Winner Takes All

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" said Hawk. "Has anything unusual happened recently?"

"You mean apart from my garden disappearing overnight and a rain of blood in my hall?"

Hawk nodded glumly. "I take your point."

Dannielle got to her feet. "Well, it was very nice talking to you both, but if you'll excuse me, James is waiting."

She swept out, without waiting for permission to leave. Hawk waited until the door had closed behind her, and then looked at Fisher. "So, Medley has a Conservative lover. That could be significant. Perhaps there's some kind of blackmail involved."

"Maybe; but the embezzlement started months before he met her."

"We can't be sure of that. He could have been seeing her for months before the servants got to hear of it."

Fisher scowled. "This is going to be another complicated case, isn't it?"

Stefan Medley sat alone in the library, staring at a wall of books and not seeing them. He should have told Hawk and Fisher about his lady love, but he hadn't. He couldn't. They wouldn't have understood.

Love was a new experience for Medley. The only passion he'd ever known before was for his work. Medley had long ago come to the conclusion that whatever women wanted in a man, he didn't have it. He wasn't much to look at, he had few social graces and even less money, and his chosen career wasn't exactly glamorous. He didn't want much out of life; he just wanted someone to care for him who didn't have to, someone to give him a reason for living. He just wanted what everyone else had and took for granted, and he'd never known.

Now he'd found someone, or she'd found him, and he wouldn't give her up. He couldn't. She was all he had. Except for James's friendship. Medley beat softly on the arm of his chair with his fist. James had believed in him, made him his right-hand man and his friend, trusted him above all others. And now here he was, selfishly keeping a secret that could destroy James's campaign if word ever got out.

But he had to do it. James would never understand. Of all the women he could have fallen in love with, it had to be her; except, of course, he'd had no choice in the matter. It had just; happened. Medley had always thought that falling in love, when it finally happened, would be gentle and romantic. In fact, it was more like being mugged. Overnight, his whole life had changed.

Medley sat quietly while his mind worked frantically, turning desperately this way and that, searching for a way out of the trap he'd built for himself. There was no way out. Sooner or later he was going to have to choose between his friend and his love, and he didn't know what would happen then. He couldn't give up either of them. They were the two sides of his nature. And they were tearing him apart.

"More and more, this reminds me of the Blackstone case," said Fisher. "Something nasty's going to happen. We can all feel it in the air, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"At least then we had a handful of suspects to choose among," said Hawk. "Now we're stuck with two: the man's wife and his best friend. And the only skeleton in the cupboard we've been able to find is that Medley might be seeing a Conservative girlfriend on the quiet. Hardly a burning motive for murder and betrayal, is it?"

"Don't look at me," said Fisher. "You're the brains in this partnership; I just take care of the rough stuff. Conspiracies make my head hurt."

"Right." Hawk scowled. "There's still the butler, Villiers. Maybe he knows something. Servants always know things."

Fisher smiled sourly. "Whether he's prepared to talk to us about it is a different matter. If you ask me, Villiers is one of the old school;faithful unto death and beyond, if necessary. We'll be lucky to get the time of day out of him."

Hawk looked at her. "That's great. Think positively, why don't you?"

They both fell silent as the door swung open and Villiers came in. He bowed politely to the two Guards, shut the door firmly behind him, and then stood to attention, waiting to hear what was required of him. His poker-straight back and patient, dour expression gave him a solid dignity that was only partly undermined by the fluffy white tufts of hair that blossomed above his ears, in contrast to his resolutely bald head. He had dressed with exquisite care, and wouldn't have looked out of place in a Lord's mansion.

So what was he doing, working for a champion of the common people?

"Take a seat," said Hawk.

Villiers shook his head slightly but definitely. "I'd rather not, sir."

"Why not?" said Fisher.

"It's not my place," said Villiers, "ma'am." He added the last word just a little too late.

"How long have you been James Adamant's butler?" said Hawk quickly.

"Nine years, sir. Before that I was butler to his father. The Villiers family has served the Adamant family for three generations."

"Even during the bad times, when they lost everything?"

"Every family knows disappointments from time to time."

"How do you feel about Adamant's politics?" said Fisher.

"It's not my place to say, ma'am. My duty is to Master Adamant, and the Villiers have always known their duty."

"How do you get on with Mrs. Adamant?" said Hawk.

"An excellent young lady, from a fine background. A strong support to Master Adamant. Her health has been a little delicate of late, but she had never allowed that to interfere with her duties to her husband and the household. Mrs. Adamant is a very determined young lady."

"What's wrong with her health?" said Fisher.

"I really couldn't say, ma'am."

"How do you feel about Stefan Medley?" said Hawk.

"Master Medley seems quite competent in his work, sir."

"How about his private life?"

Villiers drew himself up slightly. "None of my business, sir," he said firmly. "I do not hold with gossip, and I do not encourage it below stairs."

"Thank you, Villiers," said Hawk. "That will be all."

"Thank you, sir." Villiers bowed formally to Hawk, nodded politely to Fisher, and left, closing the door softly behind him.

"I never met a butler yet who wouldn't be improved by a swift kick up the behind," said Hawk.

"Right," said Fisher. "Snobs, the lot of them. Even if he did know anything, he wouldn't tell the likes of us. It wouldn't be proper."

"Maybe there's nothing to tell," said Hawk. "Maybe there is no traitor, and this is all part of an elaborate smear job by the Conservatives to rattle Adamant and undermine his confidence."

Fisher groaned. "My head hurts."

"Stick with it," said Hawk. "The answer's here somewhere, if we just dig deep enough. Those blood-creatures were real enough. I'm damned if I'll let Adamant die the way Blackstone did. I'll keep Adamant alive, even if I have to kill all his enemies personally."

"Now you're talking," said Fisher.

All the day's talk and planning hadn't prepared Hawk and Fisher for the reality of life on the campaign trail. Adamant set out while the day was still young, taking with him Medley and Dannielle, Hawk and Fisher, and a small army of followers, mercenaries, and speech-writers. Hawk felt a little insulted by the presence of the mercenaries; it seemed to imply that Adamant felt Hawk and Fisher weren't enough to ensure his safety. But once Adamant and his party ventured into the streets, the crowds quickly grew so thick and so vociferous that only the mercenaries kept him from being mobbed. Hawk and Fisher contented themselves with walking on either side of Adamant and glaring at anyone who got too close.

The morning passed in a blur of streets and crowds and speeches. Adamant went from hall to hall, from meeting place to open gatherings, delivering endless speeches, raising the crowds to fever pitch and leaving them with a burning intent to vote Reform, which would hopefully last until polling time later that evening. Adamant's followers spread coins around to anyone with enough wit to stick out an empty palm, and the free booze flowed like water. The speech-writers busied themselves with constant rewrites to suit specific areas, often thrusting hastily scrawled extra lines into Adamant's hands only moments before he was due to make his speech. Somehow he always managed to learn them in time and deliver the lines as though he'd only just thought of them. Hawk was impressed. And yet for all the carefully crafted speeches and crowd-handling, the one thing that stood out whenever Adamant spoke was his sincerity, and the crowds recognized it. He believed in his Cause, and he made the crowds believe.

Down on Eel Street they found a landlord dictating how his tenants should vote, on pain of eviction. Adamant did a half-hour speech on the evils of oppression and the virtues of the secret ballot, and Fisher punched the landlord in the mouth. Not far away, in Baker Street, Hardcastle had planted a sorcerously altered double of Adamant to make damaging claims and speeches. Unfortunately for him, he grew too enamored of the sound of his own voice and didn't get out of the area fast enough. Adamant's mercenaries took care of the double's protectors, and Hawk and Fisher caught up with him before he managed a dozen yards. Adamant made a blockbuster speech on the need to outlaw dirty tricks in politics, and Hawk and Fisher took turns ducking the double in a horse-trough until he admitted who hired him.

A bunch of rather shabbily dressed men began following Adamant and his people from location to location. They shouted impertinent questions and generally made a nuisance of themselves, but Adamant let them get away with it. Hawk and Fisher began to grow a little annoyed with them. Medley spotted the danger signs.

"They're reporters," he said quickly. "Please don't break them."

"We don't hit everyone we don't like," said Fisher.

"Of course not," said Medley. "It just seems that way. Look, we need the press on our side. The two main papers may be written by and for the Quality and the upper middle classes, but they have votes too, and they have a lot of influence over how other people vote. Luckily for us, Hardcastle's always hated the press and never made any bones about it. So, anything that makes us look good is going to get reported, and that's another nail in Hardcastle's coffin. Besides, a lot of the reporters out there are freelancers, making notes for broadsheets. We definitely don't want to upset them."

Adamant finished his speech, about the opening of a small free Hospital for the Poor and Needy, and the crowd applauded loudly. Adamant then formally declared the hospital open, cut a length of ribbon that served no purpose Hawk could make out, and got cheered again. Hawk decided he'd never understand politics. A large and muscular heckler pushed his way to the front of the crowd, accompanied by two mercenaries in full chain mail. He started insulting Adamant, loudly and obscenely. The crowd stirred unhappily but did nothing, intimidated by the two mercenaries. Adamant's mercenaries were hesitant about going into the crowd themselves, for fear of starting a panic. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and drew their weapons. The fight lasted less than a minute, and the heckler was left on his own, looking a lot less imposing, and staring unhappily at Fisher's sword-point hovering before his eyes.

"If I were you," said Hawk, "I'd leave now. Otherwise, Fisher will show you her party trick. And we haven't really got the time to clean up the blood afterwards."

The heckler looked at the two dead men at his feet, swallowed hard, and disappeared back into the crowd. They let him go, being more interested in putting questions to Adamant while they had the chance. Most of their questions concerned sewers, or the lack of them, but on the whole the crowd was good-natured. Seeing one of Hardcastle's men put to flight had put them almost into a party mood. Adamant answered their questions clearly and concisely, with just enough wit to keep the crowd amused without dampening the fire he was trying to build in them.

Hawk leaned against a nearby wall and surveyed the scene before him. Everything seemed quiet. The crowd was friendly, and there was no sign of any more of Hardcastle's men. Hawk nodded, satisfied, and seized the chance for a short rest. The campaign trail so far had been hard and tiring, and there was still a lot of territory to cover. He looked round to see how the others were taking the strain.

Fisher looked calm and collected, but then, it took a lot to get to Fisher. Adamant was in his element and had never looked better. Dannielle, on the other hand, had found an overturned crate to sit on. Her face was pale and drawn, her shoulders were slumped with tiredness, and her hands were shaking. Hawk frowned. Villiers had said she was ill; He decided to keep an eye on her. If she didn't find her second wind soon, he'd have Fisher escort her home. The last thing Adamant needed was something else to worry about. Dannielle would be safe enough with Fisher, and maybe a couple of mercenaries, just to be on the safe side. He looked round for Medley, to tell him what he intended, and felt a sudden chill as he realized there was no sign of him. He turned quickly to Fisher, who smiled briefly.

"Don't panic; he's just popped into the inn across the road for a swift drink. He'll be back before we have to move on. You're getting old, Hawk, missing things like that."

"Right," said Hawk. "This election is putting years on me."

The inn wasn't much to look at, even by High Steppes standards. Inside, the lights were dim enough to keep everything vague and indistinct. Most of the patrons preferred it that way, but then, they weren't much to look at either. It was that kind of neighborhood. Medley didn't give a damn. This was where he'd first met his lady love, and it would always be a special place to him. He nodded to the indifferent bartender behind the stained wooden bar, and moved quickly on to the private booths at the back of the inn. She was there, waiting for him, just as she'd promised. As always, just the sight of her was enough to make his heart beat faster. He sat down beside her, and his hands reached out and found hers. They sat staring into each other's eyes for a long moment, and it seemed to Medley that he'd never been so happy.

"I can't stay long," he said finally. "Now, what's so important that I had to come here today? You know I'm always glad to see you, but with Adamant's people just outside;"

She smiled, and squeezed his hands. "I know, I'm sorry. But I had to see you. I didn't know when I'd be able to get away again. How's your campaign going?"

"Fine, fine. Look, I can't stay long, or they'll come looking for me. And we can't afford to be seen even talking together."

"I know. They wouldn't understand. They'd stop us from seeing each other."

"I wouldn't let them," said Medley. "There's nothing in the world I value more than you."

"You say the nicest things."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Stefan," said Roxanne.

Cameron Hardcastle strode steadily and purposefully through the High Steppes, and the people lined the streets to watch him pass. Armed mercenaries surrounded him at all times, making sure the crowds kept a respectful distance. There was scattered applause from the onlookers, but little cheering. The bunting he'd ordered put up hung limply on the still air, and although his people had handed out Conservative flags and banners by the dozen well in advance, he could only see a few being waved. If it hadn't been for his followers singing campaign songs as they marched, the streets would have been embarrassingly quiet. Hardcastle smiled tightly. That would change soon enough. It always did, once he started to speak.

Jillian hurried quietly along beside him, eyes downcast as always. Hardcastle would just as happily have left her behind, but that was politically unacceptable. A strong marriage and a stable family were central tenets of Conservative thinking, so he had to show off his own wife in public. It was expected of him. She wouldn't disgrace him. She wouldn't dare.

The sorcerer Wulf walked a few paces behind them, disguised as one of the mercenaries. He couldn't afford to be recognized in public as Hardcastle's sorcerer. Firstly, it would have upset the crowds. They tended to distrust magic, and everyone associated with it. Usually with good reason. Secondly, his support was illegal. And thirdly, he would have made too tempting a target. A great many people would have liked a chance at him. But he couldn't let Hardcastle walk the streets unprotected, for the same reason. Even more people would have liked to see Councilor Hardcastle dead. So the great sorcerer Wulf tramped the streets of Haven in Hardcastle's shadow, sweating profusely under a mercenary's chain mail. Besides, he had to be there. Hardcastle couldn't make his speeches without him.

Hardcastle himself was in a surprisingly good mood. His speeches had all gone down very well and, according to first reports, his mercenaries were winning practically every encounter with Adamant's. He reached the platform his people had prepared for him, and climbed the steps onto the stage. Jillian came and stood silently at his side, smiling blankly at the crowd. The campaign song came to an end, and the crowd cheered him, one eye warily watching the mercenaries. Hardcastle lifted his hands for quiet, and silence fell quickly across the packed street. He began to speak, and the crowd's attention became fixed and rapt. A wave of euphoria and commitment swept over them, and soon they were stamping and shouting, and cheering at the end of every sentence. By the end of the speech the crowd was his, to a man. He could have ordered them naked and unarmed into battle, and they would have gone. Hardcastle smiled out over the cheering crowd, relishing the power he had over them.

There was a slight disturbance to one side, as someone pushed their way through the crowd towards him. Hardcastle tensed, and then relaxed a little as he recognized Roxanne. He gestured quickly for her to join him on the platform.

"I was beginning to wonder where you were," he said quietly, still smiling at the crowd.

"Just taking care of business," said Roxanne.

"I suppose I might as well make use of you while you're here." Hardcastle nodded graciously to her, as though he'd been expecting her, and then held up his hands for quiet again. The crowd was silent in a moment. "My friends, may I present to you the latest addition to our ranks, the renowned warrior, Roxanne! I'm sure you all know her fine reputation!"

He paused for a cheer that didn't come. The crowd stirred uneasily. "Oh, great," said an anonymous voice. "Someone send for the fire brigade now, while there's still time."

One of the mercenaries moved in quickly to shut him up with a mailed fist to the kidneys, but the damage had been done. The mood of the crowd had been broken. Most of the people there had heard of Roxanne, and while they were undoubtedly impressed, they were also extremely worried. If not downright scared. Her reputation had preceded her. She looked out over the crowd with a raised eyebrow, but had enough sense not to smile. Wulf glared surreptitiously about him, testing the feel of the crowd, and didn't like what he found. The euphoria of a moment before had vanished, as though it had never been. Wulf shrugged. There would be other times. He moved in close beside the platform and looked up at Hardcastle.

"I think we should be leaving now, Cameron. And in the future it might be wise to keep Roxanne in the background."

Hardcastle nodded curtly. He turned to give the order to leave, and at that moment the crowd went mad. Suddenly everyone was screaming and shouting and kicking out in all directions, and then scattering as fast as their legs would carry them. Hardcastle stared blankly about him, angry and confused, and then he saw the rats moving among the crowd. Hundreds of rats, in all shapes and sizes, many still sleek and shining with slime from the sewers. They scurried this way and that, mad with rage, sinking fangs and claws into anything that came within range. Hardcastle's hands clenched into fists and his face reddened. There was only one way so many rats could have appeared in one place at one time, and that was by magic. A sorcerer must have teleported them into the crowd. Adamant's sorcerer;

Wulf fought his way back to the platform. "We have to get out of here, Cameron! There's too many of them! There's nothing I can do!"

Hardcastle nodded stiffly, and signaled for his mercenaries to open a path through the chaos. A blazing anger pulled at his self-control as he descended from the platform, followed by Jillian and Roxanne. One way or another. Adamant would pay for this insult; whatever it cost.

Hardcastle arrived at his next meeting place to find a crowd already gathered, listening to someone else address them. He brought his people to a halt and gestured to one of his mercenary officers.

"I thought you said you'd cleared the Reformers out of this area."

"I did, sir. I can't understand it; my people were most thorough. I left men here with strict instructions not to allow any other speakers. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go and see what's happening."

He gestured quickly to half a dozen of his men. They drew their swords and followed him into the crowd. Wulf stirred suddenly at Hardcastle's side.

"There's trouble here, Cameron. Bad trouble."

Hardcastle smiled grimly. "My people will take care of it."

"I don't think so," said Wulf. "Not this time. There's a power here, and I don't like it. It's old magic; Wild Magic."

Hardcastle frowned impatiently and turned to glare at him. "What the hell are you talking about, Wulf?"

The sorcerer was staring at the man addressing the crowd, and Hardcastle reluctantly followed his gaze. The man was tall and slender, wrapped in a shabby grey cloak that had seen better days. He was too far away for Hardcastle to hear what he was saying, but there was no denying the impact his words had on the crowd. They couldn't take their eyes off him. And yet there was none of the shouting and clapping that Hardcastle's own speeches always elicited. The crowd was almost eerily silent, utterly engrossed with the speaker. Hardcastle suddenly realized the mercenaries he'd sent into the crowd hadn't come back. He looked quickly about him, but there was no sign of them anywhere. There was a faint whisper of steel on leather as Roxanne drew her sword from its scabbard.

"They've been gone too long," she said quietly. "Want me to go look for them?"

"Not on your own," said Hardcastle. "Jillian, you stay here with my people. Wulf, you and Roxanne follow me. We're going to take a closer look at this; phenomenon."

He gestured to two of his mercenaries, and they opened up a path through the crowd for him. More mercenaries spread out through the crowd, flanking Hardcastle and his party as they moved. No one in the crowd paid them any attention, their gaze fixed on the slight grey figure on the platform. My platform, thought Hardcastle resentfully. There was still no sign of any of the missing mercenaries.

"I am the Lord of the Gulfs," said the Grey Veil, his eyes wide and unblinking, his face full of a cold and awful wonder. "He has given me power, power beyond imagining, and he will do the same for you. Only come to him and serve him, and he will make you masters among men. He is ancient and magnificent, older than mankind itself, and his time has come round again."

Hardcastle frowned, and looked about him. The grey figure was saying nothing new, and on the Street of Gods no one would have given him a second glance. So why was everyone so rapt? Why weren't there any hecklers in the crowd? He muttered instructions to the nearest mercenary, who nodded and moved quickly through the crowd, passing the instructions on to the other mercenaries. Soon the silence was broken by jeers and insults and catcalls, and the crowd began to stir.

The Grey Veil turned slowly to face the jeers, and some of the mercenaries' voices faltered. The Veil stopped speaking, and raised his hands above his head. The day suddenly grew dark. Hardcastle looked up and saw the sky was full of angry, swollen clouds, cutting off the daylight and spreading a chill across the crowd. He frowned uncertainly. He would have sworn the sky had been clear only moments before. He looked back at the grey figure, just in time to flinch as lightning cracked down to strike the upraised hands. An eerie blue glow crackled around the Grey Veil's hands, and then the lightning leapt out into the crowd, striking down each and every one of Hardcastle's men who'd raised their voices in mockery. The crowd screamed and shrank back as the mercenaries burst into flames and fell dying to the ground. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but somehow the crowd still held their ground instead of scattering, bound together by the Grey Veil's will. He slowly lowered his hands, and the sky began to clear.

The Veil smiled at Hardcastle, and fixed with his disturbingly direct gaze. "What else would you have me do? Shall I call down the rain or call up a hurricane? Shall I fill your lungs with water, or cause your blood to boil in your veins? Or shall I heal the sick and raise the dead: I can do all those things, and more. The Lord of the Gulfs has given me power beyond your petty dreams."

"Want me to kill him?" said Roxanne.

"You wouldn't get within ten feet of him," snapped Wulf. "Cameron, let me deal with him."

"Do it," said Hardcastle. "Destroy him. No one murders my men and gets away with it."

"I wouldn't stand any more of a chance than Roxanne," said Wulf. "I told you; he has the Wild Magic in him."

"So what do we do?" said Hardcastle.

"If we're lucky, we make a deal."

Wulf made his way through the silent crowd and approached the platform. He and the Grey Veil spoke together for some time, and then Wulf bowed to him and made his way back to Hardcastle and Roxanne. His face was carefully impassive, but there was no hiding its pallor, or the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Well?" said Hardcastle.

"He's agreed to meet us privately," said Wulf. "I think we can do business."

"Who the hell is he? And what's this Lord of the Gulfs nonsense? I've never heard of him."

"You wouldn't," said Wulf. "It's a very old name. You probably know him better as the Abomination."

Hardcastle looked at him sharply. "The Abomination was destroyed. Every schoolchild knows that. Its Temple on the Street of Gods has been abandoned for centuries."

"Apparently he's back. Not as powerful as he was, or he wouldn't need to make deals with us."

Hardcastle nodded, back on familiar ground. "All right; what does he want?"

"That's what we're going to discuss." Wulf looked sharply at Hardcastle. "Cameron, we've got to get him on our side. Whatever it takes. With his power, he could hand us the election on a plate."

"What if the price is too high?" said Roxanne.

"No price is too high," said Hardcastle.

Chapter Five

HARLEQUIN AND OTHER BEINGS

Dressed in chequered black and white, with a white, clown's face and a domino mask, Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods. No one has ever seen his eyes, and he casts no shadow. He dances with a splendid ease, graceful and magnificent, pirouetting elegantly to a music only he can hear. And he never stops.

Morning, noon, and night. Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods.

Everyone needs something to believe in. Something to make them feel safe and secure and cared for. They need it so badly they'll give up anything and everything, just for the promise of it. They'll pay in gold and obedience and suffering, or anything else that has a market value. Which is why religion is such big business in Haven.

Right in the centre of the city, square in the middle of the high-rent district, lies the Street of Gods. Dozens of different churches and temples stand side by side and ostentatiously ignore each other. Then there are the smaller, more intimate meeting houses, for adherents of the lesser known or more controversial beliefs, who for the most part deal strictly in cash. And then there are the street preachers. No one knows where they come from or where they go, but every day they turn up by the hundreds to line the Street of Gods and spread the Word to anyone who'll listen.

There's never any trouble in the Street of Gods. Firstly, the Beings wouldn't like it, and secondly, it's bad for business. The people of Haven firmly believe in the right of everyone to make a profit.

Or prophet.

Hawk and Fisher looked curiously about them as they accompanied Adamant down the Street of Gods. It wasn't a part of Haven they knew much about, but they knew enough to be wary. Anything could happen on the Street of Gods. Not for the first time, Hawk wondered if they'd done the right thing in leaving the mercenaries behind, but Adamant had insisted. He'd left his followers behind as well. Apart from his bodyguards, only Medley and Dannielle remained with him now.

We're here to ask a favor, said Adamant. That means we come as supplicants, not as heads of a private army.

Besides, said Medley, we're here to make deals. We don't need witnesses.

The Street itself was a mess. The assorted temples and churches varied widely in size and shape and style of architecture. Fashions from one century stood side by side with modes and follies from another. Street preachers filled the air with the clamor of their cries, and everywhere there was the din of bells and cymbals and animal horns, and the sound of massed voices raised in praise or supplication. The Street itself stretched away into the distance for as far as Hawk could see, and his hackles stirred as he realized the Street of Gods was a hell of a lot larger than the official maps made it out to be. He pointed this out to Medley, who just shrugged.

"The Street is as long as it has to be to fit everything in. With so many magics and sorceries and Beings of Power jammed together, it's no wonder things get a little strange here from time to time."

"You got that right," said Fisher, watching interestedly as a street preacher thrust metal skewers through his flesh. He showed no sign of pain, and no blood ran from the wounds. Another preacher poured oil over his body, and set himself on fire. He waited until he'd burned out, and then did it again.

"Ignore them," said Adamant. "They're just exhibitionists. It takes more than spectacle to impress anyone here." He looked expectantly at Medley. "What's the latest news, Stefan?"

Medley gathered together a handful of notes and papers, presented to him by messengers reporting on the day's progress. "So far, not too bad. Hardcastle's mercenaries are wiping the streets with ours whenever the two sides meet, but they can't be everywhere at once. All the main polls show us running neck and neck with Hardcastle, which is actually pretty good this early in the campaign. We could even improve as the day goes on. Wait until the drink wears off and they've spent all their bribe money; then we'll see how many Conservative voters stay bought;

"Mortice has been keeping busy. Apparently he's broken up several Conservative meetings by teleporting rats into the crowd. His sense of humor’s got very basic since he died.

"As for the other candidates: General Longarm has been making some very powerful speeches. He seems to be building quite a following among the city men-at-arms. Megan O'Brien isn't getting anywhere. Even his fellow traders don't believe he can win. And Lord Arthur Sinclair was last seen hosting one hell of a party at the Crippled Cougar Inn, and getting smashed out of his skull. No surprises there."

They walked on a while in silence. In the Street of Gods the time of day fluctuated from place to place, so that they walked sometimes in daylight and sometimes in moonlight. Once it snowed briefly, and rained frogs, and the stars in the sky outshone the sun. Gargoyles wept blood, and statues stirred on their pedestals. Once, Hawk looked down a side alley and saw a skeleton, held together by copper wire, beating its skull against a stone wall over and over again, and for a time a flock of burning birds followed Adamant's party down the Street, singing shrilly in a language Hawk didn't recognize. Adamant looked always straight ahead, ignoring everything outside of his path, and after a while Hawk and Fisher learned to do the same.

"How many Gods are there here?" said Fisher finally.

"No one knows," said Medley. "The number's changing all the time. There's something here for everyone."

"Who do you believe in?" said Hawk to Adamant.

Adamant shrugged. "I was raised orthodox. Brotherhood of Steel. I suppose I'm still a believer. It appeals to my pragmatic nature, and unlike most religions they're not always bothering me for donations."

"Right," said Medley. "You pay your tithes once a year, show up at meetings once a month, and they pretty much leave you alone. But it's a good church to belong to; you can make very useful contacts through the Brotherhood."

"Tell me about the Brotherhood," said Hawk. "Isobel and I haven't had much contact with them here, and they're not very well-known in the Northlands where we were raised."

"They're pretty straightforward," said Adamant. "Part militaristic, part mystical, based upon a belief in the fighting man. It started out as a warrior's religion, but it's broadened its appeal since then. They revere cold steel in all its forms as a weapon, and teach that all men can be equal once they've trained to be fighting men. It's a particularly practical-minded religion."

"Right," said Medley. "And if we can get their support, every man-at-arms in the High Steppes will vote for us."

"I would have thought they'd be more interested in Hardcastle," said Fisher.

"Normally, yes," said Adamant. "But luckily for us, Hardcastle has not only not paid his tithes in years, he also had the effrontery to levy a special tax on the Brotherhood in his territory. And on top of that, just recently the Brotherhood's been split down the middle by an argument over how involved they should get in local politics. The new militant sect already has one Seat on the Council: The Downs. Their candidate in the Steppes is General Long-arm. We're going to see the High Commander of the orthodox sect, and see if we can stir up some support for us, as part of their struggle against the militants."

"Great," said Fisher. "Just what this campaign needed. More complications."

Adamant looked at Hawk. "How about you, Captain? What do you believe in?"

"Hard cash, cold beer, and an axe with a good edge." Hawk walked on in silence for a while, and then continued. "I was raised as a Christian, but that was a long time ago."

"A Christian?" Dannielle raised a painted eyebrow. "Takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose."

"Who exactly are we here to see?" said Fisher, changing the subject.

"There are only a few Beings who will talk to us," said Adamant. "Most of them won't interfere in Haven's civil affairs."

"Why not?" said Hawk.

"Because if one got involved, they all would, and it wouldn't be long before we had a God War on our hands. No one wants that, least of all the Beings. They've got a good racket here, and no one wants to rock the boat. But there are a few Beings who've developed a taste for a little discreet and indirect meddling. The trick is to get to them before Hardcastle does. I think we'll start with the Speaking Stone."

The Speaking Stone turned out to be a huge jagged boulder of granite, battered and weather-beaten beyond all shape or meaning. Plainly robed acolytes guarded it with drawn swords all the time Adamant and his party were there. After all the things he'd seen so far on the Street of Gods, Hawk was very disappointed in the Stone. He tried hard to feel some holy atmosphere or mystical aura, but the Stone looked like just another lump of rock to him. Adamant spoke with the Stone for some time, but if it had anything to say for itself. Hawk didn't hear it. Adamant seemed neither pleased nor displeased, but if he had got anything out of his visit, he kept it to himself.

The Madonna of the Martyrs had a bad reputation. Her church was tucked away in a quiet little backwater of the Street of Gods. There were no signs to proclaim what it was; the people who needed to would always find their way there. There was a constant stream of supplicants to the Madonna's doors; the lost and the lonely, the beaten and the betrayed. They came to the Madonna with heavy hearts, and she gave them what they asked for: an end to all pain. After they died, they rose again in her service, for as long as she required them.

Some called her a God, some a Devil. There isn't always that much difference on the Street of Gods.

The Madonna herself turned out to be a plain, pleasant woman dressed in gaudily colored robes. She had a tray of sickly looking boiled sweets at her side and sucked one noisily all the time they were there. She didn't offer them round, and Hawk, for one, was grateful. Dead men and women shuffled through her chamber on unknown errands. Their faces were colorless and slack, but once or twice Hawk thought he caught a quick glimpse of something damned and suffering in their eyes. He kept his hand near his axe, and his eye on the nearest exit.

Adamant and the Madonna made a deal. In return for her withdrawing her support for the DeWitt brothers, Adamant would allow the Madonna access to the High Steppes hospitals. It wasn't quite as cold as it sounded. The Madonna was bound by her nature only to take the willing, and every hospital has some who would welcome death as a release from pain. Even so; Hawk studied Adamant thoughtfully. He'd always suspected the politician had a ruthless streak. He caught Medley's eye on the way out, but the Advisor just shrugged.

La Belle Dame du Rocher, the Beautiful Lady of the Rocks, refused to see them. So did the Soror Marium, the Sister of the Sea. They were both old patrons of Haven, and Adamant was clearly disappointed. He left an offering for each of them anyway, just in case.

The Hanged Man was polite but noncommittal, the Carrion In Tears asked too high a price, and the Crawling Violet's answer made no sense at all. And so it went down the Street of Gods. Even those few Beings who would allow Adamant to approach them were usually uninterested in his problems. They had their own affairs and vendettas to pursue. Adamant remained calm and polite throughout it all, and Hawk kept his hand near his axe. The various Beings were disturbing enough, but their followers gave him the creeps. They all had the same flat, unwavering stare of the fanatic.

And finally, when they had been everywhere else, Adamant brought his party to the Brotherhood of Steel. Their Headquarters looked less like a church, and more like an upmarket barracks. The carved wood and stonework was only a few hundred years out of date, which made the place look almost modern compared to most of the Street of Gods. Armed guards patrolled the front of the building, but fell back respectfully once they recognized Adamant. Hawk looked at him sharply.

"You're not just a casual visitor here, are you?"

"I've had dealings with the Brotherhood before," said Adamant. "Every politician has."

A scarred man-at-arms in brightly shining chain mail led them through a series of open corridors to an impressively large library, where he left them. Fisher grabbed the most comfortable chair and sank into it, stretching out her long legs with a satisfied sigh. Hawk was tempted to do the same. His feet were killing him. But every instinct he had was telling him to keep alert. Every man he'd seen in the Headquarters had been wearing a sword, and looked like he knew how to use it. If by some chance Hardcastle had already been here and struck a deal with the Brotherhood, getting out of the Headquarters might prove a lot more difficult than getting in. He sat on the arm of Fisher's chair and fixed Adamant with a steady gaze.

"All right, sir Adamant. Who are we waiting to see?"

"Jeremiah Rukker. He's the Commander here. Not a bad sort; we can talk with him."

"How does he feel about Reform?"

"Couldn't care less, one way or the other. Officially, the Brotherhood is above politics. Actually, they'll work with anyone, if it's kept under the table and the price is right. And the Brotherhood strikes a very hard bargain."

"Fill me in on the Brotherhood," said Fisher. "Just how much influence do they really have in Haven?"

"More than you'd think," said Medley. "Essentially, any man who can wield a sword or an axe can apply for membership in the Brotherhood. Once admitted, they can learn skills and tactics preserved over hundreds of years and become part of a mystical fellowship that owes loyalty to nothing save itself. A Brother of Steel will defy any law, ruler, or religion;if the Brotherhood requires it."

"And there are Brothers everywhere," said Adamant. "In the Council, in the Guard, and in all the political parties."

Hawk frowned. "How can you be sure of that?"

"This is Haven, remember? Nothing stays secret here for long." Adamant looked at Hawk steadily. "According to my sources, the Brotherhood has spread throughout the Low Kingdoms; even among the King's Advisors. So far, they've managed to avoid a purge by declaring themselves totally impartial when it comes to politics, but the new militants may change all that."

"So why have we come here?" said Hawk. "Why should the orthodox Brotherhood want to make a deal with Reform?" And then he paused, and his face cleared suddenly. "Of course; the most important thing for them is to see that the militants lose this election. In the Steppes, that means backing either Hardcastle or you, and they know they can't trust Hardcastle. I think I'm getting the hang of politics."

"There's more to politics than just being cynical," said a deep, resonant voice behind him. Hawk spun round, one hand dropping to his axe. A tall, impressively muscled man in his mid-forties stood smiling in the library doorway. He paused a moment to make sure they'd all got a good look at him, and then he strode forward into the room. His polished chain mail gleamed brightly in the lamplight, and a long sword hilt peered over his left shoulder. The sword on his back reached almost to the floor. He had jet-black hair, sharp classical features that were a little too perfect to be handsome, and a broad smile that wasn't reflected in his eyes. All in all, he looked more like a politician than Adamant did. Hawk decided that if he had to shake hands, he'd better count his fingers afterwards. He nodded warily to the newcomer, who smiled briefly in his direction before bowing formally to Adamant.

"Jeremiah Rukker, at your service once again, sir Adamant. It's always good to see you here. Won't you introduce me to your companions?"

"Of course, Commander. This is my wife, Dannielle. You know my Advisor. The two Guards are Captain Hawk and Captain Fisher. Perhaps you've heard of them."

"Yes," said Rukker. "I've heard of them."

Hawk raised an eyebrow at the ice in Rukker's voice. "Do we have a problem. Commander?"

"We don't," said Rukker carefully. "Your reputation as a warrior precedes you. But your woman also claims the rights of a warrior, and that is unacceptable."

Fisher rose lithely to her feet and stood next to Hawk, one hand resting idly on her sword hilt. Rukker drew himself up to his full height, and fixed her with a cold stare.

"Women do not use weapons," he said flatly. "They are not suited to it. They know nothing of the glory of steel."

"Nice-looking sword you've got there," said Fisher easily. "Want to go a few rounds?"

"Isobel;" said Hawk quickly.

"Don't worry; I won't damage him too much. Just take some of the wind out of his sails. Come on, Rukker, what do you say? Best out of five, and I'll give you two points to start with. Just to make the match even."

Adamant glared at her, and then at Hawk. "Captain, if you wouldn't mind;"

"Don't look at me," said Hawk. "She goes her own way. Always has. Besides, if Rukker's stupid enough to take her on, he deserves everything that happens to him. If I were you, I'd send for a doctor. And a mop."

Rukker stared haughtily at Fisher. The effect was rather spoiled because he had to look up slightly to do it. "A Brother of Steel does not fight with women," he said coldly. "It is not seemly."

"Yeah," said Fisher. "Sure."

She turned away and sat down in the chair again. Rukker ignored her and inclined his head courteously to Hawk.

"I understand you worked with the legendary Adam Stalker on your last case, Captain Hawk. He was a great man. His death is a loss to us all."

"There's no doubt he'll be missed," said Hawk. "Was he a Brother of Steel?"

"Of course. All the great heroes are. You might care to make application yourself, some day. Your skills and reputation would make you a valued member."

"Thanks," said Hawk. "But I'm not really the joining type."

"Don't dismiss us so casually. Captain. We have much to offer." Rukker fixed Hawk with a burning gaze, and his voice became earnest and compelling. "The Brotherhood is dedicated to the glory of Steel. It is the symbol that holds mankind together, that enables him to impose order on a savage and uncaring universe. Steel gives us mastery over the world and ourselves. In learning to control our bodies and our weapons, we learn to control our minds and our destinies.

"Think of what we could teach you. Captain. Every move, every trick and skill of fighting there has ever been is to be found here somewhere, in our libraries and instructors. Our fighters are unbeatable, our warriors suitable to advise Kings. We are the future; we decide the way the world will turn."

"Thanks," said Hawk. "But I have enough problems dealing with the present. Besides, Isobel and I are a team. We work together. Always."

"And that's why you'll never be anything more than a city Guard," said Rukker. "A pity. You could have gone far, Hawk; if it hadn't been for your woman."

Hawk smiled suddenly. "Commander, I'm giving you a lot of slack, because I'm here as Adamant's guest. But if you insult my wife one more time, I will hurt you severely. Even worse, I might let Isobel do it. Now, be a good fellow and get on with your business with Adamant."

Rukker flushed pinkly, and his hand rose to the sword hilt at his shoulder. Hawk and Fisher were both on their feet facing him, weapons drawn and at the ready, before Rukker's hand could close around the hilt. Adamant moved quickly forward to stand between them.

"That's enough! Hawk, Fisher, put your weapons away. That's an order. I do apologize, Commander. We've had a very trying day, and I fear all our nerves are somewhat on edge."

Rukker nodded stiffly and took his hand away from his sword. Bright spots of color burned on his cheekbones, but when he spoke his voice was perfectly steady. "Of course, James. I quite understand. Let's get down to business, shall we? What exactly can I do for you?"

"Hardcastle's mercenaries are grinding my campaign into the ground," said Adamant. "My people are holding their own for the moment, but they can't last long without armed support. I need your support, Jeremiah; I need your men."

Rukker pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The Brotherhood doesn't take sides, James; you know that. We're above politics. We have to be."

"The militants feel differently."

"They're fools. We're only allowed free rein as long as we support all sides equally. We're not strong enough yet to stand as a political force in our own right. We survive because we're useful, but the powers that be would crush us in a moment if they thought we were dangerous. No, James. We've worked together in the past when we found ourselves walking the same path, but we can't afford to be openly allied with your Cause."

"You can't afford not to," said Adamant. "According to all the reports. General Longarm and his militants are doing very well at the moment. They haven't got enough support to win on their own, but if they were to ally themselves with Hardcastle, they'd make an unbeatable team. And Hardcastle's just rattled enough by their successes and mine to agree to such an alliance."

"You make a good argument, James. But not good enough. Longarm's certainly ambitious, but he's not stupid enough to trust promises from Hardcastle."

"Who said anything about trust? For the moment they need each other, but all kinds of things could happen once the election is safely over. After all, Hardcastle maintains his position through armed force. Forces that in the future would be exclusively controlled by General Longarm; But you're missing the point, Jeremiah. The point is, can you afford to bet that Longarm won't make an alliance with Hardcastle?"

"No," said Rukker. "I can't. All right. James. I'll have to consult with the High Commander, but I'm pretty sure he'll say yes. We can't allow Longarm to win this election. You'll have your men in a few hours. And we should be able to call off most of Hardcastle's mercenaries. A large proportion of them belong to the Brotherhood. You've got your support, James. But you'd better make damned sure I don't have reason to regret it."

Out on the Street of Gods, three different clocks were striking fifteen, although it was still barely midday. Given some of the Street's earlier excesses, Hawk felt only a mild relief that nothing worse was happening. He looked carefully about him, and then stopped as a commotion broke out further down the Street. Fisher noticed his reaction, and her hand dropped to her sword. "Trouble, Hawk?"

"Could be. Take a look."

Halfway down, on the other side of the Street, a very tall woman dressed in bright yellow and battered leathers was beating up half a dozen nuns from the Convent of the Bright Lady. The nuns were armed with wooden staves and lengths of steel chain, but the tall woman was wiping the floor with them, using only her bare hands.

"Who the hell is that?" said Hawk.

"That is Roxanne," said Medley. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of her." He winced as Roxanne lifted a nun bodily into the air and slammed her face first into the nearest wall.

"So that's Roxanne," said Hawk. "I always thought she'd be taller."

"There's a good price on her head," said Fisher.

"With her reputation as a fighter, there'd have to be. I'm not tackling her without being paid extra."

"She's probably overrated. No one's that good."

"Bets?" said Hawk, as Roxanne head-butted one nun and punched out another.

"All right," said Fisher. "Who goes first?"

"Toss you for it."

Fisher fumbled for a coin.

"Wait a minute," said Dannielle. "Look."

Hawk and Fisher looked back just in time to see two new figures dragging Roxanne away from her latest victims, just as she was about to start putting the boot in. She shrugged them off easily, but made no move to attack them. Hawk whistled softly as he realized one of them was Councilor Hardcastle. The other man, dressed in ill-fitting chain mail, was the sorcerer Wulf. Hawk studied him thoughtfully. He'd heard about Wulf.

"Now, that is interesting," said Adamant. "I didn't know Roxanne was working for Hardcastle."

"She won't be much longer," said Hawk. "She's about to be arrested."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Medley quickly. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves. Officially, we were never here. Our agreement with the Brotherhood will last only as long as we can keep it quiet. In fact, we'd better get out of here now, before Hardcastle spots us. Right, James?"

"I'm afraid so," said Adamant. "If it's a question of the bounty money, Captain Hawk;"

"It isn't," said Hawk shortly. "She's wanted on a dozen warrants, most of them for murder and arson. But she can wait. Protecting you has top priority until I receive fresh orders. Let's go."

Fisher nodded reluctantly, and the party moved quickly off down the Street of Gods, keeping to the shadows.

"It's probably just as well," said Medley. "Roxanne's supposed to be unbeatable with a sword."

Fisher sniffed. "I could take her."

"I'm sure you could," said Adamant. "After the election."

"Well, at least now we've got something to look forward to," said Hawk.

Roxanne liked the Street of Gods. Its constantly shifting realities appealed to her own mercurial nature. She almost felt at home. Of course, not everyone felt the same. The Street had terrorized Jillian to the point that not even Hardcastle's threats could make her accompany them. He'd had to send her home, along with all his followers and mercenaries. The Grey Veil had insisted on that. Apparently his God didn't like large audiences when it came to hard bargaining. Roxanne kept a close watch on Veil. She didn't trust him any further than she could spit into the wind.

Veil led them past churches and temples decorated with imps and gargoyles and demons. None of them looked particularly healthy places. Veil passed them all by, and Roxanne pouted disappointedly. Finally they came to the Temple of the Abomination, and Veil smiled sardonically as he took in their reactions. It wasn't much to look at, just a plain stone building with no windows, the stonework scarred and pitted by long years of neglect, but something about it put Roxanne's teeth on edge.

Veil gestured for his guests to enter. Hardcastle and Wulf looked at the rough wooden door hanging slightly ajar, and then looked at Roxanne. She grinned broadly, drew her sword, and moved forward to kick the door open. At the last moment, the door swung open before her. Roxanne stopped and waited a moment, but there was no one there. The gloom beyond the door was still and quiet. She looked back at Veil. He was watching her mockingly with his disquieting eyes. Roxanne turned her back on him and swaggered into the Temple of the Abomination.

A dim crimson glow filled the huge stone hall, radiating in some obscure fashion from a broken stone altar. The hall stretched away into the distance, and the ceiling towered impossibly high above her. She moved slowly forward, her sword held out before her. There was a sluggish movement of shadows, but nothing came out of the gloom to challenge her. Roxanne curled her lip disappointedly. Faint scuffing sounds behind her spun her round, but it was only Veil, leading Hardcastle and Wulf into the Temple. Roxanne went back to join them.

Hardcastle looked briefly about him, and did his best to look unimpressed. "All right," he growled finally. "We're here. Now tell me why I've come all this way to a deserted Temple when I could be talking with Beings of real Power."

"Gently, Cameron," murmured Wulf. "You don't know what you're dealing with here."

"And you do?" said Veil.

"I think so, yes," said Wulf. "You're one of the Transient Beings, aren't you?"

Veil laughed delightedly. It wasn't a healthy sound. The echoes seemed to go on forever in the great hall.

"What the hell's a Transient Being?" said Roxanne.

"An abstraction given shape and form," said Wulf. "A concept clothed in flesh and blood and bone. They have Power beyond reason, for their birth lies in the Wild Magic, and once summoned into the world of men they cannot easily be dismissed."

Roxanne frowned at the slender figure wrapped in grey before her. "You mean he's a God?"

Veil laughed, but when he spoke his voice was subtly different, as though something else spoke through him. "The Lord of the Gulfs has been asleep for centuries, and it will be some time before he can physically manifest him-self in this world again. For now, he needs a host to walk in the world of men."

Hardcastle scowled unhappily. "What kind of Being are you?"

The light around them grew subtly darker, like sunset fading into night. Here and there in the gloom, pale sparks of light appeared, growing quickly into transparent human shapes. Soon there were hundreds of ghosts glowing palely in the great hall, drifting endlessly back and forth as though in search of something they could no longer remember. All of them were hideously shrivelled and emaciated, reduced by some awful hunger to nothing more than flesh-covered skeletons with distended bellies and wide, agonized eyes. More and more appeared until they filled the hall from end to end, and then without warning they turned upon each other, tearing ravenously at their ghostly flesh with frenzied hands and teeth. They ate each other with desperate haste, screaming silently at the horror of what they did, but the broken bones and ripped flesh brought no end to their hunger.

"I have had many names but only one nature," said the Being through Veil's voice. "Call me Hunger. Call me Famine."

The ghosts were suddenly gone, and the gloom in the Temple of the Abomination was still and quiet once again.

"The Lord of the Gulfs has more power than you could ever dream of," said Veil. "They drive me out again and again, but I always come back. Serve me, and my power is yours."

"Serve you?" said Wulf. "How?"

"Bring me followers. The more who worship me, the greater my power will become. They will feed me with their devotion, and my influence will spread across the land, as it did before. My host must be protected. I cannot be destroyed by the living or the dead;that gift was given to me at my creation;-but my host is always; vulnerable."

"Can you destroy my enemies?" said Hardcastle.

"Of course."

"Then you've got a deal; whatever you are."

"Excellent," said the Lord of the Gulfs. "But this host has done all it can. It had enough power to raise me, but not enough to sustain me. As a sign of good faith, you must provide me with a new host."

"Take me," said Wulf. "Let me share your power. I have enough sorcery to contain you until we can find you a new host."

Veil looked at him, and then smiled suddenly. "Very well, sorcerer. If that's what you want."

Hardcastle frowned at Wulf. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I'm sure," muttered Wulf. "Don't rock the boat."

The Grey Veil grinned widely, the smile spreading and spreading until the mouth cracked and broke, splitting the cheeks and opening up the face to show the bones and muscle beneath. The face sloughed off like a mask, and the muscles turned to dust and fell away. The eyes sank back into the sockets and disappeared, leaving only a grinning skull. Dust fell out of the gray robe in streams, and then it crumpled and fell limply to the floor. The jaw fell away from the skull in one silent laugh, and then they too were gone and there was only dust and an empty gray robe. A wind rose up out of nowhere and blew the dust away.

Wulf put an unsteady hand to his mouth and shook his head slightly. His eyes were glazed, as though he was listening to a faint voice very far away. Hardcastle looked at Roxanne, and then back at Wolf.

"I'm all right, Cameron," said Wulf quietly. He lowered his hand slowly and smiled at Hardcastle. "He really wasn't very bright, for a God. He hasn't been awake long, and he wasn't nearly as strong as he thought he was. I've got him, held securely within my wards, and all his power is mine. Adamant doesn't know it yet, but the election is yours, Cameron. No other sorcerer can stand against me now. Let's go."

The wooden door swung open, and Hardcastle and Wulf went back out into the Street of Gods. Roxanne looked round the deserted hall one last time and then followed them out. She put away her sword, and wondered if there'd be time to stop for dinner any time soon.

Chapter Six

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

The afternoon dragged slowly on towards evening as Adamant led his party through the bustling streets of the High Steppes, making speeches, addressing gatherings, and generally beating the drum for Reform. The crowds were thicker than ever as even those who'd been working spilled out onto the streets to make the most of the unofficial holiday. Street traders sold out their wares, closed their stalls, and joined the celebrations. Conjurers and mummers provided traditional entertainments, innkeepers ran low on stock and began hauling dusty bottles from off the back shelves, and fireworks splattered the darkening sky.

Adamant finally took a break from the crowds, who were more interested in partying than politics, and led his people into the more upmarket sections of the Steppes. He was looking for personal endorsements and promises of funds. What he got were kind words, good wishes, and vague promises. When anybody could be bothered to speak to him. Adamant declined to be disheartened, and pressed on with unfailing enthusiasm.

And along the way two new members joined his party and walked along with him: Laurence Bearclaw and Joshua Kincaid.

Bearclaw was a big man in his late forties, with broad shoulders, and a barrel chest that was slipping slowly towards his belt. He first won fame by killing a bear with nothing but a knife, and he still wore the animal's claws on a chain around his neck to prove it. His shoulder-length hair was still jet-black because he dyed it regularly. He'd served in a hundred different campaigns as a freelance mercenary, and he'd come away with credit and scalps from all of them. He didn't really give much of a damn for Reform, but he liked Adamant, and the idea of supporting the underdog appealed to him.

Kincaid was an average-height man in his mid-forties, with a shock of butter-yellow hair and icy blue eyes. He was muscular in a lean kind of way, didn't smile much, and was even more dangerous than he looked. He'd made his reputation by fighting in the infamous Bloody Ridges campaign alongside the legendary Adam Stalker. He was famous throughout Haven, and moderately well-known outside it. There were several broadsheets and songs telling of his heroic deeds, all of them written by Kincaid under an assumed name. Like his friend and sometime fighting companion Bearclaw, Kincaid wasn't what you'd call political. But it had been too long since his last campaign, and he was bored sitting around waiting for a call to action that never came. He hated just sitting around; it make him feel old. If nothing else, working with Adamant was bound to supply enough material for a new broadsheet.

The afternoon wore on, and took its toll from all of them. Adamant seemed as full of bounce and vinegar as ever, but some of his party were beginning to wilt under the strain. Dannielle in particular seemed to be having an increasingly hard time keeping up with him. She'd disappear now and again for a quick sit-down and a rest, and return later revitalized and full of bounce. But it never lasted. Dark bruises began to appear under her eyes. Medley was becoming increasingly distracted as he tried to keep up with the growing number of reports on how the campaign was going. Hawk and Fisher stayed close by Adamant and kept their eyes open for trouble. As Guards, they were used to spending long hours on their feet, but the pace was getting to them too. Things nearly came to a head when Adamant visited the few members of the Quality who lived on the edges of the Steppes, in a last-ditch gamble for funding and support. Mostly they got the door slammed in their faces; the rest of the time they were invited in, only to be subtly sneered at or not so subtly threatened. This did not go down well with Fisher. She tended to take it personally when she got looked down on. In fact, she tended to get very annoyed and hit people. After one unfortunate incident, Adamant decided it would be better if she waited outside thereafter.

But finally even Adamant had to admit they'd done all they could. Evening was falling, and the voting would begin soon. He looked out over the milling crowds for a long moment, his eyes far away, and then he smiled and shook his head and took his people home.

Back in Adamant's study, Hawk and Fisher sank immediately into the nearest chairs, put their feet up on his desk, and watched interestedly as Adamant bustled around checking reports and planning future strategy. Medley did his best to listen and pay attention, but he was beginning to look decidedly wilted round the edges. Dannielle had already disappeared upstairs for a little lie-down. Hawk for one did not blame her. He could quite happily have spent the next few months just sitting in his chair doing nothing. He smiled slightly. He'd always suspected he was officer material.

Bearclaw and Kincaid had gone in search of the kitchens to do a little restorative foraging. The butler Villiers came and went bearing messages and reports for Adamant, with a haughty expression that suggested he considered himself above such things. Hawk and Fisher helped themselves to the wine. Medley finally shuffled the reports into some kind of order, and Adamant settled down behind his desk to listen. He glared at Hawk and Fisher until they took their boots off his desk, and then looked expectantly at Medley.

"First the good news," said Medley. "The Brotherhood of Steel is out on the street in force. Together with our people, they're knocking the hell out of Hardcastle's mercenaries. Also, street crimes have dropped sixty percent.

"Megan O'Brien, the spice trader, has pulled out of the election. He's given his money and support to Hardcastle, in return for future favors. No surprises there.

"Lord Arthur Sinclair, standing on the No Tax On Liquor platform, was last seen passed out cold in the middle of a riotous party that covered an entire block. The Guard have roped off the area and set up barricades. Anyway, Sinclair is officially out of the running, or will be as soon as anyone can wake him up long enough to tell him.

"The mystery candidate known as the Grey Veil has disappeared. No one's seen hide nor hair of him since midday. He's probably retired quietly to save face.

"Now we come to the bad news. Hardcastle has been campaigning just as hard as we have, if not more so. His speeches have all gone down very well, and his people are handing out booze and money like they're going out of fashion. He's made the rounds of some very influential people, and gained a lot of support. The Quality may not like him much, but they're scared to death of James Adamant. It also appears that Hardcastle has picked up some very powerful support from something on the Street of Gods. Mortice isn't sure who or what is behind it, but just recently Hardcastle's sorcerer Wulf has been using all kinds of powerful magic he didn't have access to before. He's still not strong enough to break through Mortice's wards, but Mortice can't break through Wulf's either. So, as far as magic goes we have a stalemate. For the moment.

"The rest of the bad news concerns General Longarm." Medley paused for a moment to gulp thirstily at a glass of wine before continuing. "Longarm and his militants are doing surprisingly well. There's no doubt his armed supporters have been practicing subtle and not-so-subtle intimidation, but there does seem to be some real grass-roots support for Longarm. People are responding well to his theme of political strength through military strength. He's also sworn to accept any man with a sword into the militant branch of the Brotherhood, once he's elected. A lot of people want that. Being a Brother of Steel opens a lot of doors, and not just in Haven."

Medley checked his papers to make sure he'd covered everything, and then dropped them on the desk before Adamant. Adamant frowned thoughtfully.

"What do we know about General Longarm, Stefan?"

"Solid, professional soldier; not very imaginative. Had a reasonably good record with the Low Kingdoms army, before he retired and moved here. Came to politics late in life, which is probably why he takes it so seriously. Speaks well in public, as long as he sticks to a prepared text. This offer of guaranteed entry into the militant Brotherhood sounds a lot like desperation tactics. Might be worth sounding out other militants to find out whether it's a genuine offer or just something Longarm came up with off his own bat."

Adamant looked at Hawk and Fisher. "The militants already have one Seat on the Council: The Downs. Have you heard anything about that district since the militants took over?"

"It's not really our district," said Hawk slowly. "But I have heard a few things. Ever since Councilor Weaver came to power in The Downs, street crime has dropped by more than half throughout the area. That's been very popular. On the other hand, it seems clear that militant Brothers have been working as unofficial Guards in The Downs, and that hasn't been at all popular. There's no doubt they've been cracking down on street violence, but they've also been pushing their beliefs very strongly, and anyone who dares speak out against that gets very short shrift. I'm not just talking about bloody noses either; apparently the militants can turn quite nasty if they're crossed. I haven't any hard figures on how the election's going there, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if Weaver lost his Seat."

"Thank you, Captain," said Adamant. "There may be something there I can use. Campaign rhetoric is always better for having some basis in truth."

The door flew open and Dannielle swept in, looking much refreshed. She smiled brightly at Hawk and Fisher, still slumped in their chairs.

"What's this; still tired? I don't know what the Guard's coming to these days. James, darling, will you please come with me and talk to the cook? I've been trying to get her to agree to the menu we decided on for tonight's banquet, but she keeps going all mulish on me."

"Of course, Danny," said Adamant tolerantly. He nodded to Medley and the two Guards, and allowed his chattering wife to drag him out from behind his desk and out into the hall. Hawk looked at Fisher.

"I don't know where she gets her energy from, but I could sure use some of it."

Hardcastle and his people trudged determinedly round the High Steppes, making speeches, shaking hands, and generally waving the flag. The crowds had been drinking most of the day and were starting to get a little rowdy, but Roxanne and the mercenaries kept them in line. And the speeches were still going down very well. As long as Hardcastle kept talking the crowds would listen, rapt and enthusiastic. Hardcastle was glad something was still going right; the news from the rest of the Steppes was almost universally bad. Somehow Adamant had put together an army of fighting men and turned them loose, and they were wiping the streets with Hardcastle's mercenaries. He'd lost nearly every advantage he'd gained, and areas that should have been safely under his thumb were now singing Reform songs and throwing stones at his people.

Hardcastle fought to hold on to his temper. He couldn't afford to let himself be distracted. He still had to make the rounds and talk to the people who mattered; people of standing and influence. Adamant might crawl to the commoners for their grubby little votes, but it was the Quality and the merchant houses who really ran Haven. That was where the real power lay. When they spoke, people listened;if they knew what was good for them. And so Hardcastle went from house to house, knocking on doors and glaring at servants, only to find himself fobbed off with vague promises and excuses as often as not. Apparently they were disturbed by the rising violence in the streets. Hardcastle fumed quietly to himself. These were the same people who'd bleated the loudest to the Council at the advances Reform had been making.

The afternoon darkened towards evening, and Hardcastle headed for the last address on the list. His last friend, and his last hope.

He stood before Tobias' door, and waited impatiently for an answer to the bell pull. It was taking a long time. Roxanne was idly trimming a fingernail with a nasty-looking dagger, and Wulf was staring off into the distance, lost in his dreams of power. Hardcastle looked at his followers and mercenaries, standing clumped together and muttering rebelliously under their breath, and he gestured irritably for them to disperse across the street. He wouldn't put it past Adamant to launch a sneak attack, if he thought he could get away with it. It was what Hardcastle would have done. Besides, he didn't need an army to visit a friend. Assuming the friend would talk to him.

Geoffrey Tobias had a reputation for being tight with money, and his house reflected it. Tobias was one of the six richest men in Haven, but his house was a cheap and nasty two up, two down, in one of the more subdued areas of the Steppes. The walls hadn't been painted in years, and wooden shutters covered the windows, locked tight even though it was still light. Tobias believed there were always thieves and cutthroats waiting for a chance at his money. Hardcastle shrugged. The man was probably right. A miser living on his own and apparently unprotected was an obvious target. Not that he was unprotected, of course. Hardcastle had no doubt the nasty little house was absolutely crawling with defensive spells.

Tobias had always been careful with money, but since he'd lost his Seat on the Council he'd given all his attention to his financial dealings. The man who had once been one of the real firebrands of the Conservative Cause had become a bitter and secretive recluse. He wouldn't see anyone he didn't absolutely have to, and even then strictly only by appointment. But he'd see Hardcastle. Hardcastle was a friend, and more importantly, he had something Tobias wanted. The offer of a Seat on the Council;

In return for a sizable contribution to campaign funds, of course.

The door finally opened a crack, and Tobias glared out at them. He recognized Hardcastle with scowl and opened the door a little wider. He was a grey, shabby man with pale skin and stringy grey hair that hung listlessly around his shoulders. His clothes were filthy and years out of style, and you had to look hard to see that under the dirt and wrinkles they had once been of exquisite style and cut. His face was all sharp planes and angles, with a down-turned mouth, and his eyes were cold and knowing. Tobias looked at Hardcastle for a long time and then sniffed loudly.

"Hello, Cameron, I should have known you'd come scratching at my door, with the election so close. Are all these people with you?"

"Yes, Geoffrey," said Hardcastle patiently. "I vouch for them."

Tobias sniffed again. "They stay out here, all of them. I won't have them in my house."

He stepped back to allow Hardcastle to enter, and then slammed the door shut behind him. The narrow hall was gloomy and oppressive and smelled of damp. There was cracked plaster on the walls, and the floor was nothing but bare boards. Tobias led Hardcastle down to the end of the hall, pushed open a door and gestured for him to enter. He did so, and found himself in a comfortable, brightly lit room. The walls were covered with highly polished wood panels, and there was a deep pile carpet on the floor. A huge padded armchair stood by the fireplace, next to a delicate wooden table covered with papers and set with an elegant silver tea service. Tobias grunted with amusement at Hardcastle's surprise.

"I may be eccentric, Cameron, but I'm not crazy. I haven't much use for show or vanity anymore, but I still like my comforts."

He sank carefully into the armchair, and gestured for Hardcastle to pull up the only other chair opposite him. They sat looking at each other for a moment.

"Been a while, Geoffrey."

"Two years, at least," said Tobias. "I've kept busy, with one thing and another."

"So I hear. They tell me you've doubled your fortune since you left the Council."

"Leave? I didn't leave anything, and you damned well know it! I was forced out of my Seat, by that little snot Blackstone and his whining Reformers. He promised them the earth and the moon, and they believed it. Little good it did them. Their precious Blackstone is dead, and his successor couldn't make money if his life depended on it. Just wait till the Heights is hurting for money and can't balance its budget, and see how fast they scream for me to come back and save them!"

His voice had been rising steadily, and by the end he was practically shouting. He stopped as his breath caught in his throat, and he coughed hard for several moments.

"You should take better care of yourself," said Hardcastle. "You've let yourself go."

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose." There were flecks of blood around Tobias' mouth. He patted his lips with a folded handkerchief, looked indifferently at the crimson stains on the cloth, and put it away. "What do you want here, Cameron? I've no influence anymore."

"That could change," said Hardcastle. "With a little persuasion I think I can get you official Conservative backing in the next election for the Heights. Full support; right across the board. Of course, a large contribution to Conservative funds would help to sway things in the future. That's how the world works."

"Oh, I know all about how the world works, Cameron." Tobias chuckled briefly. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't really care about the Heights anymore. I still get mad about how they treated me, but I wouldn't go back if they got down on their knees and begged. Being a Councilor always meant more to my poor Maria than it ever did to me. I still miss her, you know;" Hardcastle looked nonplused for a moment, and Tobias chuckled again. "Not used to being caught out, are you, Cameron? You've been surrounded by Advisors for too long. You can't trust Advisors. They just tell you what they think you want to hear."

"I need them," said Hardcastle. "I can't do everything myself. And my friends haven't always been there when I needed them."

"You never needed me," said Tobias quietly. "You never really needed anyone. And I had my own problems."

"Why didn't you tell me you were ill? I would have come to you long before this."

"I go my own way, Cameron. Always have, always will. I don't lean on anyone. Don't worry; you can have your contribution. Tell my lawyers how much you need, and I'll see it gets to you. Buy some more mercenaries. Buy whatever it takes to crush those Reform scum into the dirt. Make them pay for what they did to me."

"I'll do that, Geoffrey, I promise you. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes. Leave me in peace. Goodbye, Cameron. Don't slam the door on your way out."

In Brimstone Hall Jillian Hardcastle sat on her bed, her back pressed against the headboard, hugging her knees to her. Her husband had finally returned. She could hear him moving about downstairs, talking to people. His people; none of them were hers. She had no friends, no one came to visit her, and she wasn't even allowed a servant of her own. All she had was her husband, the great Cameron Hardcastle.

She looked at her bare arms, and the bruises stood out plainly even under the extra layer of makeup. She'd have to put on some long gloves before she went downstairs. Her back still ached, but it was bearable now. At least there hadn't been any blood in her urine this time.

She often thought about leaving, but she had no one to go to. And wherever she went, Cameron would be sure to find her. He had people everywhere. She sometimes thought about killing herself, but she could never find the courage. Hardcastle had beaten all the courage out of her.

She heard footsteps outside on the landing, and fear rushed through her like icy water, freezing her in place. It was Cameron, come to look for her. She knew it. She stared fixedly at the closed bedroom door, barely breathing, her stomach churning with tension. The footsteps approached the door, and then went on past it, continuing on down the hall. It wasn't Cameron. Just one of the servants.

She ought to go down and welcome Cameron home. He expected it of her. If she didn't go downstairs, he would come looking for her, and then he would be angry. But she couldn't go down to meet him. Not yet. She'd go downstairs in a minute, and greet him in the polite monotone he'd taught her. She would go down. In a minute. Or two.

Hardcastle sank into his favorite chair, looked around his warm, comfortable study, and sighed gratefully. It had been a long hard day, and he wasn't as young as he used to be. He started to order Jillian to fetch him a drink, and then scowled as he realized she wasn't there. She ought to have been there. It was her place to be at his side, to carry out his wishes. He'd have to have another little talk with her, later on.

He got to his feet, ignoring his protesting back, and poured himself a large drink. He rather thought he'd earned it. There was a polite knock on the door. He grunted acknowledgement, and Wulf and Roxanne came in. He dropped back into his chair, noting sourly that neither of them looked particularly tired. Roxanne leaned against the fireplace with her arms folded, waiting patiently for new orders. Hardcastle made a mental note that she wasn't to be offered a guest room for the night. They'd probably wake up in the early hours to find the whole damned Hall going up in flames. Wulf was standing to attention before him, waiting to report on the day's activities. Let him wait. Do him good to be reminded of his place. Hardcastle sipped unhurriedly at his wine and nodded to the sorcerer to begin.

Most of the reports were pretty straightforward. All the minor candidates had dropped out. That simplified things; he wouldn't have to have them crushed or killed, after all. General Longarm was still making a nuisance of himself, but he was nothing more than a retired soldier with delusions of grandeur. And with all the mercenaries currently battling on the streets, soldiers weren't particularly popular right now.

Adamant was still a problem. The Brotherhood of Steel had declared in his favor, and were actually out on the streets sticking their noses into things that didn't concern them. Hardcastle scowled. He'd better send word to the right people, and have them called off.

Wulf droned on, showing off as usual on how professional he was, and Hardcastle waited impatiently. He had a question he wanted to ask, but he didn't interrupt. He didn't want the sorcerer to be able to hide behind the excuse of any other business. Wulf eventually ground to a halt, and Hardcastle looked at him steadily.

"You said you had power now, Wulf. Real power. Power enough to break through Adamant's wards and destroy him and his new sorcerer. So why are they still alive?"

Wulf met Hardcastle's gaze unflinchingly. "It will take time before I can use my power safely. For the moment I'm still concentrating on the wards that hold the Abomination safely within me. We were lucky to find him while he was still relatively weak after his awakening. If he was to escape now, he would be very angry with us. He'd destroy us, the whole of Haven, and probably most of the Low Kingdoms. We're talking about one of the Transient Beings, Cameron, not some low-level demon. We can't risk something like that getting loose."

"So what am I supposed to do about Adamant?"

"Nothing, for the moment. Let's wait and see how the polling goes. There's still plenty of time to intervene directly, if it should prove necessary."

Hardcastle glared at him. "That's not good enough, sorcerer." He looked across at Roxanne. "According to my sources, Longarm is planning an attack on Adamant tonight. I want you to use your inside contact to get into Adamant's house. Stay hidden and wait for the attack, and then take advantage of the confusion to make sure Adamant dies. You'd better kill your contact as well. Is that clear?"

"Of course," said Roxanne. "Sounds like fun." She smiled at Hardcastle, and he had to look away. Few people could meet Roxanne's smile without flinching. Even when she was on their side.

The banquet at Adamant's mansion was a noisy affair. There were so many guests that even the main dining hall was barely sufficient to hold them all. The single great table had all but disappeared under huge servings of food and wines, and there wasn't a spare place left for anyone. The huge candelabra and dozens of wall lamps filled the hall with a blaze of light, and the guests filled the air with a roar of chatter. It was a victory celebration, in every way that mattered. No one had any doubts as to the election's outcome. This night would be Reform's night. They could tell. They could feel it on the air and in the streets.

Adamant sat in the seat of honor, of course, with Dannielle on one side and Medley on the other. Dannielle was busy feeding Adamant by hand with something covered in a sticky sauce, half of which seemed to be ending up on his face, to their mutual amusement. Medley was busy sampling several wines to see which was the tastiest. The two warriors, Bearclaw and Kincaid, sat side by side discussing old battles, and using the table cutlery to mark troop positions. The rest of the guests were Adamant's followers and party faithfuls, being rewarded for their services to Adamant's campaign. Servants came and went, bringing yet more courses and side dishes. Adamant's food taster sat quietly to one side, nibbling at a light salad, having given up trying to keep up with everyone else. A dozen or so dogs wandered round the hall, enjoying all the noise and attention, and feeding on bones and scraps thrown to them by indulgent guests.

Hawk and Fisher were there too, but they weren't part of the banquet. They were on duty. They'd get their dinner later in the kitchens. If they were lucky. Reform only went so far, after all. Hawk was fatalistic about such things and, if anything, preferred to have his attention free to watch for threats, but Fisher was simmering with barely repressed bile. Hawk kept a watchful eye on her. She tended to take such things personally. At the moment she was scowling dubiously at a chicken leg she'd snatched from under the nose of a resentful hound. The animal was about to challenge her for it, but one glare from Fisher was enough to change his mind.

"You're not really going to eat that, are you?" said Hawk.

"Damn right I am," said Fisher. "I'm hungry." She gnawed industriously at the leg for a while, and then gestured with it at the banquet table. "Look at them all, stuffing their faces. There's not one of them who's worked half as hard as we have today. I hope they all get wind."

"Don't take it so hard," said Hawk. "I'm sure Adamant would have invited us to table if he could, but it would do his image no good at all, and he knows it. The Cause is great for political reform, but it's got a long way to go before it can start meddling with the social structure."

"I'd like to meddle with his structure," muttered Fisher. "Preferably with a large mallet."

"It's not as if we've been singled out," said Hawk reasonably. "Adamant's got a good twenty to thirty mercenaries and men-at-arms scattered round this house standing guard, and none of them were invited either."

"We're different," said Fisher.

"Maybe," said Hawk. "Hello! Where's Medley going?"

Hawk and Fisher watched interestedly as Medley made his excuses to Adamant, and left the table. He seemed to be in something of a hurry, and by the time he got to the main door he was practically running.

"The fish must be off," said Hawk.

Fisher looked at him fondly. "You have no romance in your soul, Hawk. Now he's no longer needed here, he's probably off to see his mysterious girlfriend. I wonder if we'll get to meet her?"

"I doubt it. Hello! Now Dannielle's leaving as well."

Hawk and Fisher watched again as Dannielle made her excuses to Adamant and left the table.

"Maybe the fish is off," said Fisher.

"I don't know," said Hawk thoughtfully. "She's been up and down all day. Maybe her illness is catching up with her."

"Or she's gone after Medley to try and sneak a look at his girlfriend."

"Either that, or someone's slipped poison in their food;"

They looked at each other.

"No," said Hawk finally. "They haven't eaten anything the others haven't, and anyway, Mortice is keeping a close watch on the banquet."

Fisher shrugged. "No doubt we'll find out what's happening eventually. We usually do."

"That was before we got involved in politics."

"True."

They watched everyone else eating for a while. Hawk's stomach rumbled.

"Something's wrong," said Fisher suddenly.

Hawk looked at her. "How do you mean?"

"We're supposed to get regular security updates from Adamant's people, but no one's been by here in almost half an hour."

"That's right," said Hawk. He frowned, and bit his lip thoughtfully. "You wander over and take up a position by Adamant. I'll take a quick look out the door and see if anyone's about. It's always possible Adamant's people are just getting slack now the worst is over, but;"

"Yeah," said Fisher. "But."

She headed casually in Adamant's direction, while Hawk made unhurriedly for the main door. No point in upsetting the guests if they didn't have to. The banquet hall was set right in the centre of the mansion and had just the two doors. The far door led straight to the kitchens; a servants' route. Hawk had checked it out earlier. It was too narrow and twisting to move an attack force through. The main door led out onto a wide corridor that ran pretty much the length of the house, with only a couple of bends. Hawk scowled. He didn't like the direction his thoughts were taking. Any attack force would have to get past all of Adamant's men and Mortice's protective wards. He'd have been bound to hear something. Unless the attack force was very, very good. Hawk stopped before the main door and listened. He couldn't hear a thing over the racket the dinner guests were making. Why the hell had Medley and Dannielle chosen this particular time to disappear? He reached out a hand to the doorknob, and then stopped as the doorknob began to turn slowly on its own. Hawk backed away.

The door flew open and a dozen cloaked and masked men burst in. Hawk yelled a warning to Fisher, and drew his axe. The guests at table screamed and yelled and struggled to get to their feet. Fisher moved to stand between Adamant and his attackers, sword at the ready. Bearclaw and Kincaid rose to their feet and looked around for weapons. Neither of them had worn swords to table. That would have been an insult to Adamant. Bearclaw seized a heavy silver candlestick and hefted it professionally. Kincaid broke a bottle against the wall with practiced ease.

The attackers came spilling round Hawk like rushing water past a rock. He stood his ground and cut down two men with his axe. Bearclaw came charging forward, deftly avoided a vicious sword stroke, and clubbed the man to the ground. He quickly stepped over the fallen body to tackle another intruder, and Kincaid came forward to guard his back with the broken bottle. Two swordsmen thought he'd be an easy target. Kincaid smiled easily, cut one man's throat, and blinded the other, his hand moving too quickly to be seen. He threw aside the bottle and snatched up a dead man's sword. Blood flew on the air as he moved swiftly among the scattering enemy, his sword darting back and forth in textbook cuts and parries.

Three men got past Hawk and the two warriors, and made straight for Adamant. Fisher met them with her sword. The first man went down almost immediately, clutching at the wide rip in his gut. The second forced Fisher back step by step with a whirlwind attack of cuts and thrusts. The third man closed in on Adamant. Fisher tried desperately to finish her man so that she could get back to protect Adamant, but her opponent was too good to be that easily dismissed. Fisher cut and parried and then faked a stumble. The masked man thought he saw his chance and moved in, and Fisher ran him through. She jerked her sword free and turned quickly round just in time to see Adamant throw a bowl of soup into the third man's face, blinding him. The intruder clawed at his eyes, and Adamant kicked him in the groin. As the man sank to his knees, Adamant took away his sword and looked around for another victim.

Hawk cut down two more men, the wide head of his axe punching through hidden chain mail as though it wasn't there. Bearclaw and Kincaid fought back to back, and the last two intruders went down in a flurry of blood and steel. A sudden silence fell across the dining hall, broken only by the gradually slowing breathing of the fighting men and mutters of shock and amazement from the guests. Bearclaw bound up a nasty-looking gash in his shoulder with a dubious-looking handkerchief taken from his sleeve.

"I must be getting old, Joshua," he said easily. "Was a time they'd never have got near me."

Kincaid nodded solemnly. "Well, it must be said the candlestick never was your preferred weapon. Grab one of their swords and we'll go and see if there are any more of these bastards in the house."

The guests stirred uneasily at that, and Adamant moved quickly forward to address them. "It's all right, my friends, the worst is over. Please stay where you are while I have my people search the house and make it secure." He moved quickly over to Bearclaw and Kincaid and kept his voice low as he spoke to them. "Joshua, Laurence, find out what's happened to my men-at-arms, and report back here when the house is fully secure again. And remember,

Danny and Stefan went off on their own just before the attack; make sure they're all right."

The two warriors nodded silently and left the hall sword in hand. Hawk wanted to go with them, but knew he couldn't. His priority had to be Adamant's safety. He went over to Fisher, and made sure she was all right. They looked around at the mayhem they'd helped to cause, and shared a grin. Adamant approached them and nodded his thanks.

"It may not look like it," he said quietly, "but this is still something of a disaster. A whole lot of nasty questions come to mind, starting with how the hell they got in. Mortice's wards are supposed to keep out anyone I haven't personally vouched for. And why the hell didn't Medley's intelligence people warn him there was a raid in the offing?"

"No problem," said Hawk. "We handled it. Any idea who they were?"

"Not really," said Adamant. "A last-chance assault by Hardcastle's people, presumably. Let's take a look."

They moved quickly among the bodies, pulling off masks and studying faces. Hawk and Fisher didn't recognize anyone, but Adamant remained kneeling beside the body of a grey-haired man with a harsh, scarred face that hadn't relaxed at all in death. Hawk and Fisher moved over to join him.

"General Longarm himself," said Adamant. "He always did take his politics too personally."

"Let's keep looking," said Fisher. "Maybe we'll get really lucky and find Hardcastle's here as well."

Adamant smiled in spite of himself, and then looked round quickly as the main door opened and Kincaid came in. He walked straight over to Adamant, who rose to his feet.

"We have something of a problem, James," he said quietly. "Not with the house; that's secure. It seems there were fifty of the intruders originally. Your people took care of the others before they got this far. No one heard anything because of the noise of the banquet. We've got quite a few casualties, and even more dead. These people were professionals."

"Militant Brothers of Steel," said Hawk.

Kincaid nodded, but didn't look all that impressed. "Well, they're dead militants now."

"So what's the problem?" said Fisher.

"I think you'd better come and see for yourself, James." Kincaid couldn't seem to meet Adamant's eyes. "It's Dannielle."

Adamant's face lost all its color, as though someone had just punched him in the gut. "How badly is she hurt?"

"I really think you'd better see for yourself, James."

"You're not going anywhere without us," said Hawk quickly.

Adamant nodded impatiently. "Let's go."

Kincaid led the way out into the main corridor. There were bodies and blood everywhere. Preoccupied as he was. Adamant still had room in him to be sickened at the sight of so many men who had died in his behalf. He stepped carefully over the bodies, nodding here and there at a familiar face, and then he stopped and knelt by one man. It was the butler, Villiers. He'd taken a dozen wounds before he died, and a broken sword was still clutched in his hand.

"He never believed in Reform," said Adamant. "But he stayed with me anyway, because I was family. He never left us, even during the bad days. He protected me as a child. And all it got him was a bad death, in a house where he should have been safe." He got to his feet, and nodded for Kincaid to carry on. They walked on down the corridor. When Adamant spoke again his voice was perfectly steady. "You haven't said anything about Stefan. Is he all right?"

"Oh, he's fine," said Kincaid. "Locked himself in your study with his girlfriend. I don't think he knows anything's happened. Just shouted at me to go away when I knocked on the door."

Adamant nodded, not really listening, and Kincaid led the way up the stairs to the next floor. His face was fixed and drawn. She must be dead, thought Hawk. Anything else, he would have said. They moved along the hallway to Adamant's bedroom. Bearclaw was waiting outside the door. There was pity in his face as he looked at Adamant. Pity, and something else Hawk couldn't read. Bearclaw opened the bedroom door, and everyone drew back a few steps to let Adamant go in first.

In the bedroom, Dannielle was sitting on the bed. Her face was flushed, and she wouldn't look Adamant in the eye. Kincaid picked up a small silver snuff box from the dressing table and handed it to Adamant. He looked at it blankly for a moment and then opened it. Inside was a small amount of grey-white powder.

"Cocaine," said Bearclaw. "We found her helping herself when we were searching this floor."

"Oh, great," said Fisher. "That's going to look really good when it gets out."

"It's not going to get out," said Adamant. "Not until after the election." He looked at Dannielle, and his mouth tightened. "How could you, Danny? How could you do this to me?"

"Oh, that's typical, James. Never mind why I'm taking drugs; all you care about is your precious reputation." Dannielle glared at him sullenly, her voice shrill and bitter. "I've been sniffing dust ever since you started campaigning for the Steppes. The best part of three months, and it's taken you till now to notice. It's all your fault, anyway. You never had time for me any more; all you talked and thought and dreamed about was your bloody campaign. I tried to go along, to be a part of it for your sake, but you never even noticed I was there.

"We aren't all as strong as you, James. You've been full of energy right from the beginning, inspired by your Cause, running full tilt from one thing to the next, with the rest of us straggling along behind you, trying to keep up. I just couldn't anymore. I was tired all the time, and lonely and depressed. So I started sniffing dust now and again, just to give me a boost, make me feel human, and keep me going. Only the campaign just ground on and on, and I got more and more tired, and there were always more and more things that needed doing for your bloody Cause. And I needed more and more dust just to feel normal and get me through the day. I even had to embezzle from you to pay for the dust."

"Why didn't you tell me?" said Adamant. He realized he was still holding the snuff box, and put it down on the dressing table. He wiped his fingers unconsciously on his sleeve, as though they were dirty.

"When did I ever get a chance to talk to you?" said Dannielle. "We haven't had a moment to ourselves in months."

Adamant started to say something heated in reply, and then stopped himself. When he spoke again his voice was low and cold and very controlled. "Perhaps you're right, Danny. I don't know. We'll talk about it later. In the meantime, I have to think about how best to keep this quiet. A lot of people are counting on me to swing this election, and I won't let them down. If news of this gets out, I'll be ruined. I've made a lot of enemies in my stand against the drug trade, and they'd use a scandal like this to destroy me. Who else knows, apart from us? Who was your supplier?"

Dannielle smiled almost triumphantly. "Lucien Sykes."

"What?"

"Drugs come in through the docks, and he takes his share. Where do you suppose all the money came from that he's been donating to your campaign?"

Adamant turned away and closed his eyes for a moment. Nobody said anything. Adamant turned to Hawk and Fisher. "How much of this do you need to report?"

"Not all of it," said Hawk. "Keeping quiet about your wife comes under the general heading of protecting you. But Sykes is a different matter. We can't ignore someone in his position. But he can wait until after the election tonight."

"Thank you," said Adamant. "That's all I can ask. Danny, pull yourself together, and then come down and help with my guests. People have been hurt."

"Do I get to keep my dust?"

"Do you need it?"

"Yes."

"Then keep it."

Adamant turned and left the room, and the others followed him out.

"I'm going to have to put out some kind of statement about the attack," said Adamant as they went back downstairs. "To reassure my followers that I'm all right. Rumors spread like wildfire in Haven, particularly when it's bad news. I'd better talk to Stefan. He's probably still in my study with his lady friend." He smiled briefly. "I did promise no one would barge in on them while they were there, but I'm sure he won't mind, under the circumstances."

He led the way back to his study, and knocked briskly on the door. "Stefan, it's James. I need to see you. Something's come up." He waited a moment, but there was no reply. Adamant smiled slightly, produced a key, and unlocked the door. He knocked again, and pushed the door open. Medley and Roxanne were sitting together. For a moment nobody moved as the two sides stared at each other, and then Roxanne grabbed her sword belt and drew her sword.

"Get out of here, Stefan! They'll kill us both!"

She started towards Adamant, sword at the ready, and then stopped as Hawk and Fisher moved quickly forward to protect him. Medley got to his feet, but stood where he was, staring at Adamant's horrified face. Roxanne grabbed a burning brand from the fire and set it to a hanging tapestry. Flames ran up the wall. She grabbed Medley's arm and urged him towards the other door. Hawk and Fisher went after them as Bearclaw and Kincaid tried to beat out the fire before it could spread. Adamant just stood where he was, watching.

Roxanne backed away from Hawk and Fisher one step at a time, her sword sweeping back and forth before her, keeping the Guards at bay. She was grinning broadly, and her eyes were full of death. She glanced back over her shoulder just long enough to be sure that Medley was safely through the door. Then after a moment's hesitation, she turned and ran after him. Hawk and Fisher plunged after her, but she slammed the door in their faces and turned the key on the other side. Hawk lifted his axe to break down the door, and then lowered it again. His job was to protect Adamant, not to chase after traitors. Medley and Roxanne would keep for another day. He put away his axe, and after a moment Fisher sheathed her sword. Kincaid and Bearclaw had torn down the burning tapestry, and were stamping out the flames. Adamant was still standing in the doorway, staring at nothing. Hawk glanced at Fisher, who shrugged uncertainly. He moved tentatively towards Adamant, and the politician's eyes came back into focus. He had to swallow two or three times before he could speak.

"My wife is taking drugs supplied by one of my main backers. My guests have been attacked in my own dining hall, and most of my men-at-arms are dead. And now it turns out my closest friend has been a traitor all along. I never knew politics could cost so much." For a moment he couldn't get his breath, and Hawk thought Adamant might cry, but the moment passed and some of his strength came back to him. His face hardened, and when he spoke again his voice was strained but steady.

"Not a word of this to anyone. We can't afford for my supporters to know how badly we've been betrayed. It will all come out after the election, but by then it won't matter, whatever the result. So, we'll go back to the dining hall, reassure my guests, and keep our mouths shut about all this.

"But win or lose, Stefan Medley is a dead man."

Medley followed Roxanne through the packed streets, dazed and unquestioning. It was all like some horrible nightmare he couldn't wake up from. One moment he'd been cherishing a snatched moment with Roxanne, and the next he was running for his life. He didn't know where he was running to; Roxanne had taken over as soon as they left the house. He couldn't seem to concentrate on anything; all he could see was Adamant's face, and the look of betrayal in his eyes. Roxanne led him through increasingly narrow and squalid streets until finally they came to the Sheep's Head Inn, a quiet backwater tavern they'd used before for their few assignations.

The bartender showed no interest in seeing them again, but then he never did. That was one of the reasons why they'd chosen the place. Roxanne collected the key and led the way up the back stairs to their usual room, and for the first time they were able to sit down and look at each other.

"All in all, it's been an interesting day," said Roxanne. "Pity I didn't have time to kill Hawk and Fisher, but there'll be other times."

"Is that all you've got to say?" said Medley. "My life is ruined, my reputation isn't worth spit any more, and all you can think about is fighting a couple of Guards? We've got to get out of Haven, Roxanne. James won't move against us while the election's still running, but once that's over he'll send every man he's got after us. His pride won't let him do anything else. And you can bet he won't have given them orders to bring us back alive."

"We can go to Hardcastle," said Roxanne. "He'll protect us. If only to spite Adamant."

"No," said Medley. "Not Hardcastle. I've hurt him too badly in the past. He has scores to settle with me. Look, Roxanne, this is our chance to get away from all this and start over."

"But I don't want to leave," said Roxanne. "I don't run from anyone. Besides, I like working for Hardcastle. The pay's good, and the work is interesting. I'm staying."

Medley looked at her for a long moment. "Why are you doing this to me, Roxanne?"

"Doing what?"

"I love you, Roxanne, but I can't go to Hardcastle. If you love me, you won't ask me to."

Roxanne looked down at the floor, and then back at him again. "Sorry, Stefan, but I told you; I work for Hardcastle. You were just another job. Hardcastle's sorcerer set me on you, as a way of getting to Adamant. You told me all kinds of useful things without realizing it. You were fun, but now the masks are off and the game's over. You lost. I'm sorry to rush you, Stefan, but I have to be going now."

She got to her feet, and Medley stood up to face her. "So it was all nothing but lies; all the things you said to me. I betrayed my best friend and dragged my honor through the mud, ail for you; and now you're telling me it was all for nothing? I can't believe that, Roxanne. I won't believe that."

She shrugged. "Don't take it so personally. It's just business. No hard feelings?"

Medley sat down again, as though all the strength had gone out of his legs. "No; no hard feelings, Roxanne."

She smiled at him briefly, and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Medley stared at the closed door, listening to the sound of her footsteps disappearing down the stairs.

Chapter Seven

DESPERATE CHOICES

All the clocks in Haven struck eight in the evening, and the polls finally opened. Brightly colored election booths appeared on the designated street corners, in the time it took for the bells to toll the hour. Magically created and maintained by the Council's circle of sorcerers, they were as near to being corruption-proof as anything in Haven could be. Once a vote had been registered and placed in the metal box, nothing but the most powerful sorceries could get at it again. There were fingerprint checks to make sure everyone was who they claimed to be, and to keep out simulacra and homunculi. Haven's voters were a devious lot when it came to corruption and cheating.

The inns and the brothels were still going strong, though the free booze had run out long ago. Some of the day-long revelers were busy sleeping it off on tavern floors and tables, uncaring that they were missing the very chance to vote that they'd been celebrating. Bets were still being made, at widely varying odds, and rumor and speculation ran rife. People thronged the streets, dressed in their best. An election was an Occasion, a chance to see and be seen. Pickpockets and cutpurses had never had it so good. Ballad singers stood at every street corner, singing the latest broadsheets about the two main candidates, interspersed now and then with requested old favorites. There were jugglers and conjurers and stilt-walkers, and of course any number of street preachers making the most of the occasion, always on the lookout for a crowd and anyone who looked like they might stand still long enough to be preached at.

The voting began, as Haven made its choice.

* * *

Roxanne leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs languorously as Hardcastle poured her a glass of his best wine. He was smiling broadly, and positively radiating good cheer. It didn't suit him. Wulf and Jillian stood quietly in the background.

"You've done well, Roxanne," said Hardcastle, pouring himself a large drink. "Without Medley to help him, Adamant's organization will fall apart at the seams, and he'll lose every advantage he's gained. All it needs now is a few more pushes in the right places, and everything he's built will collapse around him. It's a pity you didn't get a chance to kill him, but it's just as well. I've changed my mind. I don't want him dead just yet. I want him to suffer first.

"It's not enough to kill Adamant. Not anymore. I want to beat him first. I want to humiliate the man; rub his nose in the fact that all his whining Reformers are no match for a Conservative. I don't just want him dead; I want him broken."

Roxanne shrugged noncommittally and sipped at her wine. She'd taken advantage of the speech to study Jillian Hardcastle and the sorcerer Wulf. Both of them looked rather the worse for wear. Jillian had a bruised and swollen mouth, and was holding herself awkwardly, as though favoring a hidden pain. Wulf looked tired and drawn. There were dark bruises of fatigue under his eyes, and his gaze was more than a little wild. He seemed preoccupied, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. Roxanne realized Hardcastle had stopped talking, and quickly turned her attention back to him.

"All right," she said equably. "What do we do now?"

"We need to isolate Adamant even further," said Hardcastle. "We've taken away his Advisor. Who does that leave him to lean on? The two Guards, Hawk and Fisher. They've been acting all along like Adamant's paid men, for all their vaunted impartiality. With them out of the way, Adamant should crumble and fall apart nicely."

Roxanne nodded. "I can take either of them on their own, but killing both of them would be tricky." She smiled suddenly. "Fun, though."

"I don't want them killed," said Hardcastle flatly. "I want them kidnapped. They have interfered in my life far too often, and they're going to pay the price. They'll beg for death before I'm finished with them."

"I can't guarantee to take both of them alive," said Roxanne. "One perhaps, but not both."

"I thought you might say that," said Hardcastle, "So I've arranged some help for you." He tugged at the bell pull by his desk. There was a short, uncomfortable pause, and then the study door opened and Pike and Da Silva came in. Roxanne studied them warily from her chair.

Pike was tall and muscular, in his mid-twenties, with a clear open face and a nasty smile. He moved well, and carried his chain mail as though it were weightless. He was a familiar type; throw a stick in a gladiators' training school and you'd hit a dozen just like him. Da Silva was short and stocky, with a broad chest and a wrestler's overdeveloped arm muscles. He was a few years older than Pike, and looked it. His face was heavy and bony, and would have looked brutish even without the perpetual scowl that tugged at his features. As well as a sword, he carried a four-foot-long headbreaker of solid oak weighted with lead at both ends.

Independently they were proficient-enough mercenaries, but working together as a team they'd built a reputation for death and mayhem that almost rivaled Roxanne's. She glared at them both, and then switched her glare to Hardcastle.

"Why do you need them? You've got me."

"I want Hawk and Fisher taken alive," said Hardcastle. "The only way to do that without major casualties to my side is to make sure we have the advantage of overwhelming numbers. Pike and Da Silva command a troop of fifty mercenaries. You will lead them against Adamant's people. Wulf will supply magical protection. Is that clear?"

Roxanne shrugged. "You're the boss, Hardcastle. What do we do after we've taken Hawk and Fisher?"

"I've set aside a place for them. Pike and Da Silva have the details. Adamant and his people should be hitting the streets in about half an hour. Follow them, pick your spot, and do the job. No excuses on this one; I want them alive. I have plans for Hawk and Fisher."

* * *

James Adamant led his people out into the High Steppes, determined to make as many speeches as he could while the polls were still open. None of his people said anything, but it was clear to everyone that Adamant needed to reassure himself of his popularity after so many things having gone wrong. So with tired limbs and weary hearts they followed him out onto the streets one last time. Adamant strode ahead, out in front for all to see, with Dannielle at his side. Hawk and Fisher followed close behind. Adamant's supporters had dispersed and gone home after the debacle of the victory banquet, so only half a dozen mercenaries accompanied Adamant on his last excursion into the Steppes, with Bearclaw and Kincaid bringing up the rear. It was a far cry from the cheerful, confident host that had followed him on his first outing, but a lot had happened since then.

Adamant hurried from street to street at a pace his retinue was hard pressed to match, as though he was trying to leave his most recent memories behind and be again the confident, unworried politician he had been at the start of the day. Hawk and Fisher stretched their legs and kept up with him. They walked with weapons drawn, just in case Hardcastle tried for a last-minute assassination. Hawk kept a careful watch on Dannielle. He'd wanted to leave her behind, but she'd insisted on going with them. Trouble was, she was right. Her presence was a vote winner, and her absence would have raised questions Adamant couldn't afford to answer. She'd thrown the last of her dust on the fire before she left. Adamant had just nodded stiffly, and turned away. They were walking arm in arm and smiling at the crowds, but they hadn't exchanged five words since they left the house.

Hawk sighed quietly to himself. As if he didn't have enough things to worry about. Medley had disappeared, along with the notorious Roxanne, but it was too early to tell just how much information he'd betrayed to Hardcastle. Worst of all was the damage he'd done to Adamant's confidence. Adamant had trusted Stefan Medley implicitly, and allowed him to shape and plan his whole campaign. Now Medley was gone, and Adamant didn't know who or what he could rely on anymore.

On top of all that he'd found he couldn't rely on Mortice anymore either. Longarm and his men shouldn't have been able to break into his house at all, but the dead man's mind had been wandering again, and his wards had slipped. He'd promised it wouldn't happen again, and Adamant had pretended to believe him, but neither of them were fooled.

Adamant made another speech on yet another street corner, and as always a crowd gathered to listen. Even now, after all that had happened. Adamant could still sway a crowd with his voice. Perhaps because he still believed in his Cause, even if he was no longer sure of himself. The speech started off well enough. The crowd was responsive and enthusiastic, and cheered in all the right places. Bear-claw and Kincaid moved unobtrusively among them, making sure no one got out of hand. Hawk and Fisher leaned wearily against a wall, feeling unneeded. And then the crowd's cheers turned to screams as fifty mercenaries came pouring out of a side street with swords in their hands.

They cut their way through the scattering crowd, uncaring who they hurt. Bearclaw and Kincaid drew their swords and fought side by side as the tide of mercenaries hit them. Bearclaw swung his great sword two-handed, cutting down his attackers like a scythe slicing through overripe wheat. Kincaid leapt and danced, his blade cutting and thrusting in swift steel blurs. But there were only two of them, and the vast body of mercenaries swept past them without even slowing. The two warriors were quickly surrounded, and moved to stand back to back, still fighting. Adamant's mercenaries tried to make a stand, but there were only six of them and they were quickly overrun. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly forward and put themselves between Adamant and Dannielle and their attackers. They waited grimly, weapons at the ready.

The first mercenary to reach them went for Fisher, mistakenly supposing her to be the easier target. She parried his blow easily, cut his throat on the backswing, and was back on guard before the next mercenary could reach her. Hawk roared a Northern war cry and swung his axe in short, vicious arcs, scattering the mercenaries around him as one by one they fell before his unwavering attack. Soon the street was a boiling cauldron of milling men and flashing steel, and blood flew on the air. Adamant had drawn his sword and was keeping his attackers at bay, but he had trained as a duelist, not a street fighter, and it was all he could do to hold his ground. Dannielle cowered behind him, clutching a dagger he'd given her, hoping she'd find the strength to use it when the time came.

Hawk and Fisher fought side by side, and the mercenaries fell before them, unable to match their skill or their fury. Bearclaw and Kincaid fought alone, separated by the mercenaries, bleeding from a dozen wounds but refusing to fall. Dead men lay piled about them. And then Roxanne appeared out of nowhere, laughing aloud as her sword flashed out to slice through the meat of Kincaid's leg. His mouth gaped soundlessly as his leg crumpled beneath him, unable to bear his weight. He fell to one knee, still trying to swing his sword. Roxanne swept past him, grinning fiercely, heading for Hawk and Fisher. Pike and Da Silva came after her. Pike's sword lashed out to deflect a blow from Bearclaw, and Da Silva's heavy wooden staff swept across to slam into Bearclaw's side. Ribs broke under the impact. Bearclaw coughed blood, and fell forward onto his hands and knees. The mercenaries closed in around Bearclaw and Kincaid, and their swords rose and fell in steady butchery.

Roxanne burst through the milling crowd of fighters and threw herself at Fisher. Fisher tried to hold her ground and couldn't, forced back by the sudden strength and speed of the attack. Hawk tried to reach her, but Pike and Da Silva were quickly upon him, Pike engaging his axe while Da Silva circled patiently with his headbreaker, trying for a clear shot.

Roxanne thrust and parried, laughing breathlessly, and step by step Fisher was driven back, until her back was pressed up against a wall and there was nowhere else to go. Fisher was good with a sword, but Roxanne was an expert, inhumanly strong, and she never seemed to get tired.

For a moment, desperation gave Fisher new strength and she was able to beat aside Roxanne's attack long enough to cut through the mercenary's leathers and open a long, shallow wound along her ribs. Roxanne didn't even flinch, and her return attack drove Fisher back against the wall.

Fisher's moment passed, and her strength faded away, replaced by the day's weariness. She struggled frantically to fend off Roxanne's sword, and then a mercenary stepped in from her blind side and clubbed her down with the hilt of his sword. Fisher dropped to one knee, still clinging to her sword. Blood spilled down her face from a torn scalp. Roxanne and the other mercenary hit her again with their sword hilts, and she fell blindly forward onto the bloody cobbles and lay still. Roxanne kicked her in the head.

Hawk saw Fisher fall, and screamed in fury that he couldn't get to her. He swung his axe savagely at Pike, and the mercenary was forced to retreat. The heavy axe blade smashed through Pike's defenses and knocked him to the ground. Hawk stepped in for the kill, and Da Silva's head-breaker swung round in a tight arc, slamming into Hawk's side, knocking the breath out of him. Hawk staggered backwards, favoring his injured side, and snarled soundlessly at his opponents, daring them to come after him.

Adamant swept his sword back and forth, keeping the mercenaries at bay. For some reason they seemed more interested in keeping him occupied than in trying to kill him. Whatever the reason, it hadn't prevented them from whittling away at him like a carpenter with a block of wood. Blood ran freely from a dozen wounds, staining his fine clothes. Dannielle screamed behind him, and he spun round to see her struggling with a grinning mercenary. Adamant ran him through and turned quickly back to face his opponents. Their attitude changed immediately with the death of their companion, and for the first time they began to press their attack in earnest. Swords seemed to come at him from everywhere at once, and Adamant realized sickly that he couldn't keep off such an attack for more than a few moments. One of the mercenaries beat aside his sword and lunged forward. Dannielle screamed and threw herself in the blade's way. It plunged into her side. She grabbed the blade with both hands as she crumpled to the ground. Adamant screamed hoarsely, and ran the mercenary through. Two men stepped forward to take his place, their faces grim and determined. Adamant lifted his head and screamed at the dark sky above.

"Damn you, Mortice! You promised you'd protect her! Help us!"

The mercenaries froze in their attack, looked briefly startled, and then vomited blood explosively. They fell to the ground, kicking and shaking helplessly as blood poured from their mouths. Adamant looked round dazedly as one by one the attacking mercenaries dropped, coughing up their life's blood in harsh, painful spasms. In a matter of moments, Hawk and Adamant were the only ones left standing, surrounded by the dead and the dying. Adamant turned his back on them and knelt beside Dannielle, lying at his feet, curled around the bloody wound in her side. He took her hand, and she clutched it tightly. Her breathing was quick and ragged, and her face was covered with sweat.

"Screwed up again, didn't I?" she said breathlessly.

"Be quiet," said Adamant gently. "We've got to get you to a doctor."

Dannielle shook her head. "Bit late for that, James. I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Everything."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Danny. Nothing at all. Now, shut up and save your strength."

Dannielle gasped suddenly and clutched at her side. Adamant's heart missed a beat before he realized she was smiling in amazement.

"My side; it doesn't hurt any more. What's happening, James?"

Just doing my job, said Mortice's voice quietly in their minds. The wound is healed. But you'd better get back to the house as fast as you can. You're right on the edge of my limits. I don't know how much longer I can protect you;

His voice faded away and was gone. Adamant helped Danielle to her feet and looked around him. Hawk was checking quickly through the bodies.

"Where's Bearclaw and Kincaid?" said Adamant hoarsely.

"Dead," said Hawk.

"And Captain Fisher?"

"Taken. Roxanne and her two friends must have had their own magical protection."

Adamant rubbed tiredly at his aching head. "I'm sorry. So many dead, and all because of me."

Hawk turned and glared at him. "Stop talking nonsense. There's only one man responsible for all this, and that's Hardcastle. And Isobel isn't dead. She was alive when they took her. Now I'm going to get her back. Can you and Dannielle get home safely without me?"

"I think so. Mortice is back looking after us."

"Right. Go home and stay there until the result comes in. I'm going to find Isobel, and then I'm going to pay Hardcastle a visit. This has gone beyond politics now.

"This is personal."

Stefan Medley sat on the grimy bed in the dimly lit room, staring at nothing. He'd been sitting there ever since Roxanne left. He'd tried to work out what he was going to do next, but he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything. In the space of a few moments his whole world had collapsed, and he was left alone in a filthy little tavern he wouldn't have been seen dead in by daylight.

It hadn't seemed so bad when he was there with Roxanne. They only had eyes for each other, then. Now he could see how cheap and shabby it really was. Just like him. He rubbed tiredly at his aching temples, and tried to think. He wasn't safe as long as he stayed in Haven. Adamant would have no choice but to believe he'd defected to the other side. And Adamant was a first-class duelist. Even assuming Adamant wouldn't kill a man who'd once been his friend, there were certainly many in the Reform Cause with ready swords and no love for traitors.

Traitor. It was a harsh word, but the only one that fitted.

Hardcastle would be after him too, as soon as Roxanne revealed he wasn't going to defect. He'd insulted Hardcastle too many times, frustrated his plans too often. And Hardcastle was well-known as a man who bore grudges.

Medley frowned. With so many hands turned against him the odds were he wouldn't be able to get out of Haven at all. And when he got right down to it, Medley wasn't sure he wanted to leave Haven anyway. It was a cesspool of a city, no doubt of that, but Haven was his home and always had been. Everyone he knew, everything he cared for, was in Haven.

But all that was gone, now. He'd thrown it all away, all for the love of a woman who didn't love him. His friends would disown him, his career was over, his future; Medley sighed quietly, and lowered his head into his hands. He would have liked to cry, but he was too numb for tears.

There hadn't been many women in his life. There had always been girls, part of the social whirl, but they never seemed to have time for a quiet young man whose only interest was politics, and the wrong kind of politics, at that. The bright young things, with their games and laughter and simple happy souls, went to other men, and Medley went on alone. There were a few woman who saw him as a potential business partner. Marriage was still the best way to acquire wealth and social standing in Haven, and Medley's family had always been comfortably well off. There were times when he was so lonely he was tempted to say yes, to one or other of the deals his family made for him, but somehow he never did. He had his pride. He couldn't give that up. It was all he had.

Roxanne had been different. No empty-headed, powdered and perfumed flower of the lesser aristocracy. None of the quiet calculation of a woman looking for a husband as an investment. Roxanne was bright and wild and funny and free, and just being with her had made him feel alive in a way he'd never known before. He could talk to her, tell her things he'd never told anyone else. He'd never been so happy as in the few precious moments he'd shared with her.

Looking back, he supposed he'd been a fool. He should have known a living legend like her couldn't really have seen anything in a nobody like him. Roxanne was beautiful and famous. She could have had anyone she wanted. Another hero or legend, like herself. Someone who mattered. Not just another minor politician, in a city full of them. How could he ever have believed that she cared for him?

No one had ever cared for him before. Not really. Not in the way of a man with a woman. He hadn't realized how bleak and lonely his life had been, until she was there to share it with him. She'd made him feel alive, for the first time in a long time.

And now she was gone, and he was alone again.

Alone. He'd never realized how final that word sounded. It seemed to echo on in his mind, as he saw his future spread out before him. His career was over. No one would ever trust him again, now that he'd betrayed his friend and colleague in the middle of an election. His friends would spurn him, and he'd gone against his family's wishes too often in the past to hope for any support from them.

There was no hope for him now. Hope was for men with a future before them.

But there was still one thing he could do. One last thing that might win him some rest, some peace. And perhaps then his friends would realize how much he regretted the harm he'd done them.

Medley drew the knife from his boot. It was a short knife, barely six inches long, but it had a good blade and a sharp edge. It would do the job. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the knife. He thought about what he was going to do very carefully. It was the last important thing he would ever do, and he didn't want to make a mess of it. He put the knife down beside him on the bed, and rolled up his sleeves. The flesh of his arms seemed very pale, and very vulnerable. He stared at his arms for a while. The long blue veins and the sprinkling of hairs fascinated him, as though he'd never seen them before. He picked up the knife and automatically stropped the blade against his trouser-leg to clean it. He realized what he was doing, and smiled. As if that mattered now.

He held the knife against his left wrist, and then had to stop, because his hands were shaking too much. He was breathing in great heaving gasps, and goose flesh had sprung up on his arms. He concentrated, summoning his courage, and his hands grew steady again. The blade shone dully in the lamplight. He pressed the knife into his flesh, and the skin parted easily under the blade. Blood welled up, and he bit his lip at the sharp pain. He gritted his teeth, and pulled the knife across his wrist. The pain was awful, and he groaned aloud. He could feel the tendons popping as they pulled apart under the blade. Blood spurted out into the air. He quickly grabbed the knife in his left hand, before the feeling could leave his fingers, and slashed at the veins in his right wrist. His arm wavered, and he had to cut twice more before he was sure he'd done a good enough job.

The knife slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor. He was crying now. Tears and snot ran down his face as he struggled for breath amidst his tears. The blood pumped out surprisingly quickly, and he began to feel faint and dizzy. He lay back on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut against the horrid pain that burned all the way up his arms to his elbows. He hadn't thought it would hurt so much. He held his mouth firmly closed, despite the sobs that shook him. He couldn't afford to make any noise. Someone might hear him, and come to help.

He began to feel sick. He couldn't stop crying. This wasn't how he'd thought it would be. But he wasn't surprised; not really. He should have known he wouldn't even be allowed to leave his life with a little dignity. He could see his fingers flexing spasmodically, but he couldn't feel them any longer. The blood was still coming. It soaked the bedding around his arms. So much blood.

He looked up at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes, for the last time.

I loved you, Roxanne. I really loved you.

The darkness closed in around him.

Chapter Eight

RESCUES

Roxanne was furious, and the mercenaries were keeping their distance. Pike and Da Silva had disappeared the moment they reached Hardcastle's safe house, ostensibly to lock Fisher safely away, but actually to get out of Roxanne's reach until she calmed down a little and took her hand away from her sword belt. The twenty mercenaries Hardcastle had detailed to guard the safe house weren't as quick-thinking, which meant they ended up taking the brunt of Roxanne's displeasure. They stayed as far away from her as they could, nodded or shook their heads whenever it seemed indicated; mostly they just tried to fade into the woodwork. Roxanne paced back and forth, growling and muttering to herself. She'd never felt so angry, and what made it worse was that she wasn't all that sure what she was so angry about.

Part of it came from losing so many men to Adamant's sorcerer. If she hadn't insisted on full magical protection from Wulf for herself and Pike and Da Silva, she and they would have died along with her men. Roxanne hated losing men. She took it personally.

Some of her anger came from not having taken Hawk as well as Fisher. She'd vowed to take them both, and she hated to fail at things she set her word to. Legends can't afford to fail; if they do, they stop being legends.

But most of her anger came from how they'd taken Fisher. She'd been looking forward to crossing swords with the legendary Captain Fisher ever since she came to Haven, and in the end somebody had struck the Guard down from behind while she wasn't looking. That was no way to beat a legend. Winning that way made Roxanne feel cheap; like just another paid killer. And on top of all that, she hadn't even been allowed to kill Fisher cleanly. Hardcastle had specifically ordered that Fisher was to be kept alive for interrogation. Roxanne sniffed. She knew a euphemism for torture when she heard it.

She glared about her as she paced, and the mercenaries avoided her gaze. The safe house was a dump; a decaying firetrap in the middle of a row of low-rent tenements. Somehow that was typical of Hardcastle and his operations. Cheap and nasty. All in all, the whole operation had left a bad taste in Roxannes mouth. She was a warrior, and this kind of dirty political fighting didn't sit well with her. She'd killed and tortured before, and delighted in the blood, but that was in the heat of battle, where courage and steel decided men's fates, not dirty little schemes and back-room politics. If anyone had ever accused Roxanne of being honorable, she'd have laughed in their faces, but this; this whole mess just stank to high heaven.

She wondered fleetingly what Medley would have thought of all this, and then pushed the thought firmly to one side.

She stopped pacing about, and took several deep breaths. It calmed her a little, and she took her hand away from her sword. The mercenaries began to breathe a little more easily, and stopped judging the distances to possible exits. Pike and Da Silva chose that moment to reappear. Roxanne glared at them.

"Well?" she said icily.

"Sleeping like a baby," said Pike. "But we've tied her hand and foot, just in case."

Roxanne nodded. "I'll take a quick look at her, and then I'd better report back to Hardcastle. He'll need to know what's happened. You two stay here."

Pike and Da Silva nodded quickly, and watched in silence as Roxanne disappeared into the adjoining room where they'd dumped Fisher. They waited until the door had swung shut behind her, and then looked at each other.

"She's getting out of control," said Da Silva quietly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was developing scruples," said Pike. "Still, Hardcastle knew there was a risk in using Roxanne for political work. Everyone knows Roxanne's crazy. It doesn't matter on a battlefield, but we can't have her running wild in Haven. She knows too much."

"So she's expendable?"

"Everyone's expendable in politics. Especially her. That's official, from Hardcastle."

"Which of us gets to kill her?"

Pike grinned. "I wasn't thinking of fighting a duel with her. I was thinking more along the lines of dosing her wine with a fast-acting poison, waiting until she'd collapsed, and then cutting her head off. There's a good price for her head in the Low Kingdoms."

"Sounds good to me," said Da Silva.

Roxanne stood just inside the doorway of the adjoining room, listening. She'd always had good hearing. It had kept her alive on battlefields more than once. She'd known Pike and Da Silva were up to something, but the casualness with which they discussed her death made her blood boil. The orders had to have come from Hardcastle; they wouldn't have dared make such a decision themselves. Hardcastle had sold her out to a couple of back-alley assassins. She wanted to just charge out into the next room, draw her sword, and cut them both down, but even she wasn't crazy enough to take on twenty-two armed men in a confined space. She hadn't made her reputation as a warrior by being stupid. She had to get out of there and think things over.

She threw the door open, stalked back into the main room, and pretended not to notice the sudden silence. "I'm going to see Hardcastle. Keep a close eye on Fisher, but don't damage her any further. Hardcastle's going to want that privilege for himself."

She nodded briskly to Pike and Da Silva, and headed for the door before they could come up with some excuse to stop her. Her back crawled in anticipation of an attack, her ears straining for any hint of steel being drawn from a scabbard, but nothing happened. She stepped out into the street, and slammed the door behind her, almost disappointed. She moved quickly off down the street to lose herself in the crowds.

She still wasn't sure what she was going to do next. She was damned if she'd go on working for Hardcastle, but she couldn't just walk out on him either. Deserting ship in mid-contract would ruin her name. Most of the time Roxanne didn't give a rat's arse what anyone thought of her, but her professional name was a different matter. If word got round she couldn't be trusted to complete her commissions, no one would hire her.

Most people were too frightened to approach her as it was.

But she couldn't let Hardcastle get away with threatening her, either. That would do her reputation even more damage. She scowled as she strode along, and people all around her hurried to get out of her way. All this thinking made her head hurt. She needed someone she could talk to, someone she could trust. But she'd never trusted anyone; except Stefan Medley.

The thought surprised her, as did the warmth of feeling that went through her at the thought of seeing him again. Stefan had been a good sort, for a politician. He understood things like honesty and honor. She'd go and see him. He was probably still mad at her, but they'd work something out. She headed back to the tavern where she'd left him. Someone there would be able to tell her where he'd gone.

The tavern was full of customers. Smoke hung heavily on the air, and the crowd round the bar were singing a Reform anthem, cheerfully if not too accurately. Roxanne made her way to the bar, elbowing people out of her way. She yelled for the bartender, but he was busy taking orders and pretended he hadn't heard her. Roxanne leaned across the bar, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and pulled his face close to hers. The bartender started to object, realized who she was, and went very pale.

"Stefan Medley," said Roxanne quietly, dangerously. "The man I came here with. Where did he go after he left here?"

"He didn't go anywhere," said the bartender. "He's still in his room."

Roxanne frowned, dropped the bartender and turned away. What the hell was Stefan doing, hanging around here? He must know the Reformers would already be hot on his trail, and it wouldn't take them long to find out about this place. Medley had always been very careful about their assignations here, but Roxanne had deliberately left clues all over the place. That had been part of her job, then. She shook her head. The sooner she talked to Stefan and got the hell out of here, the better. She hurried up the stairs behind the bar, taking the steps two at a time. Everything would be all right once she'd talked to Stefan. He'd know what to do. He always did.

The door to their room was locked. Roxanne looked quickly around, knocked twice and waited impatiently. There was no sound from inside the room. She knocked again, and called his name quietly. There was no answer. Roxanne frowned. He must be there; the door was still locked. Was he sulking? That wasn't like Stefan. Maybe he was asleep. She knocked again, and called his name as loudly as she dared, but there was no reply. Roxanne began to get a bad feeling about the room. Something was wrong. Maybe the Reformers had already caught up with him;

She drew her sword, and kicked at the door savagely with the heel of her boot. The door shuddered, but held. Roxanne cursed it briefly and tried again. The crude lock broke, and the door swung inwards. The room beyond was dark and quiet. Roxanne moved quickly into the room and darted to one side so that she wouldn't be caught silhouetted against the light from the open door. She stood poised in the gloom, sword at the ready, but it only took her a few moments to realize there were no ambushers in the room. She put away her sword and lit one of the lamps.

Light filled the room, and for a moment all Roxanne could see was the blood. It covered the bedclothes, and had spilled down the sides to form pools on the floor. Some of it had already dried. Roxanne moved forward quietly and felt for a pulse on Medley's neck. It was still there, slow and feeble, but his skin was deathly cold. At first she thought the Reformers had got to him, and then she looked at his arms and saw the ugly black wounds at his wrists. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized what he'd done, and why. She turned and ran from the room.

She hurried back down the stairs and into the bar, fought her way through the crowd, and grabbed the bartender again. "I need a healer! Now!"

"There's a Northern witch on the first floor. Calls herself Vienna. She knows a few things. She's all there is, unless you want me to send out for someone;"

"No! You don't talk to anyone about this. You do, and I'll gut you. Which room is she in?"

"Room Nine. Just round the corner from the stairs. You can't miss it."

Roxanne dropped the bartender, and ran back up the stairs. It didn't take her long to find Room Nine, but it seemed like ages. She hammered on the door with her fist until it opened a crack, and a suspicious eye looked out at her.

"Who is it? What do you want?"

"I need a healer."

"I don't do abortions."

Roxanne kicked the door in, grabbed a handful of the woman's gown, and slammed her up against the wall. She struggled feebly, her feet kicking helplessly several inches above the floor. She started to call out for help, and Roxanne thrust her face up close to the witch's. The witch went very quiet and stopped struggling.

"A friend of mine is hurt," said Roxanne. "Dying. Save his life or I'll kill you slowly. Now move it!"

She put Vienna down and hauled her up the stairs to the next floor and Medley's room. Vienna took one look at the blood and started to leave, then stopped as she met Roxanne's gaze. The witch was a tiny frail little thing, in a shabby green dress, and at any other time Roxanne might have felt guilty about bullying her, but this was different. All she could think of was Stefan, dying alone in a dirty tavern room, because of her. She gestured curtly at Medley, and Vienna turned back and examined his wrists.

"Nasty," said the witch quietly. "But you're in luck, warrior. He didn't make a very good job of it. He cut across the veins instead of lengthwise. The blood's been able to clot and close off the wounds. He's lost a lot of blood, though;"

"Can you save him?" said Roxanne.

"I think so. A simple healing spell on the wrists, and another to speed up production of new blood;" She started reciting a series of technicalities that Roxanne didn't understand, but she just let the witch babble on, unable to concentrate on anything but the great wave of relief surging through her. He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to die because of her. She nodded harshly to Vienna, and the witch began her magic. The rites were simple and rather unpleasant, but very effective. The torn flesh at the wrists closed together and fused, and faint tinges of color began to seep back into Medley's face. His breathing became steadier and deeper.

"That's all I can do," said Vienna finally. "Let him rest for a couple of days, and he'll be as good as new. Keeping him alive is your problem. Those cuts on his wrists were deep. He meant business."

"Yes," said Roxanne. "I know." She untied the purse from her belt and tossed it to Vienna, without checking to see how much was in it. "Not a word to anyone," said Roxanne, still looking at Medley. The witch nodded, and left quickly before Roxanne could change her mind.

Roxanne sat on the edge of the bed beside Medley, ignoring the blood that soaked into her trousers. He looked drawn and tired, as though he'd been through a long fever. She let her hand rest on his forehead for a moment. The flesh felt cool and dry.

"What am I going to say to you, Stefan?" she said quietly. "I never thought you'd do anything like this. You were just a job to me, but; I liked you, Stefan. Why did you have to do this?"

"Why not?" said Medley hoarsely. He licked his lips and swallowed dryly. Roxanne poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and held the glass to his mouth while he drank. He managed a few swallows, and she put the glass down. Medley lifted his arms and looked at the healed wounds on his wrists. He smiled sourly, and let his arms fall back onto the bed. "You shouldn't have bothered, Roxanne. I'll only have to do it again."

"Don't you dare," said Roxanne. "I can't go through all this again. My nerves won't stand it. Why did you do it, Stefan?"

"It's not enough just to live," said Medley. "You have to have something to live for. Something, or someone. For a while I had politics, and when I grew tired of that, I found Adamant. He needed me, made me feel important and valued; made me his friend. But even at its best I was just living someone else's life, following someone else's lead.

"And then I met you, and you gave my life meaning. I was so happy with you. You were all the things that had been missing from my life. You made me feel that I mattered, that I was someone in my own right, not just someone else's shadow. And then you told me it was all a lie, and walked out of my life forever. I can't go back to being what I was, Roxanne. I'd rather die than do that. I love you, and if what we had was just a lie, then I prefer that lie to reality. Even if I have to die to keep it. "

"No one ever felt that way for me before," said Roxanne slowly. "I'm going to have to think about that. But I promise you this, Stefan; I'll stay with you for as long as you need me. I'm not sure why, but you're important to me, too."

Medley looked at her for a long moment. "If this is; just another game you're playing, a way to get more information out of me, I don't mind. Just tell me what you want to know, and I'll tell you. But don't pretend you care for me if you don't. Please. I can't go through that again."

"Forget all that," said Roxanne. "Hardcastle can go stuff himself. Things will be different from now on."

"I love you," said Medley. "How do you feel about me?"

"Damned if I know," said Roxanne.

Hawk was tired, and his arm and back muscles ached from too much use and too little rest. During the past hour he'd been through half the dives in the Steppes, looking for a lead on Fisher. No one knew anything, no matter how forcefully he put the question. Eventually he came to the reluctant belief that they were telling the truth. And that only left one place to look. Brimstone Hall. Hardcastle's home.

He stood outside the great iron gates, and stared past the two nervous men-at-arms on duty. The old Hall looked quiet and almost deserted, with lights showing at only a few windows. Somewhere in there he'd find what he was looking for; someone or something that would put him on the right trail.

The two men-at-arms looked at each other uncertainly, but said nothing. They recognized Hawk, and knew what he was capable of. They hadn't missed the fresh blood dripping from the axe in his right hand. Hawk ignored them, concentrating on the Hall. Hardcastle and his people would be out on the streets now, so the chances were good he'd only have to face a skeleton staff. Maybe he'd get really lucky and find Isobel locked away in some cellar here. He remembered the way she'd looked as she'd been dragged away, bloody and unconscious, and the slow cold rage began to build in him again. He shifted his gaze to the two men-at-arms, and they stirred uneasily.

"Open the gates," said Hawk.

"Hardcastle isn't here," said one of the men. "Everyone's out."

"Somebody will talk to me."

"Not to you. Captain Hawk. We have our orders. You're not to be allowed entrance under any circumstances. As far as you're concerned, everyone's out and always will be."

"Open the gates," said Hawk.

"Get lost," said the other. "You've no business here."

Hawk hit him low, well below the belt. He doubled up and fell writhing to the ground. The other man-at-arms backed quickly away. Hawk pushed the gates open, stepped over the man on the ground, and entered the grounds of Brimstone Hall. The man-at-arms left standing took one look at Hawk's face and turned and ran for the Hall. Hawk went after him at a steady walk. No point in hurrying. No one was going anywhere.

He heard the approach of soft, padding feet, and looked round to see three huge dogs charging silently towards him. Hawk studied them carefully. Hardcastle's dogs were supposed to be man-killers and man-eaters, but they looked ordinary enough to Hawk. He took a bag of powder from his belt, opened it, held his breath, and threw the powder into the air right in front of the dogs. The dogs skidded to a halt, sniffed suspiciously at the air, and then sat down suddenly with big sloppy grins on their faces. Hawk waited a moment to be sure the dust had done its job, then walked cautiously past them. Two of the dogs ignored him completely, and the third rolled over on its back so that Hawk could rub its belly. Hawk smiled slightly, careful not to breathe till he was well past the dogs. He'd known the second bag of dust he'd found in Dannielle's room would come in handy.

He headed for the Hall. Everything seemed quiet. He'd almost reached the main door when it suddenly swung open before him, and five men-at-arms in full chain mail spilled out to block his path. Hawk smiled at them, and held his bloody axe so they could see it clearly.

"Where is she?" he said softly. "Where's Hardcastle keeping my wife?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," said the foremost man-at-arms. "I'm Brond. I speak for Hardcastle in his absence, and he doesn't want to speak to you. You'd better leave now. You're already in a lot of trouble."

"Last chance," said Hawk. "Where's my wife?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," said Brond. He half-turned away and addressed the other men. "Throw him out. Don't be gentle about it. Show the man what happens when he messes with his betters."

Hawk slammed his axe into Brond's side. The heavy steel head punched clean through Brond's chain mail, and buried itself in his rib cage. Brond stood and stared at it for a moment, unable to believe what had happened, then fell to his knees, blood starting from his mouth. Hawk jerked his axe free, and the four remaining men-at-arms jumped him. The first to reach Hawk went down screaming in a flurry of blood and guts as Hawk's axe opened him up across the belly.

The other three tried to surround Hawk, but his axe swept back and forth, keeping them at arm's length. They surged around him, darting in and jumping back, like dogs trying to bring down a bear. Hawk smiled at them coldly, calculating the odds. The men-at-arms were good, but he was better. He could take them. It was only a matter of time. And then four more men-at-arms came running out of the main door, and Hawk knew he was in trouble. With Fisher to watch his back, he'd have taken them on without a second thought, but fighting on his own the odds were murder. Nevertheless he was damned if he'd back down. Fisher needed him. Besides, he'd faced worse odds in his time. He took a firm hold on his axe and threw himself at his nearest opponent.

And then suddenly there was another figure, fighting at his side; tall and lithe and very deadly. Two men-at-arms fell to the newcomer's blade in as many seconds. Hawk cut down a third and suddenly the men-at-arms scattered and ran for their lives. Hawk slowly lowered his axe, and turned to face Roxanne. For a long moment they stood looking at each other, and then Roxanne lowered her sword.

"All right," said Hawk. "What's going on?"

"We've come to help," said Medley, approaching the two of them cautiously. "We know where your wife is. We can take you right to her."

"Why the hell should I trust you?" said Hawk. "You both work for Hardcastle."

"Not anymore," said Roxanne. "He broke his contract with me."

"And I never worked for him," said Medley flatly.

"Besides," said Roxanne. "Without our help you haven't a hope of finding and rescuing your wife."

Hawk smiled slightly. "That's a good reason."

He hesitated, and then put away his axe. Roxanne sheathed her sword, and the three of them walked back through the grounds to the main gates. They had to go slowly so that Medley could keep up with them. Hawk looked at him more closely.

"You don't look too good, Medley. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"He's been ill," said Roxanne quickly. "He's fine now."

Hawk looked at them both, and then let the matter drop. There was obviously a story there, but it could wait. "How did you find me?" he asked finally.

Medley smiled. "You seem to have spent the last hour or so cutting a path right through the seedier half of the High Steppes. AH we had to do was follow the path of blood and bodies."

"You haven't said what you expect to get out of this," said Hawk.

"The dropping of any and all charges against us," said Medley. "A clean slate."

"All right," said Hawk. "You help me rescue Isobel, and I'll come through for you. But if I even suspect you're trying to set me up, I'll kill you both. Deal?"

"How could we refuse?" said Medley.

"Deal," said Roxanne.

Pike had been stuck in the safe house for over an hour, and the ale had run out. He couldn't send out for more because they weren't supposed to draw attention to themselves. He leaned his chair back against the wall and looked thoughtfully at the locked door that stood between him and Captain Isobel Fisher. The beautiful, arrogant Captain. Not so arrogant now, though. Pike smiled at the thought. And let his hand drop to the key ring at his belt. Hardcastle's orders had been quite specific about delivering her alive, but no one had said anything about intact;

Pike looked around him. Six of his men were playing dice and arguing about the side bets. Two more were doing running repairs on their chain mail. The rest were scattered around the house, acting as lookouts. All in all, the house was thoroughly secure, and no one would miss him if he took a little break. He called quietly to Da Silva, and the mercenary left the dice game and came over to join him.

"This had better be good. Pike; I was winning."

"You can cheat at dice any time. I've got a more pleasurable game in mine."

Da Silva looked at the locked door, and frowned. "Wondered how long it would take for you to get the itch for her. Forget it. Pike. That's Captain Fisher in there. We can't afford to take any chances with her."

"Come on," said Pike. "She's just a woman. We can handle her between us. Are you game?"

"I'm game if you are." Da Silva smiled suddenly. "Who gets first shot?"

"Toss you for it."

"My coin or yours?"

"Mine."

Pike took a silver mark from his purse, and handed it to Da Silva, who examined both sides carefully before returning it. Pike flipped the coin and caught it deftly before slapping it flat on his arm. Da Silva called heads, and then swore when Pike revealed the coin. Pike grinned and put it away. Da Silva glanced at the other mercenaries.

"What about the others?" he said quietly.

"What about them?" said Pike. "Let them find their own women."

Da Silva looked at the locked door and licked his lips thoughtfully. "We're going to have to be very careful with her, Pike. If we give her a chance, she'll cut our throats with our own knives."

"So we won't give her a chance. Will you stop worrying? First, she's already had a hell of a beating. That should have taken some of the starch out of her. And secondly, I tied her up hand and foot while she was unconscious, remember? She's in no position to give us any trouble. So, I untie her feet, and then you hold her steady while I give her a good time. Afterwards, we swop over. Right?"

"Right." Da Silva grinned broadly. "You always did know how to show your friends a good time, Pike."

They walked purposefully towards the locked door. A few of the other mercenaries looked in their direction, but nobody said anything. Pike unlocked the door, and took a lamp off the wall. He grinned once at Da Silva, and then the two of them went to see Captain Fisher.

The room had no windows or other light, and Fisher screwed up her eyes at the sudden glare. She'd been awake for some time, but alone in the dark she had no way of telling how much time had passed. Her head ached fiercely, and she knew she was lucky not to have a concussion. There were cramps in her arms from being tied behind her, and her hands were numb because the ropes at her wrists were too tight. Her ankles were hobbled and there was no sign of her sword. All in all, she'd been in better condition.

She struggled to sit upright, and looked at the two men standing by the door. They closed it carefully behind them, and from the way they looked at her, she had a good idea of what they had in mind. A sudden horror gripped her, and she had to grit her teeth to stop her mouth from trembling. She'd faced death before, been hurt so many times she'd lost count of the scars, but this was different.

She'd thought about rape, she supposed every woman had, but she'd never really thought it would happen to her. Not to her, not to Captain of the Guard Fisher; the warrior. She was too strong, too good with a sword, too determined to protect herself for anything like that to happen to her. Only now her sword was gone, the strength had been knocked out of her, and determination on its own wasn't going to be enough to protect her; She bit down firmly, on her growing panic. She had to keep her wits about her, and watch for a chance to thwart them. If all else failed, there was always revenge.

Pike put the lamp into a niche high up on the wall. He could feel Fisher watching him. He moved unhurriedly towards her. Her eyes were steady, but just a bit too wide. He grinned, knelt down beside her, and put one hand on her thigh. In spite of herself, Fisher shrank away from his touch.

"No need to worry, Captain," said Pike, giving her thigh a little squeeze, just hard enough to let her feel the strength in his hand. "My friend and I won't hurt you, as long as you behave yourself. No. You just be nice and cooperative and show us a nice time, and you don't have to get hurt at all. Of course, if you're determined to be unpleasant about it, my friend Da Silva here knows some real nasty tricks with a skinning knife. Isn't that right. Da Silva?"

"Right." Da Silva laughed as Fisher's eyes darted to him and then away again.

"I'm a Captain of the Guard,'" said Fisher. "If anything happens to me, you'll be in real trouble."

"That's out there," said Pike. "Things like that don't matter in here. In here, there's just you and us."

"My husband will track me down. You've heard of Hawk, haven't you?"

"Sure," said Pike. "We're waiting for him. He's good, but so are we. And there are a lot more of us than there is of him."

Fisher thought frantically. There was the sound of truth and confidence in his voice, and that frightened her more than anything. They didn't just want her, they wanted Hawk as well.

"All right," she said finally, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked. "I won't fight you. Just; don't hurt me. Why not untie me? I could be more; cooperative then."

Pike's hand lashed out, slapping her viciously across the face. Her head rang from the force of the blow. She could feel blood running down her chin from her crushed mouth. She gritted her teeth against the pain and the dizziness. She'd been hurt worse in her time, but this kind of cold and casual violence was new to her, and all the more intimidating because of her utter helplessness.

"That's for thinking we're stupid," said Pike. "If I untie your hands, I'm a dead man. You're not going to get that chance. Captain."

He drew a knife from his boot, and Fisher tensed, but he only used it to cut the ropes binding her ankles together. Da Silva moved quickly in to hold her ankles while Pike put away his knife. Fisher's heart speeded up, and her breathing became ragged and uneven. Pike put a hand on her breast and pushed her so that she fell onto her back. He began to undo his trousers. Fisher struggled to sit upright again, as though that could somehow put off the inevitable. Pike laughed. He leaned forward and grabbed her hair, tilting her head back. He held her head steady as he put his face down to kiss her.

Fisher sank her teeth into his lower lip. Her teeth met, and she jerked her head back, taking most of Pike's lip with her. Blood ran from his mouth, and for a moment the pain and shock held him rigid. Fisher spat out the lip and snapped her head forward in a savage butt to Pike's face. There was the flat, definitive sound of his nose breaking, and he fell backward against Da Silva, sending him sprawling. Fisher scrambled to her feet while Da Silva pushed Pike aside and struggled up onto his knees. Fisher stepped forward and kicked Da Silva squarely in the groin, putting all her weight behind it. Da Silva's breath caught in his throat before he could scream, and he fell forward onto the floor, clutching at the awful pain between his legs. Pike was rolling back and forth on the floor with both his hands at his face, unable to think straight for the pain. Fisher kicked him solidly in the head until he stopped moving.

She heard movement behind her, and turned quickly to find Da Silva was back on his feet again. He was crouched around his pain, but he had a knife in his hand, and his eyes were cold and angry. Fisher backed away, and Da Silva went after her. He feinted at her with his knife, but she saw it for what it was, stepped quickly inside his reach while he was off balance, and kicked him in the knee. Da Silva fell forward as his leg collapsed under him, and Fisher's knee came up and caught him squarely on the chin. Da Silva's head snapped back, and he fell limply to the floor and lay still.

Fisher leaned back against the cold stone wall, shaking violently. Her head ached so badly she could barely think, but she knew she couldn't stop and rest. If the other mercenaries had heard anything of the fight, they might decide to see what was happening. And she was in no condition to take on anyone else. She took a deep breath and held it, and some of her shakes went away. She got down on her knees and groped around on the floor until she found the knife Da Silva had dropped. All she had to do now was cut the bonds at her wrists, which were knotted in the middle of her back where she couldn't see them, then work out a plan that would get her out of here without having to take on however many other mercenaries were waiting in the next room. Fisher smiled sourly, and concentrated on cutting the ropes and not her arms. One thing at a time.

The narrow street was almost completely dark, with only a single street lamp shedding pale golden light across the decaying, stunted houses. The parties and parades had passed them by, and nothing disturbed the street's sullen quiet. In the shadows, Hawk and Roxanne drew their weapons, while Medley kept a careful watch on the safe house. The shutters were all closed and there was no sign of any life. Hawk studied the house for some time, and scowled unhappily.

"Are you sure this is the right place? Where the hell are the lookouts?"

"There are spy-holes and concealed viewing slits all over the house," said Roxanne quietly. "Hardcastle's used this place before. There's at least twenty armed men inside that house, just waiting for you to try and rescue Captain Fisher."

"Maybe we should send to Adamant for reinforcements," said Medley.

"There isn't time," snapped Hawk. "Every minute Isobel's in there, she's in danger. I want her out now."

"All right," said Medley. "What's the plan?"

Roxanne smiled, a familiar darkness in her eyes. "Who needs a plan? We just storm the front door, cut down the guards, and kill anyone who gets between us and freeing Captain Fisher."

Hawk and Medley exchanged a glance. Roxanne had many qualities as a warrior, but subtlety wasn't one of them.

"We can't risk a straightforward assault," said Hawk carefully. "They might just kill Isobel at the first sign of a rescue attempt. We need some kind of diversion, something to distract their attention."

"I could set fire to something," said Roxanne.

"I'd rather you didn't," said Medley quickly. "This whole street's a fire trap. Start a blaze here and we lose half the Steppes."

"I've got a better idea," said Hawk. "Since they're going to see us approaching anyway, let's show them something they won't find threatening. We just walk up to the door with me unarmed, and Roxanne's sword at my back. Medley can carry my axe. They'll think you've captured me. Once inside, we study the situation and choose our moment. With any luck they'll want to lock me up with Fisher. So, we wait until they unlock the right door, then Medley passes me my axe and we kill everything that moves. Any questions?"

Roxanne looked at Hawk. "You're ready to trust me with a sword at your back?"

"Sure," said Hawk. "Because if you try anything, I'll take the sword away from you and make you eat it."

Roxanne looked at Medley. "He just might."

"Let's make a start," said Medley. "Before I get a rush of brains to the head and realize just how dangerous this is."

* * *

Fisher shook the last of the rope bindings from her wrists and flapped her hands hard to try and get the blood moving again. There were angry red cuts on her arms and wrists from where the knife had cut her as well as the ropes, but she ignored them. Feeling began to come back into her hands, and she winced as pins and needles moved in her fingers. She padded silently over to the closed door and listened carefully. So far, no one seemed to have missed Pike and Da Silva, but she didn't know how long that would last. She went back to Pike and drew his sword from its scabbard. It was a good blade.

She looked at the two men lying bloody and unconscious on the floor. They would have raped her, abused her, and then handed her over to Hardcastle for a slow, painful death. Assuming she got out of this mess alive, she could have them both sent to the mines for the rest of their lives. No one messes with a Guard and gets away with it. But there was always the chance Hardcastle would buy the judge and Pike and Da Silva would go free. She couldn't allow that to happen. As long as they were free, she would never feel safe again.

She knelt beside Pike and put the edge of his sword against his throat. She could do it. No one would ever know. She knelt there for a long time, and then she took the sword away from his throat and stood up. She couldn't kill a helpless man in cold blood. Not even him. She was a Guard, and a Guard enforces the law; she doesn't take revenge.

She turned her back on Pike and Da Silva, moved over to the door and eased it open an inch. She didn't know how many mercenaries were out there, but from the muttered talk it sounded like quite a few. Her best bet would be to throw open the door and then make a mad dash for the main door. She might make it. If she was lucky. She eased the door open a little further, and then froze as there was a sudden pounding on the front door.

Hawk looked calmly about him, as though he couldn't feel the point of Roxanne's sword digging into his back. It occurred to him that if he'd misjudged the situation, he was in a whole lot of trouble. There were twelve mercenaries in the room, some carrying weapons, some not. According to Roxanne, there were more mercenaries on the next floor up. So, assume twenty men, all told. Ten to one odds. Hawk smiled. He'd faced worse in his time. One of the mercenaries walked over to him. Tall, muscular, chain mail. Wore a sword in a battered scabbard and looked like he knew how to use it. Regular issue mercenary. He nodded briefly to Roxanne, and looked Hawk up and down.

"So this is the famous Captain Hawk. Do come in, Captain. Don't stand on ceremony." He laughed softly. "You know, Captain, Hardcastle's just dying to see you. As for you, you're just dying."

"Where's my wife?" said Hawk.

The mercenary backhanded Hawk across the face. He saw it coming, but still couldn't ride much of the blow. His head rang, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet for a moment.

"You speak when you're spoken to, Captain. I can see we're going to have to teach you some manners before we let you meet Councilor Hardcastle. But don't worry about your wife. We haven't forgotten her. Even as we speak, she's being entertained by two of our men. I'm sure they're giving her a real good time."

He laughed, and Hawk kneed him in the groin. The mercenary bent forward around his pain, almost as though bowing to Hawk, and Hawk rabbit-punched him on the way to the floor. The other mercenaries jumped to their feet and grabbed for their weapons.

Hawk snatched his axe from Medley, yelled for Roxanne to guard his back, and started toward the first mercenary without looking to see if Roxanne was there. Hawk swung his axe up and then buried it almost to the hilt in the shoulder of the first mercenary, shearing through the chain mail. The force of the blow drove the mercenary to his knees. Hawk put his boot against the man's chest and pulled the blade free. Blood flew on the air as Hawk turned to face his next opponent. There was a clash of steel on steel as Roxanne struck down a second mercenary, and Hawk allowed himself a small smile of relief.

And then the door on the other side of the room burst open, and Fisher charged out, sword in hand. Hawk's smile widened. All this time he'd been worried about her, and here she was safe and sound. He should have known. She seemed a little startled to see Roxanne guarding his back, but she quickly set about carving a path through the mercenaries to reach him.

Hawk swung his axe double-handed, and blood splashed across the filthy floor. The heavy steel blade easily deflected the lighter swords, and punched through chain mail as though it wasn't there. Fisher fought at his side, her sword a steel blur as she cut and parried and thrust. Roxanne laughed and danced and cut her way through her fellow mercenaries with a deadly glee. Medley stayed out of the way. He knew his limitations.

A bearded mercenary dueled Hawk to a halt, his heavy long-sword almost a match for Hawk's axe. They locked blades, and stood face to face for a moment. Muscles bunched across the mercenary's shoulders, and Hawk quickly realized he couldn't hold the man back for long. So he spat in his eyes. The mercenary jerked back his head instinctively and lost his balance. Hawk swept the sword aside and slammed the axe into the man's chest.

Fisher stood toe to toe with a tall, slender mercenary, trading blow for blow. She knew she daren't keep that up for long. He was bigger than her, and she was still weakened, from what she'd been through. She locked eyes with him, stepped forward and brought her heel down hard on the instep of his right foot. She could feel bones crush and break in his foot. The sudden pain sucked the color from his face and the strength from his arms. Fisher beat aside his blade and cut his throat on the backswing. The mercenary dropped his sword and clutched at his throat with both hands, as though he could somehow hold the ghastly wound together. He was already sinking to his knees as Fisher turned to face her next opponent.

Roxanne swung her sword in wide, vicious arcs, and the mercenaries fell back before her. Her eyes were wide with uncomplicated delight, and she laughed breathlessly as her blade cut through their flesh. She was doing what she did best, what she was born to do. She moved among her former companions with neither mercy nor compassion, and none of them could stand against her. She killed them with professionalism and style, and the blood sang in her head.

Suddenly the mercenaries broke and ran, even though they still outnumbered their attackers. Pike and Da Silva might have been able to rally them, but without their leaders the mercenaries hadn't the nerve to face three living legends.

Hawk looked round the suddenly empty room, and lowered his axe. He was almost disappointed the fight was over so soon. He had a lot of pent-up anger to work off. He turned, smiling, to Fisher, and his anger turned suddenly cold and merciless as he saw what they'd done to her. Her mouth was bruised and swollen, and blood from a nasty cut on her scalp had spilled down one side of her face. He took her in his arms and held her tightly, and she hugged him back as if she would never let him go. Finally Medley coughed politely, and Hawk and Fisher broke apart. Fisher looked at Medley, and then at Roxanne.

"They're on our side," said Hawk. "Don't ask; it gets complicated."

Fisher shrugged. "That's politicians and mercenaries for you. Let's hope Adamant's the forgiving kind. There are two more mercenaries in the other room, out cold. We're taking them with us; I'll be pressing charges."

Hawk caught some of the undertones in her voice. "Are you all right, lass?"

"Sure," said Fisher. "I'm fine now."

Chapter Nine

WINNERS AND LOSERS

The election was almost over, and Hardcastle was hosting a victory party in his ballroom. The faithful had come by the hundreds to share his hospitality and celebrate another Conservative victory in the Steppes. Hardcastle looked out over the milling crowd and smiled graciously at his favorites. People came to congratulate him, and politely remind him of all their labors on his behalf. Hardcastle had a smile and a nod for all of them, but his mind was elsewhere. The voting had to be nearly over by now, but so far he'd heard nothing about how the voting was going. None of his people had reported back, and Wulf had locked himself away in his room. Of course, he was bound to win. He always did. But the complete lack of news worried him.

There was no word on Hawk and Fisher, though they should have been captured or dead by now. There was no word at all from Pike or Da Silva. And Roxanne had disappeared. No one had seen or heard from her for hours. Hardcastle scowled. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. But there was still one source of information open to him. He gestured to one of his servants and curtly ordered the man to fetch the sorcerer Wulf. The servant hesitated, but one look at Hardcastle's face convinced him there was no point in protesting. He bowed quickly and left the ballroom.

Hardcastle looked around him, and his scowl deepened. The party seemed as loud and cheerful as ever, but somehow the mood didn't feel right. The laughter was too loud, the smiles too forced, and here and there, there were pockets of quiet, almost furtive talk. The musicians were playing sprightly music, but no one was dancing. Hardcastle frowned. He had to give them some positive news soon or their nerves would crack. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see worried faces with wide, desperate eyes. His guests looked more and more like wild animals gathered together, sensing a storm in the air.

Wulf entered the ballroom, and a sudden silence spread quickly across the guests. The musicians stopped playing. Wulf walked slowly forward, and the crowd drew back from him so that he walked alone. He wore his long black sorcerer's cloak wrapped tightly about his slender frame. The cowl had been pulled forward to hide his face. He came to a halt before Hardcastle, and the cowled head bowed slightly. A sudden chill swept through Hardcastle like an awful premonition, and he fought to keep it out of his face. He smiled at Wulf, and gestured for the musicians to begin playing again. They did so, and the party chatter slowly resumed.

Hardcastle glanced at his wife, standing silently beside him, as always. She was staring at the floor, her face calm and impassive. Hardcastle told her to move back a few paces, and she did so without looking up. Hardcastle fixed his gaze on Wulf. There were things he had to discuss with the sorcerer, and he didn't want any witnesses. Not even Jillian.

"All right, Wulf; what's going on? You've been cowering in your room ever since we got back from the Street of Gods. What's the matter with you?"

"It's the Being," said Wulf, his voice low and toneless. "The Abomination. The Lord of the Gulfs. I didn't understand. I couldn't understand what it was, what it meant;"

"Pull yourself together, man," snapped Hardcastle. "I need information. I need to know what's happening in the city. What are the results? What's Adamant up to? Why haven't I heard from my people? Dammit, use your magic and tell me what's happening!"

"I daren't. He's too strong. I can feel him growing."

Hardcastle looked sharply at Wulf. "You told me you could control him. You told me that hosting that thing would make you so powerful no one could stand against us."

"You don't understand," said Wulf. "The Lord of the Gulfs isn't some demon or elemental, to be bent to my will by my magic. The Abomination is one of the Transient Beings; an aspect of reality given shape and form by man's perception. A single concept given flesh and blood and bone. It isn't real, as we understand the term. There are things that live outside the world, in the spaces between spaces, and they hunger for strange and awful things. I thought I could control it while it was still weak and confused from its long sleep, but it's so powerful; I can feel it in my mind, clawing at the wards I built to hold it. It's going to get out, Cameron;"

"We can talk about this later," said Hardcastle. "Now get a hold of yourself. You're supposed to be a top rank sorcerer; act like one! I must have information, Wulf. I need to know what's happening out there on the streets. Use your magic to locate my people, and tell me what's happening in the election. That's an order!"

For a long moment Wulf just stood there, head bowed, and Hardcastle began to think the sorcerer was going to defy him. But finally Wulf nodded slightly and began to speak, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the nervous chatter of the guests.

"The mercenaries you sent after Captains Hawk and Fisher are either dead or scattered. Their leaders, Pike and Da Silva, are under arrest. They have agreed to give evidence against you in return for lesser sentences. The voting is almost over. Adamant is winning."

Hardcastle stood very still. At first there was only disbelief and shock, but both gradually gave way to a cold and vicious anger. How dare they? How dare they turn against him and elect Adamant? They'd forgotten who was really in charge of the High Steppes, but he'd remind them. He'd teach the Reformers a lesson they'd never forget. He glared at Wulf, his voice slow and steady and very deadly.

"You are my man, Wulf; bound to me by vows sealed in blood."

"Yes, Cameron. I am yours to command."

"Then use this great power of yours. Go to Adamant's house and kill him. Kill him, and every other person there."

"That; may not be wise, Cameron. You need me here. Without my magic to augment and magnify your presence, you won't be able to control your followers with your speeches anymore."

"I was making speeches long before I had your magic to back me up. I can deal with my people. They'll do as they're told, as always. You have your orders, Wulf. Kill Adamant, and everyone with him. Obey me."

"Cameron; please. The Abomination;"

"Obey me!"

Wulf put back his head and screamed. The horrible piercing sound silenced the crowd in a moment. His cowl fell back, revealing what was left of his face. All the flesh was gone, devoured by some hideous internal hunger. There was only a grinning skull, barely covered by skin stretched tight across the bone like splitting parchment. His eyes were gone, the sockets raw and bloody. He rose up into the air, still screaming, his body twitching with awkward, ungainly movements that suggested the form inside the black robe was no longer entirely human.

He disappeared, and there was a small clap of thunder as air rushed in to fill the space where he had been. Someone in the crowd laughed uneasily, and slowly the babble of voices began again, as though if they could speak loud enough, they wouldn't have to think about what they had just seen. Hardcastle smiled. With Adamant and all his people dead there would have to be another election in the Steppes, but no one would dare stand against him. People would talk but no one would be able to prove anything. He would be Councilor again. And then he'd make the scum in the streets pay for daring to defy him.

Medley hesitated outside the door to Adamant's study. He glanced at Roxanne, who nodded encouragingly. Hawk and Fisher stood back a few paces, keeping a tactful distance. Medley was glad of their company, but if he was going to make his peace with Adamant, he had to do it on his own. He knocked on the door, and a familiar voice told him to enter. Opening the door and walking in was one of the hardest things Medley had ever done.

Adamant was sitting behind his desk, with Dannielle standing beside him. They both looked tired, and there were lines in their faces Medley had never seen before. Adamant gestured for Medley to sit down on the chair facing the desk. Roxanne leaned against the doorframe, her thumbs tucked into her sword belt, her eyes bright and watchful. Hawk and Fisher stayed in the doorway. Silence filled the room, an almost palpable presence filled with words no one wanted to say but that couldn't be ignored.

Finally Hawk coughed politely, and everyone looked at him. "With your permission, sir Adamant, Isobel and I will take a look around the house and make sure everything's secure."

"Of course, Captain. I'll call you if I need you."

Adamant's voice was as calm as ever, but his gaze never left Medley. Hawk and Fisher left the study, shutting the door quietly behind them.

"The house seems very quiet," said Medley finally. "What happened to the victory party?"

"I canceled it," said Adamant. "It didn't seem right, with so many people dead."

Medley winced. "I should have known about Longarm's attack. My intelligence people provided enough hints. But I was too engrossed with Roxanne, and I didn't put the pieces together in time. I'm sorry, James. How many of our men-at-arms were hurt?"

"Twenty-seven dead, fourteen wounded. Luckily none of the guests got hurt." He looked at Roxanne. "So, this is your mysterious girlfriend."

"Yes," said Medley. "Isn't she splendid?"

Adamant's mouth quirked. "I suppose that's one way of describing her. The last time I saw her, she was cutting down my people and showing them no quarter."

Roxanne met his gaze calmly. "That's my job. I'm good at it."

"You killed Bearclaw and Kincaid. They were good men."

"They would have killed me, given the chance. That's how they play politics in this city. You know that."

"Yes," said Adamant. "Murder and betrayal have always been popular in Haven."

"For what it's worth, Stefan didn't betray you. Pumping him for information was part of my job, and he was so besotted with me he never even noticed. He told me all kinds of useful things without realizing, and I passed them on to Hardcastle."

"Does he know you're here?" said Dannielle.

"No. I don't work for him anymore."

"Why not?"

"He broke our contract."

Danielle looked from Roxanne to Medley and back again. "Is that the only reason? What about you and Stefan?"

Roxanne shrugged. "I don't know. We're just taking things one day at a time and seeing what happens."

Adamant leaned forward and fixed Medley with his gaze. "What are you doing here, Stefan? What do you want from me? Forgiveness? Your old job back?"

"Damned if I know," said Medley. "I'm sorry you were hurt, and I'm sorry people died, but I never meant for any of that to happen. I loved Roxanne, and nothing else seemed to matter."

"How do you feel about her now?" said Dannielle. "Knowing what she is. What's she's done. Do you forgive her?"

"Of course," said Medley. "I love her, in spite of everything. Can't you understand that?"

Adamant looked at Dannielle, and put out a hand to hold hers. "Yes," he said finally. "I understand."

Hawk and Fisher prowled restlessly through the empty house. The rooms felt strange and deserted, and the quiet had a texture of its own. They went from room to room, but there was no sign of any life. Adamant's people were either dead or evacuated, and the guests had long gone home. Nothing remained to mark Longarm's assault save for a few patches of dried blood here and there, and the contents of the downstairs library.

Hawk found them, quite by accident. He pushed open the library door on his way back down the hall, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the bodies. There were twenty-seven of them altogether. Hawk counted them twice, to make sure. All of Adamant's men who'd died at the hands of the militants. They'd been stacked together like bundles of kindling, face to face, arms and legs neatly arranged. Hawk felt strangely angry at the sight. These men had died for Adamant; they deserved a more dignified rest than this.

They'll get one, said Mortice's voice in his head. But things have been rather rushed here of late. I did the best I could.

Hawk looked at Fisher, and saw that she heard it too. "So you're still here, sorcerer."

Of course. Where else would I be?

"What happened to the bodies of the people who did this? Longarm and his militants?"

I disposed of them.

Hawk decided not to press the question any further. He didn't think he really wanted to know.

Get back to Adamant, said Mortice suddenly. He's going to need you.

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "Why?" said Fisher. "What's happening?"

Something's coming.

"What? What's coming?"

Something's coming.

Hawk drew his axe and Fisher drew her sword, and they ran back into the entry hall. They could see the study door standing open. Everything seemed quiet. Hawk yelled Mortice's name, but he didn't answer. Adamant came out of the study, his face grim.

"You heard him too?"

"Yeah," said Hawk. "I think we'd better get out of here, Adamant. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Adamant nodded quickly, and gestured for Dannielle to come and join him. She did so, and Medley and Roxanne followed her out into the hall. Roxanne had her sword in her hand. She was smiling. Hawk looked away.

It's here.

Hawk moved quickly over to the front door, pulled it open, and looked out. In the last of the evening light, he could see a man in sorcerer's black walking through the grounds, heading for the house. As he passed, the things that lived in the ground writhed to the surface and died, the grass withered away, and the earth turned to sand and blew away. The sorcerer's power hung heavily on the evening air, like the tension before an approaching storm. Hawk eased the door shut, and turned to face the others.

"We're in trouble. Wulfs here, and he doesn't look friendly. Mortice, can you handle him? Mortice? Mortice!" There was no reply. Hawk cursed briefly. "That's it. We're getting out of here now. Isobel, take them out the back way. I'll follow as soon as I can."

"Why aren't you coming?" said Fisher.

"Someone's got to slow him down. Now, get moving. We haven't much time."

"I can't leave you," said Fisher.

"You have to. Our job is to keep Adamant alive, no matter what. We lost the last man we guarded. I won't let that happen again."

Fisher nodded, and led the others back down the hall. Hawk turned to the front door and slammed home the heavy bolts. He considered pushing furniture up against it as a barricade, but he had a strong feeling it wouldn't make any difference.

"Mortice? If you're listening, sorcerer, I can use all the help I can get."

There was a sharp cracking sound, and Hawk looked back at the door. It had split from top to bottom. As Hawk watched, the wood decayed and fell apart. The rotting fragments fell away from the rusting hinges, and there, in the open doorway, stood what remained of the sorcerer Wulf. Its face was little more than bone now, its grinning teeth yellowed with age. But still it moved and breathed and lived, and something else lived within it. Something hungry. Hawk gripped his axe tightly and backed away from the motionless figure. And then he heard raised voices and sounds of struggle behind him, and realized the others hadn't got very far. He risked a quick glance back over his shoulder, and his heart missed a beat as he saw the dead men filing out of the library.

Fisher had only just reached the end of the hall when the library door flew open and the first of the dead men lurched into the hall. It was one of Adamant's men-at-arms. No blood ran from the gaping wounds in the corpse, and its face was dull and empty. But its eyes saw, and it carried a sword in its hand. Another lich came out of the door after it, and another. Fisher and Roxanne stood between the dead men and the others, swords at the ready, backing slowly away to give themselves room to fight. And still the dead men came filing out of the library with weapons in their hands.

Roxanne stepped forward and brought her long sword across in a sharp vicious arc that cut clean through the first lich's neck. The head fell to the floor and rolled away, the mouth working soundlessly. The headless corpse moved relentlessly forward, sweeping its sword back and forth. Roxanne sidestepped and cut at the body, and it swayed under the force of the blow, but would not fall. Its sword arced out deceptively quickly, and Roxanne had to retreat a step. Fisher moved in beside her and cut at the lich's leg. It staggered and fell to one knee, but didn't release its hold on its sword. And then the rest of the liches were upon them, and there was nothing but flying steel and the growing army of the walking dead.

Hawk raised his axe to strike at the sorcerer, and an invisible force tore the axe from his hand. It spun clattering down the hall, and Hawk ran after it. He knew when he was out-classed. He snatched up his axe and waded into one of the liches from behind, severing its spine. It fell to the floor, and tried to crawl forward. Hawk jumped across it and moved among the dead with his axe, and they fell back from the sheer force of his attack. Medley seized the moment to move in beside Roxanne, his sword at the ready.

"You've got to get Adamant out of here," he said quickly. "He's the important one. The Guards and I can hold these things off long enough to give you a good start."

"But what about you?" said Roxanne.