Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (5 page)
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Authors: Simon R. Green
BOOK: Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)
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He reached the landing without incident and padded silently over to the second door on the left. Light shone around the doorframe. He put his ear to the wood, and smiled as he heard a voice raised loudly in argument. He stepped back, hefted his axe once, and braced himself to kick in the door. At which point the door swung open, revealing the spy Fenris standing in the doorway with a startled expression. For a moment he and Hawk just stood there, staring at each other, and then Hawk launched himself at the spy. Fenris fell back, shock and alarm fighting for control of his features. Hawk glanced quickly round the room, and his gaze fell on the spy’s contact—a grey, anonymous man with an icily calm face.
“Stand where you are, both of you!” barked Hawk. “You’re under arrest. Throw down your weapons!”
The contact drew his sword and advanced on Hawk. The spy fumbled for a throwing knife.
Oh hell,
thought Hawk tiredly.
Just once, why can’t they do the sensible thing and give up without a fight?
He decided he’d better take out the contact first; he looked to be the more dangerous of the two. Once the contact had been subdued, Fenris would likely give himself up without a struggle. Hawk closed in on the contact; the man’s face was utterly bland and forget-table, but his eyes were cold and deadly calm. Hawk began to have a very bad feeling about him. He pushed the thought aside and launched his attack. The grey man brushed aside Hawk’s axe effortlessly, and Hawk had to retreat rapidly to avoid being transfixed by the contact’s follow-through.
Oh hell,
thought Hawk tiredly.
Just once, why can’t they do the sensible thing and give up without a fight?
He decided he’d better take out the contact first; he looked to be the more dangerous of the two. Once the contact had been subdued, Fenris would likely give himself up without a struggle. Hawk closed in on the contact; the man’s face was utterly bland and forget-table, but his eyes were cold and deadly calm. Hawk began to have a very bad feeling about him. He pushed the thought aside and launched his attack. The grey man brushed aside Hawk’s axe effortlessly, and Hawk had to retreat rapidly to avoid being transfixed by the contact’s follow-through.
The grey man moved quickly after him, cutting and thrusting with awesome skill, and it was all Hawk could do to hold him off. Fenris’ contact was an expert swordsman. Hawk’s heart sank. When all was said and done, an axe was not designed as a defensive weapon. Hawk usually won his fights by launching an all-out attack and not letting up until his opponent was beaten. As it was, only frantic footwork and some inspired use of the axe was keeping him alive. Hawk had been an excellent swordsman in his younger days, before he lost his eye, but even then he would have been hard pressed to beat the grey man. He was fast, brilliant, and disturbingly methodical. Unless Hawk could come up with something in a hurry, he was a dead man, and both he and the grey man knew it. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawk could see Fenris circling around them with a throwing knife in his hand, looking for an opening. That settled it. When in doubt, fight dirty.
He struck at the grey man’s head with his axe, forcing him to raise his sword to parry the blow, and while the two blades were engaged, Hawk pivoted neatly on one foot and kicked the grey man squarely in the groin. The man’s face paled and his sword arm wavered. Hawk brought his axe across in a sudden, savage blow that sliced through the man’s throat. Blood spurted thickly as the grey man collapsed. Hawk spun quickly to face Fenris. He might have lost the contact, but he was damned if he’d lose the spy as well. Fenris aimed and threw his knife in a single fluid movement. Hawk threw himself to one side, and the knife shot past his shoulder but pinned his cloak firmly to the wall. Hawk scrabbled frantically at the cloak’s clasp as Fenris turned and bolted out the door. Some days, nothing goes right.
The clasp finally came undone, and he jerked free, leaving the cloak hanging pinned to the wall behind him. He charged out of the room and onto the landing. He’d come back for the cloak later. He peered over the banister and caught a glimpse of Fenris standing at the foot of the stairs, looking frantically about him. Hawk clattered down the stairs, cursing quietly to himself. He hated chases. He was built for stamina, not speed, and he was already out of breath from the exertions of the fight. Still, Fenris wouldn’t get that far. The wedge under the front door should see to that.
In the darkened parlour, the seance was well under way. A mysterious pool of light illuminated a small circular table, throwing sinister shadows on the faces of the six people gathered hopefully around it. Darkness pressed close about the circle of light, hiding the pokey little parlour and giving the six participants a feeling of being adrift in eternity. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood, and over all there was an atmosphere of unease and anticipation. Madam Zara rocked back and forth on her chair, as though all around her spirits were jostling for possession of her voice, desperate to pass on messages of hope and comfort to those they had left behind. Madam Zara’s head lolled limply on her neck, but her eyes kept a careful if unobtrusive watch on her clients.
It was just her regulars this week. The Holbrooks, a middle-aged couple wanting to contact their dead son. David and Mercy Peyton, still hopeful their dear departed grandfather would reveal to them where he’d hidden the family fortune. And old Mrs. Tyrell, timidly grateful for any fleeting contact with her dead cat, Marmalade. The two couples were easy enough; all they needed were general platitudes on the one hand and vague hints on the other, but having to make cat noises was downright demeaning. If trade hadn’t dropped off so much recently she’d have drawn the line at pets, but times were hard, and Madam Zara had to make do with what she could get.
She let her eyes roll back in her head, and produced her best sepulchral moan. She was rather proud of her moan. It had something of the mystic and the eternal in it, and was guaranteed to make even the most skeptical client sit up and take notice. She took a firm grip on the hands of Graeme Holbrook and David Peyton on either side of her, and let a delicate shudder run down her arms into her hands.
“The spirits are with us,” she said softly. “They are near us in everything’ we do, separated from us by only the thinnest of veils. They wish always to make contact with us, and all we have to do is listen.... Hush. I feel a disturbance in the ether. A spirit draws near. Speak with my voice, dear departed one. Have you a message for someone here?”
The atmosphere grew taut and strained as Madam Zara threw in a few more moans and shivers, and then pressed her foot firmly onto the lever hidden in the floorboards. A block of wood thudded hollowly against the underside of the table, making the clients jump. She hit the lever a few more times, producing more mysterious knockings, and then concentrated on getting the right intonations for the Peyton grandfather’s voice. People didn’t appreciate what mediums had to go through for their money. She could have been a legitimate actress, if only she’d had the breaks.
“The spirit is drawing closer. I can feel a presence in the room. It’s almost here....”
The door flew open and the tall thin gentleman from upstairs charged in, glared wildly about him, and then headed for the window. The Holbrooks screamed, and Mercy Peyton fell backwards off her chair. Madam Zara looked confusedly about her, completely thrown. Another figure burst in through the open door, his clothes soaked with blood, fresh gore dripping from the axe in his hand. The Holbrooks screamed even louder and clutched each other tightly, convinced that the Grim Reaper himself had come to claim them for meddling in his affairs. The gentleman from upstairs threw open the window and slung a leg over the windowsill. The second figure charged forward, overturning the table. He grabbed at the young gentleman’s shoulder, and just missed as he dropped into the alleyway outside. The second figure cursed horribly and clambered out the window in hot pursuit. The Holbrooks were still clutching each other and whimpering, Mercy Peyton was having hysterics, loudly, and David Peyton was thoughtfully examining the block of wood on the underside of the overturned table. Madam Zara searched frantically for something to say that would retrieve the situation. And just at that moment a large orange cat jumped in through the window from the alley outside and looked around to see what all the fuss was about. Mrs. Tyrell snatched him up and hugged him to her with tears of joy in her eyes.
“Marmalade! You’ve come back to me!”
Madam Zara mentally washed her hands of the whole situation.
Out in the alley, Hawk found Fisher picking herself up out of a pile of garbage. He started forward to help, and then hesitated as the smell hit him. Fisher glared at him.
“Next time, you’re going to watch the back door.”
She headed quickly for the main street, brushing herself off as she went. Hawk hurried after her.
“Did you see Fenris?”
“Of course I saw him! Who do you think knocked me into the garbage? And whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it. How was I to know he’d come flying out of a window? Now, let’s move it. He can’t be more than a few minutes ahead of us.”
They pounded down the alley and out into Leech Street. Fenris was halfway down the street and running well. Hawk and Fisher charged after him. The crowds turned to watch. Some laughed, a few cheered, and the rest yelled insults and placed bets. A few up ahead took in Fisher’s black cloak and moved to block the street. Guards weren’t much respected in Leech Street. Hawk glared at them.
“We’re Hawk and Fisher, city Guard. Get the hell out of the way!”
The crowd parted suddenly before them, falling back on all sides to give them plenty of room. Fenris glanced back over his shoulder and redoubled his efforts. Fisher nodded approvingly at the more respectful crowd.
“I think they’ve heard of us, Hawk.”
“Shut up and keep running.”
Fenris darted down a side alley, and Hawk and Fisher plunged in after him. Hawk was already breathing hard. Fenris led them through a twisting maze of narrow streets and back alleys, changing direction and doubling back whenever he could. Hawk and Fisher stuck doggedly with him, breath burning in their lungs and sweat running down their heaving sides. Fenris ran through a street market, overturning stalls as he went, to try and slow them down. Hawk just ploughed right through the wreckage, with Fisher close behind. Furious stallholders shook their fists and called down curses on the heads of pursued and pursuers alike.
Hawk’s scowl deepened as he ran. Fenris was leading them deep into the rotten heart of the Northside, but Hawk was damned if he could figure out exactly where the man was headed. He must have some destination in mind, some bolt-hole he could hide in, or a friend who’d protect him. Hawk smiled nastily. He didn’t care if the spy ended up in the Hall of Justice, protected by all twelve Judges and the King himself; Fenris was going to gaol, preferably in chains. It had become a matter of honour. Not to mention revenge. Hawk hated chases.
And then Fenris rounded a corner at full speed, and darted up an exterior stairway on a large squat building of stained and patterned stone. Hawk started after him, but Fisher grabbed him by the arm and brought them both to a sudden halt. Fenris disappeared through a door into the building. Hawk turned on Fisher.
“Before you say anything, Hawk. Look where we are.”
Hawk glared around him, and then grimaced, his anger draining quickly away. Fenris had brought them to Magus Court, home to all the lowlife magicians and sorcerers in Haven. The place looked deserted for the moment, but that could change in a second. On the whole, Guards tended to walk very quietly in and around Magus Court and not draw attention to themselves. Certainly, no one ever tried to make arrests there without massive support from the Guard, and, if necessary, the army. Otherwise they’d have been safer playing brass instruments in a cave full of hibernating bears.
“That’s not all,” said Fisher. “Look whose house he’s holed up in.”
Hawk looked, and groaned. “Grimm,” he said disgustedly. “All the magic-users Fenris could have known, and it had to be the sorcerer Grimm.”
He and Fisher leant against the wall at the bottom of the exterior stairway and grabbed a few minutes’ rest while they tried to work out what the hell to do next. Hawk and Fisher knew Grimm, and he knew them. They’d crossed swords before, metaphorically speaking, but Hawk and Fisher had never been able to pin anything on him. People were too scared to talk.
Grimm was a medium-level sorcerer with unpleasant personal habits who specialized in shape changing. He could do anything from a face-lift to a full body transformation, depending on the needs, and wealth, of his client. He had no scruples; he’d do anything, to anyone. Criminals found his services very useful, either for themselves, to change an appearance that had grown too well-known, or for taking revenge on their enemies. The Guard had found one up-and-coming crime boss wandering the streets in the early hours of the morning, leaving a bloody trail behind him. It took them some time to identify him. He’d been flayed, every inch of skin removed from head to toe, but he was still alive, and screaming. He took a long time to die in the main city hospital, and he only stopped screaming when his voice gave out.
It figured Fenris would know someone like Grimm. All the spy had to do was acquire a new face and build and he could disappear into the crowds right under Hawk’s and Fisher’s noses. On the other hand, they couldn’t just go barging in after him. Grimm was a sorcerer and took his privacy very seriously. Officially, any Guard could enter any premises in Haven, providing they could demonstrate good cause in the Courts afterwards. In practice, it all depended on whose home you were talking about. Having a Court declare you posthumously correct wasn’t much of a comfort, and sorcerers tended to throw spells first and think afterwards. Constant industrial espionage among magic-users had produced a general paranoia and split-second reflexes.
“What do you think?” said Hawk finally.
“I think we should think about this very carefully,” said Fisher. “I have no desire to spend the rest of my life as a combination of several small, unpleasant, and very smelly animals. Shapechange sorcerers are renowned for having a very warped sense of humour. I say we stay put and call for backup.”
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