Roxanne roamed about Hardcastle's library, picking things up and putting them down again. She'd never seen so many resolutely ugly pieces of ornamental china in her life. And there wasn't a damn thing worth stealing. She broke a few ornaments on general principles, and because they made such a pleasant sound as they smashed against the wall. The two mercenaries stirred uneasily, but said nothing. Ostensibly they were there to keep her out of trouble and make sure she didn't set fire to anything, but Roxanne knew they wouldn't do anything unless they absolutely had to. They were scared of her. Most people were, particularly when she smiled. Roxanne smiled widely at the two mercenaries. They both paled visibly, and she turned away, satisfied. She started to pace up and down again, tapping her fingertips on her sword belt. She never could stay still for long. She had too much energy in her.
She looked round quickly as the library door swung open, and then took her hand away from her sword as a pale, colorless woman came in. At first Roxanne thought she must be a servant, but a quick glance at the quality of her clothes suggested she had to be very upper-class, even if she didn't act like it. She ignored the two mercenaries and addressed herself to Roxanne, without raising her eyes from the floor.
"My husband will see you now," she said quietly, her voice entirely free of inflection. "Please follow me and I'll take you to him."
The two mercenaries looked at each other, and one of them cleared his throat diffidently. "Pardon me, ma'am, but we're supposed to stay with her."
Jillian Hardcastle glanced at him briefly, and then looked back at the floor. "My husband wants to see Roxanne. He didn't mention you."
The mercenary frowned uncertainly. "I don't really think we should;"
"You stay put," said Roxanne flatly. "Don't touch the booze and don't break anything. Got it?"
"Got it," said the mercenary. "We'll stay right here." The other mercenary nodded quickly.
Roxanne followed Jillian Hardcastle out of the library and into the hall. It was a large hall, wide and echoing, and Roxanne did her best to look unimpressed. She quickly realized she needn't bother, as Jillian kept her gaze firmly on the ground at all times. Roxanne stared at her thoughtfully. This beaten-down little mouse was Hardcastle's wife? Perhaps the rumors about him were true after all.
Jillian opened the study door, and gestured politely for Roxanne to go in first. She did so, swaggering in with her thumbs tucked into her sword belt. Hardcastle and Wulf got to their feet. Hardcastle studied her narrowly. Roxanne smiled at them both, and didn't miss the little moue of unease that crossed their faces. She knew the effect her smile had on people. That was why she used it. She glanced quickly round the study. Not bad. Quite luxurious in its way. She did her best to look as though she'd seen better, in her time.
"Welcome to my house, Roxanne," said Hardcastle heavily. "Wulf tells me you've done good work for me. As a reward, I have a special assignment for you. You'll be working mostly alone, but there's an extra five hundred ducats in it for you."
"Sounds good," said Roxanne. "What's the catch?"
Hardcastle frowned. Out of the corner of her eye, Roxanne saw Jillian wince momentarily, and then her face was blank and empty again. Roxanne dropped insolently into the most comfortable-looking chair and draped one leg over the padded arm. Hardcastle looked at her for a moment, and then drew up a chair opposite her. Wulf and Jillian remained standing. Hardcastle met Roxanne's gaze for a moment, and then looked away, despite himself.
"James Adamant is standing against me in the election," he said finally. "I want him stopped. Hurt him, kill him, I don't care. Spend as much as you need, use whatever tactics you like. If there's any repercussions I'll get you out of Haven in plenty of time."
"The catch," said Roxanne.
"Adamant has two Captains of the city Guard as bodyguards," said Hardcastle steadily. "They're called Hawk and Fisher."
Roxanne smiled. "I've heard of them. They're supposed to be good. Very good." She laughed happily. It was an unpleasant, disturbing sound. "Hardcastle, I'd almost do this for free, just for the chance to go up against those two."
"They're not the target," said Hardcastle sharply. "If you have a grudge with them, you deal with it on your own time."
"Of course," said Roxanne.
"Even apart from them, Adamant's going to be hard to reach. He has his own mercenaries, and a new magic-user. I understand you have a special contact of your own among his people, so I'll leave the details to you. But it has to be done soon." He picked up his wineglass. "Jillian, get me some wine."
She moved quickly forward, took the glass from his hand, and went over to the row of decanters on the nearby table.
"Do I get any support on this?" said Roxanne, "Or am I working entirely on my own?"
"Use whatever people you need, but make sure there are no direct links to me. Officially, you're just another of my mercenaries."
Jillian brought him a glass of wine. Hardcastle looked at it without touching it. "Jillian, what is this?"
"Your wine, Cameron."
"What kind of wine?"
"Red wine."
"And what kind of wine do I normally drink when I have guests?"
"White wine."
"So why have you brought me red?"
Jillian's mouth began to tremble slightly, though her face remained blank. "I don't know."
"It's because you're stupid, isn't it?"
"Yes, Cameron."
"Go and get me some white wine."
Jillian went back to the decanters. Hardcastle looked at Roxanne, who was studying him thoughtfully. "Have you got something to say, mercenary?"
"She's your wife."
"Yes. She is."
Jillian came back with a glass of white wine. Hardcastle took it, and put it down on the desk without tasting it. "I'll talk with you about this later, Jillian."
She nodded, and stood silently beside his chair. Her hands were clasped so tightly together that the knuckles showed white.
"It's time you spoke to your people, Cameron," said Wulf softly. "We need them out on the streets as quickly as possible, and you need to speak to them before they go."
Hardcastle nodded ungraciously and got to his feet. He looked at Roxanne. "You'd better come too. You might learn something."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Roxanne.
The main hall at Brimstone Hall was uncomfortably large. Two chandeliers of massed candles spread a great pool of light down the middle of the hall, and oil lamps lined the walls. Even so, dark shadows pressed close around the borders of the light. Silence lay heavily across the hall, and the slightest sound seemed to echo on forever. Armed men stood at intervals along the walls, staring blankly straight ahead, somehow all the more menacing for their complete lack of movement. A wide set of stairs led up to a gallery overlooking the hall. Hardcastle stood at ease on the gallery, smiling faintly at some pleasant thought of things to come. Jillian stood at his side;quiet, pliant, head bowed, and eyes far away, as though trying to pretend she wasn't really there at all.
Roxanne stood back a way, hidden in the shadows of the gallery. Wulf sat on a chair beside her, legs casually crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He might have been waiting for a late dessert, or a promised glass of wine, but there was something unsettling in the air of anticipation that hung about him, something; unhealthy. Roxanne kept a careful watch on him from the corner of her eye. She didn't trust sorcerers. Not that she trusted anyone, when you got right down to it, but in her experience magic-users were a particularly treacherous breed.
Hardcastle finally nodded to the two armed mercenaries at the end of the hall, and they pulled back the bolts and swung open the heavy main doors. The crowd of Conservative supporters came surging in, herded by polite but firm stewards. There were flags and banners and a steady hum of anticipation, but it had to be said that the crowd didn't exactly look enthusiastic to be there. Roxanne couldn't help but wonder whether the armed guards were there to keep people out, or kee
p them in. The main doors slammed shut behind the last of the crowd. Hardcastle looked out over his supporters, and cleared his throat loudly. The hall fell silent.
Afterwards, Roxanne was never really clear what the speech had been about. It was an excellent speech, no doubt of that, but she couldn't seem to sort out what exactly had been so enthralling about it. She only knew that the moment Hardcastle began to speak he became magnetic. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, and she strained to hear every word. The crowd below were besotted with him, cheering and applauding and waving their banners frantically every time he paused. Even the stewards and mercenaries seemed fascinated by him. The speech finally came to an end, amid rapturous applause. Hardcastle looked out over the ecstatic crowd, smiling slightly, and then gestured for silence. The cheers gradually died away.
"My friends, there is one among you who has proved himself worthy of my special attention. Joshua Steele, step forward."
There was a pause, and then a young man dressed in the gaudy finery of the minor Quality made his way through the crowd to stand at the foot of the stairs. Even from the back of the gallery Roxanne could tell he was scared. His hands had clenched into fists at his sides, and his face was deathly pale. Hardcastle's smile widened a little.
"Steele, I set you a task. Nothing too difficult. All you had to do was use your contacts to find out whether James Adamant was still magically protected. You told me he wasn't. That's not true, is it, Steele?"
The young man licked his lips quickly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I did everything I could, Councilor. Honestly! His old sorcerer, Masque, is dead, and Adamant hasn't made any move to replace him. My informants were very precise."
Hardcastle shook his head sadly. "You lied to me, Steele. You betrayed me."
Steele suddenly turned and ran, pushing his way through the crowd. Hardcastle looked back at Wulf, and nodded quickly. The sorcerer frowned, concentrating. Steele screamed shrilly, and the crowd drew back from him in horror as he fell writhing to the floor. Blood spurted from his nose and ears, and then from his eyes. He clawed at his face, and then at his stomach as bloody spots appeared on his tunic. Small fanged mouths burst out of his flesh all over his body, as hundreds of bloodworms chewed their way out of him. One of them ruptured the carotid artery in his neck and blood flew out, soaking the nearest members of the crowd. They moaned in revulsion, but couldn't tear their eyes away. Steele kicked and struggled feebly for a few moments longer, and then let out his breath in a long, ragged sigh. His body continued to twitch and jerk as the bloodworms ate their way out. Some of the crowd stamped on the horrid things as they left the body, but it quickly became clear the worms were already dying. They couldn't survive for long once they'd left their host.
Roxanne looked thoughtfully at Hardcastle's back, and then at the sorcerer Wulf. There was a lesson here worth remembering. If she ever fell out with Hardcastle, she'd better make sure the sorcerer was dead first. She looked back at the crowd. They were silent and shocked, sullen now. Their holiday mood had been ruined. Hardcastle raised his voice to get their attention, and began to speak again.
And once more his marvelous oratory worked its magic.
In a matter of moments, the crowd was won over again, and soon they were stamping and cheering and shouting his name, just as they had before. They seemed to have forgotten all about the dead man in their midst. Hardcastle filled their hearts and minds with good cheer, and sent them out into the streets to campaign on his behalf. The crowd filed out of the hall, laughing and chattering animatedly among themselves. Soon the hall was empty, apart from the stewards and the mercenaries. Hardcastle looked down at the body lying alone in the middle of the floor.
"Have someone clean up the mess," he said coldly, and then turned and left the gallery, followed by Wulf and Jillian. Roxanne looked at the torn and blood-soaked body down below.
Hardcastle strode into his study and poured himself a large drink. The speech had gone down well, and that little bastard Steele had got what was coming to him. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all. He was just lowering himself into his favorite chair when the commotion began. Someone was shouting in the corridor, and there was the sound of running feet and general panic. Hardcastle rose quickly from his chair, and his gaze went immediately to the family long-sword hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It had been a good few years since he'd last drawn that in anger, but he'd had a strong feeling he'd need the blade sooner or later during his campaign. And with Wulfs war on Adamant's house finally beginning to warm up, it was only to be expected that Adamant would resort in kind. Hardcastle snorted angrily as he put down his glass and pulled the long-sword from its sheath. So much for Adamant's puerile insistence on playing by the rules. There was only one rule in politics, and that was to win.
It felt good to have a sword in his hands again. He'd spent too long in smoke-filled rooms, arguing with fools for money and support that should have been his by right. The commotion in the hall was growing louder. Hardcastle nodded grimly. Let them come. Let them all come. He'd show them he was a force to be reckoned with. He shot a quick glance at Jillian, who was standing uncertainly by the door, one hand raised to her mouth. Useless damned mouse of a wife. He'd tried to knock some backbone into her, and little good it had done him. He gestured curtly for her to get away from the door, and she fled to the nearest chair and stood behind it. The sorcerer Wulf stayed by the door, making hurried gestures with his hands and muttering under his breath.
"Well?" said Hardcastle impatiently. "What's out there? Are we under attack?"
"Not by magic, Cameron. My wards are still holding. The attack must be on the physical plane. Mercenaries, perhaps." He stopped suddenly, and sniffed at the air. "Can you smell smoke?"
They looked at each other as the same thought struck them both at the same time. They didn't need to say her name. Hardcastle hurried out into the hall, sword in hand, followed by Wulf. Roxanne had her back to the wall and her sword at the ready as she faced off against two of Hardcastle's mercenaries. She was grinning broadly. The mercenaries looked scared but determined. A little further down the hall, a huge wall tapestry was going up in flames. Several servants were trying to put it out with pans of water.
Hardcastle's face purpled dangerously. "Roxanne! What's the meaning of this?"
"Just having a little fun," said Roxanne easily. "I was doing all right till these two spoilsports interfered. I'll be with you in a minute, as soon as I've dealt with them."
"Roxanne," said Wulf quickly, before Hardcastle could say something unwise, "please put away your sword. These men belong to your employer, Councilor Hardcastle. They are under his protection."
Roxanne sniffed ungraciously, and sheathed her sword. The mercenaries put away their swords, looking more than a little relieved. Wulf gestured for them to leave, and they did so quickly, before he could change his mind. Wulf looked at Roxanne reproachfully.
"When you signed the contract to work for Councilor Hardcastle, there was a specific clause stating that you wouldn't start any fires except those we asked you to."
Roxanne shrugged. "You know I can't read."
"I read it aloud to you."
"It was an ugly tapestry anyway."
"That's as may be. But as long as you work for the Councilor you will abide by your contract. Or are you saying your word is worthless?"
Roxanne glared at him. Wulf's stomach lurched, but he stood his ground. He knew any number of spells that would stop her in her tracks, but he had a sneaking suspicion she'd still survive long enough to kill him, no matter what he did to her. Confronting her this early was a definite risk, but it had to be done. Either her word was binding or it wasn't. And if it wasn't, then she was too dangerous a weapon to be used. He'd have to let her go, and hope he could kill her safely from a distance.
Roxanne scowled suddenly, and leaned against the wall with her arms folded. "All right, no more fires. You people have no sense of fun."
"If you've quite finished," said Hardcastle acidly, "perhaps you'd care to accompany me back to my study. I'm expecting some very important guests, and I want both of you present. If you can spare the time."
"Of course," said Roxanne cheerfully. "You're the boss."
Hardcastle gave her a hard look, and then led the way back to his study. The DeWitt brothers were already there, waiting for him. Hardcastle silently promised his butler a slow and painful death for not warning him, and then smiled courteously at the DeWitts and walked forward to shake hands with them. At the last moment he realized he was still holding his sword, and handed it quickly to Wulf to replace on the wall. At least Jillian had had the sense to get the DeWitts a glass of wine. Perhaps the situation could still be saved.
Marcus and David DeWitt were both in their late forties, and on first impression looked much the same: tall, slender, elegant, and arrogant. Dark hair and eyes made their faces appear pale and washed out, giving their impassive features the look of a mummer's mask. There was a quiet, understated menace in their unwavering self-possession, as though nothing in the world would dare disturb them. They'd left their swords at the front door, along with their bodyguards, as a sign of trust, but Hardcastle wasn't fool enough to believe them unarmed. The DeWitts had many enemies and took no chances. Even with a supposed ally.
Between them, Marcus and David DeWitt ran a third of the docks in Haven, on the age-old principle of the minimum investment for the maximum gain. Their docks were notorious for being the worst maintained and the most dangerous work areas in Haven. If the DeWitts gave a damn, they hid it remarkably well. Life was cheap in Haven, and labor even cheaper. And the DeWitts' charges were attractively low, so they never wanted for traffic. But now the dock strike was crippling them, despite the zombie scab labor. The dead men were cheap enough to run and never got tired, but they weren't very bright and needed constant supervision. They were also easy targets for dock-worker guerrilla units armed with salt and fire.
Winner Takes All h&f-1 Page 9
