Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)

by Simon R. Green

  The huge warrior, Bailey, could well be a problem. He had to be in his late forties, maybe even early fifties, but he was still in magnificent shape, with a broad muscular chest and shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways when he walked through a doorway. Even standing still on the other side of the room, he seemed to be looming over everyone else. He made Horn look almost petite. And yet his face was painfully gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as though he’d been having trouble sleeping. Ritenour shrugged inwardly. Any mercenary Bailey’s age was bound to have more than a few ghosts haunting his memories. Ritenour studied the man’s face thoughtfully, searching for clues. Bailey’s hair was iron-grey, cropped short in a military cut. His eyes were icy blue, and his mouth was a thin line like a knife-cut. Ritenour could see control in the face, and strength, but his cold mask hid everything else. Ritenour decided he wouldn’t turn his back on this one either.

  Despite Madigan’s unsettling praises of the young man, Ritenour didn’t see Ellis Glen as much of a problem. He was barely out of his teens, tall and gangling and not yet into his full growth. His face was bright and open, and he was so full of energy it was all he could do to sit still at his table while Ritenour ate. He was probably only there to run errands and take care of the scutwork no one else wanted to be bothered with. Useful battle fodder too; someone expendable Madigan could send into dangerous situations to check for traps and ambushes.

  And finally, of course, there was Daniel Madigan himself. You only had to look at him for a moment to know he was the leader. He was darkly handsome and effortlessly charismatic, and even sitting still and silent, he radiated strength and authority and presence. He was the first person everyone’s eyes went to on entering a room, drawing attention in much the same way a wolf would, or any other predator. Looked at coolly, he wasn’t physically all that outstanding. He was slightly less than average height, and certainly not muscular, but still he was the most dangerous man in the room, and everyone knew it. Ritenour felt increasingly unsettled by Madigan’s gaze, but forced himself to continue his meal and his appraisal of the terrorist leader.

  The more he studied Madigan, the clearer it became that violence of thought and deed was always simmering just below a calm surface. And yet there was nothing special you could put your finger on about his face or bearing. Ritenour had heard it said that Madigan, when he felt like it, could turn off his personality in a moment, and become just another anonymous face in the crowd. It was an attribute that had enabled him to escape from many traps and tight corners in his time. Ritenour studied the man’s features carefully. Just now, Madigan was showing him a cool, unemotional politician’s face, half hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were dark and unwavering, and his occasional smile came and went so quickly you couldn’t be sure whether you’d seen it or not. He looked to be in his early thirties, but had to be at least ten years older, unless he’d started his career of death and terror as a child. Not that Ritenour would put that past him. If ever a man had been born to violence and intrigue and sudden death, it was Daniel Madigan. No one knew how many people he’d killed down the years, how many towns and villages he’d destroyed in blood and fire, how many outrages he’d committed in the name of his Cause.

  He had vowed to overthrow and destroy Outremer. No one knew why. There were many stories, mostly concerning the fate of his unknown family, but they were only stories. The Low Kingdoms had long since disowned him and his actions. He was too extreme, too ruthless ... too dangerous to be associated with, even at a distance. Madigan didn’t care. He went his own way, following his own Cause, ready to kill or destroy anyone or anything that got in his way.

  And now he was sitting opposite Ritenour, studying him coolly and waiting to talk to him. With a start, Ritenour realised he’d finished his meal and was staring openly at Madigan. He buried his face in his wineglass and fought his way back to some kind of composure. He finally lowered his glass and put it carefully down on the arm of his chair, aware that the other terrorists were watching him with varying shades of impatience.

  “Did the vintage meet with your approval?” asked Madigan.

  “An excellent choice,” said Ritenour, smiling calmly back. In fact, he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t a clue as to what he’d just drunk. It could have been dishwater for all he knew. He braced himself, and met Madigan’s unnerving gaze as firmly as he could. “What do you want with me, Madigan? I’m no one special, and we both know it. I’m just another mid-level sorcerer, in a city infested with them. What makes me so important to you that you were ready to start a riot to break me out of Damnation Row?”

  “You’re not just a sorcerer,” said Madigan easily. “You’re also a shaman, a man with intimate knowledge of the life and death of animals and men. I have a use for a shaman. Particularly one who’s followed the path of your recent experiments. Oh yes, my friend, I know all the secrets of your laboratory. I make it my business to know such things. Relax; no one else need ever know. Providing you do this little job for me.”

  “What job?” said Ritenour. “What do you want me to do?”

  Madigan leaned forward, smiling slightly. “Together, you and I are going to rewrite history. We’re going to kill the Kings of Outremer and the Low Kingdoms.”

  Ritenour looked at him blankly, too stunned even to register the shock that he felt. He’d known the Kings had arrived in Haven. That news had penetrated even Damnation Row’s thick walls. But the sheer enormity of the plan took his breath away. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a snap.

  “Let me get this right,” he said finally, too thrown even to care about sounding respectful. “You’re planning to kill both Kings? Why both? I thought your quarrel was just with Outremer?”

  “It is. I have dedicated my life to that country’s destruction.”

  “Then why the hell ... ?” Horn stirred suddenly at Madigan’s side, reacting to the baffled anger in Ritenour’s voice, and he shut up quickly to give his mind a chance to catch up with his mouth. There had to be a reason. Madigan did nothing without a reason. “Why do you want to kill your own King?”

  “Because the Low Kingdoms’ Parliament has betrayed us all by agreeing to his new Peace Treaty. Once this worthless scrap of paper has been signed, land that is rightfully ours and has been for generations will be given away to our hereditary enemies. I will not allow that to happen. There can be no peace with Outremer. As long as that country exists, it is an abomination in the sight of the Gods. That land was ours, and will be again. Outremer must be brought down, no matter what the price. So, both their King and ours must die, and in such a fashion that no one knows who is responsible. Both Parliaments will blame the other, both will deny any knowledge of any plot, and in the end there will be war. The people of both countries will demand it. And Outremer will be wiped from the face of the earth.”

  “We’re going to do all this?” said Ritenour. “Just the six of us?”

  “I have a hundred armed men at my command, hand-picked and assembled just for this project. But if all goes well, we shouldn’t even need them much, except to ensure our security once we’ve taken control of Champion House. You must learn to trust me, sir sorcerer. Everyone in this room has committed their lives to carrying out this plan.”

  “You’re committed to your Cause,” said Ritenour bluntly. “I’m not. I’m here because I was promised a great deal of money. And all this talk of dying for a Cause makes me nervous. Dead men are notorious for not paying their bills.”

  Madigan chuckled briefly. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Don’t worry, my friend. You’ll get your money. It’s being held in a safe place until after this mission is over. And to answer the question you didn’t ask; no, you will not be required to die for our Cause. Once you have performed the task I require of you, you are free to leave.”

  There was a knock at the door, an ordinary, everyday knock, and Madigan’s people tensed, their hands moving quickly to their weapons. Bailey
stared through the peephole, grunted once and relaxed. “It’s all right. It’s just the traitor.” He unbolted the door and pulled it open, and a young nobleman strode in as if he owned the place.

  He was tall and very slender, with a skin so pale it all but boasted that its owner never voluntarily put a foot outdoors. His long, narrow face bore two beauty spots and a look of utter disdain. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with tightly cut trousers and a padded jerkin with a chin-high collar. He had the kind of natural poise and arrogance that comes only with regular practice since childhood, and his formal bow to Madigan bordered on insolence. He swept off his wet cloak and handed it to Bailey without looking at him. The old warrior held the dripping garment between thumb and forefinger, and for a moment Ritenour thought Bailey might tell the young nobleman what he could do with it. But Madigan glanced briefly at him, and Bailey hung the cloak carefully on the rack by the door. The young noble strutted forward, ostentatiously ignoring everyone, and warmed his hands by the fire.

  “Beastly weather out. Damned if I know why your city weather wizards allow it. My new boots are positively ruined.” He glared at Ritenour as though it was his fault. The sorcerer smiled in response, and made a mental note of the young man’s face for future attention. The nobleman sniffed loudly and turned his glare on Madigan. “This is the sorcerer fellow, is it? Are you sure he’s up to the job? I’ve seen better dressed scarecrows.”

  “I don’t need him for his fashion sense,” said Madigan calmly. “Have you brought the information I require, Sir Roland?”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d venture out in this bloody downpour unless it was absolutely necessary, do you?”

  He pulled a roll of papers from inside his jerkin, and moved over to spread them out on the table, scowling at Glen and Eleanour Todd until they stood up and got out of the way. Ritenour and Madigan got up and went over to join him at the table. The sorcerer studied Sir Roland with interest. Either the man had nerves of steel, or he was totally insensitive to the fact that he was making enemies of some very dangerous people. Sir Roland secured his papers at the comers with the terrorists’ wineglasses, and gestured impatiently for Madigan to move in beside him. He did so, and everyone else crowded in behind him.

  “These are the floor plans for Champion House,” said Sir Roland brusquely. “All the details you’ll need are here, including the location and nature of all the security spells. I’ve also marked the routes of the various security patrols, and how many men-at-arms you can expect to encounter at each point. You’ll find details of their movements, a timetable for each patrol and so on, in the other papers. I don’t have time to go through those with you now. I’ve also got you the plans you requested for the cellar, though what good that’s going to do you is beyond me. No one’s been down there for simply ages, and the whole place is a mess. It’s full of rubbish and probably crawling with rats. And if you’re thinking of breaking in that way, you can forget it. The cellar was built on solid concrete, and there are unbreakable security wards to prevent anyone from teleporting into the House.

  “Now then, this sheet gives you both Kings’ separate schedules, inside and outside the building, complete with details of how much protection they’ll have. With these schedules, you’ll be able to tell exactly where each King should be at any given moment. There are bound to be alterations from time to time, to accommodate any whims or fears of the Kings’ security people, but I’ll see you’re kept up to date as much as possible. For the moment, everyone’s so afraid of offending somebody that they’re all following their schedules to the letter, but you know how paranoid security people can get. You’d almost think they had something to worry about. Finally, this sheet gives you the names of those people who can be trusted to support you, once the operation is underway. You’ll notice the list includes names from the parties of both countries.” The young noble smiled slightly. “Though of course they won’t reveal themselves unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Still, I think you can rely on them to keep their fellow hostages in line, prevent any heroics, that sort of thing.

  “I think you’ll find everything you need in here. I must say I’m rather looking forward to seeing Their Majesties’ faces when they discover they’re being held for ransom. Glorious fun. Now then, I must be off. I have to get back before I’m missed. I don’t see any need for us to meet again, Madigan, but if you must contact me, do be terribly discreet. We don’t want anything to go wrong at this late stage, now do we?”

  He turned away from the table, and gestured imperiously for Bailey to fetch him his cloak. Bailey did so, after a look at Madigan, and Sir Roland swung the cloak around his shoulders with a practised dramatic gesture. Ritenour almost felt like applauding. Sir Roland bowed briefly to Madigan, ignored everyone else, and left. Bailey closed and bolted the door behind him. Ritenour looked at Madigan.

  “Dear Roland doesn’t know what’s really going on, does he?”

  Madigan’s smile flickered briefly. “He and his fellow conspirators believe they’re part of a plot to disrupt the Peace Signing with a kidnapping. They believe this will delay the Signing, buy them time to sow seeds of doubt in their precious Parliaments, and generally stir up bad feeling on both sides. They also expect a large share of the ransom money to find its way into their hands. I fear they’re going to be somewhat disappointed. I’m rather looking forward to seeing their faces when we execute the two Kings right before their eyes.”

  “Glorious fun,” said Eleanour Todd, and everyone laughed.

  “About these conspirators,” said Ritenour diffidently, indicating the relevant page. “You do realize that all of them, and most particularly including Sir Roland, will have to die? Along with everyone who could identify us.”

  Madigan nodded. “Believe me, sir sorcerer, no one will be left alive to point the finger, and no one will pursue us. Haven ... will have its own problems.”

  Ritenour looked around him, taking in the mocking smiles on the terrorists’ faces, and a sudden chill clutched at his heart. “What exactly are you planning, Madigan? What do you want from me?”

  Madigan told him.

  Wulf Saxon strode through the old familiar district he used to live in, and no one knew him. The last time he’d walked these streets, twenty-three years ago, people had waved and smiled and some had even cheered. Everyone wanted to know him then—the local lad who’d made good. The city Councillor who’d started out in the same mean streets as them. But now no one recognised his face, and in a way he was glad. The Northside had always been rough and ready, shaped by poverty and need, but it had never seemed this bad. There was no pride or spirit left in the quiet, defeated people who scurried through the pouring rain with their heads bowed. The once brightly painted buildings were grey and faceless with accumulated soot and filth. Garbage blocked the gutters, and sullen-eyed bravos shouldered their way through the crowds without anyone so much as raising a murmur of protest.

  Saxon had expected some changes after his long absence, but nothing like this. The Northside he remembered had been vile, corrupt, and dangerous, but the people had a spark then, a vitality that enabled them to rise above all that and claim their own little victories against an uncaring world. Whatever spark these people might once have possessed had been beaten out of them. Saxon trudged on down the street, letting his feet guide him where they would. He should have felt angry or depressed, but mostly he just felt tired. He’d spent the last few hours tracking down names and memories, only to find that most of the people he’d once known were now either missing or dead. Some names only produced blank faces. It seemed many things could change in twenty-three years.

  He found himself standing in front of a tavern with a familiar name, the Monkey’s Drum, and decided he could use a drink. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes narrowing against the sudden gloom. He took off his cloak and flapped it briskly out the open door a few times to lose the worst of the rain, and then hung it on a nearby peg. He shut the door a
nd turned to study the tavern’s interior with a critical eye.

  It was fairly clean, in an absent-minded sort of way, and half-full of patrons sitting quietly at their tables, talking in lowered voices. None of them looked at Saxon for more than the briefest of moments, to make sure he wasn’t the Guard. He smiled sourly, and headed for the bar. It seemed some things never changed. The Monkey’s Drum had always been a place where you could buy and sell and make a deal. He made his way through the closely packed tables and ordered a brandy at the bar. The price made him wince, but he paid it with as much good grace as he could muster. Inflation could do a lot to prices in twenty-three years. The money he’d set aside in his secret lock-up all those years ago wasn’t going to last nearly as long as he’d hoped. Twenty-three years ... He kept repeating the number of years to himself, as though he could make himself believe it through sheer repetition, but it didn’t get any easier. It was as though he’d gone to sleep in one world and awakened in another that bore only a nightmarish resemblance to the one he remembered.

  That would teach him to try and steal a sorcerer’s painting.

  He smiled, and shrugged resignedly. Being a city Councillor had proved surprisingly expensive, and the pittance the city paid wasn’t nearly enough to keep him in the style to which he intended to become accustomed. So he’d gone back to his previous occupation as a gentleman crook, a burglar with style and panache, and had broken into the house of a sorcerer he’d known was currently out of town. He’d been doing quite well, sidestepping all the sorcerer’s protective wards with his usual skill, only to end up being eaten by Messerschmann’s bloody Portrait. Sometimes there’s no justice in this world.