and reports for Adamant, with a haughty expression that suggested he considered himself above such things. Hawk and Fisher helped themselves to the wine. Medley finally shuffled the reports into some kind of order, and Adamant settled down behind his desk to listen. He glared at Hawk and Fisher until they took their boots off his desk, and then looked expectantly at Medley.

  “First the good news,” said Medley. “The Brotherhood of Steel is out on the street in force. Together with our people, they’re knocking the hell out of Hardcastle’s mercenaries. Also, street crimes have dropped sixty percent.

  “Megan O’Brien, the spice trader, has pulled out of the election. He’s given his money and support to Hardcastle, in return for future favours. No surprises there.

  “Lord Arthur Sinclair, standing on the No Tax On Liquor platform, was last seen passed out cold in the middle of a riotous party that covered an entire block. The Guard have roped off the area and set up barricades. Anyway, Sinclair is officially out of the running, or will be as soon as anyone can wake him up long enough to tell him.

  “The mystery candidate known as the Grey Veil has disappeared. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him since midday. He’s probably retired quietly to save face.

  “Now we come to the bad news. Hardcastle has been campaigning just as hard as we have, if not more so. His speeches have all gone down very well, and his people are handing out booze and money like they’re going out of fashion. He’s made the rounds of some very influential people, and gained a lot of support. The Quality may not like him much, but they’re scared to death of James Adamant. It also appears that Hardcastle has picked up some very powerful support from something on the Street of Gods. Mortice isn’t sure who or what is behind it, but just recently Hardcastle’s sorcerer Wulf has been using all kinds of powerful magic he didn’t have access to before. He’s still not strong enough to break through Mortice’s wards, but Mortice can’t break through Wulf’s either. So, as far as magic goes we have a stalemate. For the moment.

  “The rest of the bad news concerns General Longarm.” Medley paused for a moment to gulp thirstily at a glass of wine before continuing. “Longarm and his militants are doing surprisingly well. There’s no doubt his armed supporters have been practicing subtle and not-so-subtle intimidation, but there does seem to be some real grass-roots support for Longarm. People are responding well to his theme of political strength through military strength. He’s also sworn to accept any man with a sword into the militant branch of the Brotherhood, once he’s elected. A lot of people want that. Being a Brother of Steel opens a lot of doors, and not just in Haven.”

  Medley checked his papers to make sure he’d covered everything, and then dropped them on the desk before Adamant. Adamant frowned thoughtfully.

  “What do we know about General Longarm, Stefan?”

  “Solid, professional soldier; not very imaginative. Had a reasonably good record with the Low Kingdoms army, before he retired and moved here. Came to politics late in life, which is probably why he takes it so seriously. Speaks well in public, as long as he sticks to a prepared text. This offer of guaranteed entry into the militant Brotherhood sounds a lot like desperation tactics. Might be worth sounding out other militants to find out whether it’s a genuine offer or just something Longarm came up with off his own bat.”

  Adamant looked at Hawk and Fisher. “The militants already have one Seat on the Coun
cil: The Downs. Have you heard anything about that district since the militants took over?”

  “It’s not really our district,” said Hawk slowly. “But I have heard a few things. Ever since Councillor Weaver came to power in The Downs, street crime has dropped by more than half throughout the area. That’s been very popular. On the other hand, it seems clear that militant Brothers have been working as unofficial Guards in The Downs, and that hasn’t been at all popular. There’s no doubt they’ve been cracking down on street violence, but they’ve also been pushing their beliefs very strongly, and anyone who dares speak out against that gets very short shrift. I’m not just talking about bloody noses either; apparently the militants can turn quite nasty if they’re crossed. I haven’t any hard figures on how the election’s going there, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Weaver lost his Seat.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Adamant. “There may be something there I can use. Campaign rhetoric is always better for having some basis in truth.”

  The door flew open and Dannielle swept in, looking much refreshed. She smiled brightly at Hawk and Fisher, still slumped in their chairs.

  “What’s this; still tired? I don’t know what the Guard’s coming to these days. James, darling, will you please come with me and talk to the cook? I’ve been trying to get her to agree to the menu we decided on for tonight’s banquet, but she keeps going all mulish on me.”

  “Of course, Danny,” said Adamant tolerantly. He nodded to Medley and the two Guards, and allowed his chattering wife to drag him out from behind his desk and out into the hall. Hawk looked at Fisher.

  “I don’t know where she gets her energy from, but I could sure use some of it.”

  Hardcastle and his people trudged determinedly round the High Steppes, making speeches, shaking hands, and gener ally waving the flag. The crowds had been drinking most of the day and were starting to get a little rowdy, but Roxanne and the mercenaries kept them in line. And the speeches were still going down very well. As long as Hardcastle kept talking the crowds would listen, rapt and enthusiastic. Hardcastle was glad something was still going right; the news from the rest of the Steppes was almost universally bad. Somehow Adamant had put together an army of fighting men and turned them loose, and they were wiping the streets with Hardcastle’s mercenaries. He’d lost nearly every advantage he’d gained, and areas that should have been safely under his thumb were now singing Reform songs and throwing stones at his people.

  Hardcastle fought to hold on to his temper. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. He still had to make the rounds and talk to the people who mattered; people of standing and influence. Adamant might crawl to the commoners for their grubby little votes, but it was the Quality and the merchant houses who really ran Haven. That was where the real power lay. When they spoke, people listened—if they knew what was good for them. And so Hardcastle went from house to house, knocking on doors and glaring at servants, only to find himself fobbed off with vague promises and excuses as often as not. Apparently they were disturbed by the rising violence in the streets. Hardcastle fumed quietly to himself. These were the same people who’d bleated the loudest to the Council at the advances Reform had been making.

  The afternoon darkened towards evening, and Hardcastle headed for the last address on the list. His last friend, and his last hope.

  He stood before Tobias’ door, and waited impatiently for an answer to the bell pull. It was taking a long time. Roxanne was idly trimming a fingernail with a nasty-looking dagger, and Wulf was staring off into the distance, lost in his dreams of power. Hardcastle looked at his followers and mercenaries, standing clumped together and muttering rebelliously under their breath, and he gestured irritably for them to disperse across the street. He wouldn’t put it past Adamant to launch a sneak attack, if he thought he could get away with it. It was what Hardcastle would have done. Besides, he didn’t need an army to visit a friend. Assuming the friend would talk to him.

  Geoffrey Tobias had a reputation for being tight with money, and his house reflected it. Tobias was one of the six richest men in Haven, but his house was a cheap and nasty two up, two down, in one of the more subdued areas of the Steppes. The walls hadn’t been painted in years, and wooden shutters covered the windows, locked tight even though it was still light. Tobias believed there were always thieves and cutthroats waiting for a chance at his money. Hardcastle shrugged. The man was probably right. A miser living on his own and apparently unprotected was an obvious target. Not that he was unprotected, of course. Hardcastle had no doubt the nasty little house was absolutely crawling with defensive spells.

  Tobias had always been careful with money, but since he’d lost his Seat on the Council he’d given all his attention to his financial dealings. The man who had once been one of the real firebrands of the Conservative Cause had become a bitter and secretive recluse. He wouldn’t see anyone he didn’t absolutely have to, and even then strictly only by appointment. But he’d see Hardcastle. Hardcastle was a friend, and more importantly, he had something Tobias wanted. The offer of a Seat on the Council ...

  In return for a sizable contribution to campaign funds, of course.

  The door finally opened a crack, and Tobias glared out at them. He recognised Hardcastle with scowl and opened the door a little wider. He was a grey, shabby man with pale skin and stringy grey hair that hung listlessly around his shoulders. His clothes were filthy and years out of style, and you had to look hard to see that under the dirt and wrinkles they had once been of exquisite style and cut. His face was all sharp planes and angles, with a down-turned mouth, and his eyes were cold and knowing. Tobias looked at Hardcastle for a long time and then sniffed loudly.

  “Hello, Cameron, I should have known you’d come scratching at my door, with the election so close. Are all these people with you?”

  “Yes, Geoffrey,” said Hardcastle patiently. “I vouch for them.”

  Tobias sniffed again. “They stay out here, all of them. I won’t have them in my house.”

  He stepped back to allow Hardcastle to enter, and then slammed the door shut behind him. The narrow hall was gloomy and oppressive and smelled of damp. There was cracked plaster on the walls, and the floor was nothing but bare boards. Tobias led Hardcastle down to the end of the hall, pushed open a door and gestured for him to enter. He did so, and found himself in a comfortable, brightly lit room. The walls were covered with highly polished wood panels, and there was a deep pile carpet on the floor. A huge padded armchair stood by the fireplace, next to a delicate wooden table covered with papers and set with an elegant silver tea service. Tobias grunted with amusement at Hardcastle’s surprise.

  “I may be eccentric, Cameron, but I’m not crazy. I haven’t much use for show or vanity anymore, but I still like my comforts.”

  He sank carefully into the armchair, and gestured for Hardcastle to pull up the only other chair opposite him. They sat looking at each other for a moment.

  “Been a while, Geoffrey.”

  “Two years, at least,” said Tobias. “I’ve kept busy, with one thing and another.”

  “So I hear. They tell me you’ve doubled your fortune since you left the Council.”

  “Leave? I didn’t leave anything, and you damned well know it! I was forced out of my Seat, by that little snot Blackstone and his whining Reformers. He promised them the earth and the moon, and they believed it. Little good it did them. Their precious Blackstone is dead, and his successor couldn’t make money if his life depended on it. Just wait till the Heights is hurting for money and can’t balance its budget, and see how fast they scream for me to come back and save them!”

  His voice had been rising steadily, and by the end he was practically shouting. He stopped as his breath caught in his throat, and he coughed hard for several moments.

  “You should take better care of yourself,” said Hardcastle. “You’ve let yourself go.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” There were flecks of blo
od around Tobias’ mouth. He patted his lips with a folded handkerchief, looked indifferently at the crimson stains on the cloth, and put it away. “What do you want here, Cameron? I’ve no influence anymore.”

  “That could change,” said Hardcastle. “With a little persuasion I think I can get you official Conservative backing in the next election for the Heights. Full support; right across the board. Of course, a large contribution to Conservative funds would help to sway things in the future. That’s how the world works.”

  “Oh, I know all about how the world works, Cameron.” Tobias chuckled briefly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t really care about the Heights anymore. I still get mad about how they treated me, but I wouldn’t go back if they got down on their knees and begged. Being a Councillor always meant more to my poor Maria than it ever did to me. I still miss her, you know....” Hardcastle looked nonplused for a moment, and Tobias chuckled again. “Not used to being caught out, are you, Cameron? You’ve been surrounded by Advisors for too long. You can’t trust Advisors. They just tell you what they think you want to hear.”

  “I need them,” said Hardcastle. “I can’t do everything myself. And my friends haven’t always been there when I needed them.”

  “You never needed me,” said Tobias quietly. “You never really needed anyone. And I had my own problems.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? I would have come to you long before this.”

  “I go my own way, Cameron. Always have, always will. I don’t lean on anyone. Don’t worry; you can have your contribution. Tell my lawyers how much you need, and I’ll see it gets to you. Buy some more mercenaries. Buy whatever it takes to crush those Reform scum into the dirt. Make them pay for what they did to me.”

  “I’ll do that, Geoffrey, I promise you. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes. Leave me in peace. Goodbye, Cameron. Don’t slam the door on your way out.”