easily. Always knows the right thing to do in a tricky situation. I'd trust him
with my life. We'll take Greaves, too. He's another steady one; utterly
dependable. As for Robbie Brennan… he's a stout enough man, and damned good with
a sword in his younger days, from what Dad used to say. But that was a long time
ago."
"Once a soldier, always a soldier," said Alistair. "The old instincts will still
be there, just needing the right moment to bring them out again."
"If you say so. What about Marc?"
Alistair frowned. "He's a cool one, I'll give him that, but I don't know if I'd
trust him to guard my back. Still, he doesn't look the type to fold under
pressure. And that just leaves Richard. And you know how I feel about him…"
"He seems a solid enough sort," said Jamie. "Somewhat gauche and a bit of a
bumpkin, but this is his first trip to the big city, after all. And he was the
one who got us all organized when everyone else fell apart at the sight of the
body."
"Exactly," said Alistair. "I've seen a good many dead men in my time, but even
so, what was left of that poor bastard's face stopped me in my tracks. It didn't
throw Richard, though. He was right there, examining the body and cracking out
orders. It's not natural, Jamie. And when I asked him about it, do you know what
he said? He said murders fascinate him, so he spends all his time reading about
them. Never trust a man who reads, Jamie; it gives him ideas. The wrong sort of
ideas."
"Maybe. But right now he seems to be the only one of us who knows what he's
doing. He goes with us. If only so we can keep a close eye on him."
"I don't trust him," said Alistair. "He's hiding something."
"Everyone has something to hide," said Jamie. "All that matters right now is
finding the freak before he kills again. This is my home. Whatever happened
through the years, I always felt safe and secure here. The freak's taken that
away from me, and I want it back. I want my home back."
Alistair dropped a heavy hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Buck up, lad. We'll find the
freak and kill him, and then things'll get back to normal again. You'll see."
Greaves looked disapprovingly at Robbie Brennan as the minstrel helped himself
to a second large snifter of brandy. "Look at the state of you. I don't know
which makes your hands shake the more, the fear or the drink. The young master
will have need of us soon, and he'll be none too pleased if he finds you the
worse for drink. Get a hold of yourself, man!"
"Go to hell," said Brennan flatly. "You're a cold fish, Greaves, and always have
been. I've never seen an honest emotion cross that cold face of yours in all the
years I've known you. It's always been 'yes sir, no sir, can I wipe your arse
now, sir?' I've been with this Family for forty years, long before you came
along, but I've always been my own man."
Greaves looked at him unflinchingly. "Is this leading anywhere?"
"When I was a man-at-arms in the Broken Flats campaign, I saw more dead men than
you could imagine in your worst nightmare. I saw them cut down and ripped apart
and piled up in huge heaps under the midday sun, and I never got used to it.
Which is why I came out of that campaign sane when a lot of men didn't. Duncan
would have understood. It's enough to be strong when you have to be. He never
expected a man to be always unmoved and unfeeling, like you. So, right now we've
got a freak running loose in the Tower, out for revenge on all of us, but I bet
at the end of the day I'll still be standing and you'll be crawling on your
knees. Because I know when to bend with the wind, and you don't."
"You always did have a way with words," said Greaves. "But then, that's all
you've got left now, isn't it? Your soldier days were a long time ago. Look at
you, shaking and quivering in every nerve, with your snout buried in your glass.
And Mister Duncan was always so proud of you, and saying what a fine warrior you
were on the battlefield. What would he say if he could see you now?"
"Duncan would have understood." Brennan drained his glass and straightened up a
little. "I'll do my bit. You worry about yourself."
"It's not myself that fills my thoughts, Robbie Brennan. And what worries I have
are not for you. It's the young master, the MacNeil himself, that we should be
concerned about. He had no choice but to reveal the great Secret to all those…
people, but it must not pass beyond these walls. If it were to get out, the
MacNeil would be ruined. It's up to us to make sure that doesn't happen."
Brennan frowned. "Just what are you suggesting, Greaves?"
"What I am suggesting, Robbie Brennan, minstrel and sometime friend to the
MacNeil Family, is that we make sure only those we can trust leave this Tower
alive."
"If Jamie knew what you're saying…"
"He is not to know. It is our job to protect this Family, and do what must be
done for its safety. The MacNeil is too young to understand."
They looked at each other for a long moment, until Brennan finally nodded and
put down his empty glass.
Holly accepted a snifter of brandy from Lord Arthur, and nodded her thanks. Her
hands were steadying, and some color was finally coming back into her cheeks.
She smiled briefly around her, and then lowered her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm
not usually like this. It's the shock."
"It's all right," said Arthur. "We understand."
"There's no need to hover over her like that, Arthur," said David Brook testily.
"Give the poor girl room to breathe."
Arthur nodded quickly, and stepped back a pace. Holly gripped his hand firmly,
and reached out to take David's hand too.
"Please, don't argue. I'm feeling better now. Let's get out of here. We can stay
with friends, in the city."
"We can't leave just now, pet," said Katrina soothingly. "You heard your
brother; the wards are up. We can't leave the Tower till tomorrow morning. But
we're perfectly safe here. Nothing can get to us."
"It'll be all right, Holly," said Arthur. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
David shot him an exasperated look, and turned back to Holly. "We'll look after
you, darling. It's obvious who the killer is. It's that damned freak Jamie told
us about earlier. All we have to do is track him down."
"No! That's too dangerous. He might kill you!" Holly gripped his hand hard, as
though to physically restrain him from leaving. David smiled and patted her hand
comfortingly.
"There's nothing to worry about. The freak doesn't stand a chance against all of
us. Isn't that right, Arthur? Marc?"
Arthur smiled, and nodded vigorously. Marc turned and looked at them directly
for the first time. "We don't know for sure that the freak is the killer. We
have no hard evidence, one way or the other. The killer could be anyone. Perhaps
even one of us."
There was a long pause as that sank in, and then one by one the others began
looking round the room, their gaze lingering on some faces longer than others.
"After all," said Marc, "what do we really know about each other? Even the most
ordinary person can do terrible things, under the right conditions. People
you've known for years can become strangers in a moment, transfigured by a
single insight or a hidden motive. Who is there you can really trust, when you
come right down to it? Some days you can't even trust yourself."
"You have to trust someone," said Arthur. "And better a friend than a stranger.
Take yourself, for instance. We don't know a single thing about you, except for
what you've chosen to tell us. You could have all kinds of secrets, for all we
know."
"Oh, honestly, Arthur," said Katrina crushingly. "If Marc did have something to
hide, he wouldn't have brought up the subject in the first place, would he?
You'll have to excuse Arthur, Marc; his mouth tends to say things before his
brain can catch up. Anyway, I think you're barking up the wrong tree, dear. I've
known Jamie and David and Arthur for years, and they don't have a malicious bone
in their bodies."
"But Alistair, though; that's different. He claims to be just a distant cousin,
but he seems to know an awful lot about Family history. He knows things even I
didn't know."
"I wish the Guardian were here," said Holly. "I prayed for him to come."
"Yes dear, we know," said Katrina. "But you shouldn't take Family myths so
seriously. Most of them are just legends and fireside tales that have grown in
the telling."
"The freak turned out to be real," said Holly stubbornly. "So why not the
Guardian too?"
"Personally, I have to say I've got a few doubts about Richard," said David
thoughtfully. "He seems awfully full of himself, for a minor cousin from Lower
Markham. I didn't even know the Family had branches in that part of the world.
What about you, Marc? You ever run across either Richard or Isobel before?"
"Never," said Marc flatly. "Their arrival here was a complete surprise to me."
"Now, don't you dare start picking on Richard," said Katrina. "Just because he
comes from Lower Markham. We've always known that some parts of the Family have…
gone down in the world. And remember, he's one of the few people to stick by us,
even after he found out about the Secret."
"Yes," said David. "Interesting, that. Why should he and his sister be so loyal?
Why come all this way, with winter so close?"
"Presumably, he expects Duncan to make it worth his while in the will," said
Arthur.
"Could be," said David. "But that might not be his only motive."
"What other motive could he have?" said Katrina.
"Why don't we ask him?" suggested Marc.
"Yes," said David. "Why don't we?"
But just then Jamie strode forward into the middle of the room and called for
everyone's attention, and all conversation died quickly away.
"My friends, I regret to say it, but we can't simply barricade ourselves in here
and wait for the wards to go down tomorrow morning. We have a duty and an
obligation to find the freak and put an end to its miserable existence."
"But no one's been able to find the bricked-up room for centuries," objected
Katrina.
"I've been thinking about the problem," said Jamie, "And I've come up with an
idea. Based on certain comments and internal evidence in the notes my father
left, I'm pretty sure the freak's cell has some kind of window. Presumably not
very large, but enough to allow light to enter. So, I propose we make a tour of
the Tower, floor by floor, opening every window and hanging out a marker of some
kind, until we've covered them all. Then we go outside and take a look.
Whichever window remains unmarked has to be the freak's cell. Shouldn't be too
difficult to find the room, with that to point the way."
"It might just work," said Hawk. "It's simple and straightforward. I like it."
"Wait just a minute," said Fisher. "Did you say go outside the Tower? I thought
we were all trapped in here by the wards?"
"The wards do not become operative until some ten feet beyond the Tower," said
Jamie patiently. "And no, I don't know why. The wards themselves were designed
hundreds of years ago; I just raise and lower them, as and when needed. Now, if
there are no more questions, I think we should make a start."
"Obviously we can't all go," said Alistair. "The women will have to stay here,
and someone will have to remain with them, to protect them."
"Right," said Hawk. "And the smaller the search party, the better. No point in
risking anyone we don't have to. The freak could be out there anywhere, just
waiting for a chance at us. This has to be volunteers only, and people who can
look after themselves in a fight. I'll go, for one. Who's with me?"
"You do like to take charge, don't you, Richard?" said Jamie.
"Sorry," said Hawk. "I'm just… eager to make a start. But of course you're in
charge. You're the MacNeil."
"That's right," said Jamie. "I am. So I'll decide who goes and who stays. Since
you're so eager, Richard, you can be part of the group, along with Alistair and
myself. How about you, Arthur? Are you any good with a sword?"
"Not really," said Lord Arthur. "Sorry, Jamie, I'm not really up to heroics. But
I'll do my best to protect the ladies while you're gone."
"I'd better stay too," said David Brook. "There ought to be one person here who
knows one end of his sword from the other."
"I'll go with you, Jamie," said Marc. "I'm fairly proficient with a sword, and I
hate being cooped up."
"Mister Brennan and I will be happy to accompany you, sir," said Greaves,
stepping forward with the minstrel. Jamie smiled, but shook his head.
"No offense, but I think we'll make better time without you."
"As you wish," said Brennan flatly.
"Don't sulk, Robbie. It doesn't become you. I'd take you if I could, but speed
is of the essence, and I think you'll be more useful here. In the meantime,
barricade the door behind us once we've gone. Make it sturdy enough to keep the
freak out but not so heavy you can't dismantle it fast if we need to get back in
here in a hurry. Well, no point in hanging about, is there? We might as well go.
Unless there's anything you want to add, Richard?"
"I don't think so, Jamie," said Hawk courteously. "You've covered everything I
can think of."
"Then let's go," said Alistair. "We've got a lot of ground to cover."
There was a quick murmur of goodbyes. Jamie took Holly in his arms, and she
hugged him hard for a moment before pushing him resolutely away. Hawk pulled the
chair away from the door, listened a moment, and then carefully eased the door
open. A quick glance up and down the corridor revealed nothing but familiar
furniture and the occasional shadow. Everything was still and silent. He stepped
out into the corridor, sword in hand, followed by Jamie and Alistair and Marc.
The door closed quickly behind them, and there was the sound of furniture being
piled against it.
Hawk looked at Jamie for orders, and Jamie hesitated a long moment before
nodding to the left. They set off down the corridor, alert for any sudden sound
or movement. Despite all that had taken place it was still early in the day, and
the corridor was bathed in bright golden sunlight. From out an open window Hawk
could hear gulls keening and the distant crash of waves on the rocks far below.
Jamie moved over to the window and draped one of the curtains so that it hung
out over the windowsill. They continued on down the corridor, swords at the
ready, keeping a careful eye on every door they passed. The quiet grew heavy and
oppressive, and Hawk's skin prickled uneasily. He hadn't liked breaking up the
group, but he could see Jamie was determined to have his way, so he'd gone along
with it. But he still didn't feel right about it.
The last time he'd been in a situation like this had been in the sorcerer
Gaunt's house. People had insisted on going off on their own, despite everything
Hawk and Fisher did to stop them. Most of them had died horribly. He was damned
if he'd let that happen again. But there were limits to what he could do in
Tower MacNeil; Jamie wasn't about to let him take control of the situation, no
matter what. Richard was a minor cousin from Lower Markham, and should
accordingly know his place and keep his mouth shut. Hawk smiled sourly. He'd
never been very good at that.
He hefted his sword unhappily as they walked along. With only the one eye left,
Hawk's depth perception was shot to hell, and his swordsmanship was only a
shadow of what it had once been. It didn't affect him so much with the axe. An
axe has many qualities and virtues all its own, but subtlety isn't one of them.
With an axe, as long as you can see your opponent, you can usually hit him. And
a man who's been hit with an axe does not grit his teeth and fight back, as
sometimes happens with a sword wound. A man hit solidly by an axe tends rather
more to being thrown to the ground with the impact, bleeding copiously and
screaming for his mother. Admittedly an axe isn't much use as a defensive
weapon, but Hawk never had believed in fighting defensively. He was much more
comfortable with an all-out attack, backed up by dirty tricks. Hawk looked
disgustedly at the narrow dueling sword in his hand. If it came to a fight, he'd
probably be better off throwing the damn thing like a spear.
He scowled, and then winced as a stab of pain flared up around his glass eye.
The damn things always made his face ache after a while. The last doctor he'd
seen had told him the pain was all in his mind, to which Hawk had angrily
retorted that it was all in the eye socket, and what was the doctor going to do
about it? The doctor had recommended a change to a less stressful occupation,
and presented Hawk with an inflated bill, which Hawk refused to pay.
The tour of the ground floor was accomplished without incident. The windows had
all been marked, and there was no sign of the freak anywhere. The large rooms,
designed for entertaining were easy to search, and the open, well-lit corridors
offered few hiding places. Jamie led the group up the curving stairs to the
first floor, which was mainly bedchambers and bathrooms. Everything was still
and quiet, the only sound their own echoing footsteps. Hawk felt like a child
sneaking through his parents' quarters while they were out.
The endless quiet and occasional false alarms began to gnaw at Hawk's nerves,
but he just shrugged it off and kept going. He had to set a good example to the
others, who were all starting to show signs of strain. Jamie was getting jumpy,
and showed an increasing tendency to check things twice or even three times
before he was satisfied. Alistair's scowl was deepening, and he'd taken to
hefting his sword impatiently, as though anxious for a confrontation. And Marc
had withdrawn so far into himself he seemed to be walking alone through the
empty corridors.
The rooms were lavishly appointed, and would have interested Hawk greatly under
different circumstances, but as it was, each gorgeously finished room blended
one into another as the tour continued. The first floor passed in a blur of
empty rooms and silent, deserted corridors, and they made their way up the
stairs to the second floor. Hawk began to wonder if they'd underestimated the
freak. They'd all been talking about him as though he were nothing more than an
animal, all instinct and ferocity, but that was wrong. The freak was a man, and
cunning enough to hide his dead victim in such a way that the body wasn't found
till hours after the murder. The more Hawk thought about that, the less he liked
it. It was more than possible they were doing exactly what the freak wanted:
wasting time trying to find his lair while he planned ways of attacking them… or
those they'd left behind…
The second floor consisted of servants' quarters; clean and fairly comfortable
but essentially nondescript. The only exceptions were Greaves's and Brennan's
rooms. The butler's room had a bleak simplicity that suggested he spent as
little time there as possible. Everything was neatly lined up and squared off as
though for inspection, and Hawk knew without having to be told that woe would
betide any maid who moved anything an inch out of place while dusting. Brennan's
quarters, on the other hand, were littered with a lifetime's collection of
keepsakes and souvenirs, most of them military in nature. There were daggers and
swords mounted on the walls, and trinkets and mementoes brought back from a
dozen campaigns. Hawk looked them over briefly, and frowned as he realized how
dated they were. It was as though Brennan's life had come to an abrupt halt when
he came to the Tower; that there was nothing from his new life worth the
keeping…
The third floor was storage; endless storerooms packed with the accumulated
clutter of generations of MacNeils. Few of the rooms had any windows beyond the
narrowest arrow-slits, but Jamie marked them as best he could, and they moved
on.
They tramped wearily up the final set of stairs and stepped out onto the open
battlements. Hawk took a deep breath as the cold wind hit him, blowing away the
cobwebs of fatigue from his mind. The view was magnificent, from the dark
labyrinthine sprawl of Haven to the great jagged cliffs that surrounded it, to
the vast expanse of the open sea. Gulls hung on the sky far above them, keening
on the rising wind like lost souls banned from heaven or hell. Hawk felt he
could stand there forever, just drinking in the view.
Alistair stared about him with obvious nostalgia, while Jamie was predictably
blase, having seen it all before. Marc, on the other hand, looked once at the
sea and the cliffs, and turned away, apparently uninterested. And then he looked
out over Haven, and couldn't tear his gaze away. Hawk shrugged inwardly. No
accounting for taste.
Finally Jamie led them back down through the Tower to the ground floor. There
was still no sign of the freak anywhere, and Hawk could sense they were all
beginning to relax a little. The general feeling seemed to be that the freak
would have attacked them by now if he was going to. Hawk distrusted the feeling.
The freak was up to something, he was sure of it; something so obvious Hawk
couldn't see it for looking. It was as though the freak didn't care whether they
found his lair or not… which would seem to suggest he'd found a better place to
hide. Hawk scowled ferociously and chewed at his lower lip as Jamie led them
through the entrance hall and out the main door.
The gusting wind caught Hawk's attention again, and he looked around him. Even
after the unobscured view from the battlements, he'd still been half expecting
to see some shimmering mystical barrier cutting the Tower off from the rest of
the world, but everything seemed perfectly normal. The cliff edge stretched away
before him, and the wind ruffled the long grass on either side of the trail that
led back down to Haven. A sudden thought struck him. He only had Jamie's word
for it that the wards were actually there. If by some chance Jamie himself was
the spy's contact, what better way to draw attention away from himself and
Fenris than by concocting the story of the murderous freak? Or could Jamie be
Fenris? Either way, it would explain why the spy had headed straight for Tower
MacNeil.
But, on the other hand, if the freak was real and the wards were real, that
would have thrown the spy completely off balance. Being trapped in the Tower by
the wards would have been the last thing he'd expected. He'd have to be getting
pretty desperate by now. And desperate men make mistakes. Hawk pursed his lips
thoughtfully. So, it all came down to whether the wards were actually there.
Either way, the answer to that question would tell him something important.
Unless Fenris had let the freak out for some reason… Hawk decided he wasn't
going to think about it anymore for a while. It was all getting too complicated.
All that mattered for the moment was checking whether the wards were actually
there. He walked casually forward. He hadn't made half a dozen steps before
Jamie called urgently after him, and came running up behind him to grab him by
the arm.
"Don't go near the wards, Richard, it isn't safe." He bent down, picked up a
clump of grass and threw it forward. It flew a few feet and then flared up
suddenly, burning soundlessly with a brilliant, eye-searing flame. Within
seconds there were only a few particles of ash, which were carried away on the
wind. Jamie wiped his hands on a handkerchief, then tucked it neatly away in his
sleeve. "Sorry about that, Richard. I should have warned you."
"That's all right," said Hawk steadily. "I wasn't thinking."
They both turned away from the wards and joined the others in circling round the
Tower, searching for an empty window. Curtains and clothing and other markers
flapped fitfully at the many windows and arrow slits. An excited shout went up
as Jamie spotted an unmarked window, only to quickly fall away as Alistair and
Hawk pointed out two more. The four men stood quietly together a moment, looking
at the Tower and each other.
"Three?" said Jamie. "How the hell can there be three windows?"
"Presumably there are two more hidden rooms," said Marc.
"And with our luck, two more freaks," said Hawk.
Jamie winced. "Please, Richard. Don't say that. Not even as a joke. Things are
bad enough without tempting fate. No; whatever those rooms are, they can't have
anything to do with the freak, or Dad would have mentioned them in his notes."
"Not necessarily," said Alistair.
"We're wasting time," said Marc. "The quickest way to find out why there are two
more hidden rooms is to go and take a look."
"He's right," said Hawk. "We have to know what's in those rooms. One of them's
got to have the answers we need."
"Very well, let's go," said Jamie, staring up at the windows. "All three rooms
are on the third floor. They shouldn't be too difficult to find."
He led the way back into the Tower and up the stairs, moving at a fast walk that
threatened frequently to break into a run but somehow never quite did. Hawk
admired Jamie's self-control. It was only the MacNeil's example that kept him
from taking the steps two at a time at a dead run. They were getting close to
the answers now; he could feel it in his water. He was still cautious enough to
keep a watchful eye on his surroundings, but nothing moved in the shadows and
the only sound on the quiet was their own hurried footsteps and harsh breathing.
Hawk kept a firm grip on his sword hilt. It was all too easy. Somehow, in some
way Hawk didn't understand, the freak was leading them around by the nose. They
had to be doing exactly what he wanted, or he'd have attacked them by now. It
was the only explanation that made sense.
They burst out onto the third floor, breathing heavily from the stairs, and
Jamie strode briskly down the corridor, counting off doorways as he went. He
stopped before a featureless stretch of wall, and waited impatiently for the
others to catch up. Hawk studied the brickwork dubiously. It looked no different
from any other stretch of wall. He looked at Jamie.
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Of course I'm sure! I grew up here; I know every floor and every room of Tower
MacNeil like the back of my own hand. For example…" He walked back a dozen
paces, and pressed a piece of stone scrollwork. There was a faint grinding
noise, and a section of wall swung slowly open on concealed hinges, revealing a
dark, narrow passage. "It's one of the old secret stairways; ends up in the
library. One of the more useful shortcuts built into the Tower." He pushed the
section of wall shut with a grunt, and it locked silently back into position,
with nothing to show it had ever opened.
"Very impressive," said Hawk as Jamie came back to join them. "I'll remember it
if I'm in a hurry. In the meantime, if there is a room behind this wall, how do
we get in? Break the wall down?"
"That may not be necessary," said Alistair. "Look closely. This particular
stretch of brickwork seems more modern than the rest."
They all looked. Hawk was damned if he could see any difference, but didn't say
so.
"Look for a hidden catch or lever," said Alistair. "Something that doesn't quite
fit, or that seems somehow out of place."
They pressed in close to the wall, running their fingertips across the bricks
and mortar, and staring intently at every crack and crevice. In the end, Jamie
was the one who found the lever. It was disguised as one of the lamp brackets,
and Jamie had noticed it was a slightly different design than the ones on either
side of it. He gave it a good hard tug, and it tilted out of the wall. There was
a hesitant rumbling of hidden machinery, and then a section of the wall swung
open. Jamie stepped forward to look inside and Hawk moved quickly in beside him,
sword at the ready.
The room was small and featureless, lit only by daylight filtering through a
narrow slit window. It was completely empty. Hawk scowled and lowered his sword
as Marc and Alistair crowded in behind him.
"Why go to all the trouble of setting up a concealed room and then not use it?
That's crazy."
"Not really," said Jamie, taking a few steps into the room. "This was probably
meant for use as a last-ditch bolt-hole, in times of trouble or unrest. There
was a time, not that many Kings ago, when the MacNeils weren't too popular at
Court. They made the mistake of telling the King the truth instead of what he
wanted to hear, and had the impertinence to stick up for their friends, even
when those friends had fallen out of favor. The MacNeils always did have more
loyalty than sense. Anyway, this was probably intended as a hiding place for
guests the MacNeils weren't supposed to be talking to, or maybe as a refuge for
women and children if the Tower was ever put under siege. We MacNeils haven't
survived this long without learning a few tricks along the way."
"Damn right," growled Alistair. "Never trust in the gratitude of Kings or
politicians. They all have bloody short memories when they feel like it."
Hawk nodded politely, disguising his interest. He hadn't known the MacNeils had
a history of bad relations with the Court. That might explain why Fenris had
gone to ground at Tower MacNeil in the first place.
"This is all very interesting," said Marc, in a tone that implied it wasn't, at
all. "But do you think we could please get a move on? We have two more rooms to
find, and the less time we spend on our own up here, the better."
"The lad's right," said Alistair. "We've left the women alone too long as it
is."
"They're protected," said Jamie. "They'll be all right till we get back."
Alistair sniffed. "Some protection; a dandy, a drunk, and two old men. There's
no telling what might have happened while we've been gallivanting about up
here."
"Then let's stop wasting time arguing and look for the other two rooms," said
Hawk, cutting in quickly to head off the row before it got out of hand. "Jamie,
is there a tool cupboard, or something like that up here?"
"Of course," said Jamie stiffly. "Why?"
"Well, it just occurred to me that we might not be able to find the hidden
mechanisms for the other two rooms, and we might have to get into them the hard
way—with sledgehammers and crowbars."
"Good thinking," said Alistair, nodding approvingly. "Well, Jamie?"
"This way," said the MacNeil. He stepped out of the room and started off down
the corridor. "Leave the door open," he said over his shoulder. "We might need
to find the room again in a hurry."
They found the tool cupboard easily enough, but sorting through the contents
took some time. Jamie had never actually looked into it before—that was what
servants were for—and he found the contents fascinating, discovering all kinds
of things he didn't know he had. He rummaged away happily, while everyone else
helped themselves to what they wanted. Alistair and Marc both chose crowbars,
hefting them with obvious unfamiliarity, while Hawk went straight for a
short-handled sledgehammer with a large flat head. He liked the feel and weight
of it. It reminded him of his axe. He swung it easily a few times, and stuck it
through his belt. Everyone then had to wait while Jamie searched for a hammer
just like Hawk's. He swung it a few times, raised an eyebrow at the weight, and
then led the way back down the corridor to the next hidden room.
The hallway grew darker as they moved along. The Tower's architects had seen no
reason to waste expensive glass windows on a storage level used mainly by
servants, and had mostly made do with arrow slits. There were lamp brackets on
the walls at regular intervals, but with all the servants gone, none of the
lamps was lit. The group moved from one pool of light to another, plunged
occasionally into gloom as clouds passed before the sun, cutting off the
daylight. Hawk peered watchfully about him, his free hand resting on the hammer
head.
The second stretch of brickwork Jamie indicated looked just as innocuous as the
first. Hawk tried all the lamp brackets in the vicinity, but nothing happened. A
thorough search of the bricks and mortar failed to turn up any other hidden
catches or levers, so they did it the hard way. Hawk and Jamie rolled up their
sleeves, Jamie clumsily following Hawk's example, and then they set to work with
their sledgehammers on what looked like the weakest spot. The old brickwork gave
way surprisingly easily, and they soon opened up a hole big enough for Alistair
and Marc to work on with their crowbars while Hawk and Jamie took a rest. When
the hole looked big enough, everyone stepped back to let Jamie peer into the
gloom beyond.
"Well?" said Mark. "What's in there?"
"Looks like a… writing desk," said Jamie. "There are papers on it. I've got to
get in there. We'll have to widen the hole some more."
He stepped back, and between them the group knocked and levered away bricks
until the hole was big enough for Jamie to squeeze through. Hawk clambered
through after him, and then quickly turned to stop Marc and Alistair following
him.
"You'd better stay where you are; this looks like a really bad place to be
cornered in. Watch the corridor. We'll yell out if we find anything
interesting."
Alistair sniffed and turned away, his back radiating disapproval. Marc just
nodded and turned away. Hawk moved over to join Jamie, who was leaning over the
desk, shuffling through a sheaf of papers and squinting at them in the meager
light from the slit window. There was a lamp on the desk. Hawk picked it up and
shook it, and heard oil gurgle. He raised an eyebrow. Someone had been in the
room recently. Which meant there was a way in that they'd missed. He shrugged
and lit the lamp, holding it over the papers. The crabbed handwriting was
difficult to read, even with the additional light, but Hawk was able to make out
enough of it to give him goose flesh. The author had to be the freak's father.
Jamie swore softly as he struggled with the handwriting.
"These are old, Richard, really old. I need to study them. This bit here seems
to have been written directly after the freak was walled up and left to die;
something about its…
unnatural appetites. There are hints here about what the freak actually is, and
how to deal with it; all the things Dad never got around to telling me. Richard,
we've struck gold!"
"Don't get too excited yet," said Hawk, keeping his voice low. "Here's something
else for you to think about: Someone was in here before us, not long ago."
Jamie looked at him sharply. "How can you tell?"
"There was fresh oil in this lamp. What worries me is how he got in."
"Presumably there's a secret mechanism here somewhere, and we missed it."
"Maybe. And maybe there isn't, and our visitor used magic."
They looked at each other for a long moment. "What are you saying?" said Jamie
finally.
"I'm not sure. But if there is a secret magic-user here in Tower MacNeil, that
could complicate the hell out of things."
Jamie frowned. "Dad was the magic-user in this Family; I never had much of a
gift for it myself. He could have been here while he was putting together his
notes for me."
"That's a possibility," said Hawk. "But we can't bank on it. Let's keep this to
ourselves for the time being. If there is a secret magic-user among us, we don't
want to spook him. Or her."
Jamie started to say something, then stopped as Alistair leaned in through the
hole in the wall. "What are you two muttering about?"
"Nothing," said Hawk. "We've just found some old papers, that's all. We'll check
them out downstairs."
"Right," said Jamie. He went quickly through the desk drawers, and gathered up a
few more papers. He rolled them all up and stuffed them inside his shirt. "Let's
go. We've still got to find the third room."
They found it sooner than they expected. They rounded a curve in the corridor,
and stopped dead in their tracks as they saw a great hole in the wall and debris
scattered across the floor. Jagged half-bricks jutted from the sides of the hole
like broken teeth, and the wall itself bowed slightly outwards into the
corridor, as though there'd been an explosion in the room beyond.
"That's not possible," said Jamie. "We passed this way less than half an hour
ago, and there was no trace of this then!"
"It's here now," said Hawk. He knelt down among the rubble and examined it
closely in the light of the lamp he'd brought with him from the last room. "This
happened some time ago. There's a layer of dust here that hasn't been disturbed.
But you're right, Jamie; we did come this way before. You can see our footprints
in the dust over there. Strange. There isn't this much dust anywhere else on
this floor."
"What does that mean?" said Jamie.
Hawk shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe the servants just didn't feel like dusting this
particular bit of corridor for some reason." He got to his feet, and moved over
to inspect the broken wall. "This is interesting, too. Look at the way the
bricks splay outwards. They must have been hit from the other side, from inside
the room. The freak did this himself, presumably with his bare hands."
"Gods save us," said Jamie. "What kind of monster is it?"
Alistair moved over to study the hole, scowling thoughtfully. "Nothing human
could have done this. The wall was stout and heavy, built to last." He peered
through the hole at the room beyond, and his voice changed. "Richard, bring that
lamp over here, would you?"
Hawk did so, and the others crowded round so they could all see into the hidden
room. Scattered across the floor of the tiny cell were hundreds of small bones.
Among them were the bodies of several small creatures, rats and mice and other
things too decayed and corrupt to identify. The room stank of age and decay,
like a freshly opened tomb.
"Well, now we know what he ate," said Jamie, his voice too steady to be natural.
"It doesn't explain how they got into a bricked-up room," said Hawk. "Besides,
some of the less decayed bodies look practically untouched."
He stepped back from the hole to get some fresh air, and the others gladly took
this as an excuse to do the same. They looked at each other for a while, at a
loss for words.
Hawk nudged a brick on the floor with his foot, and the sudden grating sound
seemed very loud.
"Perhaps there's something in the papers that will explain this," said Jamie
finally. "I'll check them when we get downstairs."
"There's only one explanation," said Alistair. "Magic. Some kind of illusion.
The hole in the wall was there all the time, and we walked right past it without
seeing it. Hell, we must have been practically stumbling over the rubble."
"So what happened to the illusion?" said Hawk. "Why are we able to see the hole
now?"
"Perhaps we're being allowed to see it," said Marc. "Perhaps the freak doesn't
need to hide it from us any longer."
They all looked at him. "You mean the freak knows we're here, and what we're
doing?" said Jamie.
"Haven't you felt you were being watched?" said Marc. "Haven't you had that
feeling right from the start?"
"The freak must be a magic-user of some kind," said Alistair. "He set up the
illusion after he broke out; first so that the servants wouldn't see the hole,
and then so that we wouldn't… until he wanted us to. Now he's hiding behind
another illusion, dogging us from one floor to another and laughing at us all
the while."
"Oh great," said Hawk. "Not only is he inhumanly strong and a killer, but he can
mess with our minds as well."
They stood quietly for a while, staring into the creature's cell, because it was
easier than looking at each other and admitting they didn't know what to do
next. Marc finally broke the silence, his voice soft and reflective.
"Think what he must have endured, shut up in that tiny cell for years on end. No
way to measure time, save by the passing of day into night and night into day.
No sound save his own voice, no company save his own thoughts. And all the years
passing, one into another… Did he ever understand why he'd been shut away and
left to die, except as a punishment for being… different? Perhaps in the end
that's what kept him alive so long; a slow-burning fuse of hatred, waiting for a
chance at revenge.
"Don't start feeling sorry for the creature," said Alistair. "He's already
killed one man. And he would undoubtedly kill you, given the chance."
"We don't know the freak is the murderer," said Marc. "There's no evidence, no
proof; nothing to tie him directly to the killing. For all we know, one of us
may be the murderer, for reasons of his own."
Hawk studied him thoughtfully but said nothing.
"We can discuss this better downstairs," said Jamie, with just enough of an edge
to his voice to make it clear that this was an order and not a suggestion. "It's
obvious the freak isn't using his cell anymore, so there's no point in hanging
around here. We've been gone a long time. The others will be worried about us."
He turned his back on the gaping hole in the wall, and started off down the
corridor, followed by the others. They made their way silently back down the
staircase, and all the way down Hawk thought of the dead rats in the freak's
cell. He'd studied the fresher bodies very carefully, and as far as he could
see, none of them had any signs of a death wound. Just like the dead man in the
chimney.
In the drawing room, after the search party left, those left behind at first
busied themselves stacking furniture against the door, but that didn't take
long. The atmosphere became tense and strained. No one felt much like talking.
Holly sat with her back pressed against the wall, her face pale and bloodless.
Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, and she jumped at every
sudden noise or movement. Katrina had given up trying to get through to her, and
sat elegantly on her chair, sipping unhurriedly at her wine and thinking her own
thoughts. Greaves and Brennan stood self-consciously on guard by the barricade.
Brennan had an old short sword he'd taken from a plaque on the wall, while
Greaves was holding a heavy iron poker from the fireplace. The butler's cold
features could have been carved in stone, as usual, while Brennan looked somehow
larger and more imposing, as though having a sword in his hand had awakened
memories of the man he used to be. David Brook and Lord Arthur sat close by
Holly, trying to comfort her with their presence. And Fisher stood with her back
to the fireplace, watching them all unobtrusively, and wishing desperately for a
sword.
She wasn't sure she believed in the freak, but that didn't mean there was no
danger. In her opinion there were enough human killers around without having to
turn to the supernatural to explain a sudden violent death. It was much more
likely the killing had something to do with the spy Fenris. She shifted her
weight from one foot to the other, and hoped Hawk wouldn't be long. She always
thought more clearly when she had Hawk to discuss things with.
Lord Arthur got up and helped himself to another drink. David glared at him.
"Don't you think you've had enough, Arthur? You're no use to us drunk."
Arthur smiled. "I'm no use to anyone, drunk or sober, Davey. You should know
that. Besides, to a seasoned drinker such as myself, getting drunk isn't nearly
so simple as it once was. As my system grows increasingly pickled, alcohol has
less and less effect on it. I suppose eventually I shall reach a stage where
alcohol has no effect on me whatsoever, but I hope and pray I shall have
departed this sad vale of tears long before then. But whatever you do, Davey,
don't have me cremated. There's so much booze in my body it would probably burn
for a fortnight."
"Don't talk that way," said Holly. "It's depressing."
"I'm sorry," said Arthur immediately. "How are you feeling now, Holly?"
"Better, I think." She smiled at him tremulously. "Do you think I could have a
sip of your drink?"
"Of course," said Arthur, and handed her his glass. "Approach it carefully; it's
rather potent."
Holly took a cautious sip, and then swallowed hard. She pulled a face and thrust
the glass back at him. "And you drink that stuff for fun? You're tougher than
you look, Arthur."
"Why, thank you, my dear. It's nice to be appreciated."
They shared a smile. David stirred impatiently. "Don't encourage him, Holly. We
might need his sword yet."
"If we ever reach the stage where everything depends on me and my poor skill
with a sword, then we will be in serious trouble," said Arthur calmly. "I have
all the fighting skills of a depressed rabbit. I never was much of a warrior; I
always believed in seeing the other fellow's point of view. Preferably over a
glass of something. No, Davey; if trouble occurs, I have every confidence that
you will defend us nobly. You're the swordsman here."
"That's right," said Holly. "You always had to be the hero, David, even when we
were young. I'd be the captive Princess, and you'd be the valiant hero on his
milk-white charger, come to rescue me. I always needed saving back then for some
reason or another."
"I remember," said Arthur. "I always had to be Davey's squire, even though I was
the eldest. I didn't mind. My father was furious when he found out, though.
You're a viscount! he used to thunder. The son of a Lord! Try to act like one! I
always was a disappointment to Dad." He shrugged, and taking a healthy sip from
his drink, looked directly at Holly. "They were good days, then. When we were
young, and the world was so simple."
"You're getting maudlin, Arthur," said David warningly. He turned to Holly and
smiled reassuringly. "There's really nothing to worry about, Holly. I'll protect
you, just as I always have."
"And I'll do my bit, however small," said Arthur. "I would defend you with my
life, Holly."
Holly smiled genuinely for the first time, and reached out to clasp each of them
by the hand. "I feel so safe with you two here. My guardians."
"They've been gone too long," said Katrina suddenly. "It shouldn't take this
long to check a few windows. Do you suppose something's happened to them?"
"It's too early to start panicking," said Fisher. "They haven't been gone an
hour yet."
"Is that all?" said Holly. "It seems longer."
"It's the waiting," said Fisher. "Time always drags when you're waiting for
something to happen."
"It still seems too long," said Katrina stubbornly. "I'm sure Jamie didn't
intend for us to be left alone this long. Something's happened, I'm sure of it.
I think someone ought to go after them and make sure everything's all right."
"Don't look at me," said Arthur. "I may be drunk, but I'm not crazy."
"Damn right," said Fisher. "No one is to go off on their own. It isn't safe."
"Who the hell do you think you are, giving everyone orders?" said Katrina
angrily. "Hold your tongue, and remember your place. David, if Arthur hasn't the
courage to go, I'm sure you'll…"
"Not this time, Katrina," said David firmly. "For once, I find myself in
agreement with Arthur. If the freak is roaming about out there, a man on his own
would make a perfect target. And no, you can't send one of the servants,
either."
"Thank you, sir," said Greaves. Brennan grinned.
Katrina slumped back in her chair and pouted. "So; we just sit here and wait for
them to come back, do we? What if they never come back?"
"They'll be back," said Fisher.
Holly looked at her. "How can we be so sure?"
Fisher smiled. "I have faith in my brother. We've been through a lot together."
"Yes," said Katrina darkly. "I'll just bet you have."
Fisher looked at her with a slightly raised eyebrow, and Katrina decided to go
back to pouting.
The trip down through the Tower seemed to take forever. The stairs fell away
endlessly before them, curling round and round the inner wall. Hawk's thighs
ached from the strain, and his back ached from the tension of constantly waiting
for an attack. They were at their most vulnerable on the stairs, and the freak
must know it. He'd never get a better chance at them. But landing corners came
and went without an ambush, and doors passed unopened. Hawk's scowl deepened. He
almost wished the freak would attack and get it over with. But they reached the
ground floor without incident, and Jamie led the way back to the drawing room.
Hawk brought up the rear, sword at the ready, his gaze still darting from shadow
to shadow. He was beginning to wish he hadn't left the sledgehammer up on the
third floor. Alistair and Marc moved close together, also with swords at the
ready, almost treading on Jamie's heels. Hawk didn't blame them. It was always
when you were nearly back to safety that your adrenalin really began to pump. It
was only then, when you stopped thinking about your mission and started thinking
about being able to relax and take it easy again that you realized how much you
had to lose if something were to go wrong at the last moment. He hung back a
little, giving himself room to move, and swept the surrounding corridor with a
steady, professional gaze. It wasn't likely the freak would make a move now,
after turning down so many other, better opportunities, but Hawk wasn't about to
drop his guard just because safety was so near at hand.
Jamie reached the drawing room door, banged on it with his fist, and called out
his name. Marc and Alistair moved in close behind him, staring almost hungrily
at the door as they listened to the barricade being dismantled. Hawk stood with
his back to the door, watching the corridor. He looked left and right at random,
careful not to give any attacker a pattern he could anticipate and elude. There
was a movement to his right, and he looked sharply round to find Alistair beside
him, looking slightly sheepish.
"Must be getting old," said Alistair gruffly. "Forgetting to watch my back, just
because I'm nearly home. You'd make a good soldier, lad. You've got the right
instincts. You sure you've never had any training?"
Hawk cast about for a convincing answer, but was saved by the sound of the
drawing room door opening. Jamie hurried in, followed by Marc and Alistair. Hawk
took one last look round the empty corridor, then backed unhurriedly into the
drawing room. He kicked the door shut and pushed a heavy piece of furniture up
against it. And then, finally, he put away his sword and allowed himself to
relax a little.
Holly and Katrina were taking turns hugging the breath out of Jamie, while David
and Lord Arthur clapped Marc and Alistair on the shoulder and pumped them for
details about what they'd found out. Greaves and Robbie Brennan nodded politely
to Hawk as he put down his lamp, congratulated him on his safe return, and set
about rebuilding the barricade. Fisher came over to Hawk and offered him a
brandy, which he accepted gratefully.
"Any sign of the freak?" she asked quietly.
"We found his lair, but he was long gone. Jamie's got some documents that should
fill us in on what the freak actually is. Apart from that, it was pretty much a
wasted journey. One bit of bad news: There's a good chance the freak is a
magic-user. We ran into a pretty good illusion spell up around his lair."
Fisher pursed her lips thoughtfully. "That's all we needed. Did you come across
anything that might tie in with Fenris?"
"Not a damn thing. I'm beginning to wonder if we might have been sent on a
wild-goose chase. I haven't come across anything to suggest Fenris was ever
here."
"The circle of sorcerers said they tracked the spy right to Tower MacNeil."
Hawk sniffed. "I wouldn't trust that lot to cast my horoscope."
Fisher smiled. "Are you going to tell Commander Dubois that, or shall I?"
At that point, Jamie launched into an excited, only slightly exaggerated account
of their journey. Fisher listened skeptically while Hawk enjoyed his brandy. He
might not know much about vintages, but he knew enough not to waste a chance at
a good brandy. It wasn't often he could afford the good stuff on a Guard's
wages. Jamie finally wound up his report, and spread out the papers he'd found
on one of the larger tables so that everyone could take a look at them. With
perseverance, and a little discreet elbowing, Hawk and Fisher made sure they got
places in front of everyone else.
The pages were faded and cracked, and written in several different hands,
running from the time of the freak's birth to well after his incarceration. One
writer was definitely the freak's father. The others could have been anyone,
from members of the Family to some of the MacNeils' security people. The story
that finally emerged from the assembled pages was more than a little unsettling.
The Family could have lived with the physical abnormalities exhibited by the
freak at birth. Occasional unfortunates were inevitable when the Quality became
as inbred as it had in Haven. It wasn't until the child grew older that they
discovered just how inhuman he really was. The freak didn't need food or drink;
he drained the life force out of anyone and anything that came within arm's
reach of him. At first, no one understood what was happening. When those close
to the child felt ill and listless, they just put it down to a bug that was
going around. Then someone gave the freak a puppy for his sixth birthday, and
the Family watched in horror as he drained the life right out of it. The freak
laughed delightedly and clapped his hands again and again, glowing with health
and vitality, while the puppy lay shriveled and still on the carpet.
After that, the freak was kept in isolation. Poultry and small animals were
provided to satisfy his "unnatural appetites," but no one save his mother and
father ever saw him again. And they were always careful to visit him only after
he'd just been fed. The father spent years searching for a cure, almost
bankrupting the Family in the process. And then the mother went to visit her son
one day, and never came back. By the time the household realized she was
missing, it was far too late. His father found him squatting beside her body,
singing in her voice. The MacNeil almost fainted with shock when the monstrous
child addressed him in his dead wife's voice. It seemed he didn't just suck the
life out of people; he took their memories as well. The freak actually thought
he was his own mother. For a time…
The MacNeil finally did what his Family had been begging him to do for years. He
had a secret room constructed on the third floor, and walled up the freak inside
it. Since the boy was only ten years old, the MacNeil gave him poison to drink
first. It didn't work. The freak lived on, draining the strength out of anyone
who passed by his room. The MacNeil was at his wits' end. Since he'd already
told everyone the freak was dead, and established his second son as heir, he
didn't dare go outside the Family for help. So he did the only thing he could.
He evacuated the Tower, and left it empty long enough to weaken the freak. He
hoped the freak would die, but it didn't. He could hear it screaming.
Eventually, he went back inside and made a small opening in the wall. And fed
his son a rat. He slowly taught the freak to drain only food that was offered,
and not the person who fed him. It took a long time, but the MacNeil was
patient. And when the freak had finally learned, he let his Family back into
Tower MacNeil.
They couldn't leave the Tower permanently. People were already asking questions.
And they couldn't kill the freak. His magic had grown as he got older, tapping
into people's minds until they were afraid to antagonize him. As long as he was
fed regularly he remained quiet, and the Family learned to live with it.
Years passed. One by one, everyone who knew about the freak died, until it
became a Family Secret, handed down from father to eldest son. Feed the freak
what he wanted, and he would remain quiet. And so it went, down the many years.
The freak lived on, in his cell. Until finally Duncan MacNeil grew careless, and
never got around to telling his new eldest son. He died in battle, and the
supply of living food stopped. And the freak woke up hungry.
"The rest of it seems fairly obvious," said Hawk. "He drained the servants to
begin with, as they passed unknowing by the hidden room. Remember the colds they
kept getting? Then he broke out, and drained all the life out of someone."
"The dead man in the chimney," said Jamie. "But why did he burn the victim's
face?"
"I think I know," said Hawk. "But you're not going to like it. Remember, when he
drained his mother, he acquired her voice and memories. Even thought he was her,
for a time. I think he took one of your guests, Jamie, destroyed the victim's
face so it couldn't be recognized, and then took his place. Only the memories
were so strong, after so many years' abstinence, the freak forgot who he was and
thought he was the person he'd killed. That's why we haven't been attacked;
because one of us is the freak, and doesn't know it."
For a long moment they just stood there and looked at him.
"That's ridiculous!" said David. "How could he not know what he is?"
Hawk shrugged. "All those years alone must have driven him crazy. Maybe his own
personality had become so fragile…"
"Wait a minute," said Alistair. "What about the illusion on the cell wall? The
freak kept that up for a while, and then dropped it when he realized it wasn't
needed anymore. How could the freak do that if he doesn't remember who he is?"
"Maybe he remembers sometimes, when he has to, to protect himself," said Hawk.
"How should I know? I'm not an expert on freaks or madness!"
"You're accusing one of us of being the freak?" said Katrina shrilly. "That's
crazy! Jamie, tell him it's crazy!"
"Be quiet. Auntie," said Jamie. She looked at him reproachfully, but his face
was stem and uncompromising. At that moment he looked every inch the MacNeil,
head of the Family, and Katrina subsided, limiting herself to a couple of
bad-tempered sniffs. Jamie looked hard at Hawk. "If one of us is a murderer, and
truly doesn't know it, how can we tell who it is?"
"Perhaps there's something in the documents," said David. "Something we missed."
"No," said Alistair flatly. "Young Richard has summed up the papers' contents
very thoroughly. He didn't miss a thing."
"We've got to do something," said Katrina stubbornly. "That… creature could be
leeching the life out of us even as we speak."
"Has anybody felt ill recently?" said Marc. "Does anyone feel tired or
listless?"
They all looked at each other, but nobody said anything. Hawk frowned as he
tried to judge how he felt. After the hectic events of the past night and early
morning he'd have been surprised if he hadn't felt a little frayed around the
edges, but he couldn't say he felt unusually tired. He cocked an eyebrow at
Fisher, and she shook her head slightly.
"We have to find the freak," said Jamie. "Find him and kill him. He's too
dangerous to be allowed to live."
"Right," said David. "If we don't find him before he feeds again, he could be
the only living thing left in this Tower when the wards go down tomorrow
morning."
Holly paled suddenly, and turned away. Arthur looked hard at David. "Steady on,
old chap. You're frightening the girls."
"Shut up, Arthur," said Jamie. "This is serious."
"Are you sure we can kill the freak?" said Marc. "He's not human. Perhaps he
can't be killed by ordinary methods."
Alistair nodded thoughtfully. "You mean like silver for a werewolf, and a wooden
stake for a vampire?"
"Perhaps the reason why they didn't kill him is because they couldn't," said
Marc slowly. "If that is the case, the wisest thing for us to do would be to
lock ourselves up in our rooms, barricade the doors, and wait it out till
morning. As soon as the wards go down, we could make a run for it."
"And leave the freak free to turn on the city?" said Jamie. "Hundreds of people
could die before he was finally hunted down and destroyed. The Secret of the
MacNeils would become the Shame of the MacNeils. I can't allow that. The freak
is our responsibility. It's a Family problem. And we have to deal with it."
"Besides," said Hawk quickly, "splitting up is a bad idea. There's safety in
numbers."
"So you keep saying," said David. "What's the matter, Richard? Can't you cope
without someone to hold your hand?"
"That's enough, David!" said Jamie sharply. "Richard's done very well by us so
far. Now listen to me, all of you. There's still one source of information we
haven't consulted, and that's my father's will. There may be something in the
will that can help us, so Greaves and I will set up the right conditions for the
reading. It may take a little time, and I think we could all use a break to
freshen up, so I suggest you all repair to your rooms and compose yourselves
until we're ready down here. But, just to be on the safe side, I think it might
be wise if no one was to be left on their own. So choose a partner and stick
with them at all times. Happy now, Richard?"
"Not really," said Hawk. "But it's better than nothing. I'll look after my
sister."
"Of course," said Jamie. "Aunt Katrina, if you'd be so kind as to look after
Holly…"
There was a brief rumble of conversation as the others sorted themselves out.
David and Arthur paired up together, leaving Marc and Alistair to form the final
pair. Neither of them looked too happy about it, but they both made diplomatic
noises. Brennan realized he was left on his own, and quickly volunteered to help
set up the reading of the will.
There was a pause after that as everyone waited for everyone else to make the
first move. Jamie broke the mood by nodding curtly to Greaves and Brennan to
help him dismantle the barricade at the door. It was soon done, and everyone set
off up the stairs to the bedrooms on the next floor, eyeing each other
suspiciously when they thought no one was looking. Hawk still wasn't happy about
the group splitting up, but Jamie was the authority here, not him; he couldn't
push the matter too hard without arousing suspicions. Besides, he could use the
opportunity to talk with Isobel in private. He always did his best thinking when
he could discuss things with Isobel. And he had a strong feeling he was going to
need all the help he could get on this case.
Chapter Five
Plans And Secrets
Hawk and Fisher watched closely as the others disappeared into their rooms on
the second floor, and made careful mental notes as to who was staying where. You
never knew when information like that might come in handy. Jamie escorted Hawk
and Fisher to their room, and even opened the door for them. Hawk thought about
offering him a tip, but decided Jamie wouldn't see the joke. Jamie made the
usual polite remarks about hoping they'd be comfortable, and Hawk made the usual
polite remarks in reply. Then they all smiled at each other, and Jamie went back
down the corridor. Hawk immediately closed the door, locked it, and put his back
against it. His chin dropped forward onto his chest, and he let out a long slow
sigh of relief. Fisher made vague grunts of agreement from where she lay
stretched out full length on the bed, indifferent to the damage it was doing to
her dress.
"I never knew behaving respectably could be such hard work," said Hawk finally.
"I've done so much smiling it feels like I went to sleep with a coat hanger in
my mouth. I don't know if I can keep this up till tomorrow morning."
"I don't know what you're complaining about," said Fisher unsympathetically. "At
least you don't have to be sociable and cope with a corset at the same time. My
waist isn't on speaking terms with the rest of me." She sat up slowly and
carefully, levered off her fashionable shoes, and wriggled her toes gratefully.
"I don't know how women can bear to wear those things. My feet are killing me."
Hawk threw himself into the nearest chair, slumped back, and stretched out his
legs before him. It felt good to be able to relax, even if only for a while. The
chair was almost sinfully comfortable, and Hawk closed his eyes the better to
appreciate it. Some moments were just too precious to be interrupted. But it
didn't last. There were too many more important things clamoring for his
attention. He opened his eyes reluctantly, and glanced round the room Jamie had
given them; just on the off chance he'd spot something that would let him ignore
his problems for a while, till he felt better able to deal with them. The room
looked back, determined not to be helpful.
It was fairly luxurious as far as Quality standards went; and Quality standards
went pretty far. There were thick rugs on the floor, an assortment of
classically elegant furniture, and a bed with a mattress deep enough to swim in.
Paintings of famous military scenes covered the walls (military art was in that
Season), and half a dozen small nude statuettes smiled and posed tastefully on
alabaster pedestals. And over by the window, half hidden by drapes heavy enough
to block out the harshest sunlight, stood the room's own private liquor cabinet.
Hawk smiled. Now, that was what he called civilized. He started to lever himself
up out of his chair, but Fisher intercepted his gaze, and shook her head firmly.
"You've had enough for one day, Hawk. Let's try and concentrate on the matter at
hand. Namely, what the hell is going on here? Every time I think I've got it
worked out, something else happens that throws it all back up in the air again."
"It's not really as confusing as it seems," said Hawk, settling back in his
chair. "It just looks that way because we don't have all the facts yet. Or if we
do, we haven't got them arranged in the right order. What's really complicating
the hell out of things is that we're dealing with two separate cases here. On
the one hand we have an escaped killer freak, disguised as one of us by an
illusion, while on the other hand we have our missing spy Fenris, disguised as
one of us by a shapechange. We can't sort the two cases out because they keep
interfering with each other, and we can't tell which evidence belongs to which
case."
"Could that be deliberate?" said Fisher, thoughtfully massaging her left foot
and staring off into the distance. "Maybe Fenris recognized us despite our
disguises, and let the freak loose himself, as a way of throwing us off his
trail."
"I don't think so," said Hawk slowly. "The way we look now, our own creditors
wouldn't know us. And from the mess the freak made of his cell wall, I don't
think he needed any help in getting out. But certainly Fenris could be using the
situation to keep the waters muddy. I would, in his shoes."
"He might know who we are, regardless of our disguises," said Fisher. "There
could be a leak at Headquarters. Hell, half the force is on the take these days,
one way or another."
"True. But how many people actually know about us? Commander Dubois, Mistress
Melanie, and that sorcerer doctor, Wulfgang. That's all."
"That's enough," said Fisher flatly. "Whatever information Fenris has, it must
be bloody important to have panicked the Council so badly. And if it's that
important, it must be worth a lot of money to the right people."
Hawk thought about it. "All right. There's a chance Fenris knows who we really
are. Which means we can't trust anyone here."
Fisher smiled. "What's new about that?"
Hawk scowled. "I can't believe we've been here all this time and we're still no
nearer identifying Fenris. Look: We know Fenris went to the sorcerer Grimm for
an emergency shapechange. That means the body he's got now isn't his usual one.
Which means we can eliminate all the people here who can prove they've had the
same form for more than twenty-four hours."
Fisher looked at him. "That's brilliant, Hawk. Why didn't we think of that
before?"
"Well, we have been rather preoccupied."
"Right," said Fisher. "So, that cuts out Jamie, Katrina, and Holly. And the two
servants, Greaves and Brennan."
"And Lord Arthur," said Hawk. "I've met him before. And since Arthur and Jamie
have both known David for some time, that just leaves Alistair and Marc." Hawk
nodded slowly to himself. "And we've already established Alistair is lying about
where he comes from; he didn't know the Red Marches are flooded these days."
"Yes," said Fisher, in a voice that indicated she was about to get picky. "But
he does seem to know a hell of a lot about MacNeil Family history. How would our
spy know things like that?"
"He could if he was a friend of the MacNeils in his true form. According to
Jamie, his Family have a long history of bad feelings with the Court. Which
would explain why Fenris made a beeline for Tower MacNeil in the first place.
But, on the other hand…"
"We shouldn't dismiss Marc out of hand. Do we have any actual evidence against
him?"
"Nothing so far. He's a quiet sort; hasn't much to say for himself at the best
of times. Doesn't seem to care much for us, but we can't drag him off in chains
just for that." Hawk frowned. "But… in all the time we've been here, Marc hasn't
volunteered one thing about his past; not a single damned thing about who or
what he was before he came to Tower MacNeil. Interesting, that."
Fisher shook her head. "Just because he hasn't opened up to us doesn't mean he
hasn't talked to the others."
"True. So, for the time being I think we'll concentrate our attention on
Alistair, as far as finding the spy is concerned. Tracking down the freak is
going to be rather more difficult."
"Why? Once again it has to be someone not well known by the others. The freak
might have taken on someone else's memories, but he's still stuck with his own
face. So, we're back to Marc and Alistair again. And if Alistair is Fenris, then
Marc has to be the freak. Right?"
Hawk shook his head regretfully. "Nice try, Isobel. Unfortunately, it's not that
simple."
Fisher groaned. "Somehow I just knew you were going to say that. All right, what
have I missed this time?"
"You're forgetting the illusion spell the freak cast to cover up the hole in the
wall on the third floor. It's quite possible the freak is still messing with our
minds, to make us see someone else's face, instead of his own. Which means he
could be anyone. Male or female. And with complete access to that person's
memories, there's no way anyone's going to trip him up with an unexpected
question."
"Oh great," said Fisher. "So where does that leave us?"
"Wait. It gets worse. It seems to me the freak may be interfering with our minds
in other, subtler ways as well. Jamie seemed quite determined to split up the
group, despite everything I've said, and everyone else just went along with it.
Which is rather unusual, considering this bunch can't normally agree on anything
without several minutes worth of arguments, insults, and recriminations. Perhaps
the freak influenced everyone to accept Jamie's idea, in order to make us easier
targets."
Fisher looked at him thoughtfully, still holding her bare foot absently in her
hand. "It's possible, I suppose. But how could we tell, one way or the other?
And besides, if they're all being influenced, why aren't we? If the freak was
controlling the way we think, then this idea wouldn't have occurred to us at
all. Would it?"
"That's a good question," said Hawk. "Wish I had a good answer."
"Hell," said Fisher. "I'd settle for a bad one."
Holly sat unhappily in her chair by the fire while Katrina Dorimant studied her
makeup in the dressing-table mirror. Looking good, thought Katrina contentedly.
Don't look a day over twenty-five. Not bad for an old broad past forty. Graham
never did appreciate me, rot his socks. She smiled. Graham might not have, but
there were those who had. Sometimes in Graham's own bed. He never was very
observant. She pouted at her reflection. It was all his fault anyway. If he
hadn't spent all his spare time and money on his silly politics, instead of
lavishing it on her, they might still be together.
She'd told him right from the start; she was prepared to put up with a lot of
things from him, but coming second wasn't one of them. She expected all his
attention all the time. She wasn't unreasonable; she realized he had
commitments. She just wanted him to be there when she needed him. What was so
unreasonable about that? Things had been different when they first met. He'd
been all over her then, bright and witty and attentive, always ready with a
smile or a compliment or an out-of-season flower. When he finally worked up the
nerve to ask her to marry him, long after she'd decided to accept, he'd promised
her faithfully that she'd always come first with him. Graham was always very big
with promises. She should have remembered that promises were a politician's
stock in trade.
He'd been so funny, then. She missed his sense of humor more than anything. He
could always make her laugh, no matter how dark the day.
Still, she hadn't done so badly for herself since she left him. She ran up the
bills and he paid them, just as always. And why not? That was what men were for.
Among other things. She smiled. Richard MacNeil was an unexpected bonus. Tall,
dark, handsome, and wonderfully innocent in the ways of the world. He all but
blushed every time she looked at him. She pulled the front of her dress down
another inch to show off more cleavage, and considered the effect in the mirror.
No, better not. She wanted to attract Richard's attention, not give him a
coronary. Besides, it would undoubtably scandalize Jamie, and she couldn't
afford to get on his wrong side at the moment. Dear Jamie; so young and already
so prudish. Never even had a girlfriend, as far as she knew. She'd have to do
something about that, once this nonsense was over and done with. In the meantime
she'd do better to concentrate on Richard. He needed… encouraging. She produced
a small silver makeup case from inside her sleeve, opened it, and pawed
thoughtfully through the contents.
"Aunt Katrina, what are you doing?"
Katrina glanced round at Holly. "Ah, you've decided to come out of your snit at
last. I thought you were going to sulk all day because Jamie paired you off with
me instead of your precious David."
"I was not sulking!"
"Of course not, dear; you were just thinking very hard, and that's what made you
frown. Now be a pet, and don't interrupt while Auntie fixes her face."
Katrina removed a tiny black patch from the makeup case, balanced it on the tip
of her finger, and pressed it firmly onto the right side of her face, just above
the jaw. It was very slightly but quite definitely heart-shaped. Katrina turned
her face back and forth, studying the effect in the mirror.
"Aunt, what is that?"
"It's a beauty spot, dear. They're all the rage. And I do wish you'd call me
Katrina, especially when we're in company. 'Aunt' makes me feel positively
ancient."
"A beauty spot," said Holly, doubtfully. "What's the point of it?"
"The point is to attract a young man's interest. Beauty spots are supposedly
there to cover some minor flaw or defect; this intrigues the young gentleman as
to what that flaw might be, and how he might get a look at it. Personally, I
just think they look pretty."
Holly thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. "Not really my
style."
"Yes, well, at your age you don't need such artifices. Gods, I'd kill for a
complexion like yours. Still, at least you're taking an interest in things
again. How are you feeling now, Holly dear?"
"Better, I suppose. I'm sorry I went all to pieces downstairs, but it all just
got too much for me. I've not been sleeping well recently. I'm sure I could cope
a lot better if I wasn't so tired all the time."
Katrina sighed, and put away her makeup case. She turned to look at Holly
sternly. "Have you been taking that potion the doctor prescribed?"
"Yes. It doesn't help. It doesn't stop me dreaming. That's why I don't sleep;
I'm afraid to. It's always the same dream. I'm lying in bed, in the dark, unable
to move, and there's something in the room with me. I can't see it, but I know
it's there. It comes slowly closer, creeping towards the foot of my bed. I can
hear its heavy footsteps, and its harsh breathing. And I know it wants to do
something to me; something horrible. I know I'm dreaming, and I try to wake
myself up, but I can't. It starts to heave itself up onto the end of my bed. I
can feel the mattress sink down around my feet, feel the creature's horrid
weight on my legs. I try to scream, but I can't make a sound; and that's when I
finally wake up. Only each night, the creature seems to get a little further
before I can wake myself up. That's why I'm so afraid to sleep, because I know
that one night I'm not going to wake up in time."
"You poor dear!" Katrina got up and moved quickly over to kneel beside Holly.
"Why didn't you tell the doctor all this?"
"I did. He said it wasn't that unusual a dream for a girl my age, and advised
Jamie to get me married off as soon as possible. I wasn't supposed to hear that,
but I was listening outside the door. Jamie said he'd think about it. But my
dream is real. I know it. That's why I began praying for the Family Guardian to
come and save me. He's my only hope now."
Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Men! Now don't you worry, Holly, as soon as this
nonsense is over I'll see Jamie gets you the best doctors and specialists in
Haven. They'll find out what's really wrong with you, and what to do about it.
In the meantime, you need something to take your mind off things. Come with me,
dear. Come on!"
She took Holly firmly by the arm and dragged her over to the dressing table.
Ignoring Holly's protests, Katrina sat her down before the mirror and retrieved
her makeup case from her sleeve. She took hold of Holly's chin and turned her
face back and forth, frowning thoughtfully as she studied the girl's pale and
tired features in the mirror.
"Don't you worry about a thing, dear. Auntie is going to remake your face from
top to bottom. You won't know yourself when I'm finished. Then you can walk into
the will-reading with your head held high, and knock them all dead. David isn't
going to believe his eyes the next time he sees you!"
"But Katrina, I don't wear makeup… Jamie doesn't allow it…"
"Oh hush, dear, and let Auntie work. You think about David, not Jamie. I'll take
care of him."
Marc and Alistair sat stiffly in chairs on opposite sides of the room, carefully
not looking at each other. They'd taken turns freshening up in the adjoining
bathroom, and now they were waiting to be called downstairs for the reading of
the will. In all the time they'd been alone together they hadn't exchanged a
dozen words. Alistair crossed and uncrossed his legs, and drummed his fingers on
the arm of his chair. He glanced briefly at the liquor cabinet, and looked away.
That wasn't what he was here for. His Family needed his help, and he wouldn't
let them down. He looked round the room Jamie had given him. There'd been quite
a few changes in the decor since he was last here. He didn't like them. Too
bright and gaudy, by half. But, fashions change, and he had been away a hell of
a long time…
He looked over at Marc, who was sitting perfectly still, staring at nothing, his
face as inscrutable as ever. Was this what the Family had come to, a cold fish
like him? The MacNeil blood must be running pretty damned thin these days. The
man looked more like a funeral director than a young blade of the Quality.
Alistair stirred impatiently. He found Marc's continued silence intensely
irritating. There were things he needed to say, things he needed to discuss with
someone, important things; and who had Jamie paired him off with? An undertaker
who'd taken a vow of silence, with all the open emotions of a garden statue.
Alistair settled back in his chair and put a curb on his impatience. He
shouldn't be too hard on the lad. After all, Marc was all alone and a long way
from home. He was probably just shy and ill at ease. He could be waiting for
Alistair to make the first move. Alistair ran through half a dozen possible
openings, designed to lead the conversation round to what he wanted to talk
about, but faced with Marc's cold visage they all seemed either fatuous or
foolish.
All right, then; to hell with being polite. Be direct.
He leaned forward in his chair and fixed Marc with his gaze. "You've been doing
a lot of thinking, young Marc. Who do you think the freak is?"
Marc met the older man's gaze unflinchingly. "I don't know, cousin. It could be
any of us. If Richard is right, and the creature truly no longer remembers what
it is, then I suppose it could even be you or I, and we wouldn't know. It's a
frightening thought; the possibility that you might not be who you think you
are, but actually someone else entirely. And yet I'm not sure that I agree with
Richard. In order to pass as one of us, the freak must be maintaining a fairly
complex illusion spell. How could he do that, and not be aware of what he is?"
"I don't know," said Alistair. "But the mind's a funny thing. Maybe part of him
remembers; just enough to protect him without breaking the hold his new memories
have on him. But even so, we're still dealing with someone who's spent most of
his life going crazy in solitary confinement. Even with his new memories to lean
on, he's bound to find himself in situations he can't cope with. And that's when
his true nature can't help but reveal itself."
Marc looked at him thoughtfully. "I take it you're about to suggest someone you
think has been acting out of character."
"Exactly," said Alistair. "I don't like the way Richard's been acting. He's from
a very minor branch of the Family, lives in the middle of nowhere, and by his
own account has spent most of his life with his nose in a book. But ever since
we found the body, he's been taking charge, snapping out orders and generally
behaving more like a hardened soldier or a Guard. It's as though he's confused
the memories of who he's supposed to be with those of the people he read about.
And out of all of us, he's always seemed the least scared. Perhaps because deep
down he knows he's got nothing to worry about."
"You may have something there," said Marc slowly. "I've been watching Richard,
too. He was very quick on picking up the freak's story from the papers Jamie
found, wasn't he? Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?"
"Only Jamie. He won't listen to me."
"We need evidence. All we have at the moment are suspicions. We can't condemn a
man purely on doubts and theories."
"We'll get evidence," said Alistair. "All we have to do is watch him. Sooner or
later he'll give himself away, and then I'll kill him with my bare hands."
David paced impatiently up and down, glaring at nothing and everything, while
Arthur freshened his glass with a bottle from the room's liquor cabinet. He'd
dragged the cabinet over to the bed, and was now seated with his back against
the headboard and his legs stretched elegantly out before him. He watched David
indulgently for a while, and then coughed politely. David shot him a glance
without slowing his pacing. Arthur smiled at him.
"Do slow down a little, Davey. You're wearing a path in the rugs and making me
positively dizzy. Jamie will call us when it's time."
David dropped reluctantly into the nearest chair, stirred uncomfortably, and
then shifted forward until he was sitting right on the edge of the chair.
"Arthur, how can you be so calm after everything that's happened? Has the booze
finally given up on rotting your liver and decided to go after your brain now?
One of us is a murderer, an insane monster just waiting for his chance to kill
again. And we're trapped in the Tower with him!"
Arthur thought about that for a moment. "Does it really matter that he's an
insane monster? I mean, a sane one would be just as bad, surely?"
David looked at him disgustedly. "I should have known better than to expect any
sense out of you. For once in your life, Arthur, try to concentrate on what's
happening around you! Holly's in danger here. Doesn't that mean anything to
you?"
"Yes, it does. You know that. I'll do anything I can to protect her and keep her
safe. But right now she's safe in her room behind a locked door. Just like us.
What else can we do now except wait for Jamie's call?"
"I don't know!" David shook his head slowly and relaxed a little. "I'm sorry,
Arthur. I shouldn't take it out on you. I'm just… scared, that's all. Scared
that something bad's going to happen to Holly, and I won't be there to stop it.
I've always been her protector, even more than Jamie; standing between her and
the bad old world. Taking all the knocks and bruises so she wouldn't have to.
I'd die for her, Arthur. But all I can do now is sit on my backside and wait for
something to go wrong. I just feel so bloody helpless!"
"We all do, Davey. Save your strength. Save it for when it's needed."
David sighed heavily. "I never was very good at waiting. I've always needed to
be doing something, anything."
"Our time will come. In the meantime, why not have a drink?"
David looked at him sternly. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Get
smashed out of your mind till the world stops bothering you. Don't you know that
stuff's killing you?"
"Sure," said Arthur. "But what makes you think I give a damn? Nobody else does,
so why should I buck the trend? It's not enough just to live, Davey; there has
to be some purpose in it, some reason to get out of bed in the morning. And I
never found one.
"For a while I tried to be the kind of man my Family wanted, but after they all
died I lost interest. There didn't seem any point in it once they were gone. I
had all the money I'd ever need, and the estate practically runs itself. So,
mostly I just settled for having a good time. Believe me, Davey, you'd be
surprised how deadly dull having a good time can be after a while. One party
blurs into another, the days drag on, and sometimes you think the night is never
going to end. I can't seem to get interested in anything anymore. Nothing really
matters to me. Except you and Holly. You're important to me, Davey. You do know
that, don't you?"
"Of course," said David. "We've always been friends, the three of us. Always
will be."
"Friends," said Arthur. "Yes." He took a long drink from his glass.
"You need a woman in your life," said David. "Surely at all those parties there
must have been someone, some woman who made your heart beat faster…"
"There was one woman I loved. But I never told her."
"Why not?"
"Because I cared for her too much to ruin her life by becoming a part of it.
I've messed up my own life quite thoroughly. I'm damned if I'll drag her down
with me. Besides, she already has someone, someone who'll make her much happier
than I ever could."
David shook his head. "Arthur, you mustn't think so badly of yourself."
"Why not? Everyone else does. Even you."
"That's different. I'm your friend. All your friends worry about you."
"Friends," said Arthur, sipping at his drink. "I used to think I had a lot of
friends. After all, there's no one so popular as a drunk with money. But I had
to make out my will the other week. Instructions from the Family lawyer. So
there I was, sitting at my desk in my study, and I found there was hardly anyone
I wanted to leave anything to. I know lots of people, but the only time I ever
see them are at parties. Not one of them ever called at my house during the day
to say hello, or ask how I was, or just to chat for a while over a glass of
something. In the end, I found there were only three people in my life who I
thought might regret my passing. You, Holly, and Louis Hightower. That's it. And
be honest now. How many of you would even bother to come to my funeral if it was
raining?"
"There is nothing so boring as a maudlin drunk," said David firmly. "If you're
just going to feel sorry for yourself…"
"It's a dirty job," said Arthur. "But someone has to do it."
"Oh, stop it! Of course you have other friends. What about Jamie?"
"He's your friend, not mine. He just puts up with me because of you and Holly."
"Look, if you're so determined to kill yourself, why are you dragging it out? Do
the honorable thing and put yourself out of your misery! Oh hell… I'm sorry,
Arthur. You'd think I'd know better by now than to argue with you while you're
drunk. Just… snap out of it. You've got a lot to live for. There's a lot more to
life than drink."
"I don't care for drugs," said Arthur. "I'm a traditionalist at heart."
"You're just trying to annoy me, aren't you? Look, you can't kill yourself.
Think how upset Holly would be. Now let's change the subject. Gods, you can be
depressing at times, Arthur. You're not the only one with problems, you know. I
have problems too, but you don't see me crying into my wine over them."
Arthur looked at him steadily. "You've never had problems. You've always been
handsome and popular. Your Family bend over backwards to indulge you. Women have
been chasing you ever since your voice dropped. You have so many friends your
parties often spill over into a second house. What problems do you have, Davey?
Not being able to choose which shirt to wear next?"
David looked at him for a long moment. "You know your trouble, Arthur? You're so
wrapped up in your precious self-pity you can't see beyond the end of your own
nose. Haven't you ever wondered why I spend so much time with you and Holly and
Jamie, instead of running off to join the army and see the world, like the rest
of our contemporaries ?"
Arthur frowned. "That's right. Your Family's famous for its strong tradition of
military service, isn't it? Practically obligatory, from what I've heard. I
suppose I just assumed you had more sense than the rest of your Family. All
right, tell me. Why aren't you in the army?"
"Because the army wouldn't have me. I spent two years cramming with my tutors to
get me past the Military Academy entrance exams, two years working my guts out,
and I still didn't pass. I didn't even come close. "Whatever it takes to be an
officer, I don't have it. There was nothing my Family could do. There were all
kinds of strings they could have pulled on my behalf, once I got into the
Academy, but not even their influence could persuade the Academy to accept such
a spectacular failure as me.
"They couldn't even get me into the diplomatic corps, where most of our Family's
second-raters end up.
"My father threatened to disown me. Most of my Family aren't talking to me, and
those that are never miss an opportunity to remind me how badly I let them all
down. And as for my friends, practically everyone I grew up with is in the army
now, scattered across the Low Kingdoms, defending our borders. Some of them have
already died doing it. And every time I find a familiar name in the death lists
I think That could have been me. That should have been me. We've more in common
than you think, Arthur."
Arthur looked at him unflinchingly. "I'm sorry, Davey. You're right, I should
have known, but I just never thought about it. You see, you're the only man I
ever envied. Because you've got the only thing I ever wanted. You have Holly."
There was a long pause as they looked at each other. To his credit, David didn't
look away. "So it is her. We often wondered, but you never said anything. Holly
and I love each other, Arthur. We always have. We're going to be married soon. I
wish… things could have been different. We used to be so close, the three of
us."
"We were children then. Children grow up."
There was a sudden knocking at the door. The two men jumped to their feet as the
door burst open and Jamie hurried in.
"What is it?" asked David, as Jamie shut the door behind him. "What's happened?"
"Relax," said Jamie. "There's no emergency. I just needed someone to talk to. I
don't know what to do. At the moment I'm pinning all my hopes on Dad's will,
that there'll be something in it that can help us, but it's a slim hope at best.
I'm not up to this. In the past, whenever there was a problem, I could always
turn to Dad. He always knew what to do. Now there's just me, and everything's
going wrong."
"Oh hell," said David. "Another one."
"Ignore him," said Arthur quickly. "You mustn't blame yourself, Jamie. You're
doing everything you can. We understand how hard it is. It's not easy, learning
how to stand on your own feet. Some people never do learn. But you're doing fine
so far. Isn't he, Davey?"
"Damn right," said David. "You found your father's papers, didn't you? Without
them, we might never have found out what kind of monster we were dealing with."
"I can't help feeling Dad would have done things differently," said Jamie. "He
was the great warrior, after all; the great hero. Everyone said so, even the
King. I was so proud of him… even though I never got to see much of him. He was
away with the army a lot, especially after Mother died when I was young. But he
was spending more time at the Tower just recently, and we were really getting to
know each other. And then he had to go and die in that stupid little clash on
the border. I couldn't believe it when I heard. How could he have been so
stupid? He didn't have to go up there in person, not someone of his rank. He
must have known it wasn't safe up there! But he went anyway, because he couldn't
bear to miss out on the action. And he got himself killed, leaving Holly and me
alone. And on top of all that, he hadn't even bothered to tell me the Secret, as
he should have!"
He was close to tears, his face bright red with anger and frustration. Arthur
took him by the arm, and gently but firmly made him sit down on the nearest
chair. "It's all right to be angry, Jamie," he said softly. "I was angry at my
Family when they all died so suddenly, going off and leaving me all alone. But
it wasn't your father's fault. He didn't mean to leave you. He just made a
mistake, that's all; a simple mistake in judgment."
"Right," said David, sitting on the arm of the chair. "Everyone makes mistakes,
Jamie. Even a great hero like your dad."
"The whole border situation is a mess right now," said Arthur. "Practically
everyone I know has lost somebody to one border clash or another. If Outremer
doesn't back down soon, we could find ourselves in a full-fledged war."
"It won't come to that," said David. "No one wants a war, at least no one that
matters, and no one really cares about the borders. It's just politics, that's
all. The diplomats will sort it out. Eventually."
"We're getting away from the point," said Arthur. "Which is, all you can ever do
is give it your best shot, and hope that's enough. That's all your father would
expect of you, Jamie. That's all any of us expect of you. You're doing fine.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Right, Davey?"
"Sure," said David. "We'll find the freak and kill him, and no one will ever
have to know about it."
"Right," said Arthur. "Care for a drink, Jamie?"
Greaves looked round the library and nodded approvingly. Everything was where it
should be, ready for the reading of the will. Duncan would have been proud to
see all his wishes carried out to the letter. The chairs had been set up in a
semicircle facing Duncan's favorite desk. The wax-sealed will had been placed
neatly in the middle of the desktop, ready to be opened. All it lacked now was
the man himself.
Greaves' breath suddenly caught in his chest, and he looked away. He'd known the
master was dead for some time now, but somehow the reading of the will confirmed
it, made it real. Duncan would never again come striding through that door, to
warm his hands at the fire and roar for cigars and his best brandy. Once the
will was read, Duncan would become just a memory, a portrait on the wall; and
young Jamie would be the new MacNeil in fact as well as name. Greaves sighed.
He'd serve Jamie faithfully, just as Mister Duncan had ordered, but it wouldn't
be the same. Mister Duncan had been a great man, and Greaves would miss him.
He felt suddenly tired, and sat down on one of the chairs, something he would
never have done if anyone else had been present. But it was all right; there was
no one to see him. Robbie Brennan was off on an errand, and Mister Jamie and the
guests were all safely occupied upstairs. Greaves leaned back in the chair and
looked slowly around him. The library had always been his favorite room. Many an
evening he had served Mister Duncan and his guests as they sat in the library,
telling and retelling marvelous tales of their younger, soldiering days. And
Greaves had moved from chair to chair, handing out glasses of mulled wine and
dispensing cigars, inventing extra tasks so that he could stay a little longer
and listen, too.
The butler scowled, pursing his lips tightly together. It was all gone now. No
more evening stories. No more fine parties of great people for him to look
after. And the MacNeil himself dead and lost on a battlefield too far away even
to imagine, let alone visit. There had been little warmth in Greaves's life as a
butler, only orders and duties and the comfort of knowing his place and keeping
to it. But Greaves had always thought of himself as someone who might have been
Duncan MacNeil's friend if things had been different. And now the man was dead,
and Greaves would never be able to tell him that.
The door opened and Greaves was quickly back on his feet, but it was only Robbie
Brennan, carrying the extra candelabrum Greaves had sent him for. Greaves
pointed silently to where he wanted it, and Brennan lowered it carefully into
place. He straightened up and glared at Greaves.
"That has to be it. We've moved everything in here that isn't actually nailed
down."
"The MacNeil was very particular in his wishes," said Greaves calmly.
"Everything had to be just so. But we are finished now."
"Good," said Brennan. "I think I've done my back in, shifting that desk. I'd
better go and tell Jamie his guests can come down now."
"Just a minute… Robbie. I want to talk to you."
Brennan looked at the butler in surprise as Greaves sat down again and gestured
for Brennan to pull up a chair facing him. He did so, and looked at Greaves
curiously.
"Robbie, tell me about Duncan," said Greaves quietly. "Tell me about the Duncan
you knew, in your younger days."
"Why?" said Brennan.
"Because I want to know. Because I miss him."
Brennan shrugged uncomfortably. "You've heard all the songs, but you can forget
them. Songs are for entertainment, not history. I first met Duncan forty-four
years ago, almost to the month. He was a young officer, the ink still wet on his
commission. I was a mercenary out of Shadowrock, serving with Murdoch's
Marauders. An impressive name for a bunch of killers, half of them running from
the law under names their mothers wouldn't have recognized.
"Duncan and I first saw action together at Cormorran's Bridge. The way the
official histories tell it, it was a tactical defeat for the other side. I was
there, and it was a bloody massacre. We lost five hundred men in the first half
hour, and the river ran red with blood and offal. Murdoch's Marauders were wiped
out; only a handful of us survived. The main army was broken and scattered,
heading for the horizon with enemy troops snapping at their heels. There were
bodies everywhere, blood and guts lying steaming in the mud. The flies came down
in great black clouds, covering the dead and the dying like moving blankets.
Duncan and I ended up fighting back to back in the shallows. We would have run,
but there was nowhere to run to. We were surrounded, and the enemy weren't
interested in taking prisoners. So, we made our stand, and vowed to take as many
of them with us as we could. No one was more surprised than us when the enemy
finally retreated rather than face approaching army reinforcements, and we were
both still alive. We were a mess, but we were alive.
"We stuck together after that; we knew a hint from the Gods when we saw one. We
worked well together, and slowly became friends as well as allies. The army sent
us here and there, and we saw a lot of action in the kinds of places minstrels
like to call colorful. Arse-ends of the world, most of them. We fought in
twenty-three different Campaigns down the years, and not one of them for a cause
that was worth so much blood and dying. Still, we got to see some of the world.
Had some good times together. Even had a few adventures that had nothing to do
with the army; but none of them the kind of thing you'd want to make a song
about.
"Ah hell, Greaves. What can I tell you that you don't already know? Duncan was a
good soldier and a better friend. He had a bit of a temper, but he was always
sorry afterwards, and his word was good, unlike quite a few I could mention. He
brought me here to the Tower, when my soldiering days were over, and made me a
part of his Family in all but name. That's my old sword, hanging on the wall
there. And you tell me you'll miss him? I miss Duncan with every breath I take.
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I remember is that he's dead.
It's like there's a hole in my life that he used to fill, and now it's cold and
empty. I should have been there, Greaves. I should have been there with him.
Maybe I could have done… something. He never did watch his back enough. But I
wasn't there, because we both thought I was too old. So he died alone, among
strangers, and I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have saved
him if I'd been there.
"What do you want me to say, Greaves? That he liked you? He did, as far as I
know. Wait until after the will: I'll read his eulogy then. I wrote it myself
years ago; just needs a little updating. I'll say all the right things, make all
the proper comments, sing his praises and not mention any of the things he'd
rather were forgotten. Things that might shock young Jamie and his friends. I'll
polish up his memory one last time, and we can all say goodbye. You have to
learn to say goodbye, Greaves. It's the first real lesson every soldier learns."
Brennan finally ran down, and the old library was quiet again. Greaves nodded
slowly. "Thank you, Robbie. There were many things Mister Duncan could not bring
himself to tell me about his past, perhaps because he thought they might
distress me. But I wanted to know them anyway. Because they were a part of him.
But he is not really gone from us, you know. He has left behind the young
master, Jamie. There is a lot of his father in him."
"I suppose so," said Brennan. "Sure, he's a good kid. Is there anything else, or
can I call the others down now?"
"We have to protect Mister Jamie!" said Greaves fiercely. "He is the MacNeil
now. I think I know who our killer is. He masquerades as Quality, but he does
not have the true stamp of the aristocracy about him. Never mind who; I am not
certain enough yet to point the finger. But when the time comes, he must die.
And Mister Jamie may not be able to do the deed. He's young, and largely
untested. If he should balk, we must do the task for him. The Secret must not
get out. Or we betray Duncan's name and memory."
Hawk hurried down the corridor to the bathroom, clutching at the right side of
his face with his hand. He banged on the bathroom door with his fist, waited a
moment to see if anyone would answer, and then pushed open the door and hurried
in. He slammed the door behind him with his foot, and made for the washbasin. He
splashed some water into the bowl, and then reached up and carefully eased the
glass eye out of his aching eye socket. He leaned against the wall as the pain
slowly receded, letting his breathing get back to normal, and then he dropped
the eye into the basin. It stared up at him reproachfully, as though someone had
told it about the problem being all in Hawk's mind. He turned his back on it,
and massaged the right side of his face. He was already feeling a lot better.
When this case was over he was going to have to have a stiff talk with himself
as to which part of his mind was in charge.
He turned back and studied himself in the wall mirror. With his right eyelid
closed to hide the empty socket, he looked somehow furtive. Not to mention
half-witted. If someone came up to him on the street looking like that, he'd
arrest the man on general principles. He glared down at the offending glass eye.
The pain was almost gone now, but he had no doubt it would start creeping back
as soon as he replaced the eye. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. The
case was complicated enough when he took it on, but now things were definitely
getting out of hand. Not only was he nowhere near identifying the spy Fenris, he
also had to find a magic-using killer freak before it killed everyone in the
Tower; whilst, at the same time, keeping the increasingly paranoid others from
figuring out that Richard and Isobel MacNeil weren't all they were supposed to
be. Hawk sighed, heavily, and fished the glass eye out of the water.
He held it up to the mirror, and then practically had a coronary as he saw the
door start to swing open behind him. He crammed the glass eye into his socket,
checked quickly that he'd got it the right way round and pointing in the right
direction, and then turned smiling falsely to face Katrina Dorimant. She had a
hand to her mouth, and was blushing prettily.
"I'm so sorry, Richard, but you forgot to lock the door. I'll wait outside."
"No, it's all right," said Hawk quickly. "I'm finished. You can come in. I'm…
just leaving."
"There's no hurry," said Katrina, walking slowly towards him. "No need to rush
off on my account. I only came in to freshen up. Besides, I've been looking for
a chance to get you on your own."
"Oh yes?" said Hawk, in a voice that wasn't as steady as it might have been. He
started to back away, and immediately bumped into the wash stand behind him.
"What did you want to see me about?"
"No need to be bashful, Richard dear. We don't need to play games, surely; not
at our age. We're of an age where we can say what we mean, and pursue those
things we desire without hiding behind false modesty. You're a very attractive
man, Richard."
She stopped immediately in front of him, so close her bosom pressed lightly
against his chest as she breathed. Her upturned face brought her mouth
dangerously close to his, and he could feel her warm breath on his lips. Hawk
swallowed hard.
"You are a married woman," he said hoarsely, clutching at straws.
"Oh, don't bother about Graham. No one else does. We'll just have to be
discreet, that's all. I've seen you watching me, Richard, when you thought no
one was looking. Watching me, wanting me, desiring me. I can feel the passion
rising within you. Why try and deny it? My heart is beating faster just at the
closeness of you. Feel it!"
She grabbed his right hand and held it firmly to her breast. Her skin seemed
impossibly soft and warm under his hand, and her perfume filled his head. He
thought about calling for help, and then quickly decided against it. If Isobel
was to find them like this, she'd kill both of them. Or laugh herself sick. Hawk
wasn't sure which would be worse. He tried to surreptitiously pull his hand
free, but she had a grip like a beartrap.
"Don't fight it, Richard," murmured Katrina, practically breathing the words
into his mouth. Her eyes were dark and dangerous. "You do find me attractive,
don't you?"
"Uh… yes. Sure. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"This is hardly the right place for a romantic assignation," said Hawk,
improvising wildly. "Someone might come in."
"We could lock the door."
"They'd get suspicious! Besides, Jamie will be calling us down for the reading
of the will soon, and we wouldn't want to be interrupted, now would we?"
"The will. Yes, of course." She let go of his hand and stepped back, frowning
thoughtfully. "You're right, my dear; this isn't the right time. But don't
worry, Richard. I'll sort something out. Just leave everything to me. And the
next time we meet, things will be very different, I promise you. See you later,
my darling."
She kissed the tip of her index finger, pressed it to his lips, and then turned
and left the bathroom, carefully closing the door behind her. Hawk swallowed
hard and slumped back against the washstand. Just when he thought the case
couldn't get any more complicated… The bathroom door burst open, and Hawk almost
screamed. Fisher looked at him.
"What the hell are you so jumpy about?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. What is it?"
"Jamie's just called us down for the reading of the will. Are you all right? You
look a bit flushed."
Chapter Six
A Dead Man, Talking
The library had been designed for quiet contemplation, or perhaps the occasional
late-night reminiscences of a few old friends. Cosy and comfortable, a refuge
from the hurly-burly of the world. Now that it was crammed from wall to wall
with several chattering MacNeils and their friends, the room seemed small and
cluttered and not a little cramped. Hawk and Fisher were the last to arrive, and
hung back by the door to look the place over before plunging in. Fisher was
interested in who was talking to whom, and what that implied. Hawk wanted to
know where Katrina was, so he could be sure to avoid her, and how many exits
there were to the room. He always liked to know where the doors were, in case he
had to leave in a hurry. You picked up habits like that, living in Haven. He was
relieved to note there was only the one door. It simplified things. He turned
his attention to the gathering.
David, Holly, and Arthur were standing with their backs to the fireplace,
toasting each other with cups of steaming punch. They were smiling and laughing
as though they didn't have a care in the world. As though they'd forgotten all
about the dead man and the disguised freak. Hawk sniffed, and shrugged inwardly.
The Quality were well known for ignoring things they didn't want to think about.
Behind them, Greaves was down on his knees, encouraging the crackling fire with
vigorous use of a poker. He had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, and
looked thoroughly disgusted with the whole business. Presumably in the past he'd
had underlings he could call on to deal with such menial tasks.
Over by the desk, Marc had backed Katrina into a corner and was apparently
addressing her about something earnest and worthy and incredibly dull. Certainly
Katrina's desperation was becoming clearer by the minute as she smiled
mechanically and looked past Marc for something she could use as an excuse to
escape him. Hawk looked quickly away before she could lock eyes with him, and
watched thoughtfully as Alistair took a book from one of the shelves and flipped
slowly through it. Jamie and Brennan were arguing quietly about something just
behind him, and Alistair was going to great pains to make it clear he wasn't
listening. Hawk nudged Fisher's elbow, and the two of them moved over to join
Alistair. Hawk had a strong feeling Alistair was keeping something back, apart
from the matter of the Red Marches, and this seemed as good a time as any to
find out what. Alistair looked up as they approached, and nodded amiably.
"Something interesting?" said Fisher, glancing at the book Alistair was holding.
"Not really, my dear. Just old Family history." He snapped the book shut and
replaced it on the shelf. "You're looking very fresh, Isobel. The short rest
seems to have agreed with you. In fact, you look quite splendid. Tell me, is
there a young man in your life yet?"
"Oh, yes," said Fisher. "Can't seem to get rid of him. What about you, Alistair?
Do you have any Family of your own, back in the Red Marches?"
"No. They all died some time ago. I've been on my own ever since. But I still
come, when the Family calls. As we all do." He looked round the crowded room,
and scowled disapprovingly. "Though in my day we came for the sake of the
Family, not ourselves. Look at them; gathered together like so many vultures,
waiting to see who can snatch the biggest titbits from the dear departed." He
stopped, looked at Hawk, and cocked an eyebrow. "No offence intended, Richard."
"Of course," said Hawk calmly. "Personally, Isobel and I will be grateful for
whatever largesse Duncan may leave us, but that's not why we're here. We just
wanted to meet Jamie and get reacquainted with the Family. We've been out of
touch too long."
"A long way to come, just for that. Lower Markham's pretty remote, after all. In
fact, I wasn't even aware the Family tree had any branches in that area. Tell
me, what branch of the Family are you descended from?"
There was an awkward pause, as Hawk chose and discarded a dozen names, and hoped
desperately Fisher would bail him out. It quickly became clear that she was as
thrown as he was. Hawk smiled easily at Alistair, and fought to keep his voice
calm and even. "I believe we're descended from Josiah MacNeil, on our father's
side."
Alistair frowned. "Josiah? I was just looking at the Family tree in that book,
but I don't seem to recall…"
"Wrong side of the blanket," said Fisher quickly. "That's why he left Haven in
the first place. You know how these things are…"
"Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Happens in the best of Families…" Alistair smiled,
just a little coldly and nodded to them both. "If you'll excuse me…"
He moved away to join Katrina and Marc. Katrina looked openly relieved at being
rescued from Marc's monologue. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and smiled
grimly.
"That was close," said Fisher.
"Right," said Hawk. "If it had been any closer, it would have been behind us. We
should have spent more time working out a background on the way here. It's
always the niggling little questions that catch you out."
"We can worry about that later. Right now, the day's dragging on and we're no
nearer working out which of this bunch is the freak and which is the spy. What
are we going to do?"
"Mingle, and keep our eyes and ears open. What else can we do? We can't just
drag them off and interrogate them one by one. Unfortunately. We'll just have to
keep digging away, and hope somebody lets something slip."
"It's possible, I suppose," said Fisher, looking unobtrusively around her.
"They're scared, all of them. Some of them are hiding it better than others, but
you can feel it on the air. If the atmosphere were any tenser, they'd be choking
on it. As it is, they're all smiling too much and laughing too loudly; making a
pretense of enjoying themselves so they won't have to think about what's been
happening."
"I don't blame them," said Hawk. "One of them is a murderer, and they could be
talking to him right now and not know it. Even worse; they might be him and not
know it."
Fisher shivered quickly. "That's spooky."
"Damn right."
"Let's split up, and see if we can get a few helpful answers to some carefully
phrased questions. I'll try Alistair again, since he has such an eye for a
pretty face. You try Holly and her two swains."
She was already off and moving before Hawk could raise his objections. Lord
Arthur might not have recognized him so far, but Hawk had a strong suspicion he
shouldn't press his luck. Drunks sometimes had a way of seeing things that other
people missed, especially things they weren't supposed to spot. Hawk shrugged,
and moved over to join the group by the fireplace. Greaves had given up on the
fire and had gone over to try and mediate between Jamie and Brennan, but David
and Holly greeted Hawk warmly, and Arthur presented him with a cup of the
steaming punch. Hawk blew on it cautiously, and took a careful sip. It tasted
hot and spicy, and then blazed down his throat to explode in his stomach.
"Hell's teeth," said Hawk respectfully, when he got his voice back. "No wonder
you're all looking so cheerful. This stuff is strong enough to bring a smile to
a dead man's lips."
"Thank you," said Holly, blushing. "It's an old Family recipe I found in a
cookbook. I thought it might be fun to try it out."
"If your ancestors drank this stuff on a regular basis they must have had
insides like old boots," said David, and Holly giggled.
"I don't know what you're all making such a fuss about," said Arthur, draining
his cup in easy swallows. Hawk stared at him openly, half convinced that smoke
was going to come pouring out of his ears. Arthur just smiled his usual vague
smile and held out his cup to Holly for a refill.
"I think you've had enough for the moment, Arthur," said Holly firmly. "You
mustn't be greedy."
Arthur nodded and looked at David. "I hope you're not going to let her boss you
around like this, Davey."
"Damn right I'm not," said David. "I'm my own man, always have been. I go my own
way, come what may."
"You always were stubborn," said Holly, leaning against David as he put an arm
around her waist. "But so am I, when I want to be. You needn't think you're
going to have everything your own way, David Brook."
"We'll discuss this later," said David, and whispered something in her ear that
made her giggle again. Arthur looked resignedly at Hawk, and though he'd been
drinking steadily ever since Hawk first saw him, he seemed just as calm and
sober as ever. Interesting, that.
Holly, on the other hand, looked quite perky. Hawk thought at first that she was
flushed from the heat, but then realized it was expertly applied cheek rouge. At
some point during her brief absence Holly had subtly remade her face with a
liberal use of makeup. She looked ten years older, much more sophisticated, and
altogether more fashionable. Though perhaps not as pretty or as pleasant, if
truth be told.
"Well?" said Holly, grinning. "What do you think?"
"Sorry," said Hawk, "I didn't realize I was staring. You look very splendid. Do
I perhaps detect Katrina's hand in this transformation?"
"Got it in one," said Holly. "I couldn't believe it was me, the first time I
looked in the mirror."
"You look marvelous," said David.
"Very striking," said Arthur.
"Jamie hates it," said Holly, the corners of her mouth turning down. "He still
thinks I'm ten years old. He wanted to send me back to my room to wash it all
off, but as Robbie is busily pointing out, the will is to be read soon, and they
can't have that without me. Jamie's in a frightful temper. Serves him right for
being so pompous."
"Well," said Arthur, after a slight pause, "only a few moments now to the
reading of the will and the great share-out. I take it you're hoping for a
suitable windfall, Richard?"
"Arthur!" said Holly, shocked, but David just chuckled.
"Since Arthur and I won't be getting anything out of the will, it allows us to
be a little more direct," he said impishly. "Even in the face of sudden death
and supernatural freaks, the MacNeils can still find time to argue over money."
"Oh quite," said Arthur. "Still, some of us don't have to worry about inheriting
money; not when they can marry it instead."
David looked at Arthur sharply, as though unsure whether to react to the barb or
not, and then smiled and laughed and hugged Holly to him. "That's right, Holly.
I'm just an unscrupulous fortune hunter after your inheritance! Probably
strangle you on our wedding night and flee the country on a coal-black horse!
Isn't that what the villains always do in those romances you read?"
"It seems Arthur isn't the only one who's had too much punch," said Holly
sternly, though a smile tugged at her lips. "Don't worry, Richard, they're
always like this. And I'm sure you'll find Father has left you a generous reward
for making such a long journey here."
"Oh, I expect there'll be a little something," said Hawk. "But that really isn't
why we came. Isobel and I are both comfortably well off. Mostly because there's
not a lot to spend money on in the wilds of Lower Markham."
"I sometimes wish that was the case in Haven," said David wryly. "There are all
kinds of expensive temptations here. Right, Arthur?"
"You should know, Davey. I think between us we've managed to lose money in every
card game, gambling den, and race course in Haven. I tell you, Richard, not only
is Davey the world's worst card player, but some days he just can't wait to find
a horse that's going to lose so that he can put some money on it."
David glared at him. "This from a man who once bet the deed to his house that he
could drink one glass of every potable an inn had to offer!"
Arthur raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I won the bet, didn't I?"
"That's not the point!"
"Boys! That's enough!" Holly looked apologetically at Hawk. "Maybe the punch was
a bad idea after all. They're not normally this rowdy."
"You're right," said David. "It's only money, after all. Take our minds off it,
Holly, with some juicy titbit of gossip." He grinned at Hawk. "Holly's always up
on the latest gossip."
Holly scowled. "I used to be, until all the servants left. You'd be surprised
what servants hear. For instance, have you heard about Jacqueline Fraser? Her
husband came home unexpectedly and found her in bed with the head groom!
Apparently it wasn't just the horses he'd been giving a good rubdown. Anyway, he
threw her out without a penny! She had to go begging to her own Family for
support. What made me think of that was… well, I can't help worrying if
something similar might happen to Katrina. I mean, I haven't heard anything
definite yet, and Graham's always been very good about paying her bills so far,
but he could change his mind tomorrow, and then where would she be?"
"Still here, sponging off Jamie, I should think," said David briskly. "At least
she and Jacqueline both have a Family to back them up. I sometimes think my
Family would stand by and watch me go under without a single qualm. Tightfisted
bunch, the lot of them. Still, bad luck about poor Jackie. I hadn't heard about
that. Her husband never did have a sense of humor. You know, it never ceases to
amaze me how much there is going on in High Society these days. There ought to
be a news-sheet that concerns itself with nothing but gossip and rumor; just so
that we could keep up with everything. Maybe I'll start one myself. There might
be money in it."
"Really, Davey," said Arthur, feigning shock. "You'll be talking about going
into trade next. I had no idea your debts were so worrying. I'm afraid you'll
have to give up your disgraceful gambling habits if you're going to support
Holly in the manner to which she's accustomed."
"I think we'll manage, thank you," said David frostily.
"Of course we will," said Holly. "Stop teasing him, Arthur."
"Sorry," said Arthur immediately.
On the other side of the room, Katrina chattered blithely on, unaware of how
glazed her audience's eyes were getting. Fisher smiled determinedly, Alistair
nodded politely while staring into his cup of punch, and Marc's thoughts were
obviously elsewhere. Fisher didn't blame him. She'd never known anyone who could
talk so much and say so little. Even Katrina's gossip was boring. And then
Fisher's ears pricked up as she finally caught something interesting.
"Wait a minute," she broke in, not even trying to be polite about it. "Are you
saying Duncan may not have any money to leave? At all?"
"Of course I'm not saying that," said Katrina, her eyes flashing angrily, as
much at being interrupted as anything else. "My brother was a very wealthy man.
It's been generations since our Family had to concern itself with money. It's
just that Duncan was always very careful with money while he was alive, and I
don't see why that should have changed just because he's dead. So anyone who
came here expecting to get rich off Duncan's death is probably in for a very
nasty shock."
She managed to look disparagingly at all three of them while not looking at any
of them in particular. Alistair smiled coldly.
"The fact that you too are hoping for a decent-sized legacy has nothing to do
with your opinion, of course."
Katrina stared calmly back at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you? From what I've gathered of the way you treated your husband, it's a
wonder he's supported you as long as he has. Your only hope for independence is
whatever your dear departed brother may have bequeathed you. Seems to me we may
not be the only ones in for a shock."
For a moment Katrina glared at him openly, her face hardening into ugly lines,
and then she recovered herself and smiled sweetly at Alistair. "I think I know
my own brother better than some reprobate banished by the Family so long ago
that most of us can't even remember it."
Fisher's ears pricked up again. She'd assumed Alistair and Katrina had at least
known each other in the days before Alistair was exiled, but now apparently
Katrina was saying she'd never heard of him before he turned up at the Tower.
Which was another small piece of evidence that Alistair might not be who he was
supposed to be…
"The money doesn't matter," said Marc suddenly. "What matters is finding the
killer among us, before his hunger gets the better of him again. Or has everyone
forgotten about that?"
"No," said Alistair patiently. "Not all of us. But it has to be said there's
nothing like the imminent distribution of large amounts of money to distract the
attention. Let them get it out of their systems, and they'll be ready to
concentrate on more important matters again. In the meantime, at least this way
we can keep an eye on each other. Ah, it appears Jamie is finally ready to
start."
A sudden silence fell across the library as everyone turned to watch Jamie take
his place behind the desk. He looked down at the folded and sealed will, reached
out as though to touch it, and then drew back his hand. He looked out at his
attentive audience and smiled briefly.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Holly, Katrina, and Robbie… please
sit in these chairs at the front. Then we can start."
The three he'd named moved uncertainly forward, glancing at each other as Jamie
courteously but firmly settled them into three specific chairs immediately
before the desk. He selected another at the front for himself, and then
indicated that everyone else was allowed to sit where they wanted. Hawk chose an
end seat near the door, only just beating Fisher to it. She sat next to him,
apparently relaxed and at ease, but her hand kept drifting back to where she
normally wore her sword. Hawk didn't blame her. Will readings were notorious for
bringing out the worst in people even under ordinary circumstances. With the
freak manipulating their thoughts and feelings, anything could happen.
Jamie moved back to stand stiffly behind the desk, waiting patiently until
everyone was settled and quiet. Then he leaned forward and broke the wax seal on
the will, and spoke a Word of Unbinding. A subtle, barely felt tension in the
room suddenly broke and was gone, replaced by the sense of an almost tangible
presence hovering by the desk. Jamie moved quickly out of the way and took his
place on the other side of the desk, in the chair he'd set aside for himself.
He'd barely taken his seat when the air behind the desk suddenly rippled and
flowed, and a large stern figure was sitting where Jamie had stood. Hawk didn't
need to be told that this was Duncan MacNeil.
Duncan was a broad, imposing man with a barrel chest, harsh but not unpleasant
features, and close-cropped red hair and beard. He was in his late fifties and
looked as though he'd spent most of his life in the wilds on one campaign or
another. He wore the latest fashion with an uncomfortable air, as though he
would rather have been wearing the trail clothes and chain mail of a soldier on
the road. His gaze was direct and uncompromising, and Hawk could tell Duncan
would have been a hard man to cross.
The late MacNeil looked out over the assembled group and smiled slightly.
"If you're listening to me now, then I've been dead for some time. I'm not
really here. This is just an illusion, a moment in time recorded by magic, so I
can tell you my wishes after I'm gone." He paused, stirred uncomfortably, and
glanced at the chair where Jamie was sitting. "You know, this was hard enough
the first time, when I made out my will for your brother William. I thought it
would be easier this time, but it isn't. Poor Billy. He wanted so much to follow
in my footsteps, but he was never cut out to be a soldier.
"Well, Jamie, you're the MacNeil now. I want you to know that whatever happens,
I was always proud of you. I should have told you that before, but somehow I
never got round to it. We always think we've got all the time in the world for
all the things we want to do and should do, but time has a nasty habit of
running out on you just when you need it most. I should have made out this will
before. Don't know why I didn't. Perhaps Billy's death made me too aware of my
own mortality… I don't know. Fact is, there are a lot of other things I've been
putting off, but I'll take care of them when I get back from the border. Sorry,
I'm wandering. Let's get on with it."
He looked down and read from the will in his hands.
"Be it known; I leave my entire estate to my son Jamie, with the exception of
certain bequests I shall describe shortly. He shall be the MacNeil in my place,
and speak for the Family in all things. Look after your sister, Jamie. See she
wants for nothing and marries well. She's your responsibility now."
The dead man looked at the chair where Holly was sitting. "To my daughter Holly,
I leave her mother's jewels. She always meant for you to have them. I wish I
could have spent more time with you, my dear. You grew up to be a very beautiful
young lady, a lot like your mother. Look after your brother. See that he has
good advice when he needs it, and when you've got him alone nag him unmercifully
till he marries. The Tower always seems a happier place with a pack of kids
running loose in it."
"Is that it?" said David angrily. "Jamie gets the estate, and all you get is
some old jewelry?"
"Hush, David," said Holly. "Not now."
David slumped back in his chair and folded his arms angrily, while Duncan
MacNeil looked at Katrina and smiled wryly.
"To you, sister dear, I leave ten thousand ducats. That's all. Enough to give
you some independence till your divorce comes through, but not enough that you
can afford to put it off too long. Knowing you, you'll drag the process out as
long as you can just to get back at Graham, and I won't have that. I always
liked Graham. More than I liked you, if truth be told, and it might as well be,
now I'm dead. We never warmed to each other, did we, Kat? Too late now. I don't
know whether to feel sad about that, or relieved. Divorce Graham, and make a new
start with someone else. Assuming you can find someone else who'll put up with
you."
He turned to Robbie Brennan, and his smile softened. "Robbie, old friend, you
get twenty thousand ducats. It's my hope you'll stay at the Tower and be as good
a friend to Jamie as you were to me, but if you feel you have to leave, the
money should help you on your way. We had some good times together, you and I.
I'd have left you a damn sight more than twenty thousand, but knowing you, you
wouldn't have taken it. Money always did make you nervous. The Gods know I've
tried to give you wealth and position time and again over the years, and you've
run a mile from all of them. But I wish you'd take my sword, at least. You know
you always admired it, and it's no use to me now. Whatever you do, Robbie, be
happy."
"They never did find his sword," said Robbie softly. "It was lost, somewhere on
the battlefield."
Duncan looked out over the chairs before him, and Hawk felt a chill run through
him as the sightless eyes passed over him. Duncan cleared his throat, and looked
back at the will before him. "To my butler Greaves, who has always served me
faithfully, five thousand ducats. And to every member of the Family who has come
to the Tower to pay homage to the new MacNeil, five thousand ducats.
"That's it. I've said my piece. May the Gods preserve and protect you from all
harm."
The air shimmered and he was gone; the last sight of Duncan MacNeil of Tower
MacNeil. There was a long silence. Hawk glanced at Greaves, to see how he'd
taken being lumped in with the visiting relatives rather than being singled out
for reward as he'd obviously expected. The butler was leaning forward on his
chair, and tugging at his collar as though he couldn't breathe. His face was
pale and sweaty, and he looked sick. He lurched to his feet suddenly, clawing at
his throat. Alistair rose quickly from his seat to hold and support him, while
everyone else scrambled to their feet. The butler grabbed at Alistair, fighting
for air, his eyes bulging from his face. Hawk moved in quickly beside Alistair
as Greaves suddenly collapsed, and they lowered him to the floor. His skin was
icy cold to the touch, and he was trembling violently.
"What is it?" said Jamie, his voice cutting through the general babble. "What's
happening? Is he ill?"
"I don't know," said Hawk, yanking open the butler's collar. "Looks more like
he's been poisoned."
"No," said Marc suddenly. "That's not it. Look at him. Isn't it obvious what's
happening? The freak's grown hungry again! He's draining the life out of that
man while we just stand around and watch!" He glared about him as everyone but
Hawk and Alistair backed away from the trembling figure on the floor. "Leave him
alone, you bastard! Leave him alone!"
"Somebody do something!" said Holly shrilly. "Don't just let him die!"
Greaves grabbed weakly at Hawk's arm and tried to say something, and then his
breathing stopped and the life went out of him. Hawk searched for a pulse in the
man's neck, but there was nothing there. He closed Greaves's staring eyes and
then looked up at the others and shook his head slowly. Holly was sobbing
quietly, her head pressed against David's chest as he held her tightly. Arthur
patted her shoulder comfortingly, his face pale but angry. Katrina sat down
suddenly, her face turned away from the dead man. Robbie Brennan was staring
intently from one face to another, as though looking for the mark of the killer
in their eyes. Hawk got slowly to his feet, and Alistair stood up with him, the
man's face cold and determined.
"This has gone on long enough," he said roughly, his words clipped short by
barely controlled rage. "I'm damned if I'll lose anyone else to the freak. I've
kept my peace till now because I wanted to be sure before I made any
accusations, but I can't keep quiet any longer. If I'd spoken out before, maybe
Greaves would still be alive."
David gently pushed Holly away from him, and his hand dropped to his sword belt.
"Are you saying you think you know who the imposter is?"
"Out with it," said Jamie sharply. "If you've any evidence against one of us, I
want to hear it."
"Greaves knew who the freak was," said Brennan. "He told me earlier that someone
here wasn't the aristocrat they pretended to be. He didn't give me a name,
though."
"And that's why he died," said Alistair. "The freak wanted him dead before he
could identify our imposter. But I'll give you a name: Richard MacNeil."
There was a flurry of shocked gasps and curses as everyone backed quickly away
from Hawk, except for Fisher who stayed at his side, and Alistair, who stood
facing him. Hawk stood very still, careful to keep his face composed and his
voice even.
"I'm not the freak, Alistair. There's no evidence against me, and you know it."
"Get away from him, Isobel," said Alistair.
"You're all crazy!" said Fisher. "He isn't the freak!"
"You can't be sure," said Katrina. "Even the freak himself doesn't know who he
is."
"Get away from him, Isobel," said Alistair.
"In case you've all forgotten," said Hawk tightly, "may I remind you that the
man we found in the chimney had been dead for some time, long before Isobel and
I got here."
"We don't know when he died for sure," said Robbie Brennan. "You're not a
doctor. Whatever else you are."
"Besides," said David, "the freak could have killed the real Richard soon after
he got here and taken his place, so as to throw us off the track after the first
murder."
"There's too many ifs and maybes," said Jamie. "We need evidence."
"All right," said Alistair. "You want evidence? How about this: He's lied to us
constantly, from the first time we met him. He said he was from Lower Markham,
but none of us ever knew we had any Family there. Marc's from Upper Markham, and
he'd never heard of him. Richard claimed to be descended from Josiah MacNeil,
but I never heard of a MacNeil with a name like that. And according to the
Family History I checked right here in the library, no one else has ever heard
of him either. Richard makes out he's some quiet, book-reading type, but he acts
more like a soldier or a brigand. Presumably from the memories of someone he's
drained. But whatever else he is, he's not true Quality. He doesn't know his
place."
"And he was right there beside Greaves when he collapsed," said" Brennan
excitedly. "Greaves grabbed at Richard when he knew he was dying, and tried to
say his name! We all saw it!"
"This is ridiculous!" said Fisher quickly. "Everything Richard has said is true!
I ought to know!"
"You can't be sure of anything," said Alistair. "It's obvious he's been clouding
your mind right from the start. That's why you've been acting a little oddly
yourself. Now please, Isobel, stand away from him. We have to deal with the
freak before he kills again, and we don't want you getting hurt."
Hawk backed away, looking quickly around him as Alistair drew his sword. Jamie
and David were already reaching for theirs. Hawk drew his own sword, but without
his axe he didn't like the odds at all. He glanced at Fisher, who raised an
eyebrow slightly and glanced at the door. Hawk nodded briefly, grabbed the
nearest chairs and overturned them between him and the others, then turned and
ran for the door with Fisher close behind him. There was a roar of outrage as
Alistair led the others after them, kicking the chairs out of the way. Hawk
charged out into the corridor, waited a second for Fisher to get clear and then
slammed the door in Alistair's face. He held the door handle tight, pulled a
wooden wedge from his pocket, and jammed it under the door. He'd brought the
wedge in case he needed to ensure his privacy, but it was proving its worth now.
He ran down the corridor to the stairway and started up it without slowing,
taking the steps two at a time. Fisher ran beside him, holding up her skirts to
run more easily.
"Where are we going?" she demanded.
"Damned if I know," said Hawk. "I just want to put some space between us and
them. We've got to find somewhere we can hide out for a while and do some hard
thinking. Our only hope is to prove my innocence by revealing the real freak."
"Not forgetting the spy we came here to find," said Fisher.
Hawk scowled. "I hate this case. We should have held out for a bigger bonus."
"Right," said Fisher.
They both shut up and saved their breath for the stairs.
Chapter Seven
Death of a Lonely Man
For a time there was nothing but chaos and bedlam in the library as everyone
shouted at everyone else. Alistair finally got the floor by shouting the loudest
and glaring down anyone who tried to object. He stared grimly about him as the
noise gradually subsided and a sullen silence fell across the room. Jamie and
David had their swords in their hands, and looked dangerously eager to use them.
Arthur was clumsily trying to comfort Holly, who was clearly only putting up
with him to keep him calm. Katrina had retreated to the fireplace, and was
glaring suspiciously out at the room, gripping the heavy iron poker with both
hands. Robbie Brennan had thrown aside his short-sword and taken down his old
claymore from its plaque on the wall, hefting the great length of blade with
professional skill. Marc was still kneeling beside the fallen butler, apparently
unable to believe the man was really dead. Alistair looked unhurriedly about
him.
"There's no need to get yourselves in such a panic; it'll take us a while to get
the door open, but the freak can't get out of the Tower. The wards are still in
place, remember? He's still here somewhere, hiding with the girl. If he hasn't
killed her already. Finding him isn't going to be easy; the Gods know there are
enough bolt-holes and hiding places he could crawl into. But wherever he's gone
to ground, we can't just go chasing after him. The cornered rat is always the
most dangerous. And knowing Richard, I wouldn't put it past him to have set up
some very nasty booby traps for us to walk into. So, we'll go after him, but
we'll do it in a sensible, professional way, checking each floor room by room
and watching our backs at all times. Anyone have any problems with that?"
Marc rose slowly to his feet. "We have to kill him. That's all that matters."
Holly sat down suddenly, her hands folded in her lap like a child's. "I can't
believe that all this time Richard was the freak. I liked him."
"So did I," said Alistair. "But I didn't let that blind me to his constant lying
and evasions. Richard is the freak. Holly; don't doubt it for a minute."
"Of course he's the freak," said Jamie impatiently. "He ran when we challenged
him, didn't he? If he wasn't guilty, why did he run?"
"But then why did Isobel go with him?" said Holly. "She swore he wasn't the
freak."
"He'd probably been messing with her mind for so long she no longer knew what
was true and what wasn't," said Brennan.
"Then why did Richard take her with him?" insisted Holly.
"Food," said Alistair. "He's woken up and remembered who he is, and he's
hungry."
"If we're to have any chance of saving her, we've got to get moving," said
Jamie.
"Of course," said Alistair. "But we're not all going. Too large a group would
just slow us down, and I don't want anyone with us who can't look after
themselves in a crisis. The two ladies will stay here, of course, so someone
will have to stay with them, to protect them. Any volunteers?"
Holly looked immediately at David, but he shook his head. "I've got to go with
them. They're going to need my sword. Arthur will stay with you, won't you,
Arthur?"
"Of course," said Arthur. "I'll keep you safe, Holly. I know how to use a sword.
I'll die before I'd let anyone hurt you."
Holly didn't even look at him; her gaze was fixed accusingly on David. Marc
cleared his throat.
"I'll stay. I'm not much good with a sword, but given time I think I can build a
bloody good barricade against that door."
Alistair nodded to him curtly. "I take it the rest of you are with me?"
"Damn right," said Brennan. He was standing straighter than usual, and he held
himself with a brisk, professional manner that made him look twenty years
younger. "The freak has to pay for Greaves's death. Greaves wasn't the easiest
of people to get along with, but he was still a good man, for all that. We were
never friends, but I would have trusted him with my life and my honor. He didn't
deserve to die like that. I'm going to find the freak and cut him into bloody
pieces."
"We won't find him by standing around here talking about it!" said Jamie. "The
freak's caused my Family enough heartbreak. It's time to put an end to him.
We're going, Alistair; right now."
Alistair bowed slightly. "You are the MacNeil. Just give me a moment to force
the door open, and we'll be on our way."
Jamie hefted his sword. "I want him dead, Alistair. No mercy and no quarter. I
want him dead."
Hawk and Fisher finally staggered to a halt somewhere on the third floor and
leaned against a wall, heads bowed, fighting for breath. Fisher wiped the sweat
from her face with her sleeve, and looked back the way they'd come. The corridor
was quiet and deserted, the shadows undisturbed. She looked down at her bare
feet, and winced. She'd kicked off her fashionable shoes some time back, so that
she could run faster, and the cold from the bare stone floor had nipped
unmercifully at her feet. Hawk reached up and took out his glass eye, sighed
with relief, and dropped the eye into his pocket. The ache in his face
immediately began to subside. All in the bloody mind… He looked down at the
dueling sword in his hand, sheathed it and sniffed disdainfully.
"If I'd had my axe, I'd never have run. I'd have stood my ground and chopped
them all up like firewood. I mean, running from odds like that… If this ever
gets out, we'll never live it down."
Fisher shook her head slowly. "We can't fight them, Hawk; they're just innocent
bystanders. They don't understand what's going on here."
"I'm not so sure I do anymore," said Hawk. "This case has got completely out of
hand. Look, there's no point in going any further. The only place above this is
the battlements, and there's not enough room to manoeuvre up there. We're safe
enough here, for the time being. It'll take the others a while before they can
get this far, so let's use that time to get some hard thinking done. We ought to
be able to figure out who the freak is by now."
Fisher looked at him. "And what makes you think they're going to listen to us?
More than likely they'll cut us down on sight."
"We'll just have to make them listen."
"In that case, I want a sword. I can be much more convincing with a sword in my
hand."
Hawk looked at her, amused. "I thought we weren't supposed to hurt them because
they were just innocent bystanders?"
"I just meant we shouldn't kill them. Apart from that, anything goes. No one
chases me up three flights of cold stone stairs in my bare feet and gets away
with it."
Jamie and David made their way slowly along the first floor, carefully checking
each room as they came to it. It hadn't taken them long to work out an efficient
system. They'd stop and listen carefully at the door, while Alistair and Brennan
kept a watchful eye on the corridor. Then David would ease the door open, Jamie
would kick it in, and they'd both charge into the room, swords at the ready.
Once they were sure the room was empty, they'd turn the place upside down, just
in case there were any secret hiding places Jamie didn't know about. Then out
into the corridor, and do the same with the next room. Over and over again. The
long run of empty rooms was starting to take its toll on their nerves, but Jamie
and David stuck at it. Having to just stand and watch helplessly as the freak
drained the life out of Greaves had hardened their hearts till there was no room
in either of them for anything but revenge.
Jamie still had trouble believing Greaves was dead. The man had been with the
MacNeils for more than twenty years; to Jamie it seemed as though he'd always
been there. He'd often played with Jamie when he was a child, and been his
confidant and advisor when no one else could be bothered to listen. He'd never
been a warm man—there had always been something distant about him—but he was
always there when Jamie needed him. And now he was gone; dead and gone, like all
the others, and there was no one left to tell him what to do for the best. He
was the MacNeil now, and the Family depended on him. His Family and his friends.
He was damned if he'd let them down.
Alistair kept a careful watch on the empty corridor as Jamie and David ransacked
another room. The girl Isobel worried him. Why should she insist on sticking by
her brother when it must have been obvious to her that he was the freak, and her
real brother was dead? Surely the freak couldn't be controlling her that
completely… No, if he had that kind of control, that kind of power, he wouldn't
have run from them in the first place. Could it be that Isobel had seen
something in Richard that proved he was still who he claimed to be… ? Alistair
scowled. Richard had to be the freak; it was the only explanation that made
sense after all the lies he'd caught the man in. Isobel just didn't want to
believe her brother was dead. Alistair sighed, and hefted his sword
thoughtfully. He'd have to be careful she didn't get hurt when they finally
cornered the freak and killed him.
He glanced at Brennan, who was studying the darker shadows and alcoves with
professional thoroughness. The man looked solid and reliable and somehow more
alive than he'd ever seemed before. It was as though the man he'd once been had
woken up and taken over from the second-rate minstrel he'd become. Alistair felt
a hell of a lot safer with this new Brennan to guard his back. Jamie and David
meant well, but they had no real experience with blood and pain and sudden
death. That was why he let them check out the rooms. Wherever the freak had gone
to ground, it wouldn't be in any of the rooms. He was too clever for that. No;
far more likely he'd be using one of the old secret passages or hidden bolt
holes, waiting for a chance to jump out on his unsuspecting pursuers and pick
them off one at a time while they were busy searching empty rooms…
Alistair took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. And swore to himself that
when the moment finally came, no trace of compassion would stay his hand.
Hawk and Fisher sat side by side on the cold stone floor with their backs to the
wall, as far away from the stairs as they could get. They'd been arguing for
what seemed like hours, and they were still no nearer agreeing on anything.
There were just too many theories and too few facts. They were after two men,
not one, and anything that fit one case inevitably didn't fit with the other.
They finally fell silent, staring up and down the gloomy, curving corridor. They
didn't dare light any lamps for fear of giving away their position, and the
shadows all around seemed dark and menacing and not a little mocking.
"There has to be an answer here somewhere," said Hawk wearily. "But I'm damned
if I can see it."
"Keep looking," said Fisher. "We're running out of time. They'll be here soon.
There must be something we're missing, something so obvious we're looking right
past it."
"All right," said Hawk, "Let's try turning the problem on its head. Assume that
all our assumptions so far are wrong. Where does that take us?"
"Right back where we started," said Fisher. "We can't just throw everything out,
Hawk."
"Why not? Our assumptions aren't getting us anywhere. Start at the very
beginning. We've been assuming the spy Fenris went to the sorcerer Grimm for a
complete shape-change, so that no one would be able to recognize him. Which
meant that anyone who could prove they'd had the same appearance for the past
twenty-four hours could be ruled out as a suspect. But… what if the spy had
already been to Grimm for a shapechange earlier on, and had just gone back there
to get his old shape back?"
Fisher looked at him. "How the hell did we miss something that obvious?"
"Trying to do two jobs at once. This is the first real chance we've had to sit
down and think things through since we got here."
"That's true. But if Fenris didn't change his appearance, then that throws
everything wide open again. He could be anyone. That shapechange was the only
way we had of separating Fenris out from the pack."
Hawk grinned. "There's one other way. Dubois told us the spy is a member of the
Quality. And like I said at the time, why would one of the Quality want to be a
spy? The usual incentives are politics and money, but most Quality don't give a
damn about politics and already have more money than they can hope to spend in
one lifetime. But one of our merry band here at Tower MacNeil has money problems
coming out of his ears. He's admitted he has huge gambling debts, and even more
damning, he actually talked about starting a business venture, a gossip paper,
on the grounds it might make him money. What respectable member of the Quality
would dirty his hands with vulgar trade, unless he was desperate to pay off his
debts?"
"David…" said Fisher. "David Brook. You're right, Hawk; it fits!"
"He couldn't go to his Family or friends for the money without admitting he'd
made a fool of himself, and his pride wouldn't allow him to do that. The
moneylenders would want security he didn't have; he doesn't actually own
anything solid until he inherits his estate on his father's death. He was hoping
to marry money through Holly, but according to Duncan's will, all she gets is
some jewelry and whatever allowance Jamie feels like granting her."
"Right! That's why he got so upset on her behalf at the will reading!"
"Right. Holly was his last chance. He must have known he couldn't depend on her,
and that's why he took to spying. With so many of his Family in the army and the
diplomatic corps, he had opportunities to get at all sorts of information. He's
our spy, Isobel. No doubt about it."
"Wait just a minute," said Fisher. "That's all very well, but it doesn't help us
one damn bit with our current problem, which is how to identify the freak before
the others get here. If we can't point a convincing finger at someone else,
they'll kill us. Or we'll have to kill them. And if we end up having to kill a
bunch of Quality, even in self-defense, that's the end of us in Haven. All the
Families in the city would declare vendetta against us, and the Guard would
withdraw our immunity rather than openly confront the Quality."
"All right," said Hawk. "Don't panic. I'm working on it. I still think it's
Alistair. He lied to us about the Red Marches, and he was very quick to condemn
me as the freak. Perhaps he thought he could turn suspicion away from himself by
accusing me."
"He was pretty eager, wasn't he?" said Fisher. "And it's interesting that no one
seems to actually remember him being banished from Tower MacNeil in the first
place. He had to have been a contemporary of Duncan's, so how is it Katrina had
never even heard of him?"
"Because Alistair doesn't exist," said Hawk. "He's just a mask the freak created
to hide behind. Well, at least now we should be able to sow a few doubts;
assuming we get a chance to speak our piece."
He broke off suddenly and looked towards the stairs. They both tensed as they
heard quiet, furtive footsteps slowly drawing nearer. They rose quickly to their
feet, throwing off their tiredness with practiced ease. They'd be tired later,
when they had the time. Fisher's hand dropped to her side where her sword should
have been, and she cursed briefly.
"We never did get round to finding me a sword." She reached out and took an oil
lamp from its niche in the corridor wall. She shook it and listened to the oil
gurgle, unscrewed the lamp into its two parts, and spilled the oil in a wide
sweep across the floor. She then threw away the lamp, took a box of matches from
her pocket, and held them concealed in her hand.
"Good thinking," said Hawk. "I've always admired your essentially sneaky and
devious nature."
"You say the nicest things," said Fisher.
The footsteps grew louder. Hawk drew his sword, and he and Fisher stood side by
side. Jamie and David appeared round the curve of the corridor, and came to a
sudden halt as they saw their prey waiting patiently for them. Alistair and
Brennan moved quickly in beside Jamie and David. Hawk fixed Jamie with his best
authoritative gaze.
"Listen to me, Jamie; I'm not the freak, but I know who is."
"Kill him," said Jamie. "Shut his lying mouth."
The four of them started forward, swords raised. Hawk cursed, but held his
ground. "Listen to me, dammit! I can prove what I'm saying!" Jamie broke into a
run, David only a step behind him. Hawk looked at Fisher. "All right; do it."
Fisher struck a match. It flared up on the first try, and she dropped it into
the oil. It caught in a second, and flames leapt up to block off the corridor.
Hawk and Fisher backed away from the searing heat, and then tensed as a dark
figure came hurtling through the flames. It was Alistair.
He stood before them, smoke rising from his smouldering clothes, his mouth
stretched in a cold and deadly grin. He stepped forward, sword at the ready, and
Hawk went to meet him. Sparks flew in the narrow corridor as steel rang on
steel, and Hawk knew right away that he was in serious trouble. Alistair was a
superior swordsman, and Hawk wasn't, anymore. With his axe in his hand he could
probably still have given a good account of himself, but as it was, it was all
he could do to defend himself. He backed slowly down the corridor, using every
trick he knew to buy himself some breathing space, but Alistair knew them all,
and their counters. He began to press home his attack, his death's-head grin
never once faltering. And then Fisher stepped out of the shadows to Alistair's
left, and kicked him expertly behind the knee. He collapsed and fell forward as
pain exploded in his leg. Hawk and Fisher turned and ran down the corridor.
Alistair slowly forced himself back onto one knee, paused for breath, and then
got to his feet, favoring his aching leg. He'd underestimated Isobel. He
wouldn't do that again. He looked back, and saw the others gingerly making their
way round the edges of the dying flames. He gestured impatiently for them to
join him, and started down the corridor after his prey, ignoring the pain in his
leg.
Farther down the corridor, Hawk stopped suddenly and Fisher almost ran into him.
"What is it, Hawk? Problem?"
"More like a stroke of luck," said Hawk. "I remember this bit of corridor.
There's a secret passage here… somewhere. Jamie showed it to me earlier on." He
pressed hard against a particular piece of stone moulding, and a section of the
wall swung soundlessly open. Hawk grinned.
"Grab a lamp, Isobel. With any luck, it'll be ages before the others can be sure
we're no longer on this floor."
Fisher took a lamp from the wall and lit it, and the two of them plunged into
the narrow tunnel. The section of wall closed silently behind them.
In the library, Holly sat staring disconsolately into the fire. The quiet
crackling of the flames was the only sound in the room. Arthur had tried to keep
her spirits up with his usual dry humor and amusing anecdotes, but he soon
stopped when he realized she wasn't listening. She couldn't seem to concentrate
on anything but the thought that David was in danger and there was nothing she
could do to help him.
She still couldn't believe how easily Richard had taken her in. Taken them all
in. She should have sensed something was wrong about him… but she hadn't.
Instead, she'd actually found him rather likeable, in an unpolished kind of way.
The thought depressed her, and she looked listlessly round the room, searching
for something her eyes could settle on that wouldn't require her to think or
feel anything in particular. Arthur was sitting next to her, his eyelids
drooping, a glass of something as always in his hand. He looked half asleep;
either the drink or the strain was getting to him. Sitting next to him, Katrina
glared blindly straight ahead, lost in thought, the heavy iron poker still
clutched firmly in both hands. Her knuckles showed white from the fierceness of
her grip. And Marc was sitting comfortably in his chair, a little away from the
rest of them, staring thoughtfully at nothing. He seemed perfectly relaxed and
at ease, and Holly looked at him enviously. Sometimes it seemed to her that
she'd never feel relaxed again.
The flames leapt up suddenly as a log shifted in the fire, and Arthur studied it
out of one eye for a moment, before letting it half close again. In a way, he
almost wished he'd gone with the others. At least then he would have been doing
something, instead of just waiting and worrying, not knowing what was happening.
Maybe it was all over by now, and they'd found Richard and killed him, and
everything could get back to normal again. Or maybe Richard had killed them all,
picking them off one at a time from hiding, and was now on his way back down the
stairs, to finish the job and silence everyone who could identify him. Arthur
stirred unhappily, but kept his features relaxed and his eyes half closed. He
didn't want Holly to see he was worried. She looked scared enough as it was.
His hand dropped self-consciously to the sword at his side. He'd had the same
training all young Quality men went through as a matter of course, but truth be
told he'd never drawn the blade in anger in his life. He'd never given much of a
damn about his honor; certainly not enough to risk his life in a duel over it.
Besides, he'd never been much of a swordsman, and he might have got hurt. But it
wasn't just his life that was at stake now. There was Holly to think of. She was
depending on him and Marc to defend her if things went wrong. Arthur's mouth
tightened. Probably Marc would turn out to be an expert with a sword, and he
wouldn't be needed. That was how things usually went. No one had ever needed
Arthur in his life. But if worst came to worst, and there was only him left
between Holly and the freak, he hoped he'd find the courage to do the right
thing, for once in his life.
He looked across at Marc, and frowned slightly. He couldn't say he'd never
warmed to the man. He seemed pleasant enough, in a dull, earnest kind of way,
but basically Marc had all the character of a block of wood. He had no interests
or opinions of his own, and absolutely no sense of humor. It wasn't often that
Arthur found someone he could feel superior to, and he rather enjoyed the
novelty, but there was something about Marc he didn't care for. He was too
quiet, too bland, too self-effacing. It just wasn't natural for a man to be that
polite. And then Marc raised his head and looked at Holly, and Arthur felt a
sudden chill go through him. Marc looked different somehow. He looked… Arthur
sat up straight suddenly as the thought hit him. Marc looked hungry.
Marc turned his head to look at Arthur, and smiled pleasantly.
"Something wrong, Arthur?"
Arthur tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was very dry. "I don't know."
"You look as though you've seen a ghost. Or something worse. What do you think,
Arthur? Have you seen something worse?"
"Maybe. Maybe I have."
Katrina looked at them both, frowning. "What are you two talking about?"
"We're talking about me," said Marc. "It's a fascinating subject, really." He
rose lithely to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, smiling easily at
them all. "Tell me, Arthur, when did you first begin to suspect?"
"I'm not sure," said Arthur numbly. "Maybe earlier on, when I noticed you never
ate anything that was offered to you, and although you always had a glass of
wine in your hand, you never drank from it. Drunks notice that kind of thing.
And you were always too self-controlled, too unaffected by the things that were
happening here."
"Ah yes," said Marc. "Emotions. I never could get the hang of them. Unless you
count hunger as an emotion. I'm always hungry."
"No," said Holly, her eyes widening as she shrank back in her chair. "It can't
be. You can't be…"
"I'm afraid so," said Marc. "And they've all gone off and left the three of you
alone with me. We're quite safe in here. No one can get to us; I've seen to
that. Or did you never consider that a barricade will serve just as well to keep
people in, as well as out?"
Katrina glared at him, holding her poker before her. "You come near me, and I'll
kill you, you… freak!"
"Such a harsh word," said Marc. "But unfortunately for you, perfectly accurate.
I'm afraid I've waited as long as I can, and I really don't care to wait any
longer. The others will be busy killing each other by now, so we shouldn't be
interrupted."
"You don't have to do this," said Holly. "We wouldn't tell anyone about you.
Honest."
"Oh, I think you would," said Marc. "If you had the chance. But I'm afraid I
can't afford to leave any witnesses. So I'll take care of you three first, and
then I'll go upstairs and introduce myself to whatever survivors there may be. I
couldn't do that before; I wasn't strong enough. And the memories got in the
way. But now Greaves is mine, the memories are under control, and after I've
drained the life and strength out of you as well… When the wards go down
tomorrow morning, I shall leave this Tower and go down into the city, and I will
feed and feed and feed, and never be hungry again.
"I think I'll start with you, Holly. I've always admired you. Like a rose
without a thorn; so pretty, so vulnerable. That's why I came to you in the
night, while you slept, and took a little life from you, to keep myself going.
Your memories drifted through my mind like petals on a breeze, sweet but
unsatisfying. Did you dream of me, perhaps? I'd like to think you did. I dreamed
of someone like you for years. And now you're mine."
He started towards Holly, and Arthur scrambled to his feet. He drew his sword
and put himself between her and the freak, hoping he looked more impressive than
he felt.
"Get away from her, you bastard. I won't let you hurt her."
The freak just stood there, smiling. "Very nicely said, Arthur. Now put away
your sword and sit down. I'll get round to you, when I'm ready."
"I mean it!"
"I'm sure you do. But there's nothing you can do to stop me. As long as I'm
within arm's reach of someone, I can drain the life right out of them. Besides,
it's obvious from the way you're holding your sword that you don't really know
how to use it. Marc knew about things like that, and now, so do I. I wonder what
I'll know when I've emptied your head, Arthur. How to mix cocktails, perhaps?"
"Stay back," said Arthur. His voice sounded shaky, even to him, but at least his
sword hand was steady. He'd often dreamed of standing between Holly and some
unidentified villain, being the hero of the moment, but now the time had come
and he'd never felt so scared in his life. But he wouldn't back down. Holly
needed him. The thought steadied him, and he stepped smartly forward, his sword
shooting out in a textbook lunge. Marc sidestepped elegantly, and dropped a hand
on Arthur's outstretched arm. The sword fell to the floor as his hand went numb.
A wave of shuddering cold swept through him as the strength went out of him and
into Marc. He fell limply forward, his face striking hard against the floor, but
he couldn't feel it. He tried to get to his feet again, and couldn't move. He
would have been frightened, but his thoughts were growing too dim even for that.
And then Marc's hand was suddenly jerked away from his arm, and his thoughts
began to clear.
Marc fell back a step as Katrina swung the iron poker with both hands again. The
first blow had connected strongly enough with Marc's head to send him staggering
sideways, but there was no sign of any wound. Of course not, thought Katrina
crazily. He's not really there. That's just an illusion of Marc. Behind the
illusion, he's probably bleeding like a stuck pig. The thought comforted her as
she swung the poker again, putting all her strength into it.
Marc's hand shot out at the last moment and intercepted the poker, absorbing its
momentum with hardly a jolt, though Katrina's hand went numb from the impact.
Marc smiled at her, and her eyes rolled up in her head as he sucked the strength
out of her. She collapsed in a heap, and Marc let the poker drop to the floor
beside her. He turned to face Holly again, and then stopped as Arthur grabbed
him by the ankle. Marc tried to pull free, and couldn't.
Arthur's fingers whitened as he put all his remaining strength into his grip.
Holly needed him. Nothing else mattered. Marc bent down and picked up the poker
he'd dropped. Arthur knew what was going to happen, but didn't have the strength
to turn his head away. He couldn't even shut his eyes. Marc struck down hard
with the poker, and Arthur's vision disappeared behind a sudden rush of blood.
He still wouldn't let go. Holly needed him. Marc hit him again, and again.
Holly burst out of her chair and threw herself at Marc, screaming and flailing
at him with her fists. Marc stumbled backwards and almost fell, but he quickly
regained his balance and grabbed one of her waving arms. She fell to her knees
as the strength went out of her, and he smiled down at her.
"Don't be so impatient, Holly. I'll be with you in a moment." He bent down and
struck repeatedly at Arthur's hand with the poker. The sound of bones breaking
and splintering was horribly loud on the quiet. Marc pulled his foot free, threw
aside the poker, and turned back to look at Holly. "There; that didn't take too
long, did it? Now I'm free to give you my full attention."
He smiled slowly. "You know, Holly, you're all I ever dreamed of, down all the
years, locked away in stone and silence. I watched the light come and go through
the narrow slit of window, and listened to the gulls screaming, and felt the
slow turning of the seasons… and dreamed about what I'd do when I finally got
out. At first I dreamed of blood and pain and sweet revenge, and then I dreamed
of the world beyond the Tower, and all the terrible things I would do there, and
then I dreamed of women, and all the warmth and kindness and beauty I've always
longed for, and never known except in dreams."
"But the years passed, and the dreams got mixed up with each other, until I
really don't know what I want anymore.
I want you, Holly; you're all I ever dreamed of. So I'm going to hurt you and
drain you and hurt you some more and maybe finally I'll hurt you till you die of
it, because I want you so much it hurts. Come to me, Holly. No need to be
afraid. After all, I'm just one of the Family."
Holly jerked her arm free from his grip and scrambled to her feet, backing away
across the room as he came unhurriedly after her. She looked desperately around
for help, but Katrina was lying unconscious on the floor, and Arthur was only
moving feebly, despite the desperation on his bloody face. Holly wanted to cry,
for them and for herself, but there wasn't time. She kept backing away, and Marc
kept coming after her, still smiling. She wanted to scream for help, to Jamie or
David or one of the others, but she knew they were too far away to hear her.
There was no one to help her. So she'd just have to do it herself.
You're a MacNeil. Act like one.
She chanted that silently to herself, like a prayer or a penance, as her gaze
swept the room, searching for something she could use as a weapon. Maybe a brand
from the fire; she could set his clothes alight. Except that the fireplace was
on the other side of the room now, and he stood between it and her. There were
heavy paperweights on the desk, but even as she looked at them, Marc intercepted
her gaze and moved to block her way to the desk. She thought about making a dash
for the door, but one glance was enough to convince her that she'd never be able
to dismantle the barricade before Marc got to her. She smiled humorlessly. She'd
felt so safe behind that barricade… Think, dammit, think! She passed by an oil
lamp on the wall, and without hesitating snatched it from its niche and threw it
at Marc with all her strength. She just had time for a brief fantasy of his
being consumed by blazing oil, and then Marc's hand shot up and snatched the
lamp effortlessly out of midair. He put it gently down on a nearby chair, and
smiled condescendingly.
"Your problem, Holly, is that you keep thinking I'm human. And I'm not. Not
really. Why don't I show you what I look like? What I really look like. Would
you like that?"
Holly tried to say something, but her throat had clamped shut, and she couldn't
make a sound. She'd somehow ended up by the desk, and her desperate gaze fell
upon a slim silver letter opener. She looked quickly away again in case Marc had
noticed, but his gaze seemed fixed on her. For the first time, he'd stopped
smiling. Something stirred in her mind, like suddenly becoming aware of a
background noise that had just stopped. Marc seemed to ripple and flow, like
something far away seen through a heat haze, and then Marc was gone and the
freak stood before her.
Her first thought was That's not so bad. She'd been expecting something hideous,
some awful misshapen thing, with fangs and claws and bulging eyes, but instead
he looked surprisingly ordinary. He was average height but very thin and bony,
wrapped in clothes that were too big for him. Marc's clothes. Holly supposed
that wearing them made the illusion easier to maintain. Or perhaps it just made
the freak feel more like an ordinary man. His left arm and leg were severely
twisted, and his left shoulder was clearly lower than the other, but none of it
was enough to mark him as a freak. And then she looked at his face, and didn't
know whether to laugh or scream. It was a normal enough face, surrounded by long
greasy hair and a stringy beard, and flecked with blood from a recent scalp
wound, but sometime in the past, the mouth had been sewn together. The heavy
black stitches had sunk deep into the lips, compressing them into a thin white
line. Holly wondered who'd done it; presumably the father, before walling the
freak up in his cell. And why not? she thought crazily. He doesn't need a mouth,
after all.
"How do you speak?" she said shrilly.
The mouth twitched in something that might have been meant as a smile. "It's all
part of the illusion, my dear. You hear what I want you to hear. But this has
gone on long enough, I think. It's time."
He started towards her, his laughter sounding in her mind. She snatched up the
letter opener from the desk and thrust it between his ribs. He grunted once, a
dark hungry sound like a pig at its trough, and grabbed both her arms, ignoring
the blood coursing down his side. Holly tried to struggle, but all the strength
went out of her at his touch. She couldn't even scream as the freak's thin white
mouth slowly widened into a grin, the heavy stitches tearing through his lips.
And then a section of the library wall swung open, and Hawk and Fisher plunged
out into the room. The freak spun round, throwing Holly to one side. Hawk
hesitated just long enough to take in the situation, and then cut at the freak
with his sword. The freak raised his arm at the last moment, and the blade cut
into his arm instead of his throat. Hawk danced back out of range as the freak
reached for him, blood dripping unheeded from his arm. Fisher circled round to
try and get behind him. Holly struggled to get to her feet. Hawk stepped in to
cut at the freak again, and fell to his knees as every muscle in his body turned
to mush. He shook his head sickly, managing somehow to still hang on to his
sword, though he no longer had the strength to lift it. The freak reached down
and took Hawk's face in his hand. The fingers tightened, and Hawk's cheekbones
shifted and creaked under the rising pressure. Fisher snatched a burning brand
from the fire and thrust it at the freak's back. The strength went out of her
fingers as she came within range, and the burning brand fell from her grasp onto
the rug before the fireplace. Flames leapt up as the rug caught fire.
Holly threw herself at the freak, the sudden weight catching him by surprise and
knocking him away from Hawk. The freak landed on his back on the burning rug,
and flames leapt up around him as his clothes caught fire. He surged to his feet
again, throwing Holly to one side, and lurched back and forth, beating
ineffectually at his burning clothes with his hands. There was a silent puff of
blue flames as his hair ignited. Hawk and Fisher had got some of their strength
back, and were on their feet again. Hawk still had his sword, and Fisher
snatched up a heavy footstool to use as a club. Holly rose to her feet, ignoring
her smouldering clothes, and looked around for something to use as a weapon. The
freak turned his back on them and made for the door. He tore apart the
barricade, throwing aside the bulky furniture with inhuman strength, and pulled