Wolf in the Fold

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