Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  With an effort, Buchan stopped himself pacing. It was a sign of weakness, and he couldn’t afford to be weak. He looked again at the brass-bound clock on the mantelpiece, and frowned. He couldn’t stay long, or Tomb and Rowan might wonder where he was. They might ask questions. So might Hawk and Fisher. He would have to be careful around the two Guards. They had a reputation for sniffing out secrets and getting to the bottom of things. Buchan was always careful to go disguised when he made his visits to the Sisters of Joy, but no disguise was perfect, especially on the Street of Gods. Still, only the Quality knew for sure of his connection with the Sisters, and they didn’t know as much as they thought they did. And when you got right down to it, the chances of the city aristocracy deigning to discuss such matters with the likes of Hawk and Fisher were pretty damned remote.

  The Quality wouldn’t discuss one of their own with outsiders. Even if they had disowned him.

  He smiled slightly. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been an important figure in the Quality, a member in good standing and much in demand. No one cared about his reputation then; it just gave them something juicy to gossip about. The Quality do so love their gossip. But even the most sybaritic, most debauched member of the Quality had drawn the line at his associating with the Sisters of Joy. The Sisters were beyond the pale, utterly forbidden. First his friends talked to him about it, and then his enemies. His Family forbade him to visit the Sisters, on pain of disowning him. But he couldn’t stay away, and he wouldn’t tell them why, so in the end the Quality had turned their back on him, and his Family had cut him off without a penny.

  He didn’t care. Not really. He had a new life in the God Squad, and he had his Annette.

  And then the door opened, and she came in. His breath caught in his throat as it always did, and he stood there for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of her. She was tall and slender and graceful and very lovely. Long blond hair curled down around her shoulders, and her eyes were the same. blue as his own. She smiled at him, the special smile she saved for him and him alone, and ran forward into his waiting arms.

  Tomb slowly climbed the stairs to Rowan’s room, a silver tray floating on the air beside him, bearing a cup of steaming tea. The sorcerer was worried about Rowan. She’d been ill on and off for months now, and she still wouldn’t let anyone call in a doctor to see her. She didn’t believe in doctors, preferring to dose herself with her own foul mixtures. Tomb didn’t know what went into them, but every time Rowan prepared a fresh batch in the kitchen, the cook threatened to quit. Having smelt the fumes himself on more than one occasion, Tomb didn’t blame her. If the smell had been any stronger, you could have used it to pebble-dash walls. Tomb’s mouth twitched, but he was too worried to smile. Rowan had been taking her vile doses for weeks, and she was still no better. If her condition didn’t improve soon, he’d bring in a doctor, no matter what she said. He couldn’t stand to see her looking so drawn and tired.

  He moved quietly along the landing and stopped outside Rowan’s door. He knocked politely, and glared at the tea tray when it showed signs of wavering. There was no reply, and he knocked again. He looked round vaguely as he waited. Rowan rarely answered the first few knocks. She liked her privacy, and often she didn’t care for company. Rowan had never been what you’d call sociable. Tomb sighed quietly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  The house seemed very quiet. Buchan was out, and it was the servants’ day off. Tomb had been a member of the God Squad for almost eleven years now, and he knew the house and its moods well. Of late, however, the quiet seemed to have an almost sinister nature; a quiet of unspoken words and too many secrets. Of course, the house was used to secrets. No one came to the God Squad with an entirely clean past. Which was probably why so few of them stayed long. It wasn’t everyone who could cope with the eccentric realities of the Street of Gods. Tomb had seen many warriors and mystics come and go down the years. He hoped Rowan would stay. She was special. He knocked on the door again, a little louder.

  “Rowan? It’s me, Tomb. I thought you might like a nice cup of tea. Can I come in?”

  There was still no reply. Tomb opened the door and entered quietly, the tea tray floating uncertainly behind him. Rowan was fast asleep, looking small and helpless and wor risomely frail in the oversized bed. Rowan stirred slowly without waking, and then settled again. She’d disarrayed the bedclothes in her sleep, like a fretful child, and Tomb moved quietly forward to straighten them. He stood back, looked round the room, and then looked at Rowan again. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully now. There didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. There was no reason for him to stay.

  He sat down on the chair beside the bed. The room was the same featureless square as his own, but she’d done more to personalize hers in the short time she’d been there than he had in all his eleven years. There were oil paintings on the walls that she’d executed herself. They showed promise. A cuddly toy with a stitched-on smile lay on the floor beside the bed. Rowan liked to take it to bed with her when the others were away on cases and she was left alone in the house at night. Tomb could understand that. There are times we all need something to cling to in the night. The rug on the floor was a new addition. Tomb had spent a whole afternoon in the markets with her, trying to find one just the right shade to complement the bedclothes.

  She stirred again in her sleep, and Tomb looked at her quickly, but she didn’t waken. Tomb sat and watched her for a while. He liked to watch her. He could quite happily have sat where he was all day and all night, watching over her, caring for her. Loving her. He smiled slightly. He never used the word love except in his thoughts. He’d told her once how he felt about her, after an hour or so of talking around the subject while he worked up his nerve, and the best he could say of the outcome was that at least she hadn’t laughed at him. She just told him that she didn’t care for him, and seemed to think that was the end of it. Tomb smiled tiredly. If only it was that easy. He hadn’t asked to fall in love with her. She wasn’t especially bright or pretty. But she owned his heart and always would, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  Reluctantly he got to his feet. Rowan could wake up anytime now, and he’d better not be here when she did. He didn’t want to upset her. He left the room quietly, and eased the door shut behind him. He made his way back down the stairs, frowning slightly as he tried to work out what he ought to do next. There was a hell of a lot of paperwork that needed seeing to, but then there always was. It could wait a little longer. He supposed he could take a walk down the Street, talk to people, get a feel of how the Street was reacting to Hawk and Fisher’s arrival.

  Or he could go to see Le Bel Inconnu.

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t go now. It was far too dangerous, with Hawk and Fisher out on the Street. They wouldn’t understand. But he couldn’t stay away either. It was already too long since his last visit. He glanced back up the stairs. Rowan would be all right. The protective wards around the house would make sure she wasn’t disturbed. And if she wanted anything, she only had to call and Tomb would hear her, wherever he was. She knew that.

  He hurried down the hall, took his cloak from the rack, and swung it round his shoulders. He pulled the hood forward, adjusting it so that its shadow covered his face. He could have used a disguise spell, but there were too many places on the Street where magic couldn’t be relied on.

  And this was too important to take unnecessary risks.

  The sorcerer Tomb opened the door with a wave of his hand, and went out onto the Street of Gods.

  Hawk and Fisher slogged up and down the Street of Gods, working their way through the list of names Tomb had given them. Hours passed, but the sun overhead didn’t move. It was noon on the Street of Gods, and had been for several days. Robed acolytes hurried past them on unknown missions, heads bowed to show respect and humility, and to avoid having to see churches and temples more splendid than their own. The street preachers were still workin
g themselves into hysterical rages and setting fire to each other, but no one was paying much attention except the tourists. Hawk and Fisher tramped grimly back and forth, getting what information they could from the Beings that Tomb had named as potentially helpful, and doing their best to ignore the wonders and terrors that thronged the Street.

  The Night People were an old necromantic sect, not as well-supported as they had once been. Their High Priest met Hawk and Fisher in the Ossuary, the Cathedral of Bone. Intricate patterns of polished bones formed the floor and walls and ceilings of the Ossuary. Some were recognisa bly human. Others were so large and grotesque that Hawk preferred not to think about where they might have come from originally. The air smelt of musk and cinnamon, and strange lights flickered in far off windows. All the time they were there, Hawk had a strong feeling they were being watched, as though something awful and implacable lurked just out of sight, waiting patiently for him to drop his guard. He kept his hand near his axe.

  The Night People were blind, their eyelids stitched together, but they all moved and spoke with an eerie certainty that bordered on the unnerving. Hawk did his best to ignore the uneasy prickling on the back of his neck, and asked to see the nameless Being the Night People worshipped. The High Priest shook his head slowly. Only the faithful might see God, and that sight was so glorious it burned out the eyes of all who saw. Hawk tried to press the matter further, but the High Priest would not be moved. He wouldn’t even ask questions on the Guards’ behalf. Neither would he allow them to question the faithful. No one knew anything that might help the Guards. No one knew anything about the God killings. No one knew anything about anything.

  Hawk and Fisher went from church to temple to meeting-house, and the message was always the same. The Hanged Man was polite but unhelpful. Sweet Corruption wasn’t even polite. The Lord of the New Flesh refused even to see them.

  And so it went the length of the Street, until finally they came to the Legion of the Primevil. The Legion’s church was a tall building of spires and domes and crenellated towers. There were magnificent stained-glass windows, and flags and banners in a dozen different hues. Some other time Hawk might have been impressed, but as it was, all he could think of was his aching feet. It had been a long day.

  The Legion priests, however, were frankly disturbing. Each and every one had a staring alien eye embedded somewhere in his flesh. It was large and crimson with a dark split pupil, and it blazed unblinkingly from forehead, chest, or hand. In a few cases it had displaced one of the priest’s original eyes, and it bulged uncomfortably in the too-small socket, glaring balefully at the world. Legend had it that the Legion was the means whereby an ancient Being from another plane of existence was able to observe the world of men.

  The High Priest seemed happy enough to talk to Hawk and Fisher, but could do little to help them. With three Beings murdered in a matter of weeks, gossip ran wild on the Street of Gods. But no one knew anything for sure. People were scared. So were some of the Beings. Everyone was looking for a villain; someone to blame and strike back at. No one had mentioned God War yet, but everyone was thinking about it.

  Hawk and Fisher talked with the High Priest for some time, trying to avoid staring at the great crimson eye that glared unblinkingly from his forehead. Nothing much came of it until right at the end, when the High Priest suddenly leaned forward on his throne and fixed Hawk with his unnerving stare.

  “Tell me, Captain. Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?”

  “No,” said Hawk cautiously. “Can’t say that I have.” He looked at Fisher, and she shook her head slightly.

  The High Priest leaned back on his throne, his expression unreadable beneath the glowing third eye. “Ask Charles Buchan, Captain. He knows.”

  And that was all he would say. In a matter of minutes the two Guards were back on the Street again, not much wiser than when they’d started. It was still midday, and the air was uncomfortably warm. Hawk and Fisher decided simultaneously that what they really needed to help put things in perspective was a stiff drink. Or two. Accordingly, they made their way to the nearest temple dedicated to John Barleycorn, and ordered a ceremonial libation in tall glasses. They took their drinks and settled into a private booth at the back of the temple where the lights were comfortably dim. Hawk stretched out his legs with a luxurious sigh, and propped his aching feet on a nearby chair. Fisher took off one of her boots and massaged her toes. Some moments were just too precious to interrupt, but eventually they turned their attention to their drinks, and the matter at hand.

  “All right,” said Hawk. “Let’s run through what we’ve got. Three Beings are dead. Since they are dead, I think it’s safe to call them Beings rather than Gods. The Dread Lord died nine days ago. His body had been torn apart. The Sundered Man was stabbed to death six days ago. And the Carmadine Stalker apparently aged to death three days ago. Doesn’t take a genius to spot the pattern, does it?”

  “A murder every three days,” said Fisher. “With another due sometime today, if the pattern continues.”

  “Right,” said Hawk. “And there’s nothing we can do to prevent it. We don’t have enough information, and no one will talk to us.”

  Fisher smiled briefly. “Why should the Street of Gods be any different from the rest of Haven?”

  Hawk sniffed. “Anywhere else, I could persuade someone to talk to us. But the mystic was right; strong-arm tactics aren’t going to work here. If I start shoving my axe in a Being’s face, I’ll probably end up snapping at flies on a lily pad. Intimidation is very definitely out. That just leaves diplomacy.”

  “I’ll leave it to you,” said Fisher. “I don’t have the knack.”

  “I had noticed,” said Hawk. “What do we have on the killer? He comes and goes at will, even when the temples are heavily guarded by well-armed fanatics. Which means he’s either invisible, which means a sorcerer, or a master of disguise. Or it’s someone they expect to see, someone they don’t recognise as a threat.

  “Each Being died in a different way, and as far as we can tell, none of them had anything in common. So how does the killer choose his victims? At random? Dammit, I don’t even know where to start on this case, Isobel.”

  “Don’t give up so easily. Look at it this way. The killer has to be immensely strong, and able to pass unseen. So how about a supernatural killer, like a vampire? He could get past the guards by shapeshifting into a bat or a mist, and he’d be more than strong enough to tear apart the Dread Lord. It would even explain why all the killings took place in the early hours of the morning.”

  Hawk thought about it. “It’s a possibility, lass, but I can’t believe the Beings wouldn’t have protective wards specifically designed to keep out supernatural vermin like that. Everybody else does, that can afford them. No, Isobel; I think magic is the key here.”

  “You mean a rogue sorcerer?”

  “Maybe. An invisibility spell would get him past the wards and the guards, and then he could use magic to blast apart the Dread Lord and age the Stalker to death.”

  “But then why use a knife on the Sundered Man?”

  “To be misleading?”

  “That makes my head hurt,” said Fisher. She took a long drink from her glass, and frowned hard as she concentrated. “Wait a minute, though.... Turn it around. You can also see the killings as being linked by a lack of magic. The wards couldn’t keep the killer out. The magic keeping the Stalker alive failed. So did the magic keeping the Sundered Man out of time. And maybe it was only magic that was holding the Dread Lord together. He was hollow, remember? So maybe what we’re looking for is a sorcerer, or a man with an object of Power, that can dispel magic and leave the Beings vulnerable.”

  “An object of Power that dispels magic,” said Hawk slowly. “The Exorcist Stone?”

  “Oh, hell!” said Fisher. “One of the God Squad as a God killer? Come on, Hawk.”

  “They’re the only ones that can use the Exorcist Stone.”

  “But the Council put a c
ompulsion on them to prevent them from misusing it!”

  Hawk smiled sourly. “If this was an easy case, they wouldn’t need us to solve it. It has to be one of the God Squad, Isobel; it’s the only theory that fits all the facts. The killer must have found some way to bypass the geas.”

  “We don’t dare accuse any of them without a hell of a lot of proof,” said Fisher. “These people have friends in high places. Sometimes literally. Dammit, Hawk, we’re supposed to be working with these people. How can we keep something like this from them?”

  “Very carefully,” said Hawk. “Whichever one of them is the killer has already destroyed three Beings. I don’t think they’d hesitate to kill a couple of Guards who were getting too close to the truth.”

  They sat in silence for a while. “So what are we going to do?” said Fisher.

  “Take things one step at a time,” said Hawk. “To start with, I think we’ll have a word with Charles Buchan, and see what he knows about the Hellfire Club. Whatever that is.”

  “He was the only one of the God Squad to be named during our investigation,” said Fisher thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” said Hawk. “Interesting, that. But perhaps just a little too obvious. Unless we’re supposed to think that ...”

  Fisher groaned and shook her head, and reached for her glass again.

  Hawk and Fisher left the temple of John Barleycorn, and found that night had fallen without warning. Here and there, street lamps pushed back the night as best they could, but darkness pooled thickly between them. Unfamiliar stars shone in the night sky, forming alien constellations that bore no resemblance to those seen elsewhere in Haven. There was no moon, and the night air had a feverish, unsettled quality. The Street of Gods was almost deserted. The street preachers had disappeared, and only a few hooded figures still bustled back and forth on their eternal errands. Hawk frowned unhappily. The Street wouldn’t normally be this quiet just because it suddenly got dark. But with a God killer on the loose, most people had clearly decided against taking unnecessary risks.