Guard Against Dishonor

Guard Against Dishonor by Simon R. Green

Chapter One

Chacal

There are bad cities, there are worse cities; and then there's Haven.

By popular acclaim the vilest and most corrupt city in the Low Kingdoms, Haven

in midwinter gleams purest white under falls of frozen snow, and its towers

shine with frost and ice like pillars of crystal. But only from a distance. The

snow on the ground is a dirty grey from the unceasing factory smoke, and

grey-faced people trudge wearily through the snow-choked streets.

Seen up close, Haven is an ugly city, in more ways than one. Even in the early

morning, when the killing cold grips the streets like a clenched fist, there is

still no peace for the city. There are still deals to be made, conspiracies to

be entered into, and blood to be spilled. Death is a way of life in Haven, and

sudden violence the pulse of its narrow streets.

And only the city Guard, stretched to breaking point at the best of times,

stands between the city and open, bloody chaos.

Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard, strode briskly

down the crowded street towards Guard Headquarters, their prisoner scurrying

along between them. Winter had finally come to Haven, despite everything the

city weather wizards could do, and the bitter air was several degrees below

freezing. The street was ankle-deep in snow and slush, and thick icicles hung

from every building. Roofs groaned under the weight of a week's accumulated

snow, and the iron-grey sky promised more blizzards to come. But still people

packed the street from end to end; men, women, and children jostling each other

impatiently as they hurried to and from work. No one jostled Hawk and Fisher, of

course. It wouldn't have been wise.

It was eight o'clock in the morning, but so dark that street lamps still burned

at every corner, their amber glare doing little to dispel the gloom. Hawk hated

the winter, and not just because the recent flu epidemic had hit the Guard badly

and he and Fisher were working a double shift for the third day running. Winter

meant hard times in Haven, and hardest of all for the poor and destitute. In

every street, in every part of the city, there were bodies lying stiff and cold,

caught out in the freezing night because they had nowhere else to go. They ended

up in sheltered doorways, or huddled together under tarpaulins in back

alleyways, sharing their meager warmth as best they could. Every day the garbage

squad made their rounds and hauled the bodies away, but there were always more.

Hawk found a young girl once, curled in a tight little ball over a street

grating. She couldn't have been more than five or six years old, and her staring

eyes had frozen solid in her head. Hawk hated the winter, and sometimes he hated

Haven too.

Captain Hawk was tall, dark-haired, and no longer handsome. A series of old

scars ran down the right side of his face, and a black silk patch covered his

right eye. He told lots of stories about how he got the scars, most of them

contradictory. His thick furs and official black cloak made him look

impressively bulky, but underneath his winter uniform he was lean and wiry

rather than muscular, and building a stomach. He wore his shoulder-length hair

loose, mostly to keep his ears warm, and kept it out of his vision with a plain

leather headband. He'd only just turned thirty, but already there were streaks

of grey in his hair. At first glance he seemed like just another bravo, a

sword-for-hire already past his prime, but few people ever stopped at a first

glance. There was something about Hawk, something cold and unyielding that gave

even the most belligerent hardcase pause to think twice. On his right hip, Hawk

carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe.

He'd had lots of practice.

Captain Isobel Fisher walked confidently at his side, echoing her partner's

stance and pace with the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily

six feet in height, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick

plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She wore a battered and

almost shapeless fur hat, pulled down low to protect her ears from the bitter

cold. There was a rawboned harshness to her face, barely softened by her deep

blue eyes and generous mouth. She was handsome rather than pretty, her gaze was

cool and direct, and she didn't smile much. Sometime, somewhere in the past,

something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. She

wore the same furs and cloak as Hawk, though with rather more grace and style.

She wore a sword on her hip, and her skill with it was legendary, in a city not

easily impressed by legends.

Hawk and Fisher, feared and respected by one and all as the toughest and most

honest Guards in Haven. They had a lot of enemies, both inside and outside the

Guard.

Their prisoner was a short, scrawny, harmless-looking man, wrapped in a long fur

coat, topped off with a pair of fluffy earmuffs. His thinning black hair was

plastered to his head with rather more grease than necessary, and he had a

permanent scowl. Benny the Weasel was not a happy man.

"You're making a terrible mistake," he repeated for the tenth time, in what he

imagined was an ingratiating tone. "Let's be reasonable about this."

"Sorry," said Hawk, without looking round. "I'm only reasonable at weekends. And

Fisher doesn't believe in being reasonable. Says it's bad for her image."

"Right," said Fisher, glaring horribly at a nun who hadn't got out of her way

fast enough.

"This is all a misunderstanding," said Benny doggedly. "I am a legitimate

businessman."

Hawk snorted derisively. "Benny, you are a small-time villain who makes most of

his money running a nasty little protection racket, advising local shopkeepers

of all the awful things that might happen to them or their premises if they

don't keep up the payments. Only this time you were dumb enough to do it in

person, in front of Fisher and me. What's the matter, both your leg-breakers

down with the flu?"

Benny sniffed. "You can't get good help these days. Look, I am an important

figure in the community. I know my rights. I pay my taxes. Technically, you work

for me."

"Then you should be pleased to be getting such value for your money," said

Fisher. "We witnessed a crime and arrested the criminal on the spot. What more

do you want?"

"You won't get away with this!" said Benny desperately. "I have friends. I have

influence. You won't be able to make this charge stick. I'll be out on the

streets again before you can blink!"

Hawk looked at him. "You know, Benny, you're starting to get on my nerves. Now,

be a good fellow and shut your face or I'll have Fisher take you into the

nearest dark alley and reason with you for a while."

Benny glanced at Fisher, and then looked quickly away when he discovered she was

smiling at him. He'd heard about Fisher's idea of reasoning with people. If she

did it where they lived, it tended to play hell with the furniture. Benny had

second thoughts, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

Guard Headquarters loomed up before them, a massive squat stone building with

heavy oaken doors and arrow-slit windows. It had the look of a place constantly

under siege, which wasn't far off the mark. Riots, hexes, and fire-bombings were

a part of everyday life for the Headquarters, but no one had ever closed it down

for more than a few hours. It had its own sorcerers, and everyone in the

building went armed at all times, from the clerks to the Commanders. It took a

lot to disrupt the Headquarters' even running, though last year's rash of

possessions had come close.

The main doors were always open, but everyone knew that could change in a second

if danger threatened. A long-established spell on the doors saw to that, and

tough luck if anyone got in the way. A steady stream of people bustled in and

out of the building as Hawk and Fisher approached with their prisoner. There was

the usual mixture of Constables and the people helping them with their

enquiries, along with anxious relatives searching for the recently arrested, and

backstreet lawyers touting for business. And of course there were always those

who'd come to the Guard for help, all with the same thinly disguised look of

fear and desperation. Most people only went to the Guard when they'd tried

everything else. The law was harsh and brutal, and weighted heavily in favor of

the rich and powerful. There were Guards who were sympathetic, and would do what

they could for those in real need, but for the most part the poor had no reason

to trust the Guard. Like everything else in Haven, justice was for sale.

Everyone had their price.

Everyone except Hawk and Fisher.

Benny thought fleetingly of making a run for it, then noticed that Fisher's hand

was resting casually on the pommel of her sword, and quickly thought better of

it. He sighed heavily, and accompanied Hawk and Fisher through the main doors

and into the crowded lobby of Guard Headquarters. The wide, low-ceilinged room

was packed from wall to wall, and the noise was deafening. Mothers and

grandmothers sat in little groups against the walls, chatting and gossiping and

keeping a watchful eye on their children as they scampered back and forth,

getting in everyone's way. None of them had any real business at Headquarters,

but the Guard let them stay. It was the only place in that area where small

children could play safely. Besides which, the Guard Constables had found they

could pick up a lot of useful information by casually listening in on the

women's gossip.

Over by the booking desk in the center of the lobby, a seething mob of people

screamed and shouted and pleaded, together with much shedding of tears and

beating of breasts, but the three desk Sergeants took it in their stride. They'd

heard it all before. They nodded more or less sympathetically to worried

relatives, glared at the lawyers, and got on with booking the various criminals

as the Constables brought them forward, as though the utter bedlam around them

was of absolutely no interest.

Hawk and Fisher made their way through the shifting mass of bodies by sheer

determination and liberal use of their elbows. Hawk hammered on the desk with

his fist until he got a Sergeant's attention, and then handed Benny over into

his keeping. The Sergeant fixed him with a malicious grin.

"Well, well, what have we here? It's not often you grace us with your loathsome

company, Benny. What did you do to upset Hawk and Fisher?"

"Nothing! I was just minding my own business…"

"Your business is illegal, Benny, and if you were stupid enough to do it in

front of those two, you deserve everything that happens to you." He struck the

large brass bell beside him, the sharp sound cutting cleanly through the

surrounding babble, and a Constable came over to the desk and led Benny away.

Hawk and Fisher watched them go, Benny the Weasel still loudly protesting his

innocence.

"We won't be able to hold him, you know," said the desk Sergeant.

Fisher looked at him sharply. "Why the hell not? We'll both give evidence

against him."

"It'll never come to trial," said the Sergeant. "Benny has friends, hard though

that is to believe. The word will come down, and we'll have to let him go."

Fisher scowled. "Sometimes I wonder why we bother making arrests at all. These

days, it seems practically every villain and thug we meet has connections with

someone higher up. Or the judge gets bribed. Or the jury gets intimidated."

"That's Haven for you," said the Sergeant. "Hey, don't look at me. I just work

here."

Fisher growled something indistinct, and allowed Hawk to pull her away from the

desk. They elbowed their way back through the crowd, glaring down any

objections, and found a place by the huge open fireplace to warm their hands and

take a seat for a moment. They nodded amiably to the half-dozen Constables

already there. None of them actually had any business that required their

presence at Headquarters, but none of them were that keen to give up the nice

warm lobby for the freezing cold outside. Hawk turned around and lifted his

cloak to warm his backside at the fire. He smiled happily and looked out over

the lobby.

A small group of whores, looking bright and gaudy and not a little chilly in

their working finery, were waiting patiently to be booked, fined, and released

so that they could get back to work as quickly as possible. Some politician or

newspaper editor must have had a sudden attack of principles, or been leaned on

by some pressure group, and declared loudly that Something Should Be Done about

the rising tide of vice in Our Fair City. So the Guard made a big show of

arresting whoever happened to be around at the time, the pimps paid the fines

out of their petty cash, and business went on as usual. Hawk shrugged. It was

none of his business. He nodded to a few familiar faces, and then tensed as one

of the girls was viciously backhanded by her pimp. Hawk strode quickly over to

them and dropped a heavy hand on the pimp's shoulder. The pimp spun round,

knocking the hand away, and then froze as he realized who it was. He was young

and muscular, with a ratty-looking moustache, dressed to the nines and proud of

it. He studied Hawk warily.

"What do you want, Captain? I'm clean."

"You wouldn't be clean if you washed every day with sulphuric acid. You are a

pimp, Sebastian, the lowest of the low, and I know you of old. I thought I

warned you about maltreating your girls."

"Me? Hurt my girls?" said Sebastian, looking around him as though to invite the

world to witness his harassment. "I love my girls like sisters! Who sees they

always have nice clothes to wear, and looks after all their needs? They're like

family to me, all my girls. They just need a little firm guidance from time to

time, that's all."

"Your associate and business partner, that nasty little thug Bates, is currently

awaiting trial for 'firmly guiding' one of your girls by slashing her face with

a razor," said Hawk. "I know you, Sebastian; I know you and all your nasty

little ways. And if I discover you've been firmly guiding any of your girls

again, I shall be annoyed with you. You do remember what happened when I got

annoyed with Bates, don't you?"

The pimp nodded reluctantly. "He's making good progress. He should be out of

hospital soon."

"Really? I must be losing my touch. Keep your hands off the girls, Sebastian. Or

I'll tie your fingers in knots."

Sebastian smiled and nodded as though it hurt him, and disappeared into the

crowd. Hawk watched him go, nodded politely to the whores, who ignored him, and

made his way back to the fire. Fisher was down on her knees, playing with a few

children too young to be afraid of a Guard's uniform. Hawk watched for a while,

smiling gently. Isobel was good with kids. They'd talked about having children

of their own more than once, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time.

The crowd suddenly erupted in shouts and screams, and backed quickly away as a

prisoner who'd broken away from his escort lashed about him with a knife he'd

somehow kept hidden. He grabbed for one of the children by Fisher, obviously

intending to use the child as a hostage. Fisher glanced round and back-elbowed

him viciously in the groin. She rose unhurriedly to her feet as the prisoner

hunched forward over his pain, then rabbit-punched him. He collapsed and lay

still. Fisher kicked the knife away from his hand and went back to playing with

the children. Two Constables dragged the unconscious prisoner away.

Hawk decided regretfully that they'd killed about as much time as they could get

away with, and they ought really to get back to the job. They were barely

halfway through their second shift. He tried concentrating on all the overtime

they were racking up, but it didn't help. His feet were numb, his forehead still

ached from the cold, and his back was killing him. Hawk hated the winter. He

collected Fisher, waved goodbye to the kids and their unresponsive mothers, and

strode resignedly out into the waiting cold. And the first thing he saw was

Benny the Weasel shivering in a borrowed cloak as he tried unsuccessfully to

hail a sedan chair. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and strolled casually

over to join him. Benny saw them coming, and clearly thought about making a run

for it, before better sense took over. He drew himself up to his full five foot

six and tried to brazen it out.

"Benny," said Hawk reproachfully, "what do you think you're doing out here?"

"They let me go," said Benny quickly, his eyes darting from Hawk to Fisher and

back again. "All the charges have been dropped. That's official. Told you I had

friends."

Hawk and Fisher stepped forward, took an elbow each, and carried Benny kicking

and protesting into the nearest back alley. As soon as they put him down, he

tried to bolt, but Hawk snagged him easily and slammed him against the wall,

just hard enough to rattle his eyes and put a temporary stop to any complaints.

Hawk brought his face close to Benny's, and fixed him with his single cold eye.

"No one walks when we bring the charges, Benny. Not ever. I don't care what kind

of friends you've got, you are guilty as hell and you're going to stand trial."

"They won't accept your evidence," said Benny desperately. "The judge will let

me off. You'll see."

Hawk sighed. "You're not getting the message, Benny. If we let you walk, all the

other scum will start thinking they can get away with things. And we can't have

that, can we? So you are going to walk back into Headquarters, make a full

confession, and plead guilty. Because if you don't, Fisher and I will take turns

thinking up horrible things to do to you."

"They won't convict me on just a confession."

"Then you'd better be sure to provide plenty of corroborative evidence. Hadn't

you?"

Benny looked at Hawk's implacable face and then glanced at Fisher. She had a

nasty-looking skinning knife in her hand, and was calmly paring her nails with

it. Benny studied the knife with fascinated eyes and swallowed hard. Right then,

all the awful stories he'd heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot more

believable than they had before. Hawk coughed politely to get his attention, and

Benny almost screamed.

"Benny…"

"I think I'd like to confess, please, Captain Hawk."

"You do realize you don't have to?"

"I want to."

"Legally, you're not bound to do so…"

"Please, let me confess! I want to! Honestly!"

"Good man," said Hawk, standing back from him. "It's always refreshing to meet a

citizen who believes in honesty and justice. Now, get in there and start talking

while we're still in a good mood."

Benny ran out of the alleyway and back into Guard Headquarters. Fisher smiled

and put away her knife. The two Guards left the alley and made their way

unhurriedly down the street, heading back to their beat in the Northside.

The Northside was the rotten heart of Haven, where all that was bad in the city

came to the surface, like scum on poisoned wine. Crime and corruption and casual

evil permeated the Northside, where every taste and trade was catered to.

Various gangs of drug dealers fought running battles over lucrative territories,

ruthlessly cutting down any innocent bystanders who got in the way. Spies

plotted treason behind shuttered windows, and many doors opened only to the

correct whispered password. Sweatshops and crowded slum tenements huddled

together under broken street lamps, and the smoke from local factories hung

permanently on the air, clawing at the throats of those who breathed it. Some

said the Northside was as much a state of mind as an area, but states of mind

don't usually smell that bad.

Hawk and Fisher strolled through the narrow streets, nodding to familiar faces

in the bustling crowd. Speed was a way of life in the Northside; there were

deals to be made, slights to be avenged, and you never knew who might be coming

up behind you. Hawk and Fisher rarely let themselves be hurried. You could miss

things that way, and Hawk and Fisher always liked to know what was going on

around them. They'd had the Northside as their beat for five years now, on and

off, but despite their best efforts, little had changed in that time. For every

villain they put away, the Northside produced two more to take his place, and

the soul-grinding poverty that was at the root of most crimes never changed from

one year to the next. In their most honest moments, Hawk and Fisher knew that

all they'd really done was to drive the worst crimes underground, or into other

areas. Things tended to be peaceful as long as they were around, but they

couldn't be everywhere at once. Occasionally one or the other would talk about

quitting, but they never did. They wouldn't give up. It wasn't in their natures.

They took each day as it came, and helped those they could. Even little

victories were better than none.

The stone-and-timber buildings huddled together as though for warmth, their

upper stories leaning out over the streets till their eaves almost touched.

Piles of garbage thrust up through the snow and slush, and Hawk and Fisher had

to be careful where they put their feet. The garbage collectors came once a

month, and then only with an armed guard. The beggars who normally lived off the

garbage had been driven from the streets by the cold, but there were still many

who braved the bitter weather for their own reasons. Business went on in the

Northside, no matter what the weather. Business, and other things.

In the light of a flickering brazier, an angel from the Street of Gods was

throwing dice with half a dozen gargoyles. A fast-talking salesman was hawking

bracelets plated with something that looked like gold. A large Saint Bernard

with a patchy dye job was trying to bum a light for its cigar. Two overlarge

rats with human hands were stealing the boots off a dead man. And two nuns were

beating up a mugger. Just another day in the Northside.

A sudden burst of pleasant flute music filled Hawk's and Fisher's heads as the

Guard communications sorcerer made contact. They stopped to listen and find out

what the bad news was. It had to be bad news. It always was. Anything else could

have waited till they got back to Headquarters. The flute music broke off

abruptly, and was replaced by the dry, acid voice of the communications

sorcerer.

Attention all Guards in the North sector. There's a riot in The Crossed Pikes

tavern at Salt Lane. There are a large number of dead and injured, including at

least two Constables. Approach the situation with extreme caution. There is

evidence of Chacal use by the rioters.

Hawk and Fisher ran down the street, fighting the snow and slush that dragged at

their boots. Salt Lane was four streets away, and a lot could happen in the time

it would take them to get there. From the sound of it, too much had happened

already. Hawk scowled as he ran. Riots were bad enough without drugs

complicating the issue.

Chacal was something new on the streets. Relatively cheap, and easy enough to

produce by anyone with a working knowledge of alchemy and access to a bathtub,

the drug brought out the animal side of man's nature. It heightened all the

senses while turning off the higher functions of the mind, leaving the user

little more than a wild animal, free to wallow in the moment and indulge any

whim or gratify any desire, free from reason or remorse or any stab of

conscience. The drug boosted the users' strength and speed and ferocity, making

them almost unstoppable. It also burned out their nervous systems in time,

leaving them paralysed or mad or dead from a dozen different causes. But life

wasn't worth much in the Northside anyway, and there were all too many who were

willing to swap a hopeless future for the savage joys of the present.

Hawk and Fisher charged round the last corner into Salt Lane and then skidded to

a halt. A large crowd had already gathered, packing the narrow street from side

to side. The two Guards bulled their way through without bothering to be

diplomatic about it, and quickly found themselves at the front of the crowd,

facing The Crossed Pikes tavern from a safe distance. The tavern looked peaceful

enough, apart from its shattered windows, but a Guard Constable was sitting on a

nearby doorstep, pressing a bloody handkerchief to a nasty looking scalp wound.

Blood covered half his face. He looked up dazedly as Hawk and Fisher approached

him, and tried to get to his feet. Hawk waved for him to stay seated.

"What happened here?"

The Constable blinked and licked his dry lips. "My partner and I were the first

here after the alarm went out. There was fighting and screaming inside the

tavern, but we couldn't see anything. The crowd told us there were two

Constables already in there, so my partner went in to check things out while I

watched the crowd. I waited and waited, but he never came back. After a while it

all went quiet, so I decided I'd just take a quick look through the door. I'd

barely got my foot over the doorstep when something hit me. I couldn't see for

blood in my eyes, so I got out of there quick. I'll try again in a minute, when

I've got my breath back. My partner's still in there."

Hawk clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "You take a rest. Fisher and I'll

have a look. If any more Guards come, keep them out here till we've had a chance

to evaluate the situation. Are you sure it's chacal-users in there?"

The Constable shrugged. "That's what the crowd said. But there's no way to be

sure. As far as I can tell, anyone who was in the tavern when the trouble

started is still in there."

Hawk squeezed the Constable's shoulder comfortingly, and then he and Fisher

moved off a way to discuss the matter.

"What do you think?" said Hawk.

"I think we should be very careful how we handle this. I don't like the sound of

it at all. Three Guards missing, another injured and so spooked he can't bear to

go near the place, and an unknown number of rioters who might just be out of

their minds on chacal. The odds stink. How come we never get the easy

assignments?"

"There aren't any easy assignments in Haven. We've got to go in, Isobel. There

could be innocent people trapped in there, unable to get out."

"It's not very likely, Hawk."

"No, it's not. But we have to check."

Fisher nodded unhappily. "All right; let's do it, before we get a rush of brains

to the head and realize what a dumb idea this is. What's the plan?"

"Well, there's no point in trying to sneak in. If there are chacal-users in

there, they'll be able to see, hear, and smell us coming long before we even get

a glimpse of them. I say we burst in through the door, weapons at the ready, and

hit anything that moves."

"Planning never was your strong suit, was it, Hawk?"

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Hawk grinned. "Then let's do it. Don't look so worried, lass. We've faced worse

odds before."

He drew his axe and Fisher drew her sword, and they moved cautiously over to the

tavern's main entrance. The door was standing ajar, with only darkness showing

beyond. Bright splashes of blood marked the polished wood, below a series of

gouges that looked unnervingly like claw marks. Hawk listened carefully, but

everything seemed still and quiet. He put his boot against the door and pushed

it wide open. The two Captains braced themselves, but nothing happened. Hawk

hefted his axe thoughtfully, and glanced at Fisher. She nodded, and they darted

through the doorway together. Once inside they moved quickly apart to stand on

either side of the door, so they wouldn't be silhouetted against the light, and

waited silently for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Hawk held his axe out before him, and strained his ears against the silence. A

fire was burning fitfully at the far end of the tavern, and some light fell past

the shuttered windows. The tavern slowly took form out of the gloom, and Hawk

was able to make out chairs and tables overturned and scattered across the

floor, as though a sudden storm had swept through the long room, carrying all

before it. Dark shapes lay still and silent among the broken furniture, and Hawk

didn't need to see them clearly to know they were bodies. He counted fourteen

that he was sure of. There was no sign of their killers.

Hawk moved slowly forward, axe at the ready. Broken glass crunched under his

boots. Fisher appeared silently out of the gloom to move at his side. He stopped

by a wall lamp, and working slowly and carefully, he took out his box of matches

and lit it, while Fisher stood guard. It wasn't easy lighting the lamp with one

hand, but he wouldn't put his axe down. The sudden light pushed back the

darkness, and for the first time Hawk and Fisher were able to see the full

extent of the devastation. There was blood everywhere, splashed across the walls

and furniture and pooled on the floor. Most of the bodies had been mutilated or

disfigured. Some had been torn apart. Loops of purple intestine hung limply from

a lamp bracket, and a severed hand beckoned from a barbecue grill by the fire.

Most of the bodies had been gutted, ripped open from throat to groin. Whoever or

whatever had done it hadn't bothered to use a blade. Fisher swore softly, and

her knuckles showed white on her sword hilt. Hawk put the lamp back in its

niche, and the two of them moved slowly forward. The tavern was still and

silent, full of the stench of blood and death.

They went from body to body, methodically checking for signs of life, but there

were none. They found the three Guards who'd gone in to face what they thought

was a simple riot. The only way to identify them was by their Constable's

scarlet cloak and tunic. Their heads were missing. There was no sign anywhere of

their attackers. Hawk wondered briefly if they might have made their escape

during the confusion, but he didn't think so. Every instinct he had was

screaming at him that the killers were still there, watching, and waiting for

their chance. He could almost feel the weight of their gaze on his back.

The tavern's bar had been wrecked. There wasn't an intact bottle or glass left

on the shelves, and the floor was covered with a thick carpet of broken glass.

Hawk drew Fisher's attention to the bartop. The thick slab of polished mahogany

was crisscrossed with long, curving scars that made Hawk think again about

claws. He looked at Fisher, who nodded slowly.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Hawk?"

"Could be. We've been working on the assumption this was the work of

chacal-users, but more and more this is starting to look like something else

entirely. I don't see how anything human could have caused injuries like those,

or claw marks like these. I think we've got a werewolf here, Isobel."

Fisher reached down and pulled a silver dagger from inside her boot, and held it

loosely in her left hand. Just in case. She moved behind the bar, and then

signaled quickly for Hawk to come and join her. He did so, and the two of them

stood looking down at the bartender, lying wedged half under the bar. His throat

had been torn out, and there were bite marks on his arms where he'd lifted them

to defend himself.

"Werewolf," said Fisher.

"Maybe," said Hawk. "I don't know. The bite marks look wrong. A wolf's muzzle

would leave a larger, narrower bite…"

Something growled nearby. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly out from behind the bar

to give themselves room to fight. They glared about them, but nothing moved in

the shadowy, blood-spattered room. The growl came again, louder this time, and

then a heavy weight hit Hawk from above and behind, throwing him to the floor.

Glass crunched loudly beneath him as he rolled back and forth, trying

desperately to tear himself free from the creature that clung to his back,

pinning his arms to his sides with its legs and reaching for his throat with

clawed hands. He tucked his head in, chin pressed to his chest, and then nearly

panicked as he felt teeth gnawing at the back of his head. He got his feet

underneath him, glanced quickly about to get his bearings, and then slammed

himself back against the heavy wooden bar behind him. The creature's grip

loosened as the breath was knocked out of it, and Hawk pulled free. He threw

himself to one side, and Fisher stepped forward in a full extended lunge,

pinning the creature to the bar with her sword.

For a moment, no one moved. Hawk and Fisher stared incredulously at the

blood-soaked man transfixed by Fisher's sword. His clothing hung in rags, and he

held his hands like claws. Blood soaked his hands and forearms like crimson

gloves, and there was more blood spattered thickly over his livid white flesh.

His eyes were wide and staring. He snarled silently at the two Guards, showing

his bloody teeth, but he was still just a man. And then he lunged forward,

forcing himself along the impaling blade, his bloody hands reaching for Fisher's

throat. She held her ground, watching in fascination as the jagged-nailed hands

grew steadily nearer. Part of her wondered crazily what had happened to wreck

his nails like that.

Hawk lurched to his feet, lifting his axe. The killer lunged forward again,

blood spilling down his gut from where Fisher's sword pierced him, snarling and

growling like a wild animal. And then Fisher lifted her hand with the silver

dagger in it, and cut his throat. Blood sprayed across her arm, and she watched

warily as the light went out of his eyes and he slumped forward, dead at last.

She pulled out her sword and he fell limply to the floor and lay still. Hawk

came over to stand beside her.

"He must have been up in the rafters," he said finally. "All this time, just

watching us, and waiting."

.Fisher looked up at the ceiling. "There's no one else up there. But I can't

believe one man did all this, drug or no drug."

Hawk looked down at the dead user. "Maybe we shouldn't have killed him after

all. There are a lot of questions we could have asked him."

"He didn't exactly give us a choice," said Fisher dryly. "Besides, he wouldn't

have been allowed to talk. We'd have had to keep him in gaol till he came down,

and by then word would have reached his suppliers. They'd either have sprung him

or killed him to keep his mouth shut."

Hawk scowled. "It has to be said Headquarters' security isn't worth spit these

days. Particularly when it comes to drug arrests. You know, it wasn't this bad

when we first joined the Guard."

"Yes it was," said Fisher. "We just weren't experienced enough to recognize the

signs. There's a lot of money in drugs, and where there's a lot of money there's

a line of Guards with their hands out."

"This day started out depressing," said Hawk, "and it's not getting any better.

Let's get the hell out of here and file our report. If one chacal-user can do

this much damage on a rampage, then this city is in for some interesting times."

A low growl trembled on the air behind them. Hawk and Fisher spun round, weapons

at the ready. The tavern looked just as still and quiet as before. None of the

bodies had moved. The growl came again, but this time low and subdued, sounding

almost more like a groan. Hawk glared in the direction of the sound, and his

gaze came to rest on an overturned table leaning against a wall. It was a big

table, with room for one, maybe two, people behind it. Hawk silently indicated

the table to Fisher, and they moved slowly forward. There were no more growls or

groans, but as he drew nearer, Hawk thought he could hear something dripping.

Something… feeding.

They reached the table in a matter of moments, moving silently through the

gloom. Hawk put away his axe and grabbed the rim of the table with both hands,

while Fisher stood ready with her sword. They counted to three silently

together, and then Hawk braced himself and pulled the heavy table away from the

wall with one swift movement. Fisher moved quickly forward to stand between him

and whatever was waiting, and then both she and Hawk stood very still as the

table revealed its secret.

The second chacal-user was a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her face

was bone-white, with dark, staring eyes, and her hands and forearms were slick

with other people's blood. She held her hands like claws, but made no move to

attack Hawk or Fisher. Someone, presumably the other user, had ripped open her

stomach. It was a wide, hideous wound that should have killed her immediately,

but the chacal was keeping her alive. She lay propped against the wall in a

widening pool of her own blood, and as Hawk and Fisher watched she dipped a hand

into the ragged wound in her gut, pulled out a bloody morsel, and ate it.

Oh, dear God, she's been feeding on herself…

Hawk moved forward, and put a gentle restraining hand on the girl's arm. "Don't.

Please don't."

"Get away from her, Hawk. She's still dangerous. We don't know how many people

she's killed here."

"Get a doctor," said Hawk, without looking round.

"Hawk…"

"Get a doctor!"

Fisher nodded, and hurried over to the main door. Hawk put the girl's hand in

her lap, and brushed her long, stringy hair from her face. The user looked at

him for the first time.

"Something went wrong," she said slowly, her voice barely rising above a murmur.

Hawk had to lean close to understand her. Her breath smelled of blood and

something worse. Her dead white skin was beaded with sweat. "This wasn't

supposed to happen. They said it would make us feel like Gods. I'm cold."

"I've sent for a doctor," said Hawk. "Take it easy. Save your strength."

"They lied to us…"

"Can you tell me what happened?" said Hawk. "You said something went wrong. What

went wrong?"

"It was a new drug. Supposed to be the best. Like chacal, only stronger. We were

going to be like Gods. We were packing it up at the factory, ready to ship it

out. Leon took some, for a lark. We tried it here, just a little. And then

everything went bad."

"Tell me about the factory," said Hawk. "Where is it?"

The girl's hand drifted towards her wound again. Hawk stopped it, and put it

back in her lap. She looked at him. "I'm cold."

Hawk took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She was shivering violently,

and sweat ran down her face in rivulets. There was no color left in her face.

Even her lips were white. Her breathing grew increasingly shallow, and when she

spoke Hawk had to concentrate hard to make out the words.

"Morgan's place. The Blue Dolphin. In the Hook."

"All right, lass, take it easy. That's all I need. We'll get the bastards. You

rest now. The doctor will be here soon."

"Would you hold my hand? Please?"

"Sure." Hawk took off one of his gloves and held her left hand, squeezing it

comfortingly. Warm blood spilled down his wrist. "All right?"

"Hold it up where I can see it. I can't feel it."

Hawk started to lift her hand up before her face, but she'd stopped breathing.

He was still holding her hand when Fisher finally came back with the Guard

doctor.

"I didn't even find out her name," said Hawk, pulling his cloak around his

shoulders. Guard Constables and Captains summoned to the scene by the

communications sorcerer spilled around Hawk and Fisher as they moved in and out

of The Crossed Pikes tavern. They were carrying out the dead and lining them up

in neat rows on the snow, ready for the meat wagon when it arrived. The Guard

doctor hovered over them like an anxious relative, making notes on cause of

death, for when the forensic sorcerer arrived. A large crowd had gathered, but

were being kept back by two Constables. Hawk knelt down suddenly, and started

roughly cleaning the blood from his hand with a handful of snow. Fisher put a

hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

"You did all you could, Hawk."

"I know that."

"She killed at least a dozen people in there. Probably more."

"I know that too." He got to his feet and pulled his glove back on. "Before she

died, she told me where they're making the stuff she took. It's Robbie Morgan's

place, down in the Devil's Hook."

Fisher looked at him sharply. "Standard procedure would be to contact

Headquarters and tell them the factory's location. Since you haven't done that,

I assume there's a good reason why not?"

"I want these bastards, Isobel. I want them bad. It's a new drug, you see; they

haven't released it yet. Can you imagine what the Northside will be like once

this super-chacal hits the streets? We've got to stop it now. While we can."

"So let the Drug Squad handle it. That's what they're paid for."

"Oh no; I'm not risking this one going wrong. You can guarantee some Guard would

tip Morgan off, in return for a sweetener. The Drug Squad would get there just a

little too late and find nothing but an empty warehouse. That's happened too

many times just recently. So I think we'll do this one ourselves."

"Us? You mean, just you and me?"

"Isobel, please; I haven't gone completely crazy. Morgan's probably got a small

army of security people protecting the Blue Dolphin. But we've got a small army

ourselves, right here. There's a dozen Constables, five Captains, and even a

sorceress. We'll leave a few people here to mind the store, and take the rest."

"On whose authority?"

"Mine. If we bring this off, no one's going to ask any questions."

"And if we don't?"

Hawk looked at her steadily. "This is important to me, Isobel. She died right in

front of me, scared and hurting, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to

help her. Just this once, we've got a chance to make a difference. A real

difference. Let's do it."

"All right. Let's do it. But how are we going to get the others to go along on

an unofficial raid?"

Hawk smiled. "Easy. We won't tell them it's unofficial."

Fisher grinned back at him. "I like the way you think, Hawk."

They finally ended up with an impromptu task force of ten Constables, two more

Captains, and the sorceress Mistique; all blithely unaware that they were about

to break every rule in the book. Which was probably for the best. That way, if

anything did go wrong, Hawk and Fisher could take all the blame on themselves.

Besides, no one with the brains they were born with would have volunteered if

they'd known the truth. At which point Hawk decided very firmly that he wasn't

going to think about the situation anymore. It was depressing him too much. All

that mattered was shutting down the drug factory, and Morgan as well, if

possible.

Hawk had heard about Morgan. Most people in Haven had, one way or another. He'd

made enough money down the years from drugs, prostitution, and murder to buy

himself respectability. He was seen in all the best places, belonged to all the

right clubs, and these days was officially regarded as above suspicion. In fact,

he still had a dirty finger in every pie in Haven, though no one had ever been

able to prove anything. But Hawk and Fisher knew, like every other Guard. They

had to deal every day with the violence and suffering his businesses caused.

Hawk frowned thoughtfully. It wasn't like Morgan to get so personally involved

in a scheme like this, having the super-chacal packed and distributed from one

of his own warehouses. And it also wasn't like him to get involved with such a

dangerous drug. The more traditional drugs brought less publicity, were just as

addictive, and therefore just as profitable. Hawk shrugged mentally. Every

villain makes a mistake sooner or later, and Morgan had made a bad one.

Hawk and Fisher led their people through the Northside at a quick march, heading

for the Devil's Hook. They made an impressive spectacle, and the crowds drew

back to let them pass. It was almost like a parade, but nobody cheered. The law

wasn't popular in the Northside. Hawk looked back at his people, and smiled to

himself. They might just bring this off after all. The Constables were some of

the toughest Guards in Haven. They had to be, or they wouldn't have been working

the Northside. And he knew both the Captains, by reputation, if not personally.

Captain Andrew Doughty was a medium-height, stocky man in his late forties; a

career Guard, with all the courage, cunning, and native caution that implied. He

was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and glacially handsome, and his job was his life.

He had a good enough reputation with his sword that he didn't have to keep

proving it, but he liked to anyway, given the chance. He'd had a lot of partners

in his time, but worked best alone. Mostly because he didn't trust anyone but

himself.

Captain Howard Burns was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, with an unruly

mop of dark hair and a thick spade beard. He was an expert in personal and

company security, and worked mostly in the Westside, overseeing the transfer of

money or valuables from one location to another. He took his work very

seriously, and had several official commendations for bravery. He had no sense

of humor at all, but then, no one's perfect. Especially not in Haven.

Hawk had worked with both of them in his time, and was glad he had someone apart

from Fisher to watch his back this time. They were both good men, men he could

depend on. The only real wild card in the pack was the sorceress Mistique. She

was new to the Guard, and still looking for a chance to show what she could do.

Mistique was a tall, slender, fluttering woman in her early thirties, dressed in

sorcerer's black, carefully cut in the latest fashion to show lots of bare

flesh. If the cold bothered her at all, she didn't show it. She had a long,

horsey face, and a friendly, toothy grin that made her look ten years younger.

She had a husky, upper-class accent and wouldn't answer questions about her

background. She also had a thick mass of long black curly hair she had to keep

sweeping back out of her eyes. All together, she wasn't exactly the most

organized person Hawk had ever met, but she was supposed to be bloody good at

what she did, and he'd settle for that. Morgan's warehouse would undoubtedly be

crawling with defensive magic and booby traps. The only real problem with

Mistique was that she hardly ever seemed to stop talking. And she wore literally

dozens of beads and bangles and bracelets that clattered loudly as she walked.

Hawk made a mental note not to include her in any plans that involved sneaking

up on the enemy.

And then they came to the Devil's Hook, and Mistique's chatter stumbled to a

halt. Even casual conversation died away quickly as Hawk led his people into the

Hook. It was a bad place to be, and they all knew it. The Devil's Hook was the

single poorest, most decayed, and most dangerous area in Haven. A square mile of

slums and alleyways backing onto the main Docks, the Hook held more crime,

corruption, and open misery than most people could bear to think about. The

squalid tenement buildings were crammed with sweatshops that paid starvation

wages for work on goods that often fetched high prices in the better parts of

the city. Child labor was common, as was malnutrition and disease. No one

ventured into the stinking streets alone or unarmed. The Guard patrolled the

Hook very loosely rather than risk open warfare with the gangs who ran it. The

gangs weren't as powerful as they once were, thanks to some sterling work by the

sorcerer Gaunt, but after he left Haven the bad times soon returned as new gangs

established themselves and fought for territory. Nobody was surprised. No one

made any complaints. The Hook was where you ended up when you had nowhere else

to go but a pauper's grave.

All in all, the perfect spot for a new drug factory.

The Blue Dolphin was a squalid little lock-up warehouse, on one end of a rotting

tenement. Chemicals from nearby factories had stained and pitted the stonework,

and all the windows were boarded up. It was cheaper than shutters. The street

was deserted, but Hawk could feel the pressure of watching eyes. He brought his

people to a halt outside the warehouse, and quickly set up a defensive

perimeter. The last thing they needed was a gang attack while they were occupied

with the drug factory. Fisher moved in close beside him.

"Are you sure this is the right place, Hawk? If Morgan's got a packing and

distribution setup here, he's going to need a lot more room than this pokey

little warehouse."

"This is the place," said Hawk, hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt.

When all was said and done, all he had to go on was the dying words of a girl

already out of her mind on chacal. He pushed the thought to one side. He'd

believed her then; he had to believe her now. Or she had died for nothing.

"There are mystic wards all over the place," said Mistique. Hawk jumped

slightly. He hadn't heard her come up behind him. The sorceress smiled briefly,

and then turned her attention back to the warehouse. "I can't quite make out

what kind of wards, though. Given the circumstances, I think we ought to tread

carefully, just in case."

Hawk nodded, and gestured to two of the Constables. They moved forward and

cautiously tried the warehouse door. It was locked, which surprised no one. One

Constable kicked the door. His clothes burst into flames that leapt up around

him in seconds. He screamed shrilly and staggered back, beating at his blazing

clothes with his hands. The other Constable quickly pulled him down and rolled

him back and forth in the snow to smother the flames. Hawk scowled. He hadn't

expected to hit a magic defense this quickly. He made sure the injured Constable

would be all right, and then turned to the sorceress.

"Get us in there, Mistique. I don't care how you do it, but do it fast. They

know we're here now."

The sorceress nodded eagerly, her earrings jangling accompaniment. She stared

thoughtfully at the door, and wisps of fog began to appear around her, circling

and twisting on the still air. The misty grey strands grew thicker, undulating

disturbingly as they drifted away from the sorceress towards the warehouse door.

The mists looked almost alive, and purposeful. They curled around the door,

seeping past the edges and sinking into the wood itself. Mistique made a sudden,

sharp gesture and the door exploded. Fragments and splinters of rotting wood

rained down on the Guards as they shielded themselves with their cloaks. Where

the door had been, there was now nothing but an impenetrable darkness.

Mistique turned to look at Hawk. Strands of fog still swirled around her, like

ethereal serpents with no beginning or end. "Fast enough for you, darling?"

"Very impressive," said Hawk courteously, trying hard not to sound too

impressed. "Can you tell us anything about what's beyond the doorway?"

"That's the bad news, I'm afraid," said Mistique. "The darkness is a dimensional

gateway, leading to a small pocket dimension, the inside of which is a damn

sight bigger than that lock-up. I've knocked out the protective wards so we can

get in there, but I've absolutely no idea of what might be waiting for us. Sorry

to be such a drag, but whoever designed this beastly setup was jolly good at his

job."

"All right," said Hawk. "We'll just have to take it as it comes. Brace

yourselves, people; we're going in. I want Morgan alive, and preferably intact

so we can ask him questions. Anyone else is fair game. I'd prefer prisoners to

corpses, but don't put yourselves at risk. We don't know what kind of odds we'll

be facing. Try not to wreck the place too much; you never know what might turn

out to be useful evidence. Right. Let's do it."

He hefted his axe and walked forward, Fisher and Mistique on either side of him.

From behind came a brief whisper of steel on leather as the Guards drew their

weapons and started after him. Hawk gritted his teeth and plunged into the

darkness. There was a sharp moment of intense heat, and then he burst through

into Morgan's factory. His first sight of the place was almost enough to stop

him in his tracks, but he forced himself to keep going to make room for the

others coming behind. Morgan's warehouse was an insane mixture of planes and

angles and inverted stairways that could not have existed in anything but a

pocket universe.

There was no up or down, in any way that made any sense. People walked on one

side of a surface or another, or on both, and gravity seemed merely a matter of

opinion. Simple wooden stairways connected the various level planes, twisting

and turning around each other like mating snakes, and walls became floors became

ceilings, depending on which way you approached them. Hawk shook off his

disorientation and concentrated on the force of armed men rushing towards him

from a dozen different directions. He didn't have to count them to know his own

small group was vastly outnumbered.

"Mistique!" he yelled quickly. "Take out the stairways. Bring this place down

around their ears!"

"I'm afraid we have a slight problem, dear," said the sorcerer, staring off into

the distance. "Morgan has his own sorceress here, and I'm rather tied up at the

moment keeping him from killing us all."

"Can you take him?"

"Probably, if you stop interrupting. And if you can keep those nasty-looking

men-at-arms away from me."

Hawk yelled instructions to his people, and the Constables moved forward to form

a barrier between Mistique and the approaching men-at-arms, while Captain

Doughty and Captain Burns stayed at her side as bodyguards. Fisher looked at

Hawk.

"And what are we going to do?"

"Find Morgan," said Hawk grimly. "I'm not taking any chances on his getting

away. Mistique, when you're ready, don't wait for orders from me. Just trash the

place."

Mistique nodded, absorbed in her sorcerous battle. Thick strands of fog twisted

around her like dogs straining at the leash. Hawk started down the nearest

stairway, with Fisher close behind him. They hadn't gone far when Hawk heard the

first clash of steel as his people met the men-at-arms. He didn't look back.

In what might have been the center of the mad tangle of planes and stairways was

a more-or-less open area with a lot of excited movement. It seemed as good a

place as any to start looking. The stairs turned and twisted under Hawk, and he

quickly learned to keep his gaze on his feet and ignore what was going on around

him. A man-at-arms in full chain mail came running up the stairs, waving his

sword with more confidence than style. Hawk cut him down with a single blow, and

hurled his body over the side of the stairway. The dead man fell in half a dozen

different directions before disappearing from sight in the maze of stairways.

More men-at-arms came charging towards Hawk, six men in the lead, with a lot

more on the way. Bad odds, on a rickety wooden staircase. He looked quickly

about him, and grinned as he spotted a large flat plane not too far away. It

stood at right angles to him, but then, so did the two men on it, frantically

packing paper parcels into two large crates on a wide table. He looked back at

Fisher, and pointed at the plane. She raised an eyebrow, and then nodded

sharply. They clambered up onto the narrow wooden banister, which creaked

dangerously under their weight, and leapt out into space towards the

right-angled plane. Gravity changed suddenly as they left the stairs, and

slammed them down hard on the bare wooden plane.

Hawk and Fisher hit the floor rolling, and were quickly up on their feet again.

The two men packing were already gone. Hawk hefted one of the small paper

parcels, and then looked at the size of the packing case. That crate could hold

an awful lot of drugs… if it was drugs. A horrible thought struck him, and he

opened the packet and sniffed cautiously at the grey powder inside. He relaxed

slightly and blew his nose hard. It was chacal. The sharp acidic smell was quite

distinctive. Fisher yelled a warning, and he threw the packet aside and looked

up. A man-at-arms leaned out from an upside-down stairway overhead and cut at

Hawk with his sword. Hawk parried with his axe, but couldn't reach high enough

to attack the man. He backed away, and the swordsman moved along the stairway

after him. There was a strange, dreamlike quality to the fight, with both men

upside-down to the other, but Hawk knew better than to let the strangeness

distract him. If he couldn't figure out a way to get at his opponent, he was a

dead man. An axe wasn't made for defense. He bumped into the table, and an idea

struck him. He grabbed the open packet and threw the chacal powder into the

other man's face. The man-at-arms screamed, and dropped his sword to claw at his

eyes with both hands.

"Hawk!"

He spun round to find Fisher standing at the edge of the plane, fighting off

three of the five men-at-arms who'd jumped down off the banister after the

Guards. Two already lay dead at her feet. Hawk sprinted over to join her, ducked

under the first man's sword, and swung his axe in a vicious sideways arc. The

heavy steel axehead punched through the man's chain mail and buried itself in

his rib cage. Bones broke and splintered, and the impact drove the man-at-arms

to his knees, coughing blood. Hawk yanked the axe free and booted the man off

the edge of the plane. The dying man fell upwards out of sight.

Fisher had already cut down another of her opponents, and now stood toe to toe

with the last remaining adversary. Steel rang on steel and sparks flew as the

blades met, hammering together and dancing apart in a lightning duel of strength

and skill. Hawk started forward to help her, and then stopped as he saw more

men-at-arms running down a winding stairway to join the fight. Fisher saw them

too, and quickly kneed her opponent in the groin.

"Get the hell out of here, Hawk. Find Morgan. I'll hold them off." She cut her

opponent's throat, and sidestepped neatly to avoid the jetting blood. "Move it,

Hawk!"

Hawk nodded abruptly, and turned and ran down the other stairway, heading once

again for what had looked like the center of operations. From behind him came

the clash of sword on sword as Fisher met the first of the new onslaught, but he

didn't look back. He didn't dare. He pressed on through the maze, passing from

stairway to plane to stairway and cutting down anyone who tried to get in his

way. All around him Morgan's people were running back and forth, looking for

orders or weapons or just heading for the exit. Morgan wouldn't have gone,

though. This was his place, his territory, and he'd trust in his men and his

sorcerer to protect him. A sudden piercing scream caught Hawk's attention, and

he looked up and round in time to see a man dressed in sorcerer's black stagger

drunkenly across a plane at right angles to Hawk's stairway. Streamers of thick

milky fog burst out of his mouth and eyes and ears. His head swelled impossibly

and then exploded in a spreading cloud of crimson mist. The body crumpled to the

floor as the last echo of the sorcerer's dying cry faded slowly away.

Hawk grinned. So much for Morgan's sorcerer. He was close to the center now; he

could feel it. There were drugs and people and men-at-arms everywhere, and

there, straight ahead, he saw a familiar face in an earth-brown cloak and hood.

Morgan. Hawk ran forward, cutting his way through two swordsmen foolish enough

to try and stop him. Their blood splashed across his face and hands, but he

didn't pause to wipe it off. He couldn't let Morgan escape. He couldn't.

Hold my hand. Hold it up where I can see it…

Morgan looked once at the bloodstained Guard rushing towards him, and then

continued stuffing papers into a leather pouch. Three men-at-arms moved forward

to stand between Hawk and Morgan. Hawk hit them at a dead run, swinging his axe

double-handed. He never felt the wounds he took, and when it was all over, he

stepped across their dead bodies to advance slowly on the drug baron.

Seen up close, Morgan didn't look like much. Average height and build, with a

bland face, perhaps a little too full to be handsome. A mild gaze and a

civilized smile. He didn't look like the kind of man who'd made his fortune

through the death and suffering of others. But then, they never did. Hawk moved

slowly forward. Blood ran thickly down from a wound in his left thigh, and

squelched inside his boot. There was more blood, soaking his arms and sides,

some of it his. Even so, Morgan had enough sense not to try and run. He knew he

wouldn't make it. They stood facing each other, while from all around came

shouts and screams and the sounds of fighting.

"Who are you?" said Morgan finally. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm every bad dream you ever had," said Hawk. "I'm a Guard who can't be

bought."

Morgan shook his head slowly, as a father chides a son who has made an

understandable mistake. "Everyone has his price, Captain. If not you, then

certainly someone among your superiors. I'll never come to trial. I know too

much, about too many people. And I really do have friends in high places. Quite

often, I helped put them there. So I'm afraid all this blood and destruction has

been for nothing. You won't be able to make a case against me."

Hawk grinned. "You're the second person who's told me that today. He was wrong,

too. You're going to hang, Morgan. I'll come and watch."

There was a muffled sound from behind a drapery to their right. Morgan glanced

at it, and then looked quickly away. For the first time, he seemed a little

uneasy. Hawk moved slowly over to the curtain, unconsciously favoring his

wounded leg.

"What's behind here, Morgan?"

"Experimental animals. We had to test the drug, to establish the correct dosage.

Nothing that would interest you."

Hawk swept the cloth to one side, and froze for a moment. Inside a crude,

steel-barred cage lay a pile of dead young men and women, tangled together. Some

were barely teenagers. The bodies were torn and mutilated, and it was clear most

of them had died tearing at each other and themselves. One man's hand was buried

to the wrist in another's ripped-open stomach. A young girl had torn out her own

eyes. There was blood everywhere, but not enough to hide the characteristic

colorless white skin of chacal use. Hawk turned back to Morgan, who hadn't moved

an inch.

"Where did you get them?" said Hawk.

Morgan shrugged. "Runaways, debtors' prisons, even a few volunteers. There are

always some ready to risk their lives for a new thrill."

"You know what this new drug does," said Hawk. "So why are you getting involved

with it? There isn't enough bribe money in the world to make the Guard overlook

the slaughter this shit will cause. Even the other drug barons would turn

against you over something like this."

"I won't be here when it breaks," said Morgan. "There's a lot of money in this.

Millions of ducats. More than enough to leave Haven and set up a new and very

comfortable life somewhere else. You could have a life like that, Captain.

There's enough money for everyone. Just name your price, and I guarantee you I

can meet it."

"Really?" said Hawk. He stepped forward suddenly, grabbed a handful of Morgan's

robe and dragged him over to the steel cage. "You want to know my price, Morgan?

Bring them back to life. Bring those poor bastards back! Go on; give just one of

them his life back and I'll let you go, here and now."

"You're being ridiculous, Captain," said Morgan evenly. "And very foolish."

"You're under arrest," said Hawk. "Tell your people to lay down their weapons

and surrender."

"Or?"

Hawk grinned. "Believe me, Morgan, you don't want to know."

"I'll have to speak to my sorcerer first."

"Don't bother; he's dead."

Morgan looked at him blankly, and then open terror rushed across his face.

"We've got to get out of here! If he's dead, this whole place could collapse at

any moment. It's only his magic that kept it stable!"

Hawk swore briefly. He knew real fear when he saw it. "Tell your men to

surrender. Do it!"

Morgan started shouting orders, and all over the maze of planes and stairways

the fighting came to a halt. Hawk yelled orders to his men, and the Guards began

herding Morgan's people towards the dimensional portal. Hawk dragged Morgan

along himself, never once releasing his grip on the drug baron's robe. The

stairway began to sway and tremble under his feet. A nearby plane cracked across

from end to end. Streams of dust fell from somewhere high above. There were

creaks and groanings all around, and the wooden handrail turned to rot and mush

under Hawk's hand. Morgan began pleading with him to go faster. Mistique

appeared out of nowhere in a clattering of beads and bracelets and ran beside

them as they hurried towards the portal.

"So, you did get the little rat after all. Well done, darling."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that in front of the men," said Hawk. "Can you use

your magic to hold this place together long enough for us all to get out?"

"I'm doing my best, darling, but it's not really my field. We should all make

it. If we're lucky."

They reached the portal to find it bottlenecked by the last of Morgan's people.

The drug baron screamed at them to get out of the way, but Hawk held him back.

Guards encouraged the slow movers on their way with harsh language and the

occasional kick up the backside. The remaining stairways broke apart and

collapsed in a roar of cracking timber. The planes spun and twisted in midair,

fraying at the edges. Loose magic snapped on the air like disturbed static. The

last of Morgan's people went through, and Hawk and Morgan and Mistique followed

the Guards out.

The cold of the street hit Hawk like a blow, and his vision clouded briefly as

pain and fatigue caught up with him. He shook his head and pushed the tiredness

back. He didn't have time for it now. He handed Morgan over to two Constables,

along with dire threats of what he'd do to them if Morgan escaped, and looked

round for familiar faces. Fisher appeared out of nowhere, safe and more or less

sound. They compared wounds for a moment, and then hugged each other carefully.

Captain Burns came over to join them as they broke apart. He looked bloodied and

battered and just a little dazed.

"How many did we lose?" said Hawk.

Burns scowled. "Five Constables, and Captain Doughty. Could have been worse, I

suppose. Though I won't tell Doughty's widow that. Did you get Morgan?"

"Yeah," said Fisher. "Hawk got him."

And then there was a great crashing roar, and the whole tenement behind them

collapsed amid screams of rending stone and timber, and the death cries of the

hundreds of people trapped within. Flying fragments of stone and wood tore

through the air like shrapnel, and then a thick cloud of smoke billowed out to

fill the street from end to end.

Chapter Two

Going Down

Hawk pulled and tugged at a stubborn piece of rubble, and bit by bit it slid

aside. The stone's sharp edges tore at his gloves and the flesh beneath, but he

hardly felt the pain through the bitter cold and the creeping numbness of utter

exhaustion. He'd lost track of how long he and the others had been digging

through the wreckage, searching for survivors. It seemed ages since the

collapsing pocket dimension had pulled the whole tenement building down with it,

but the air was still thick with dust that choked the throat and irritated the

eye. There were still occasional screams or moans or pleas for help from people

trapped deep within the huge pile of broken stone and timber, which stretched

across the narrow street and lapped up against the opposite building.

Hawk supposed he should be grateful that only the one building had come down,

but he was too numb to feel much of anything now. He looked slowly about him as

he stopped for a brief rest. The adjoining buildings were slumped and stooped,

with jagged cracks in their walls, yet somehow holding together. The Guard had

evacuated them, just in case, and their occupants had willingly joined the dig

for survivors. Even in the Devil's Hook, people could sometimes be touched by

tragedy.

There was no telling how many might still be trapped under the debris. Slum

landlords didn't keep records on how many desperate people they squeezed into

each dingy little room. The Guard were trying to keep a count, but most of the

dead they dug out were too disfigured to be easily identified, and sometimes all

that could be found of the bodies were scattered bits and pieces. The rescuers

worked on, fired now and then from their exhaustion by the sudden appearance of

a living soul, pulled raw and bloodied from the darkness under the rubble.

Guards and prisoners worked side by side, along with people from the Hook, all

animosities forgotten in the driving need to save as many as they could.

Not that everyone had proved so openhearted. Morgan had flatly refused to lift

so much as a finger to help. Hawk was already half out of his mind with concern

for the injured, and knew he couldn't spare even one Constable to watch over the

drug baron. So he just punched Morgan out, manacled the unconscious man to a

nearby railing and left him there. No one objected, not even his own people. A

few of them even cheered. Hawk smiled briefly at the memory, and returned to

work.

They had no real tools to work with, so they attacked the broken bricks and

stone and wood with their bare hands, forming human chains to transfer the

larger pieces. They worked with frantic speed, spurred on by the screams and

sobbing of those trapped below, but soon found it was better to work slowly and

carefully rather than risk the debris collapsing in on itself, if a vital

support was unwittingly removed. Most of the bodies were women and children,

crushed and broken by the horrid weight. Crammed together in one room sweatshops

and factories, they never stood a chance. But some survived, sheltered by

protecting slabs of masonry, and they were reason enough to keep on digging.

And all the time he worked, Hawk was haunted by a simple, inescapable thought;

it was all his fault. If he hadn't led the raid on Morgan's factory, the pocket

dimension wouldn't have collapsed, taking the tenement with it, and all those

people, all those women and children, would still be alive.

Eventually the fire brigade arrived, encouraged by the presence of so many

Guards. Normally they wouldn't have entered the Devil's Hook without an armed

escort and a written guarantee of hazard pay. They quickly took over the running

of the operation, and things began to go more smoothly. They set about propping

up the adjoining buildings, and dealt efficiently with the many water leaks.

Doctors and nurses arrived from a nearby charity hospital, and began sorting out

the real emergencies from the merely badly injured. Fisher took the opportunity

to drag Hawk over to a doctor, and insisted he have his wounds treated. He

didn't have the strength to argue.

More volunteers turned up to help, followed by a small army of looters. Hawk

waited for the doctor to finish the healing spell, and then rose to his feet,

feeling stiff but a damn sight more lively. He walked over to confront the

looters, Fisher at his side. The first few took one look at what was coming

towards them, went very pale, and skidded to a halt. Word passed quickly back,

and most of the would-be looters decided immediately that they were needed

somewhere else, very urgently. The ones who couldn't move or think that fast

found themselves volunteered to help dig through the rubble for survivors.

The work continued, interrupted increasingly rarely by a sudden shout as someone

thought they heard a cry for help. Everyone would stop where they were, ears

straining against the quiet as they tried to locate the faint sound. Sometimes

there was nothing but the quiet, and work would slowly resume, but sometimes the

cry would come again, and then everyone would work together, sweating and

straining against the stubborn stone and wood until the survivors could be

gently lifted free. There were hundreds of dead in the rubble, and only a few

dozen living, but each new life snatched from the crushing stone gave the

exhausted volunteers new will to carry on. Nurses moved among the workers with

cups of hot soup and mulled ale, and an encouraging word for those who looked as

though they needed it. And still more volunteers came to help, drawn from the

surrounding area by the scale of the tragedy.

More Guards arrived, expecting riots, chaos, and mass looting, and were shocked

to find so many people from the Hook working together to help others. Fisher set

some of them to blocking off the street, to keep out sightseers and ghouls who'd

just get in the way, and put the rest to work digging in the ruins, so that

those who'd been working the longest could get some rest. Some of the Guard

Constables weren't too keen on dirtying their hands with manual labor, but one

cold glare from Hawk was enough to convince them to shut up and get on with it.

It was at this point that the local gang leader, Hammer, arrived, along with

twenty or so of his most impressive-looking bullies, and insisted on talking to

the man in charge. Hawk went over to meet him, secretly glad of an excuse for a

break—and a little guilty at feeling that way. So he wasn't in the best of moods

when the gang leader delivered his ultimatum. Hammer was a medium-height,

well-padded man in his early twenties. He dressed well, if rather flashily, and

had the kind of face that fell naturally into a sneer.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" he said flatly. "This is my

territory, and no one works here without paying me. No one. So either pay up,

right here, where everyone can see it, or I'll be forced to order my people to

shut you down. Nothing happens in my territory without my permission."

Hawk looked at him. "There are injured people here who need our help. Some of

them will die without it."

"That's your problem."

Hawk nodded, and kneed Hammer in the groin. All the color went out of the gang

leader's face, and he dropped to his knees, his hands buried between his thighs.

"You're under arrest," said Hawk. He looked hard at the shocked bullies. "The

rest of you, get over there and start digging, or I'll personally cut you all

off at the knees."

The bullies looked at him, looked at their fallen leader, and decided he just

might mean it. They shrugged more or less in unison, and moved over to work in

the ruins. The local people raised a brief cheer for Hawk, surprising him and

them, and then they all got back to work. The gang leader was left lying huddled

in a ball, handcuffed by his ankle to a railing.

The hours dragged on, and the search turned up fewer and fewer survivors. The

fire brigade's engineers set up supports for the adjoining buildings; nothing

elaborate, but enough to keep them secure until the builders could be called in.

People began to drift away, too exhausted or dispirited to continue. Hawk sent

most of his Guards back to Headquarters with Morgan and his people, the crates

of chacal now carefully labeled and numbered, and the gang leader Hammer, under

Captain Burns's direction. But Hawk stayed on, and Fisher stayed with him. Hawk

didn't know whether he stayed because he felt he was still needed or because he

was punishing himself, but he knew he couldn't leave until he was sure there was

no one still alive under the wreckage. Someone cried out they'd heard something,

and once again everything came to a halt as the diggers listened, holding their

breath, trying to hear a faint cry for help over the beating of their own

hearts. One of the men yelled, and everyone converged on a dark, narrow shaft

that fell away into the depths of the ruins. One of the diggers dropped a small

stone down the shaft. They all listened hard, but no one heard it hit bottom.

"Sounded like a child," said the man who first raised the alarm. "Pretty quiet.

Must be trapped at the bottom of the shaft somewhere."

"We daren't try to widen the hole," said Fisher. "This whole area is touchy as

hell. One wrong move, and the shaft could collapse in on itself."

"We can't just leave the child there," said a woman dully, kneeling at the edge

of the shaft. "Someone could go down on a rope, and fetch it up."

"Not someone," said Hawk. "Me. Get me a length of rope and a lantern."

He started stripping off his cloak and furs. Fisher moved in close beside him.

"You don't have to do this, Hawk."

"Yes I do."

"You couldn't have known this would happen."

"I should have thought, instead of just barging straight in."

"That shaft isn't stable. It could collapse at any time."

"I know that. Keep an eye on my furs and my axe, would you? This is Haven, after

all."

He stood by the shaft in his shirt and trousers, looking down into the darkness,

and shivered suddenly, not entirely from the cold. He didn't like dark, enclosed

places, particularly underground, and the whole situation reminded him

uncomfortably of a bad experience he'd once had down a mine. He didn't have to

go down the shaft. There were any number of others ready to volunteer. But if he

didn't do it, he'd always believe he should have.

Someone came back with a length of rope, and Fisher fastened one end round his

waist. Someone else tied the other end to a sturdy outcropping of broken stone,

and Hawk and Fisher took turns tugging on the rope to make sure it was secure.

One of the men gave him a lantern, and he held it out over the shaft. The pale

golden light didn't penetrate far into the darkness. He listened, but couldn't

hear anything. The hole itself was about three feet in diameter and looked

distinctly unsafe. Hawk shrugged. It wouldn't get any safer, no matter how long

he waited. He sat down on the edge, very slowly and very carefully, swung his

legs over the side, and then lowered himself into the darkness, bracing his back

and his knees against the sides of the shaft. He took a deep breath and let it

out, and then inch by inch he made his way down into the darkness, the lantern

resting uncomfortably on his chest.

Jagged edges of stone and wood cut at him viciously as he descended, and the

circle of daylight overhead grew smaller and smaller. He moved slowly down in

his pool of light, stopping now and again to call out to the child below, but

there was never any reply. He pressed on, cursing the narrow confines around him

as they bowed in and out, and soon came to the bottom of the shaft. He held up

the lantern and looked around him. Rough spikes of broken wood and stone

protruded from every side, and a dozen openings led off into the honeycomb of

wreckage. Most were too small or too obviously unsafe for him to try, but one

aperture led into a narrow tunnel barely two feet high. Hawk called out to the

child, but there was only the silence and his own harsh breathing. He looked

back up the main shaft, but all he could see was darkness. He was on his own. He

looked again at the narrow tunnel, cursed again briefly, and got down on his

hands and knees.

The rope played out behind him as he wriggled his way through the tunnel

darkness in his narrow pool of light, stopping now and then to manoeuvre past

outcroppings from the tunnel walls. The child had to be around here somewhere.

He couldn't have come all this way for nothing. He thought briefly about the

sheer weight of wreckage pressing from above, and his skin went cold. The roof

of the tunnel bulged down ahead of him, and he had to lie on his back and force

himself past the obstruction an inch at a time, pulling the lantern behind. The

unyielding stone pressed against his chest like a giant hand trying to crush the

breath out of him. He breathed out, emptying his lungs, and slowly squeezed

past.

In the end, he found the child by bumping into her. He'd just got past the

obstruction when his head hit something soft and yielding. His first thought was

that he'd run into some kind of animal down in the dark with him, and his

imagination conjured up all kinds of unpleasantness before he got it back under

control. He squirmed over onto his stomach, wishing briefly that he'd brought

his axe, and then stopped as he saw her, lying still and silent on the tunnel

floor. She looked to be about five or six years old, covered in dirt and blood,

but still breathing strongly. Hawk spoke to her, but she didn't respond, even

when he tapped her sharply on the shoulder. He pulled himself along beside her,

and saw for the first time that one of her legs was pinned between two great

slabs of stone, holding her firmly just below the ankle.

Hawk put his lantern down and pushed cautiously at the slabs, but they wouldn't

budge. He took hold of the girl's shoulders and pulled until his arms ached, but

she didn't budge either. The stones weren't going to give her up that easily.

Hawk let go of her, and tried to think. The air was full of dust, and he coughed

hard to try and clear it from his throat. The side of his face grew

uncomfortably warm from having the lantern so close, and he moved it a bit

further away. Shadows leapt alarmingly in the cramped tunnel and then were still

again. He scowled, and worried his lower lip between his teeth. He had to get

the child out of there. The tunnel could collapse at any time, bringing tons of

stone and timber crashing down on her. And him too, for that matter. But there

was no way he could persuade the stone slabs to give up their hold on her foot.

He had no tools to work with, and even if he had, there wasn't enough room to

apply any leverage. No, there was only one way to get the child out. Tears stung

his eyes as the horror of it clenched at his gut, but he knew he had to do it.

He didn't have any choice in the matter.

He squirmed and wriggled as best he could in the confined space, and finally

managed to draw the knife from his boot and slide his leather belt out of his

trousers. There was a good edge on the blade. It would do the job. He took a

close look at the stone slabs where they held the child's foot, checking if

there was room enough to work, but he already knew the answer. There was room.

He was just putting it off. He looped his belt around the girl's leg, close up

against the stone, and pulled it tight, until flesh bulged thickly up on either

side of it. Hawk hefted the knife, and then brushed the little girl's hair

gently with his free hand.

"Don't wake up, lass. I'll be as quick as I can."

He placed the edge of the knife against her leg, as close to the stones as he

could get it, and began sawing.

There was a lot more blood than he'd expected, and he had to tighten the belt

twice more before he could stem most of the flow. When he was finished, he tore

off one of his sleeves and wrapped it tightly round the stump. His arms and face

were splashed with blood, and he was breathing in great gulps, as though he'd

just run a race. He turned over on his back again, grabbed his lantern, and

began inching his way back down the tunnel, dragging the unconscious girl along

behind him. He didn't know how long he'd spent in the narrow tunnel, but it felt

like forever.

The tunnel roof soon rose enough to let him get to his hands and knees again,

and he crawled along through the darkness, hugging the child to his chest. He

suddenly found himself at the base of the main shaft, and stopped for a moment

to get his breath. He ached in every muscle, and he'd torn his hands and knees

to ribbons. But he couldn't let himself rest. The little girl needed expert

medical help, and she was running out of time. He held the girl tightly to his

chest with one arm and slowly began to climb back up the shaft, with only his

legs and his back to support his weight and that of the child.

It didn't take long before the pain in his tired muscles became excruciating,

but he wouldn't stop. The girl was depending on him. Foot by foot he fought his

way up the shaft, grunting and snarling with the effort, his gaze fixed on the

gradually widening circle of light above him. He finally drew near the surface,

and eager hands reached down to take the child and help Hawk the rest of the

way. He clambered laboriously out and lay stretched out on the rubble, squinting

at the bright daylight and drawing in deep lungfuls of the comparatively clean

air. Fisher swore softly at the state of his hands and knees, helped him sit up,

and wrapped his cloak around him. Someone brought him a cup of lukewarm soup,

and he sipped at it gratefully.

"The child," he said thickly. "What have they done with her?"

"A doctor's looking at her now," said Fisher. "And as soon as you've finished

that soup we're going to get one to take a look at you, as well. God, you're a

mess, Hawk. Was it bad down there?"

"Bad enough."

Eventually he got to his feet again, and Fisher found him a doctor who could

work the right healing spells. The wounds closed up easily enough, but there was

nothing the doctor could do for physical and emotional exhaustion. Hawk and

Fisher looked around them. The dead and injured had been laid out in neat rows

on the snow, the dying and the recovering lying side by side. A large pile of

unidentified body parts had been tactfully hidden under a blood-spattered

tarpaulin. Hawk shook his head numbly.

"All this, to catch one drug baron and his people. Tomorrow there'll be a dozen

just like him fighting to take his place, and it will all have to be done

again."

"Stop that," said Fisher sharply. "None of this is your fault. It's Morgan's

fault, for having set up a pocket dimension here in the first place. And if we

hadn't acted to stop the super-chacal being distributed, there's no telling how

many thousands might have died across the city."

Hawk didn't answer. He looked slowly about him, taking in the situation.

Engineers and sorcerers had got together to stabilize the surrounding buildings,

and people were being allowed back into them again. That should please the slum

landlords. Even they couldn't charge rent on a pile of rubble. Firemen were

moving among the wreckage, shoring up the few broken walls and inner structures

that hadn't collapsed completely. A few people were still sifting through the

rubble, but the general air of urgency was gone. Much of the real work had been

done now, and most people had accepted that there probably weren't going to be

any more survivors. The volunteers had gone home, exhausted, and Hawk felt he

might as well do the same. There was nothing left for him to do, he was out on

his feet, and it had to be well past the end of his double shift. He was just

turning to Fisher to tell her it was time to go, when there was the sound of

gentle flute music, and the dry, acid voice of the communications sorcerer

filled his head.

Captains Hawk and Fisher, return to Guard Headquarters immediately. This order

supersedes all other directives.

Hawk looked at Fisher. "Typical. Bloody typical. What the hell do they want

now?"

"Beats me," said Fisher. "Maybe they want to congratulate us for finally nabbing

Morgan. There are a lot of people at Headquarters who'll fight for the chance to

ask him some very pointed questions."

Hawk sniffed. "With our luck, they'll probably screw it up in the Courts, and

he'll plea-bargain his way out with a fine and a suspended sentence."

"Relax," said Fisher. "We got him dead to rights this time. What can possibly go

wrong?"

"What do you mean, you let him go?" screamed Hawk. He lunged across the desk at

Commander Glen, and Fisher had to use all her strength to hold him back. The

Commander pushed his chair back well out of reach, and glared at them both.

"Control yourself, Captain! That's an order!"

"Stuff your order! Do you know how many people died so we could get that

bastard?"

He finally realized he couldn't break free from Fisher without hurting her, and

stopped struggling. He took a deep breath and nodded curtly to Fisher. She let

go of him and stepped back a pace, still watching him warily. Hawk fixed

Commander Glen with a cold, implacable glare. "Talk to me, Glen. Convince me

there's some reason behind this madness. Or I swear I'll do something one of us

will regret."

Commander Glen sniffed, and met Hawk's gaze unflinchingly. Glen was a tallish,

blocky man in his late forties, with a permanent scowl and a military-style

haircut that looked as though it had been shaped with a pudding bowl. He had

large, bony hands and a mouth like a knife-cut. He'd spent twenty years in the

Guard, and amassed a reputation for thief-taking unequaled in the Guard. He'd

been day Commander for seven years, and ran his people like his own private

army, demanding and getting complete obedience. Ordinarily, he didn't have to

deal much with Hawk and Fisher, which suited all of them.

Glen pushed his chair forward, and leaned his elbows on the desk. "You want me

to explain myself, Captain Hawk? Very well. Thanks to your going after Morgan

without waiting for orders or a backup, we now find ourselves faced with major

loss of life and destruction of property within the Devil's Hook. We still don't

know exactly how many died because of your actions, but the current total is

four hundred and six. The Hook's still in shock at the moment, but when they

finally realize what's happened, and that the Guard was responsible, we're going

to be facing riots it'll take half the Guard to put down! On top of that,

there's the cost of rebuilding and repairs, which is going to run into thousands

of ducats. The landlord of the tenement is suing the Guard for that money, and

he'll probably win. And finally, you assaulted a gang leader in front of his own

people. Does the word vendetta mean anything to you, Captain Hawk?"

"I don't give a damn about any of that," said Hawk, his voice carefully

controlled. "What I did was justified by the circumstances. Morgan was preparing

to distribute a drug that would have killed thousands of people and torn Haven

apart. Now, explain to me, please, why this man was allowed to go free."

"There was no evidence against him," said Glen flatly.

"No evidence? What about the super-chacal?" said Fisher. "There were crates of

the damn stuff; I helped number and label them."

"I never saw any drugs," said Glen. "Neither has anyone else. And none of the

prisoners had any drugs in their possession when they were searched here. None

of them had even heard of this super-chacal you keep mentioning. And thanks to

your efforts, we don't even have any proof the pocket dimension ever existed.

That leaves only your word and that of your men. And that's not good enough,

against someone like Morgan. He's a man of standing in the business community,

and a pillar of society. He also has a great many friends in high places. People

with influence. He hadn't been in Headquarters ten minutes before pressure began

coming down from Above. Without real evidence, we didn't have a case. So I let

him go, along with all of his people. I might add that Morgan is strongly

considering suing us for false arrest, and you in particular for assault. I

can't believe you were stupid enough to hit him in front of witnesses."

For a while, none of them said anything. It was very quiet in Glen's office, the

only sound the murmur of people going back and forth about their business in the

corridors outside.

"There were crates of the drug," said Hawk finally. "If they've disappeared, it

can only mean they vanished on their way here, or they were removed by people

working inside Headquarters. Either way, we're talking about corrupt Guards. I

demand an official investigation."

"You can demand anything you want; you won't get it."

"I want to talk to my men, the Constables who were with me on the raid."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. They've already been detailed to other duties.

Haven't you got the picture yet, Captain? As far as our superiors are concerned,

this whole incident is a major embarrassment, and they want it forgotten as soon

as possible. You've got some very important people mad at you. At both of you.

They're looking for scapegoats, and you're tailor-made to fill the bill."

"Let me see if I've got this straight," said Hawk, his voice dangerously calm.

"Morgan has walked. So have all his people. And several tons of the most

dangerous drug Haven has ever seen have gone missing. Have I missed anything?"

"Yes," said Glen. "I've been instructed to suspend both of you, indefinitely,

while a number of official charges against you are investigated. Charges such as

reckless endangering of life and property, disobeying orders, assaulting

citizens without provocation, brutality, and possible collusion in a vendetta

against a faultless pillar of society. That last was Morgan, in case you were

wondering."

Hawk grabbed Glen's desk with both hands and threw it to one side. Papers flew

on the air like startled birds as he grabbed two handfuls of Glen's uniform,

picked him up, and slammed him against the nearest wall. He thrust his face

close to the Commander's, until they were staring into each other's eyes.

"No one's suspending me, you son of a bitch! Those drugs are still out there,

waiting to be distributed! They have to be found and seized, and I can't do that

with both hands tied behind my back! Do you understand me?"

Glen looked over Hawk's shoulder at Fisher, standing by the overturned desk.

"Call your partner off. Fisher."

She shrugged, and folded her arms. "This time, I think I agree with him. If I

were you, I'd agree with him too. Hawk can get very upset when he thinks people

are conspiring against him."

The door burst open behind them and two Constables rushed in with drawn swords,

alarmed at the sounds of violence from the Commander's office. Fisher drew her

sword and quickly moved to stand between them and Hawk and Glen. Hawk slowly put

Glen down, but kept a tight hold on him.

"Tell them to leave, Glen. This is private."

"Not anymore," said Glen. "Not after your foul-up this morning. You can't fight

your way out of this one, Hawk. Not even you and Fisher can take on the entire

Guard."

Hawk grinned suddenly. "Don't bet your life on it, Glen. We've faced worse odds

in our time. Now, tell those over-eager friends of yours to leave, and we'll…

discuss the situation."

He let go of Glen, and stepped back a pace, his right hand resting casually on

the axe at his side. The Commander nodded, and gestured for the two Constables

to leave. They looked at each other, shrugged, put away their swords and left,

not quite slamming the door behind them. Glen looked at Hawk.

"You've upset them."

"Oh dear," said Hawk. "What a pity. I'm not going on suspension, Glen. I've got

too much to do."

"Right," said Fisher.

"Help me pick up my desk," said Glen, "and we'll talk about it."

Hawk did so, while Fisher leaned against the wall, still holding her sword. Glen

picked up his chair, and sat down behind his desk again. He glanced briefly at

the papers scattered over the floor, then fixed his attention on Hawk and

Fisher.

"All right, no suspension. But I'll have to find somewhere to put you so you're

out of sight until things calm down again."

"Sounds sensible," said Fisher. "What did you have in mind?"

"I can't have you working together; word would be bound to get out. But as it

happens, I've got two jobs to fill that should suit the pair of you nicely. As

you know, even though officially you shouldn't, Peace Talks are taking place in

Haven at the moment, to try and put an end to the border clashes between the Low

Kingdoms and our traditional enemy Outremer, before they get out of hand. The

Talks themselves seem to be going well enough, but there are a number of

political and business interests on both sides who would like very much to see

them fail. Captain David ap Owen is currently in charge of security, but he's

been under a lot of pressure and could use some assistance. Think you could

handle that, Captain Fisher?"

"Sounds fair enough to me," said Fisher, glancing at Hawk. "What level of

security are we talking about?"

"Absolute minimum. Officially, the Talks aren't happening here at all. We can't

use troops to guard the delegates; that would be too conspicuous, so there'll

just be yourself, Captain ap Owen, and a dozen Constables in plainclothes. We

can't use any magical protection, either. Same reason; it would just attract

attention. So if anything happens, you're on your own. By the time you could get

word to us it would all be over, one way or the other. You'll have to cope with

what you've got."

"Do the delegates know that?" said Hawk.

"They suggested it. They're expendable, and they know it. Well, Captain Fisher,

is the assignment to your liking?"

"Sounds like fun," said Fisher.

Glen looked at her for a moment, and then turned to Hawk. "I need someone to

find the drugs that went missing. Surprisingly enough, I had worked out for

myself how dangerous this super-chacal could be. I want to know how the stuff

disappeared, and where it is now. And if you should find a way to incriminate

Morgan in the process, I wouldn't be at all displeased. Find yourself another

partner, someone you can trust, but keep your head down, and stay out of the

public eye. If anything goes wrong, I'll swear blind you were acting on your

own, and it's all nothing to do with me. I can't afford to have Morgan's friends

as enemies. You'll report directly to me, and no one else. Is that acceptable,

Captain Hawk?"

"Sounds good to me," said Hawk. "Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"

"You didn't exactly give me a chance. You were more interested in feeling

aggrieved and wrecking my office."

Fisher smiled. "Next time, talk faster."

"Besides," said Hawk comfortingly, "it wasn't much of an office anyway."

Glen looked at him.

Hawk was working on his second beer when Captain Burns found him. The Cloudy

Morning was a semiofficial off-duty tavern for the Guard, a traditional place

for winding down at the end of a long shift. It was fairly basic as taverns go,

with no frills and few comforts, but the beer was good and reasonably cheap, and

the Guards needed a place where they could talk freely without having to worry

about who might be listening. The place was run by an ex-Guard, and the general

public were politely encouraged to drink elsewhere, unless they were Guard

groupies. There were such, though not many Guards encouraged them. They tended

to get obsessive.

The place was crowded, as usual at the end of a shift, and Captain Burns had to

squeeze his way through the press of bodies to reach the bar. Several Guards

called out to him, and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, but he just

smiled and kept going. Hawk's message had sounded fairly urgent. He finally

reached the bar, grabbed a seat as it became vacant, and sat down beside Hawk.

For a moment Hawk didn't look up, staring into his beer. Then he took a long

swallow, and gestured for the bartender to bring Burns a beer.

"I'm surprised you're still on the loose," said Burns. "The smart money was

betting you'd be arrested the moment you set foot in Headquarters. You've upset

some really powerful people this time, Hawk."

"There was some talk of suspension," said Hawk. "But I talked the Commander out

of it."

Bums smiled. "Yeah, I heard. Did you really bounce him off the walls of his own

office?"

Hawk looked at him innocently. "Would I do such a thing to a superior officer?"

Burns nodded to the bartender as his drink arrived, and sipped it

appreciatively. "So what's happening with you and Fisher? All forgiven?"

"Hardly. We've been split up, and told to keep our heads down. But I've got a

case to work on, and I'm looking for a new partner."

For a moment, Burns didn't get it, and then he looked sharply at Hawk. "You mean

me? We hardly know each other."

"I've seen you fight, and I thought you might like a chance to get back at the

bastards who killed your partner. Besides, Morgan isn't going to stop with

Fisher and me. Eventually, he's going to go after everyone who helped destroy

his factory. He takes setbacks personally. If you don't go after him now, while

he's vulnerable, you can bet that sooner or later he's going to be coming after

you."

"You've got a point there," said Burns. "But you've got a real nerve, you know

that? You got me into this mess, and now I'm supposed to help save your neck."

"Are you in or not?"

"Of course I'm in. I don't really have any choice, do I? And you're right about

one thing, at least. I'd worked with Doughty on and off for nearly eight years.

He was a good partner. Never had much to say for himself, but the best damned

swordsman I ever saw. I always felt safer with him to guard my back. I didn't

see who killed him at the factory. Everything was happening too fast. But even

if I didn't see whose hand held the sword, I know who was responsible for his

death."

"Morgan."

"Right. I'm with you, Hawk. But it's not going to be easy. Morgan has

influential friends. The kind of people it's dangerous to cross."

"Everyone keeps telling me that," said Hawk calmly. "It's not going to stop me.

I can be dangerous too, when I put my mind to it. But I shouldn't worry about

his precious friends too much. If we bring Morgan down hard enough, his friends

will desert him like rats leaving a sinking ship rather than risk being brought

down with him."

Burns shook his head amusedly. "You almost make it sound easy. All right, what

do we do first?"

"Well, to begin with we could do with another drink. We've got some hard

thinking to do."

Burns chose his words carefully. "Not for me, thanks. I think better on a clear

head."

"You're probably right," said Hawk. "But it has to be said, there's something

about Haven that drives a man to drink." He looked at his empty glass, then

pushed it regretfully away. "You know, when I first joined the Guard, I really

thought I could make a difference. I was going to be a force for justice, and

put all the bad guys behind bars, where they belonged. It didn't work out that

way. Crime and corruption are a way of life for most people here. Some days I

think the only way to clean up Haven would be to burn it down and start over

again."

Burns shrugged. "I've lived here all my life, but from what I've heard, Haven

isn't really that different from any other city. We're just more honest about it

here. You mustn't let it get to you, Hawk. You can't expect to undo centuries of

corruption overnight. Real change always takes time. In the meantime, we do our

best to hold things together, and every now and again we get a chance to put

away a piece of slime like Morgan. Settle for that."

They sat for a while in silence, each thinking his own thoughts.

"Where did you come from originally?" said Burns.

"Up north. There were family problems over my marriage to Isobel, so we struck

out on our own. Traveled around a lot, and finally ended up here. It seemed a

good idea at the time."

"There are worse places than Haven."

"Name two." Hawk looked thoughtfully into his empty glass. "It was my fault, you

know. If I hadn't gone barging in, without checking the situation properly, I

might have found a way to shut down Morgan's factory without destroying

everything. And all those men and women and children would be alive now."

"Maybe," said Burns. "But I doubt it. Morgan was ready to ship those drugs out.

If we'd burst in even an hour later, we'd probably have found nothing but an

empty warehouse. But either way, it doesn't make any difference. You did what

you thought was right at the time. That's all any of us can do. Beyond a certain

point, worrying about past mistakes just becomes self-pity and self-indulgence."

Hawk looked at him, and smiled. "Maybe. Let's talk about Morgan, the bastard.

The first thing we have to do is figure out where the super-chacal disappeared

to, and then try and link it directly to Morgan in a way he can't shrug off.

Which means asking pointed questions and making a nuisance of ourselves until

people tell us what we want to know."

"Just once," said Burns, "wouldn't you like to try it the easy way? Morgan is

going to have to shift the super-chacal in a hurry, so that he can't be caught

with it in his possession. Which means using established channels of

distribution. And there aren't that many people in Haven who can handle a deal

that size. All we have to do is discover which distributor has suddenly become

very busy, and we'll have our first lead."

"But that's only part of it," said Hawk. "We also need to know which Guards took

money from Morgan to look the other way while the drugs went missing."

"If you say so," said Burns. "But Hawk, we're going to do this professionally,

right? Getting personally involved in a case is always a bad idea. It stops you

thinking clearly. In Haven, you win some and you lose some. That's just the way

it is."

Hawk looked at him. "I don't believe in losing."

Chapter Three

Talking Peace and War

Fisher strode scowling through the well-ordered streets of Low Tory, and wished

Hawk was with her. She didn't like leaving him alone in his present mood. He'd

taken the deaths in the Hook personally, and right now he was mad enough and

depressed enough to do something stupid. Usually it was the other way round,

with Hawk keeping her from doing something dumb, but there were times when he

needed her to see the right path clearly. He needed her now, and she couldn't be

with him. Commander Glen had made it very clear that their splitting up was a

condition of their continuing to work. Still, they'd had time to discuss who

Hawk should choose as his new partner, and Captain Burns seemed solid enough.

She wondered what her own new partner would be like. Probably turn out to be

some ex-mercenary with more muscle than brain, and even less ethics. There were

a lot like that in the Guard.

She looked unobtrusively about her as she strode along, trying to get the feel

of the new area. She hadn't worked Low Tory before, but by all accounts it was

an upwardly mobile, middle-class area, full of merchant families so long

established they were city aristocracy in all but blood and breeding. They were

indecently rich, had a finger in every political pie, and, as a class, showed

all the ethical restraint of a shark in a feeding frenzy. Having reached the

pinnacle of their profession, their ambition turned in the only direction left

to them, and they set their sights on the Quality. Even in Haven, the poorest

aristocrat could still look down his nose at the richest trader. So, in recent

times certain wealthy merchant families had been negotiating marriage contracts

with the more impoverished Quality Families, quite openly offering to pay off a

Family's debts in return for marriage into the Quality. The results were rarely

happy, with the nouveau Quality snubbed and openly mocked by High Society, but

the practice persisted.

As a result, Low Tory had flourished in the past few years, tearing down the

faded and crumbling houses of the lesser Quality and replacing them with grand

new mansions that rivaled and occasionally even surpassed the old Family Halls

and Granges of High Tory. The streets were wide and open and bordered with neat,

orderly rows of specially imported trees. New walls had been replaced with newer

walls carefully constructed to appear old and weathered. Everything had to look

right. Unlike most of Haven, the streets were calm and quiet and practically

deserted. Regular patrols by private guards and men-at-arms saw to that. Only

those with approved business in the area were allowed to tarry in Low Tory. To

Fisher, more used to the bustling crowds of the Northside, the streets appeared

almost eerily deserted.

The recent snow had been shoveled aside into tidy piles at the street kerbs, but

here and there small bands of workmen still struggled with the more stubborn

drifts. Servants attired in finery more costly than that worn by some

lower-class merchants hurried along, looking neither left nor right, bearing

messages and business documents and an almost palpable sense of their own

self-importance. Private guards patrolled in pairs, looking faintly embarrassed

by their overelaborate uniforms. None of them looked particularly pleased to see

Fisher. She ignored them all, and concentrated on the directions she'd been

given. They'd seemed simple enough back at Guard Headquarters, but Fisher had a

positive genius for getting lost, and today seemed no different. Still, after a

certain amount of backtracking she'd finally found the right street, so all she

had to do now was locate the right house.

It occurred to her that this street was actually surprisingly busy, by Low Tory

standards. There were half a dozen workmen lackadaisically shoveling snow, and

as many servants strolling unhurriedly up and down the street. A hot-chestnut

seller was tending his brazier, but showed remarkably little interest in

drumming up trade. Two men were bent over an open sewer grating, but seemed to

be spending as much time watching the street as anything else. Fisher had to

smile. Try as they might, some Guards just couldn't get the hang of plainclothes

work. It wasn't enough to look the part; you had to act it as well. Still, it

showed she was in the right place.

None of the plainclothes people made any move to approach her, for which Fisher

was grateful. She wasn't in the mood to explain what she was doing there without

Hawk. She finally reached her destination, and stopped at the main gate to study

the surroundings with an experienced eye. It was a plain, pleasantly

unornamented house, standing a way back from the street in its own grounds. The

high stone wall surrounding the snow-covered lawns was topped with iron spikes

and broken glass. Fairly impressive, but the tall iron gates were unlocked and

unguarded. She'd have to speak to someone about that.

She pushed the gates open and walked into the grounds. A few yards away stood a

life-sized figure of a warrior, carved from pale marble in the classically

idealized style popular in the last century. It carried a sword and shield, and

was minutely detailed, even down to bulging veins on the muscular arms. Fisher

looked away. She didn't care for such statues. They'd always given her the

creeps as a child.

As she passed the marble warrior, there was a low, grating sound as the statue

slowly turned its head and looked at her. Fisher jumped back, her hand dropping

to her sword. She stayed where she was, her heart beating painfully fast, but

the statue made no further move. Fisher edged closer, a foot at a time, and

reached out to poke it with a hesitant fingertip. It felt hard and unyielding,

the way marble should. Fisher took a deep breath and backed away, still keeping

a careful eye on the statue. The thing must be part of the house's security

system. They might have warned her… She turned her back on the marble figure and

continued on her way. Behind her she again heard a low grating sound as the

statue turned its head to follow her progress. Fisher wouldn't let herself look

back, but walked a little faster, despite herself. Up ahead, scattered across

the grounds, were three more statues, staring off in different directions.

Snow crunched loudly under Fisher's boots as she approached the house. Now that

she'd had a chance to get used to the idea, she approved of the statues. Simple

but effective security, and completely unobtrusive until activated by an

intruder. She couldn't help wondering what other surprises Captain ap Owen might

have set up in the grounds. The thought had only just crossed her mind when a

huge dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere right in front of her. She stumbled to

a halt, and the great hound thrust its head forward, sniffed at her

suspiciously, and then vanished into thin air. Fisher opened her mouth to say

something, and a second, different dog appeared out of nowhere just to her left.

It was even bigger than the first, its head on a level with her belt. It sniffed

at her, wagged its tail, then snapped out of existence. Fisher realized her

mouth was still hanging open, and shut it. Guard dogs. Of course. Entirely

logical. She walked on, and tried to get her breathing to go back to normal.

She finally came to a halt before the massive front door, beat on it smartly

with her fist, and made a quick use of the iron boot-scraper. And if anything

else appears, I'm going to hit it first, and ask questions afterwards. The door

opened almost immediately, confirming that they'd been watching her.

The man in footman's uniform looked convincing enough, and even had the barely

civil bow and haughty expression down right, but there was no getting away from

the fact that he was simply far too muscular for a gentleman's servant. He stood

back politely as she entered the brightly lit hall, then shut the door firmly

behind her. The sound of a key turning in the lock was quickly followed by the

sound of four separate bolts sliding home. Fisher smiled, and relaxed a little.

Maybe they did know what they were doing here, after all. She handed the footman

her cloak, waited patiently while he figured out where to hang it up, and then

allowed him to lead her down the hall and into the study, where Captain David ap

Owen was waiting for her.

The study was too large to be really cosy, but had all the comforts money could

buy. Captain ap Owen sat behind a large, ornate desk, talking quietly to someone

who looked as though he might be a real footman. Ap Owen glanced at Fisher as

she came in, but finished giving his instructions before waving both footmen

away. He got up from behind the desk and came forward to greet Fisher with an

outstretched hand. His handshake was firm, but hurried, and he sat down on the

edge of the desk to take a good look at her. Fisher stared back just as openly.

Captain ap Owen was in his mid-thirties, and a little less than average height,

which meant he had to tilt his head back to meet her gaze. It didn't seem to

bother him as much as it did some people. His build was stocky rather than

muscular, and his uniform had a sloppy, lived-in look. Fisher approved of that.

In her experience, Guards who worried too much about their appearance tended not

to worry enough about getting the job done right. Ap Owen had flaming red hair

and bright green eyes, along with a broad rash of freckles across his nose and

cheekbones which made him look deceptively youthful and open. His apparently

relaxed stance was undermined by an unwavering slight frown and occasional

sudden, jerky movements. Even sitting still, he gave the impression of a man

constantly on edge, just waiting for an attack so he could leap into action.

"Take a seat, Captain Fisher," he said finally. "Glad to have you with us. I've

heard a lot about you."

"It's all true," said Fisher easily. She dragged a chair over to the desk,

ignoring what that did to the carpet, and slumped gracelessly into it. The chair

was a rickety antique, but more comfortable than it appeared. She looked sharply

at ap Owen. "I take it you've heard the latest news about me?"

"Of course," said ap Owen. "If it hadn't been for your recent… troubles, I'd

never have got you on my team. Make no mistake, Captain, everyone here,

including you and me and the six delegates, are all considered expendable. If

these Talks work out successfully, fine; if not, no one's going to miss us.

They'll just start over, with new delegates and new Talks. The odds are we're

all going to be killed before the Talks are over. There are a lot of people out

there who want us dead, for various political and business reasons, and I

haven't been allowed enough men to ward off a determined attack by a group of

lightly armed nuns. Had to be that way. The whole idea of this operation is to

be unobtrusive and hopefully overlooked. Personally, I think it's a dumb idea,

given the number of spies and loose mouths in this city, but no one asked my

opinion. The point is that if things go wrong and our cover is blown, we are

supposed to defend these Talks with our lives, and we probably will. Even though

they and we are completely replaceable."

"I see you're the kind of leader who believes in a good pep talk," said Fisher.

"Are you normally this optimistic?"

Captain ap Owen grinned briefly. "I like my people to know what they're getting

into. Ideally, this should have been a volunteers-only operation, but since we

couldn't tell them what they'd be volunteering for, there didn't seem much

point. How much did they tell you about our situation here?"

"Not much. Just that it was minimum security, with essentially no backup."

"You got that right, but it's not quite as bad as it sounds. The Talks aren't

actually taking place in the house itself, the building's far too vulnerable.

Instead, a Guard sorcerer has set up a pocket dimension, linked to the house.

It's been so thoroughly warded, a sorcerer could walk through this place from

top to bottom and never know the dimensional gateway was here. Clever, eh?"

"Very," said Fisher carefully. "But pocket dimensions aren't exactly stable, are

they? If you know about my current problems, then you can understand that I'm a

bit bloody wary about going into another pocket dimension."

"Don't worry about it; once the dimension's been established, it's perfectly

secure. The only reason Morgan's fell apart is because he designed it that way,

with booby traps in case he was discovered. He didn't want any evidence

surviving to incriminate him."

Fisher looked at him blankly. "You mean it wasn't Hawk's fault after all? Then

why didn't Commander Glen tell us that? He must have known… Damn, I've got to

talk to Hawk!"

She jumped to her feet, but ap Owen didn't budge. "Sit down, Captain Fisher.

You're not going anywhere. No one here is allowed to leave these premises until

the Talks are over. It's a matter of security. You must see that."

"You can't stop me leaving."

"No, I probably couldn't. But if you did leave, Glen would undoubtedly have you

declared a rogue, and put out an order for your arrest. And how is that going to

help Hawk?"

Fisher glared at ap Owen, then nodded reluctantly and sank back into her chair.

"That's why Glen sent me here, so Hawk would be left alone with his guilt. He's

always easiest to manipulate when he's feeling guilty. Glen wants Hawk to go on

believing it was his fault, so he'll be properly motivated to go after Morgan.

Damn him!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. When Fisher finally spoke again, her voice

was calm and cold and very deadly. "When this is all over, there's going to be

an accounting between me and Commander bloody Glen."

"Assuming we get out of this alive," said ap Owen.

Fisher glanced at him sharply. "You're a real cheerful sort, you know that?"

"Just being realistic. Let me fill you in on the six delegates taking part in

the Talks. They're a pretty rum bunch themselves, particularly the Outremer

delegates. They were mad as hell when they arrived. Apparently it took them the

best part of five weeks to get here through the winter weather, and that was

before the worst of the storms hit. I don't see why they couldn't have just

teleported in."

"Teleports don't work that way," said Fisher. "It's hard enough to shift one

person over a short distance. There isn't a sorcerer alive with the kind of

magic it would take to teleport three people from one country to another. There

are lots of nasty ways for a teleport to go wrong. Get the decimal point in the

wrong place and you could end up appearing a hundred feet above your

destination. Or under it."

"I didn't realize you were such an expert," said ap Owen dryly.

Fisher shrugged. "I've had some experience with traveling that way."

"Actually, the weather is something of a blessing. The storms are keeping

Outremer's more disruptive elements from getting here. Let's just hope the

storms continue till the Talks are over."

"Maybe someone should have a word with the city weather wizards."

"No, low profile, remember? Nothing that would attract attention."

"True. All right, tell me about the delegates. Who's representing the Low

Kingdoms? Anyone I might have heard of?"

"Maybe. Lord Regis is heading the home team. This is his house we're in.

Mid-forties, old Haven Family, good reputation, with an impressive background in

the army and the diplomatic corps. Can't say I warm to him myself. Smiles too

much, and takes too long to shake your hand. Likes to clap you on the shoulder

while looking you right in the eye. Hail-fellow-well-met type. He gets on my

nerves something fierce, but he goes down well enough with the other delegates.

"Then there's Jonathon Rook, representing the Merchants Association. Early

forties, and better padded than the average sofa. He likes his food, does

Jonathon. Sharp as a tack when it comes to business, but he does love a title.

Practically milorded Regis to death this morning, while we were waiting for the

Outremer delegates to show up. Word is he's angling for a Family marriage for

his eldest, more fool he.

"And finally, there's Major Patrik Comber. You've probably heard of him. Led his

battalion into Death's Hollow to rescue a company of his men who'd been cut off

by Outremer troops. Took on better than five-to-one odds, and kicked their arses

something cruel. Won all sorts of medals, and a swift promotion. He also

sacrificed a lot of good men in the process, but the minstrels don't usually

mention that."

Fisher grinned. "I can see you're going to be a real barrel of laughs on this

job. How about the Outremer delegates? Do you like them any better?"

"Not much. The leader is Lord Nightingale. Pleasant enough sort, but I don't

think I'll turn my back on him. He's got cold eyes. Then there's William

Gardener for the merchants, and Major Guy de Tournay. Can't tell you much about

them. Gardener likes his drink and talks too loudly, while de Tournay's hardly

opened his mouth to me since he got here."

Fisher frowned thoughtfully. "Interesting that both sides have put forward a

lord. The Quality aren't normally considered expendable. Particularly not

someone as noticeable as Lord Regis. And from what I've heard, Major Comber's

something of a popular hero at the moment. The Powers That Be must be taking

these Talks pretty seriously."

"Seems likely. Both sides have been losing a lot of men and equipment in the

border skirmishes, and it's getting expensive. You know how the Powers That Be

hate to lose money. Of course, they hate to lose face even more, which is why

it's taken till now to set the Talks up."

"All right. Fill me in on what security measures you've set up here. If we're

not allowed to call attention to ourselves, it cuts our options down to

practically nothing, doesn't it?"

"You've got that right," said ap Owen grimly. "For all the good we'd be in a

real crisis, we might as well not be here. I take it you spotted the

plainclothes people outside? I'd be surprised if you hadn't; everyone else knows

who and what they are. Luckily, they're just opt there for show. My real

undercover operatives have been here for days, establishing their characters and

getting to know the area. We didn't just choose this place on a whim, you know.

Both the grounds and the surrounding streets are wide open, with nowhere to

hide. The way we've got things set up, no one can get within a hundred yards of

this house without being spotted a dozen times. And since we haven't a hope in

hell of beating off an armed assault, at the first whisper of an attack, or even

an intended attack, the plan is for all of us to retreat into the pocket

dimension and seal it off.

"In theory, we should then be perfectly safe. No one can get at us without the

proper co-ordinates, known only to a top few people, so all we have to do is sit

tight and wait until reinforcements arrive, and the emergency is over. Of

course, there's always the very real possibility that the delegates themselves

will seal off the dimension at the first whiff of trouble, leaving us out here

to fight off the attackers. In which case, we get to earn our money the hard

way. Got it?"

Fisher nodded glumly. In other words, it was another damned watching brief. Lots

of sitting around doing nothing, waiting for something to happen and hoping it

wouldn't. It was at times like these that Fisher seriously considered the simple

pleasures of a desk job, and the security to be found in lots of nice safe

paperwork. Of course, she'd be bored out of her mind in a week… Ah well, if

nothing else, she should be able to catch up on her sleep here. Working two

shifts in a row had drained most of her strength, and helping Hawk drag

survivors out of the tenement rubble had all but finished her off. She felt as

if she could go to sleep right there in her chair, She caught herself slumping

forward, and quickly sat up straight. Almost without realizing it, her eyes had

been closing, and she'd actually come close to nodding off. That would have made

a great first impression on Captain ap Owen. She glanced quickly at him to see

if he'd noticed anything, but he was apparently absorbed in leafing through the

papers on his desk.

"Tell me about the Talks themselves," she said, to show she was still with it.

"Are they making any progress?"

"Beats me. I'm just the hired help round here; no one tells me anything. I'm not

even allowed into the pocket dimension unless one of them calls for me, and

though the delegates take an occasional break out here, none of them are much

for small talk. As far as I can discover, their brief is to agree on a border

frontier both sides can live with, and put an end to all those squabbles over

which ragged old piece of map takes precedence. Both the Low Kingdoms and

Outremer are going to end up losing some territory, so both sides are throwing

in lucrative trade deals as sweeteners to help the medicine go down. Whatever

happens, you can bet a lot of people living near the border will wake up one

morning to find that overnight they've become citizens of a different country.

Poor bastards. Probably end up paying two sets of taxes."

Fisher frowned. "Those special trade deals are going to put a lot of noses out

of joint in the business community. Nothing like a little preferential treatment

to stir up bad feelings."

"Right," said ap Owen. "And let's not forget, there's a hell of a lot of money

to be made out of a war, if you've got the right kind of contacts with the

military."

"Any more bad news you'd like to share with me?"

"You mean apart from political extremists, religious fanatics, and

terrorists-for-hire?"

"Forget I asked. Do you think it'll come to a war, if the Talks fail?"

"I don't know… Countries have gone to war over a lot less in the past. The Low

Kingdoms have traditionally preferred action to talk, and Outremer can be touchy

as hell where its honor is concerned. I wouldn't be surprised if a war did break

out, but then it must be said I have something of a vested interest in war. I've

always made most of my living as a mercenary. I only ended up as a Guard because

I'd spent too long between jobs and the money had run out. Ironic, really, that

I should end up protecting Talks whose purpose is to keep me and my kind out of

work. You ever been caught up in a war, Captain Fisher?"

"Just once," said Fisher. "Several years back. It's funny, you know; at the time

I would have given everything I owned to be somewhere else, somewhere safe. But

now, looking back, it seems to me I've never felt so alive as I did then. We

were fighting for great stakes, and everything I did mattered; everything I did

was important. But I wouldn't go through it again for all the money in the Low

Kingdoms' Treasury. I saw too many good people die, saw too many people I cared

for hurt and maimed."

"Did you win?"

"Yes and no." Fisher smiled tiredly. "I suppose that's true of any war. Our side

won in the end, but the Land was devastated by the fighting. It'll take

generations to recover. I suppose you've seen a lot of war, as a mercenary?"

Ap Owen shrugged. "More than I care to remember. One war is much like another,

and the campaigns all tend to blur into each other after a while. Endless

marching, rotten food, and lousy weather. Waiting for orders that never come, in

some godforsaken spot in the middle of nowhere. And every now and again, just

often enough to keep your nerves ragged, there'll be a sudden burst of action.

You get used to the blood and the flies and seeing your comrades die, and

there's always the looting to look forward to afterwards. I could have been a

rich man a dozen times over, if I could have kept away from the cards and the

dice and the tavern whores. I started out fighting for a cause, but that didn't

last long. First thing you learn as a mercenary is that both sides believe

they're right.

"So why have I spent most of my adult life fighting for strangers? Because I'm

good at it. And because, just as you said, you never feel more alive than when

you've just cheated death. In its way, that feeling's more addictive than any

drug you'll find on the streets." He broke off, and smiled at Fisher. "You're a

good listener, Fisher, you know that?"

Before she could say anything, a ring on ap Owen's finger pulsed with a sudden

silver light, and he rose quickly to his feet. "That's the delegates' signal;

they're going to take another break. Just stay back out of the way, for the time

being. I'll introduce you if I get a chance, but don't expect any great show of

interest. We're just hired help as far as they're concerned."

Two footmen entered the study in response to some unheard summons, carrying

silver trays laden with assorted delicacies of the kind Fisher hadn't seen in

the markets for weeks. Whoever was funding these Talks obviously didn't believe

in doing things by halves. The footmen put down their trays on the main table,

by the cut-glass wine decanters, then withdrew without saying a word. Fisher

decided they were probably real footmen, if only because of their supercilious

expressions.

Ap Owen stood before his desk, staring at the far wall. Fisher followed his

gaze, but couldn't see anything of interest. She started to ask something, and

then shut up as a door appeared out of nowhere, hanging unsupported on the air a

few inches above the floor. It was plain, unvarnished wood, without pattern or

trimmings, but its very presence was subtly disturbing. A mounting chill

emanated from it, like a cold wind blowing into the room. Fisher's hand dropped

to her sword, and she had to fight to keep from drawing it as the door swung

slowly open.

The delegates appeared through the doorway, chatting quietly together, and

headed for the food and wine without so much as a glance at ap Owen and Fisher.

The door shut silently, and disappeared. Fisher took her hand away from her

sword. Ap Owen moved in beside her and quietly identified each delegate by name.

Fisher looked them over carefully without being too obvious about it.

Lord Regis of Haven was of average height and weight, and in pretty good shape

for a man in his early fifties. He had dark, flashing eyes and a quick smile

buried in a neatly trimmed beard. He used his hands a lot as he talked, and

nodded frequently while he listened. Lord Nightingale of Outremer was twenty

years younger, six inches taller, and muscular in a broad, solid way that

suggested he lifted weights on a regular basis. Which was a little unusual. As

far as most of the Quality were concerned, strenuous exercise was something best

left to the lower classes. The Quality only exerted themselves in dueling or

seducing. Usually both, as one often led to the other. Nightingale, on the other

hand, looked as though he could have picked up Regis with one hand, and torn him

apart with the other. If Regis was aware of this, it didn't seem to bother him.

The two traders. Rook and Gardener, were talking together quite amicably,

smiling and laughing as they rummaged through the out-of-season delicacies on

the trays. Fisher's stomach rumbled, but she made herself pay attention to the

two merchants. William Gardener of Outremer was in his early forties, with

thinning hair and a droopy moustache. He was skinny as a rake, but wore clothes

of the very latest cut with casual elegance. Jonathon Rook was the same age, and

dressed just as well, but had the kind of figure politely referred to as stout.

His hands were weighed down with jeweled rings, and he paid little or no

attention to the expensive food with which he was stuffing his face. Fisher

moved in a little closer to listen in on their conversation. They both

studiously ignored her, which suited her fine. It soon became clear that both

merchants thought they had a lot to lose in the event of a war, and were

pressing for peace at practically any cost. It was also clear they were finding

it an uphill struggle.

Major Comber and Major de Tournay stood a little way off from the others,

talking quietly and only picking at their food. They were both in their late

thirties, with short-cropped hair and grim faces. They'd swapped their uniforms

for civilian clothes, and Fisher was hard put to tell which of them looked the

most uncomfortable. They both glared at her when she got too close, so she

didn't get to overhear what they were saying. She sensed, however, that neither

one was too pleased with the way the Talks were going, from which she deduced

that neither side had gained the upper hand yet.

They all finally put down their plates and turned away from the table. Captain

ap Owen coughed loudly, and then again, louder still, and having got their

attention, introduced Fisher to each of them. Fisher bowed formally, and got a

series of perfunctory nods in reply. Lord Regis smiled at her coldly.

"Good to have you with us, Captain. Your reputation precedes you."

"You don't want to believe everything you hear," said Fisher easily. "Only the

bad bits."

Regis smiled politely. "Is your partner, Captain Hawk, not here with you?"

"He's working on a case of his own at the moment, and can't leave it, I'm

afraid. But not to worry, my lord. You're safe in our hands."

"I'm sure we shall be."

"I trust you'll pardon my interruption," said Lord Nightingale, looking only at

Lord Regis, "but we are rather short of time. Perhaps you could continue this

conversation later…"

"Of course," said Regis.

He nodded politely to Fisher and ap Owen, and turned to face the far wall. The

door reappeared, and swung silently open. Fisher shivered suddenly. She tried to

see what lay beyond the door, but there was only an impenetrable darkness. The

delegates filed through, and the door swung shut behind them and vanished.

Fisher sank back into her chair and stretched out her legs. This was going to be

a long, hard job, she could tell. She looked thoughtfully at the food left on

the table, but didn't have the energy to get up and go after it. She hoped Hawk

was taking it easy, wherever he was, but doubted it. Without her to keep an eye

on him, there was no telling what he'd get up to.

Chapter Four

A Matter of Trust

Hawk led Captain Burns into the rotten heart of the Northside. The streets grew

steadily narrower, choked with filthy snow and slush, and bustling crowds that

made way for the two Guards without ever looking at them directly. Even so, they

made slow progress, and Hawk had to fight to control his impatience. The

pressure seemed to be bearing down on him from every side now, but he knew his

only hope of dealing with it was to stay calm and controlled. His enemies would

be delighted to see him striking out blindly in all directions and missing the

real targets. Besides, he didn't want to spook Burns. And yet behind his grim,

impassive face, Hawk's thoughts danced restlessly from one problem to another,

searching for answers that eluded him. The super-chacal was out there somewhere,

poised to sweep across the city in a tidal wave of blood and death. Morgan was

out there too, hidden somewhere safe and plotting the deaths of everyone who

knew the truth about his new drug. Not to mention Hammer, the gang leader from

the Devil's Hook, and his threatened vendetta.

And also back at the Hook, the little girl Hawk had rescued from underneath the

wreckage was lying in a hospital bed, still in a coma. The doctors didn't know

whether she'd ever regain consciousness.

On top of all that, the Guard wanted his scalp for screwing up, and they'd taken

Isobel away from him. Some days you just couldn't get a break. Hawk realized

Burns was speaking to him, and looked round sharply.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I said," Burns repeated patiently, "is it always this bad here? I'd heard

stories, of course, but this place is disgusting."

Hawk looked around at the squalid buildings and the ragged people, and the

overriding sense of violence and despair that rose from them like an almost

palpable mist. After five years working the Northside he'd grown inured to most

of the misery and suffering, for the sake of his sanity, but it still disturbed

him enough to appreciate how bad it must seem to an outsider. Haven was a dark

city wherever you looked, but the Northside was dark enough to stamp out the

light in anyone's soul eventually. Hawk realized Burns was still looking at him

for an answer, and he shrugged harshly.

"It's quiet today, if anything. The snow and the cold are keeping most people

off the streets, even the beggars, and those who are out and about aren't

hanging around long enough to start any trouble. But you can bet that somewhere,

someone is starting a fight, or stabbing someone in the back for no good reason.

There's all sorts of crime here, everything you'd expect in an area as poor as

this, but the violence never ends. To a Northsider, everyone is an enemy, out to

steal what little he has, and most of the time he's right. There's little love

or comfort here, Burns, and even less hope. And the only thing the Northsiders

hate more than each other is an outsider. Like us."

"How do you cope with working here?" said Burns. "I'd go crazy in a week."

Hawk shrugged. "I've seen worse. All you can do is try and make a difference for

the best, where you can. What brought you here from the Westside?"

"Doughty and I were filling in for some Guards who were down with the flu. When

I heard they were sending us here, I seriously thought about calling in sick

myself, but of course it was too late by then. Doughty didn't mind. There wasn't

much that bothered him."

"I'm sorry about your partner," said Hawk.

"Yeah. He had a wife, you know. Separated three years back, but… Someone will

have told her by now. I should have done it myself, but she never liked me

anyway."

They walked in silence for a while, not looking at each other.

"So, what's the plan?" said Burns finally. "Are we headed anywhere in

particular?"

"I thought we'd start off with Short Tom," said Hawk. "Has a nice little

distribution setup, down on Carlisle Street. He'll move anything for anyone, as

long as the money's right. Not one of the biggest, but certainly one of the

longest established. I doubt he's handling the super-chacal himself, but he'll

probably have a damned good idea who might be."

"Will he talk to us? Do you have a good relationship with him?"

Hawk looked at Burns. "This is the Northside, no one here talks to the Guard

willingly. We're the enemy, the ones who enforce the laws that keep them in

their place. The poverty here's so bad, most people will do anything to escape

it. They don't care who they rob or who they hurt. All they care about is making

that one big score that will finally get them out of the Northside. You can't

reason with people like that. Short Tom will talk to me because he knows what

will happen to him if he doesn't."

Burns stared straight ahead of him, his face expressionless. "I don't approve of

strong-arm tactics. I put on this uniform to help people, not oppress them."

"You've spent too long in the Westside, Burns. They still like to pretend

they're living in a civilized city over there. Here in the Northside, they'd

quite happily cut you down for the loose change in your pockets, or a chance at

your boots. The only thing that keeps them off my back is the certain knowledge

that I'll kill them if they even think of raising a hand against me. I have to

be obviously more dangerous than they are at all times, or I'd be a dead man.

Look… I used to think the same as you, once. There are good people here, same as

there are good people everywhere, and I do my best to help and protect them.

Even if it means bending or ignoring the rules to do so. But when you get right

down to it, my job is to enforce the law. Whatever it takes."

"Being a Guard doesn't give us the right to beat up someone just because we

think they might have information that might help us. There are procedures,

proper ways of doing things."

Hawk sighed. "I know. I've read the Manual too. But the procedures take time,

and for all I know, the super-chacal's already seeping out onto the streets. I

could threaten to arrest Short Tom, maybe even drag him down to Headquarters and

throw him in a cell to think things over. But I couldn't hold him for long, and

he knows it. I don't have the time to be a nice guy about this, and to be blunt,

I don't have the inclination. My way works, and I'll settle for that. I've never

laid a finger on an innocent man, or killed a man who didn't deserve it."

"How can you be sure? How can you be sure you haven't killed an innocent man by

accident? The dead can't defend themselves from other people's accusations.

We're Captains in the Guard, Hawk—not judge, jury, and executioner."

"I go by what works," said Hawk flatly. "When the people in the Northside start

playing by the rules, so will I. Look, there are just four Captains and a dozen

Constables to cover the whole Northside. We can't be everywhere at once, so we

have to let our reputations go ahead of us. It's a big area, Burns, and rotten

to the core. All we can ever hope to do is keep the lid on. Now, I don't care if

you approve of how I do my job or not; just watch my back and don't interfere.

The only thing that matters now is stopping Morgan and his stinking drug."

Burns nodded slowly. "Of course, finding the super-chacal would go a long way

towards reinstating you in the Guard, wouldn't it?"

Hawk looked at him coldly. "If you think that's the only reason I'm doing this,

then you don't know me at all."

"Sorry. You're right, of course. Hawk, can I ask you something… personal?"

"I don't know. Maybe. What?"

"What happened to your eye?"

"Oh, that. I pawned it."

Short Tom's place was a two-storey glorified lean-to, adjoining a battered old

warehouse on Carlisle Street. The street itself was blocked from one end to the

other by an open-air market and the tightly packed crowd it had drawn. The

tattered, gaudy stalls crowded up against each other, and the vendors behind

them filled the air with their aggressive patter. Most of them were bundled up

to their ears in thick winter furs, but it didn't seem to be slowing them down

any. Some of them were all but jumping up and down on the spot in their attempt

to explain just how magnificent and amazingly affordable their goods were. Hawk

glanced at a few stalls, but wasn't impressed. Still, with Haven's Docks closed

by the winter storms, goods of all kinds were getting scarce, and even rubbish

like this was starting to look good. The smell was pretty bad, particularly

around the food stalls, and Burns pulled one face after another as he and Hawk

made their way slowly through the crowd. Even their Guards' uniforms couldn't

make them any room in such a crush.

Short Tom's lean-to loomed up before them, looking more and more unsafe the

closer they got. It looked like it had been thrown together on the cheap by a

builder in a hurry, trying to stay one step ahead of his reputation. The walls

weren't straight, the wood was stained and warped, and the door and window

frames were lopsided. It was a mess, even by Northside standards. Still, it was

no doubt cheap to rent, and for a man in Short Tom's line of business, that was

all that really mattered.

Two large bravos in heavy sheepskin coats stood before the main door, arms

folded, glaring impartially about them. Hawk walked up to the one on the left,

and punched him out. The second bravo yelped in disbelief and started to unfold

his arms. Hawk kicked him in the knee, waited for him to bend forward, and then

knocked him out with the butt of his axe. No one in the milling crowd paid any

attention. It was none of their business. Burns looked at Hawk.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Yes," said Hawk. "They wouldn't have let us in without a fight, and if I'd

given them a chance to draw their swords, someone would have got seriously hurt.

Most probably them, but you never know. Now follow me, watch my back, and let me

do all the talking. And try to at least look mean."

He stepped over the unconscious bravos, pushed open the door and stepped

through, followed closely by Burns. Inside, all was surprisingly neat and tidy,

with clerks sitting behind two rows of desks, shuffling pieces of paper and

making careful entries in two sets of ledgers. One of the clerks shouted for

them to shut the bloody door and keep the bloody cold out, and Burns quickly did

so. Hawk glanced at him, and shook his head. Far too long in the Westside. He

looked back at the clerks, who had finally realized who the newcomers were. One

clerk opened his mouth to shout a warning.

"Don't," said Hawk.

The clerk looked at the axe in Hawk's hand, thought about it, and shut his

mouth.

"Good boy," said Hawk. He looked about him, and the clerks shrank down behind

their desks. Hawk smiled coldly. "My partner and I are going upstairs to have a

nice little chat with Short Tom. Just carry on as normal. And by the way, if

anyone was to come up after us and interrupt our little chat, I will be most

upset. Is that clear?"

The clerks nodded quickly, and did their best to look as though the idea had

never entered their heads. Hawk and Burns strolled casually between the desks

and up the stairway at the back of the room. Burns watched the clerks' faces out

of the corner of his eye. They'd all recognized Hawk by now, and there was real

terror in their faces, and not a little awe. Burns frowned thoughtfully. He'd

heard stories about Hawk—everyone had—but he'd never really believed them. Until

now.

They found Short Tom in his office, right at the top of the stairs. It was a

nice little place, neat and tidy and almost cosy, with thick rugs on the floor,

comfortable furniture, and attractive watercolor landscapes on the walls. Short

Tom looked up as they entered, and his face fell. Not surprisingly, given his

name, he was a dwarf, with stubby arms and legs and a large head. He wore the

very latest fashion, and it was a credit to his tailor that he didn't look any

more ridiculous than anybody else. He was sitting at a normal-sized desk, on a

custom-made chair, and he pushed it back slightly as he reached for a desk

drawer.

"I wouldn't," said Hawk. "I really wouldn't."

Short Tom nodded glumly, and took his hand away from the drawer. "Captain Hawk.

How nice to see you again. Absolutely marvelous. What do you want?"

"Just a little chat," said Hawk. "I've got a problem I thought you might be able

to help me with."

"I'm clean," said Short Tom immediately. "One hundred per cent. I'm entirely

legitimate these days."

"Of course you are," said Hawk. "In which case, you won't mind my bringing in

the tax inspectors to go through all your invoices, will you?"

Short Tom sighed heavily. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"Morgan's got a small mountain of drugs on his hands that he has to move in a

hurry."

"He hasn't contacted me. I swear he hasn't."

"I know he hasn't. You're not big enough for this. But you can give me some

names. With a deal this urgent, there's bound to have been talk already."

"I've heard about your run-in with Morgan," said Short Tom carefully, "and I

can't afford to get involved. I'm just a small-time operator, dealing in

whatever odds and ends the big boys can't be bothered with. As long as I know my

place, no one bothers me. If I start talking out of turn, Morgan will send some

of his heavies round to shut me up permanently. You'll have to find your help

somewhere else."

"Thousands of people could die if we don't stop this drug hitting the street."

"That's not my problem."

Hawk raised his axe above his head and brought it sweeping down in one swift,

savage movement. The axe-head buried itself in Short Tom's desk, splitting the

polished desktop apart. Hawk yanked the axe free and struck the desk again,

putting all his strength into it. The desk caved in, sheared almost in two.

Splinters flew on the air, and papers fluttered to the floor like wounded birds.

Short Tom sat very still, looking down at the wreckage of his desk. He raised

his eyes and looked at Hawk, standing before him with his axe at the ready.

"On the other hand," said Short Tom very politely, "I've always believed in

cooperating with the forces of law and order whenever possible."

He came up with four names and addresses, all of which Hawk recognized. He

nodded his thanks, and left. Burns hurried after him, having almost missed his

cue. His last glimpse was of Short Tom staring glumly at what was left of his

desk. Burns followed Hawk down the stairs and back through the rows of clerks,

all of whom were careful to keep their eyes glued to their work as the Guards

passed. Hawk and Burns stepped out into the street again, and Burns winced as

the bitter cold hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of the offices. He

stubbed his toe on something, and looked down to find the two bravos who'd

guarded the front door still lying where they'd fallen. Only now they were

stark-naked, having been stripped of everything they owned. Their flesh was a

rather pleasant pale blue, set against the dirty grey of the snow. Hawk

chuckled.

"That's the Northside for you."

"We can't just leave them like this," protested Burns. "They'll freeze to

death."

"Yeah, I know. Give me a hand and we'll dump them back in the offices. Short Tom

will take care of them. But let this be a lesson to you, Burns. Never give a

Northsider an opening, or he'll steal you blind. And the odds are there's not

one person in this crowd who would have lifted a finger to help these two

bravos. They'd have just left them there to freeze. In the Northside, people

learn from an early age not to care for anyone but themselves."

"Is that where you learned it?" said Burns.

Hawk looked at him, and Burns had to fight down an urge to look away from the

glare of the single cold eye. When Hawk finally spoke, his voice was calm and

unhurried.

"I think we're going to get on a lot better if you stop acting like a character

from a religious pamphlet. I don't know how you've managed to survive this long

in Haven; I can only assume they've had a hot flush of civilization in the

Westside since I was last there.

"Look, Burns, let's get this clear once and for all. I'm only as hard as I need

to be to get the job done. I take no pleasure in violence, but I don't shrink

from it either, if I decide it's necessary. I didn't see you holding back when

we were fighting for our lives in Morgan's factory."

"That was different!"

"No, it wasn't. We're fighting a war here in the Northside, against some of the

most evil and corrupt sons of bitches this city has produced, and we're losing.

For every villain we put away, there are ten more queuing up to take his place.

The only satisfaction we get out of this job is knowing that things would be

even worse without us. Now, am I going to have any more problems with you?"

"No," said Burns. "You've made yourself very clear."

"Good. Now help me get these two bravos inside before they freeze their nuts

off."

It didn't take long to discover that none of the distributors knew anything

about Morgan's super-chacal. The word from every one of them was that Morgan had

gone to ground after his release from custody, and no one had heard anything

about him since. Hawk gave them all his best, menacing glare, but they stuck to

their story, so in the end Hawk decided he believed them. Hawk and Burns stood

together in the street outside the last distributor's warehouse, and looked at

each other thoughtfully.

"Maybe Morgan's set up his own distribution network," said Burns.

"No," said Hawk. "If he had, I'd have heard about it."

"You didn't know about the super-chacal."

"That was different."

"How?"

"The drug could be produced and guarded by relatively few people, hidden away in

the pocket dimension. A new distribution system would need a lot of people, and

someone would have been bound to talk. No, Morgan has to be using an established

distributor. Maybe someone who doesn't normally move drugs, but has the right

kind of contacts."

"Maybe." Burns pulled his cloak tightly about him, and stamped his feet in the

snow. "So, what's our next step?"

"We go and talk with the one man who might know what Morgan is up to; the man

who knows everything that's going on in the Northside, because nothing happens

here without his approval. The big man himself: Saint Christophe."

Burns looked at him sharply. "Wait a minute, Hawk, even I've heard of Saint

Christophe. He takes a cut from every crime committed in Haven. Word is he has a

dozen judges in his pocket, and as many Councilors. Not to mention a personal

army of four hundred men, and a private mansion better protected than Guard

Headquarters. We don't stand a chance of getting in to see him, and even if we

did somehow manage it, he'd probably just have us killed on sight. Slowly and

very horribly."

"Calm down," said Hawk, amused. "We're not going anywhere near his house."

"Thank all the Gods for that."

"I've got a better idea."

Burns looked at him suspiciously. "If it involves bursting in on him where he

works and smashing up his desk, you are on your own. Saint Christophe is the

only person in the Northside with an even worse reputation than you."

"Have you finished?" said Hawk.

"Depends," said Burns darkly. "Tell me your idea."

"Every day, at the same time, Saint Christophe has a bath and sauna at a private

little place not far from here. It's pretty well guarded, but there's a way to

get in that not many people know about. I did the owner a favor once."

"And at what time of day does Saint Christophe visit this bathhouse?" said

Burns.

"About now. "

Burns nodded glumly. "I thought so. You've had this in mind all along, haven't

you?"

Hawk grinned. "Stick with me, Burns. I know what I'm doing."

Burns just looked at him.

The private baths turned out to be a discreet little place tucked away on a side

street in a surprisingly quiet and upmarket area right on the edge of the

Northside. It stayed quiet and upmarket because the Northside's more successful

villains used the area for their own rest and relaxation, and everyone else had

the sense to stay out of their way. Everyone except Hawk.

He walked breezily down an alleyway and slipped into the baths through a door

marked "Staff Only." Burns hurried in after him and shut the door quickly behind

them, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Hawk looked around once to get his

bearings, then set off confidently through a maze of corridors that Burns

wouldn't have tackled without a map and a compass. Every now and again they

encountered a member of the staff, but Hawk just nodded to each attendant

briskly, as though he had every right to be there, and the attendant just nodded

back and continued on his way. Burns grew increasingly nervous, and felt a

growing need to find a privy.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he whispered harshly.

"You must learn to trust me, Burns," said Hawk airily. "The owner himself showed

me this route. We'll find Saint Christophe in cubicle seventeen, just down this

corridor here. Assuming he hasn't changed his routine."

"And if he has?"

"Then we'll just walk up and down the corridor, slamming doors open, till we

find him."

Burns realized with a sinking heart that Hawk wasn't joking. He thought about

the number of major villains who were probably relaxing all unknowing behind the

other doors, and swallowed hard. He started to plot an emergency escape route

back through the corridors, realized he was hopelessly lost, and felt even

worse.

Cubicle seventeen looked like all the others, a plain wooden door with a gold

filigree number. Hawk put his ear against the door and listened for a moment,

then stood back and loosened the axe at his side. Then he kicked the door open,

strolled casually into the steam-filled sauna and leaned against the door,

holding it open. Burns stood in the doorway, keeping one eye on the corridor, in

case some of the staff happened along. The steam quickly cleared as the

temperature dropped, revealing Saint Christophe sitting at the back of the room,

surrounded by twelve muscular female bodyguards wearing nothing but sword belts.

The bodyguards surged to their feet, grabbing for their swords as they

recognized the Guards' uniforms. Hawk just leaned against the door, and nodded

casually to Saint Christophe. Burns wanted desperately to draw his sword, but

had enough sense to know it wouldn't help him much if he did. His only hope was

to brazen it out and hope Hawk knew what he was doing. He squared his shoulders

and lifted his chin, and gave the bodyguards his best intimidating glare. If it

bothered them at all, they did a great job of hiding it. And then Saint

Christophe stirred on his wooden bench, and everybody's attention went to him.

He gestured briefly to his bodyguards, and they all immediately put away their

swords and sat down again, ignoring the two Guards. Burns blinked. He couldn't

have been more surprised if they'd all started speaking in tongues.

Saint Christophe was a big man, in more ways than one. Though no longer

personally involved in any particular racket, every other villain in the city

paid him homage, not to mention tribute. He funded a great many operations, and

planned many more, but never took a single risk himself. He ran his organization

with brutal efficiency and was reputed to be one of the richest men in Haven, if

not the Low Kingdoms. He had a partner, once. No one knew what happened to him.

It wasn't considered prudent to ask.

The man himself was over six feet tall, and was reputed to weigh three hundred

and fifty pounds. Sitting down, he looked almost as wide as he was tall, a

mountain of gleaming white flesh running with perspiration. Rumor had it there

was a surprising amount of muscle under all the fat, and Burns believed it. Even

sitting still, Saint Christophe exuded an air of overwhelming menace—partly from

his imposing bulk, and partly from his unwavering, lizardlike gaze. His face was

blank and almost childlike, his features stretched smooth like a baby's by his

fat, an impression heightened by his thin, wispy hair. He moved slightly, and

the wooden bench groaned under his weight. His bodyguards were already beginning

to shiver from the dropping temperature, but he didn't seem to notice it. His

gaze was fixed entirely on Hawk, ignoring Burns, for which Burns was very

grateful. When Saint Christophe finally spoke, his voice was deep and cultured.

"Well, Captain Hawk. An unexpected pleasure. It's not often you come to see me."

"I have a problem," said Hawk.

"Yes, I know. You have a talent for annoying important people, Captain, but this

time you have surpassed yourself. The Guard wants you suspended, a gang from the

Devil's Hook has declared vendetta against you, and Morgan wants your head on a

platter. You've had a busy morning."

"It's not over yet. I need to know how Morgan is going to distribute his new

drug."

"And so you came to me for help. How touching. Why should I help you, Captain

Hawk? It would make much more sense to have you killed, here and now. After all,

you've caused me much distress in the past. You've shut down my operations,

arrested and killed my men, and cost me a great deal of money. I really don't

know why I didn't order your death long ago."

Hawk grinned. "Because you couldn't be one hundred percent sure they'd do the

job. And you know that if they didn't kill me, I'd kill them, and then I'd come

after you. And all the bodyguards in Haven couldn't keep you alive if I wanted

your head."

Saint Christophe nodded slowly, his face impassive. "You always were a

vindictive man, Captain. But one day you'll push me too far, and then we'll see

how good you really are with that axe. In the meantime, my offer to you still

stands. Leave the Guard, and work for me. Be my man, I could make you rich and

powerful beyond your wildest dreams."

"I'm my own man," said Hawk. "And there isn't enough money in Haven to make me

work for you. You deal in other people's suffering, and the blood won't wash off

your money, no matter how many times you launder it through legitimate

businesses."

"Anyone would think you didn't like me," said Saint Christophe. "Why should I

help you. Captain? You spurn my friendship, throw my more-than-generous offers

back in my face, and insult me in front of my people. What is it to me if Morgan

is pushing a new drug? If it wasn't him, it would be somebody else. The market's

appetite is always bigger than we can satisfy."

"This drug is different," said Hawk flatly. "It turns its users into maddened,

unstoppable killers. A few hours after the drug hits the streets, there'll be

hundreds of homicidal maniacs running loose in the city. The death toll could

easily run into thousands. You can't sell your precious services to dead people,

Christophe. You need me to stop Morgan because he threatens your markets. All of

them. It's as simple as that."

"Perhaps." Saint Christophe leaned forward slightly, and his wooden bench

groaned loudly. His bodyguards tensed for a moment, and then relaxed. "This is

important to you, isn't it, Captain?"

"Of course. It's my job."

"No, this is more than just your job; it's become personal to you. One should

never get personally involved in business, Captain; it distorts a man's judgment

and makes him… vulnerable. Let us make a deal, you and I. You want something

from me, and I want something from you. I will agree to shut down all

distribution networks in Haven for forty-eight hours. More then enough time for

you to find Morgan and put a stop to his plans. In return… you will leave the

Guard and work for me. A simple exchange, Captain Hawk. Take it or leave it."

"No deal," said Hawk.

"Think about it, Captain. Think of the thousands who'll die if you don't find

Morgan in time. And you won't, without my help. You really don't have a choice."

"Wrong. You're the one who doesn't have a choice." Hawk fixed Saint Christophe

with his cold glare, and the bodyguards stirred restlessly. "The Guard still has

some of the super-chacal we confiscated from Morgan's factory. Whoever made the

drug disappear from Headquarters missed one batch. So either you cooperate, and

tell me what I need to know, or I'll see that when the drug finally gets loose,

you'll personally get a good strong dose. If Haven's going to be torn apart

because of you, I'll see you go down with it."

"You wouldn't do that," said Saint Christophe.

"Try me," said Hawk.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. The atmosphere in the sauna grew dangerously

tense. Burns glanced from Hawk to Saint Christophe and back again, but neither

of them looked to be giving way. He let his hand drift a little closer to his

sword. All it would take was one sign from Saint Christophe, and the twelve

bodyguards would attack. Hawk might actually be able to handle six-to-one odds

with that bloody axe of his, but Burns had no false illusions about his own

fighting skills. Maybe, if he was quick enough, he could jump back and slam the

door in their faces, slow them down enough for him to make a run for it. That

would mean abandoning Hawk…

"Very well," said Saint Christophe. "I agree. I will see to it that the

distribution networks are shut down for twenty-four hours."

"You said forty-eight," said Hawk.

"That was a different deal. You have twenty-four hours. Captain. I suggest you

make good use of them, since regretfully I have no idea as to where Morgan might

be at present. He seems to have disappeared into a hole and pulled it in after

him. But Captain, when this is over, you will answer to me for your threats and

defiance. Please close the door on your way out."

Hawk turned and left without speaking. Burns hurried after him, shut the cubicle

door firmly, and then ran after his partner as he strode off down the corridor.

"I don't believe what I just saw," said Burns in amazement. "You faced down

Saint Christophe without even drawing your axe, and got him to agree to help the

Guard. That's like standing in the harbor and watching the tides go out

backwards."

Hawk shrugged. "It was in his interests to help, and he knew it."

"Where did you find the extra batch of super-chacal? I thought it had all

disappeared."

"It did. I was bluffing." Burns looked at him speechlessly. Hawk grinned.

"There's more to surviving in the Northside than knowing how to use an axe."

Hawk was never sure how he knew when he was being followed, but over the years

he'd learned to trust his instincts. He glanced at Burns, but he was apparently

lost in his own thoughts and hadn't noticed anything. Hawk slowed his pace a

little, and found various convincing reasons to look innocently around him. He

frowned as he spotted not one tail but several, moving casually through the

crowd after him and Burns. Whoever they were, they must be pretty good to have

got so close without his noticing them before. His frown deepened as he realized

the tails were gradually moving so as to surround him and Burns. It was looking

more and more like an ambush, and they'd chosen a good spot for it. The street

was growing increasingly narrow, and was blocked off at both ends by market

stalls. There were alleyways leading off to both sides, but none of them seemed

to lead anywhere helpful. And the next main intersection was too far away, if it

came to running. Besides, Hawk didn't believe in running. He let his hand fall

casually to the axe at his side, and looked for the place to make a stand.

"I make it seven," said Burns quietly. "They picked us up not long after we left

the baths."

"I wasn't sure you'd even noticed we were being followed."

"Working in the Westside, I spent a lot of time escorting gold- and silversmiths

to the banks with their week's receipts. There's nothing like guarding large

amounts of money in public to make you aware of when you're being followed. So

what are we going to do? Make a stand?"

"I don't think we've much choice. And it's eight, not seven. See that man in the

doorway, just ahead, pretending not to watch us?"

"Yes. Damn. And if we can see eight, you can bet there are just as many more

lurking somewhere handy out of sight, just in case they're needed. I don't like

the odds, Hawk."

"I've faced worse."

"I wish you'd stop saying that. It's very irritating, and I don't believe it for

a moment. Who do you think they are? Morgan's people?"

"Seems likely. He must have known I'd have to go to Saint Christophe eventually,

so he just staked the place out and waited for us to turn up. Damn. I hate being

predictable."

"We could go back to Saint Christophe and ask for protection."

"You have got to be joking. He'd love that. Besides, I have my reputation to

think of."

"If we don't think of something fast, you're going to be the most reputable

corpse in the Northside!"

"Calm down, Burns. You worry too much. If the fighting ground is unfavorable,

then the obvious thing to do is change the fighting ground. You see that

fire-escape stairway, to your right?"

"Yeah, what about it? Hey, wait a minute, Hawk. You can't be serious…"

"Shut up and run."

Hawk sprinted forward, with Burns only a pace or two behind. Their followers

hesitated a moment, and then charged after them, forcing their way through the

crowd with brutal efficiency. Hawk reached the metal stairway, and ran up it

without slowing, taking the steps two at a time. Burns hurried after him, the

fire escape shuddering under their combined weight. Hawk pulled himself up onto

the roof and scurried across the uneven tilework to crouch beside the nearest

chimney. Burns clattered unsteadily across to join him, and clutched at the

chimney stack to steady himself. Hawk shot him a grin.

"Check the other side of the roof; see if there's any other way to get up here.

I'll prepare a few nasty surprises."

"You're just loving this, aren't you?" said Burns through clenched teeth,

hugging tight to the chimney.

"What's the matter with you?"

"I hate heights!"

"Oh, stop complaining, and get over to the other side. This is the perfect spot

to take them on; lots of hiding places, and they're just as much at a

disadvantage as we are. Trust me, I've done this before."

Burns scowled at him, reluctantly let go of the chimney, and moved cautiously

across the tiles towards the spine of the roof. "All right, what's the plan,

then?"

"Plan? What do we need a plan for? Just find something to hide behind, and jump

out on anything that moves!"

Burns disappeared over the roof ridge, muttering to himself. Hawk looked quickly

about him, taking in the gables, cornices, and chimney stacks that jutted from

the undulating sea of roofs to either side. He drew his axe and waited patiently

in the shadows of the chimney, listening for the first giveaway sound. It was at

times like this that he wished he carried a length of tripwire.

He looked around him, taking in the state of the roof. A lot of snow had fallen

away from the tiles, pulled loose by its own weight and the vibrations of

passing traffic below, but there was enough left to make the tiles suitably

treacherous. A sudden thud followed by muffled curses from the other side of the

roof suggested that Burns had reached the same conclusion. Hawk grinned

suddenly, as an idea hit him. He moved carefully away from the chimney,

unbuttoned his fly and urinated over a stretch of apparently safe tilework. It

steamed on the air, but froze almost as soon as it spread out across the tiles.

Hawk finished and quickly buttoned up again, wincing at the cold. He looked

round sharply as he caught the muffled sound of boots treading quietly on the

metal stairway, and he scurried back to crouch down on the opposite side of the

chimney stack. He breathed through his nose so that his steaming breath wouldn't

give him away, and clutched his axe firmly.

He listened carefully as the first man stepped off the stairway onto the roof,

hesitated, and then moved slowly forward. Timing his move precisely, Hawk

suddenly emerged from behind the chimney, swinging his axe in both hands.

Morgan's man spun round just in time to receive the heavy axehead in his

shoulder. The blade sheared clean through his collarbone, and blood flew

steaming on the bitter air. The impact drove the man to his knees. Hawk pulled

the axe free, put a boot against the man's shoulder and pushed. The man-at-arms

screamed once as he slid helplessly across the roof and over the side.

Hawk heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to see the second man

hit the patch of frozen urine. The swordsman's feet shot out from under him and

he all but flew off the edge of the roof. The third man was standing by the fire

escape with his mouth hanging open. Hawk bent down, snatched up a handful of

snow, and threw it at him. As the man-at-arms raised his hand instinctively to

guard his face, Hawk stepped carefully forward and swung his axe in a vicious

sideways arc. The axehead punched clean through the man's rib cage and sent him

flying backwards. He disappeared over the edge of the roof and fell back down

the fire escape. There was a brief flurry of yells and curses from the other men

coming up the stairway, and Hawk grinned. He hurried forward, and his feet shot

out from under him.

He hit the roof hard, and slid kicking and cursing towards the edge of the roof.

He threw aside his axe and grabbed at the iron guttering as he shot past it. He

got a firm grip on the trough with both hands, and the sudden shock of stopping

almost wrenched his arms from his sockets. The guttering groaned loudly, but

supported his weight. Hawk hung there for a moment, breathing hard, his feet

dangling above the street far below, and then he started to pull himself back

up. The trough groaned again and shifted suddenly. There was a muffled pop as a

rivet tore free, and Hawk froze where he was. The guttering didn't look at all

secure, especially when seen from underneath, and he didn't think it would hold

his weight much longer. On the other hand, one sudden movement might be all it

would take to pull it away completely. He pulled himself up slowly and

carefully, an inch at a time, ignoring the sudden groans and stirrings from the

ironwork, and swung one leg up over onto the roof. A few moments later he was

back on the roof, reaching for his axe and wiping sweat from his forehead. The

sound of approaching feet on the fire escape caught his attention again and he

grinned suddenly as a new idea came to him.

He moved carefully over to the metal stairway and looked down. Seven men-at-arms

were heading up towards him. They looked grim, and very competent. Hawk waved at

them cheerfully, and then bent forward and stuck his axehead between the side of

the stairway and the wall. He threw his weight against the axe, and the fire

escape tore away from the wall with almost casual ease. The seven swordsmen

screamed all the way down to the street below. Hawk put his axe away. Sometimes

there was a lot to be said for cheap building practices.

He clambered up to the roof ridge and looked down the other side. Burns was

crouching at the edge of the roof, sword in hand, keeping watch from behind a

jutting gable. There was no sign of any more men-at-arms. Hawk called out to

Burns, and he jumped half out of his skin. He spun round, sword at the ready,

and then glared balefully as he saw it was only Hawk.

"Don't do that!"

"Sorry," said Hawk. "I take it none of the men-at-arms got this far?"

"Haven't seen hide nor hair of them. I don't think they were interested in me,

only you. How many came after you?"

"Ten," said Hawk, casually.

"Bloody hell. What happened to them?"

Hawk grinned. "We had a falling out."

They made their way back to Headquarters, but though there were no further

incidents, Hawk couldn't shake the feeling they were still being followed. He

tried all the usual tricks to make a tail reveal himself, but he didn't see

anyone, no matter how carefully he checked. It was always possible his current

situation had him jumping at shadows, but he didn't think so. The crawling itch

between his shoulder blades stayed with him all the way back to Guard

Headquarters. He stopped at the main doors and peered wistfully down the street

at The Cloudy Morning tavern. A drink would really hit the spot now, after the

long day's exertions, but he could just visualize the look on Burns's face if he

were to suggest it. All the partners he could have chosen, and he had to pick a

saint in training. He strode scowling into Headquarters, and everyone hurried to

get out of his way. Burns walked silently beside him, nodding casually to

familiar faces. He'd been unusually quiet ever since Morgan's people jumped

them. Hawk shrugged mentally. Apparently Burns was still mad at him for not