Wolf in the Fold h&f-4

by Simon R. Green

  Hawk scowled at the sorcerer. "I'm not feeling too fond of flesh-sculptors right

  now. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned illusion spell?"

  Dubois sighed impatiently. "Tower MacNeil, like most Quality households, has

  security spells to show up such things. The Families take their security very

  seriously. The shapechange won't register because the spell will have finished

  its work long before you get there. After you return, with your mission

  successfully completed, we'll give you your own faces back."

  "And if we don't succeed?" said Hawk.

  Dubois smiled coldly. "You screw up in Tower MacNeil, Hawk, and you won't be

  coming back. Now, stop holding things up, and let the sorcerer get to work on

  you. We're running out of time."

  Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then sat down on the chairs Wulfgang

  indicated. The sorcerer smiled reassuringly and ran his hands through a series

  of practiced gestures, muttering under his breath as he did so. A gradual

  feeling of pressure filled the room, and Hawk's skin crawled as static moved in

  his hair. The pressure peaked uncomfortably, and then vanished as the sorcerer

  made a final, decisive gesture. Hawk waited a moment, and then looked down at

  his hands. They still looked the same to him. He looked across at Fisher, and

  she looked the same too. He looked back at the sorcerer Wulfgang, who was

  staring dumbfounded at the two Guards.

  "Why isn't anything happening?" demanded Dubois.

  "I don't know!" snapped Wulfgang. "I can't understand it; the spell just seemed

  to slide off them." A sudden thought struck him, and he glared at Hawk. "Are you

  still carrying your suppressor stone?"

  "No, he isn't," said Dubois. "And don't ask what happened to it. That's

  confidential."

  Wulfgang frowned thoughtfully. "There's nothing wrong with the spell, they're

  not shielded, so what… ? Wait a minute. Have you two ever been exposed to Wild

  Magic?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?" said Dubois.

  "There's a big difference between the High Magic that most sorcerers use, and

  the much rarer Wild Magic," said Wulfgang patiently. "High Magic manipulates

  aspects of the real world; Wild Magic changes reality itself. So if your people

  have been exposed to Wild Magic…"

  "We have," said Hawk. "We were up North when the Blue Moon rose."

  Dubois and Wulfgang stared at the two Guards almost respectfully. "You were

  there, during the long night?" said Dubois.

  "We were there," said Fisher. "And no, we don't want to talk about it."

  "That's why my spell won't work on them," said Wulfgang. "If they were exposed

  to the Blue Moon's influence, it'll take more than a simple shapechange spell to

  affect them. I'm sorry, Commander. There's nothing I can do."

  Dubois sighed. "I might have known you two were going to be trouble. All right.

  Thank you, Wulfgang. That will be all. The wardrobe mistress should have arrived

  by now; perhaps you'd be good enough to ask her to step in here on your way out.

  And Wulfgang, remember: This meeting never took place. You were never here."

  "Of course," said the sorcerer. He bowed politely to Hawk and Fisher, and waited

  patiently for Dubois to unlock the door so he could leave. Dubois locked the

  door again after he'd gone.

  "While we're waiting," said Hawk, "there's a few things I'd like to get clear.

  In particular, why Fenris chose Tower MacNeil as his hiding place. Surely among

  so many Quality he'd be bound to give himself away sooner or later."

  Dubois pursed his lips. "We have reason to believe Fenris may be of the

  Quality," he said carefully. "So he'd have no problem passing himself off as a

  distant MacNeil cousin."

  "Why the hell would one of the Quality want to act as a spy?" said Hawk. "Most

  spies work strictly for cash, or occasionally political gain. If there's one

  thing the Quality aren't short of, it's money, and most of them don't give a

  damn about politics. So what happened to turn Fenris into an agent for a foreign

  power?"

  "If we knew that, we'd know who he was," said Dubois.

  "Can you at least tell us something about the information he's stolen?" said

  Fisher. "That might help when it comes to identifying him."

  "I can't tell you anything," said Dubois flatly. "That's being handled on a

  strictly need-to-know basis. Even I haven't been told. But it must be pretty

  damned important to have got everyone running round in circles like this. You

  wouldn't believe the pressure that's been coming down from Above. Let me put it

  this way: Under no circumstances is the spy Fenris to be allowed to escape from

  Tower MacNeil. If he tries, you're to stop him, whatever it takes."

  "You mean kill him?" said Fisher.

  "Whatever it takes," said Dubois.

  Hawk smiled sourly. "In other words, it's up to us whether or not we kill a

  member of the Quality. But if anything goes wrong afterwards, everyone will

  swear blind we were never given any such order. Right?"

  "Got it in one," said Dubois. "You have a natural gift for politics, Hawk."

  They sat in silence for a while, each thinking their own separate thoughts.

  There was a knock at the door. Dubois went over and quietly asked who it was. On

  getting a satisfactory answer, he unlocked the door. But he still stood well

  back as it opened, one hand resting on his sword till he saw the newcomer was

  alone. The wardrobe mistress bustled in, in a hurry as usual. Mistress Melanie

  was tall and scrawny, with a sharp-boned face and a wild frizz of dark curly

  hair barely restrained by a leather headband. She was one of those people who

  had so much nervous energy she made everyone else feel tired just looking at

  her.

  "Are they ready?" she said sharply to Dubois, not even bothering to look at Hawk

  and Fisher.

  Dubois nodded briskly. "The shapechange didn't take.

  We'll have to rely on standard disguise techniques. Do what you can with them."

  Mistress Melanie made a short tutting sound and glared at the two Guards. "As if

  we weren't already running behind schedule. All right. Follow me and don't

  dawdle."

  And with that, she disappeared back out the door while her words were still

  ringing on the air. Hawk and Fisher hurried after her.

  A short footrace later, they ended up in the wardrobe department. Hawk had never

  been there before and looked around with interest. Hundreds of costumes hung in

  neat rows on wire hangers—everything from the latest Quality fashions to a

  filthy ragpicker's outfit. A great deal of the Guard's work had to be done

  undercover; inevitable in a city like Haven, where no one shared confidences

  unless they had to and absolutely no one spoke to the authorities. Unless there

  was money in it. Half the Guard's annual budget went to information-gathering, a

  fact which never failed to infuriate the more penny-pinching members of the

  Council.

  Mistress Melanie sat Hawk and Fisher down in front of the makeup mirrors and

  studied them thoughtfully. "Yes," she said finally, drawing out the word till it

  sounded more like no, "The scars are going to be a problem, but a good coat of

  makeup should cover them. No one'll be able to
tell, even at close quarters, but

  don't let anyone kiss you."

  "I hadn't planned on it," said Hawk.

  Mistress Melanie sniffed. "We're going to have to do something about that eye,

  of course. A patch is out of the question." She looked hard at Hawk's single eye

  for a moment, then opened a small lacquered box and rummaged around inside it,

  finally producing a single glass eye. "Try this."

  "No," said Hawk flatly. "Forget it. I hate the damned things."

  "I can assure you, you'll find it a perfect match," said Mistress Melanie

  frostily.

  "I said no!"

  "Be reasonable, Hawk," said Fisher. "You can't wear your patch. Any member of

  the Quality who suffered that kind of injury would have it put right at once

  with a shape-change spell. And since you can't do that, you'll have to use the

  glass eye. It won't be for long."

  Hawk growled something indistinct, and accepted the glass eye with bad grace. He

  scowled at it for a moment, then took off his patch, put it to one side, and

  gingerly eased the glass eye into the empty socket. He blinked experimentally a

  few times, and then glared into the mirror. "Hate wearing a glass eye," he

  growled. "Makes my face ache."

  Fisher looked over his shoulder into the mirror. "She's right, Hawk; they're a

  perfect match. No one will be able to tell it isn't real."

  Hawk sniffed loudly, unimpressed. Mistress Melanie produced a set of clothes for

  each of them, and thrust them unceremoniously into Hawk and Fisher's arms. "Try

  these for size. They're based on the statistics in your official records, but

  I've had to make some allowances. From the look of you, you've both put on some

  weight since then. Come on, get a move on; I've got to know if I have to make

  more alterations, and we've still got your makeup to do."

  Hawk looked at her and raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Mistress Melanie's mouth

  twitched. "I'll wait outside while you change. Call me if you have any

  problems."

  She left, closing the door firmly behind her. Hawk took his first good look at

  his new clothes, and his heart sank. The latest male fashion for the Quality

  still consisted of tightly cut trousers, a padded jerkin with a chin-high

  collar, and knee-length leather boots. Plus some rather utilitarian long

  underwear. The jerkin and trousers were both navy blue with gold thread trim.

  The military look was in this Season. He looked across at Fisher, and smiled as

  he saw she was even less enchanted with her new clothes. There was a long

  flowing gown of lilac blue with frothy lace trim, a great deal of frilly

  underwear, a formidable-looking corset, and a pair of fashionable shoes that

  looked hideously uncomfortable. Fisher picked up the corset with a thumb and

  forefinger and held it out at arm's length, studying it dubiously.

  "Look on the bright side," said Hawk. "At least there isn't a bustle."

  "Do we really have to do this, Hawk?" said Fisher.

  "Well, we could fight our way out of here, and make a run for it."

  "Don't tempt me." Fisher sighed heavily, and began stripping off her furs. "The

  things I do in the line of duty…"

  It took them the best part of half an hour to climb into their new clothes.

  There were endless buttons and hooks and eyes, and they all had to be done up in

  just the right order. Hawk could only just get into the trousers. Even with

  Mistress Melanie's allowances for his somewhat expanded waistline, it was a very

  tight fit. Fisher had even more trouble with the corset. Hawk ended up having to

  put a knee in the middle of her back while he pulled the cords tight. Fisher's

  language became increasingly awful, until finally she was forced to give up from

  lack of breath. Finally, the ordeal was over, and they stood together before a

  full-length mirror, judging the effect.

  Despite everything, Hawk had to admit they looked the part. Before them in the

  mirror stood a gentleman and young lady of the Quality, dressed impeccably in

  the latest finery. Hawk looked splendid and striking, though the scars on his

  face still gave him a sinister air, and Fisher looked absolutely stunning. The

  corset had given her a magnificent hourglass figure, and the long gown made her

  look even taller. She winked at Hawk coquettishly over her paper fan, and they

  both laughed.

  "Been a long time since we looked this good," said Hawk finally.

  "A long time," said Fisher.

  Mistress Melanie knocked loudly, and swept in without waiting for an answer. She

  looked them both up and down, and nodded curtly. "You'll do. Now let's see what

  we can achieve with a little makeup."

  Another half hour passed before the wardrobe mistress allowed Hawk and Fisher to

  look into a mirror again, and what they saw kept them silent for a long moment.

  Their skin was now fashionably pale instead of their usual tan. Fisher's face

  had been expertly made up with rouge and eye shadow, taking the edge off the

  harsh lines, and softening the aggressive chin. Her long blond hair had been

  piled up on top of her head in a complicated design. Hawk's face had changed

  completely; with the patch gone and the scars hidden under makeup he looked ten

  years younger, and somehow more at peace with himself and the world. Fisher

  looked at him and smiled tenderly.

  "I often wondered what you looked like, before the scars."

  "Well?" said Hawk awkwardly. "What do you think?"

  "I think you look very handsome, my love. But then, I always did."

  Hawk leant forward to kiss her, and Mistress Melanie yelled at him. "No touching

  till the makeup's set! I don't want to have to fix her face all over again!"

  Hawk and Fisher shared a wry smile. There was a loud knocking at the door.

  "Are you two decent?" called Commander Dubois from outside.

  "Near as we ever get," said Hawk loudly, and nodded for Mistress Melanie to let

  the Commander in. Hawk and Fisher struck carefully aristocratic poses and stared

  haughtily at Dubois as he came in. He walked slowly over to them, and looked

  from one to the other and back again.

  "I'm… impressed," he said finally. "You might just bring this off after all. I

  wish we had time to give you a full briefing on how to behave, all the little

  tricks of etiquette and the like, but we're way behind schedule as it is."

  "Don't worry," said Hawk. "We know which fork to use, and which way to pass the

  port. We've been around."

  "Right," said Fisher. "You'd be surprised."

  "Yeah, well," said Dubois. "We've worked out a rough background for you. You're

  going to be remote country cousins of the MacNeils; a brother and sister from

  the wilds of Lower Markham. That's way out on the Eastern border, so no one

  should be able to trip you up on local details. Make up anything you like; they

  won't know the difference. But keep it simple. You don't want to end up

  contradicting each other. Also, they'll expect a certain amount of gaucherie and

  unfamiliarity with the latest styles, so that should help excuse any foul-ups

  you do make. Now then, you're going to have to get used to your new names.

  Captain Fisher can use her given name of Isobel. That's quite a fashionable name

  at the moment. But we don't seem to have a given n
ame on the files for you,

  Captain Hawk."

  "There isn't one. I'm just Hawk."

  "You only have the one name?"

  "I've had others. But I'm just Hawk now."

  "Be that as it may," said Dubois, in the tone of someone determined not to ask

  questions he's sure he wouldn't like the answers to. "As far as you're

  concerned, from now on you're Richard MacNeil. Got it?"

  "Richard…" said Hawk. "Yeah, I can live with that."

  "I'm so pleased," said Dubois. "One last thing: Leave your axe here. We'll

  supply you with a standard dueling sword. And Captain Fisher will have to go

  unarmed, of course. No young lady of the Quality would wear a sword. It simply

  isn't done."

  Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.

  "No axe."

  "No sword."

  "Tight trousers."

  "And a bloody corset."

  They looked hard at Dubois. "We want a bonus," said Hawk flatly.

  "In cash," said Fisher.

  "In our hands, before we go."

  "I can arrange that," said Dubois.

  Hawk looked at Fisher. "They must really be desperate."

  "Maybe we should hit them for overtime while we're at it," said Fisher.

  "Don't push your luck," said Dubois.

  Chapter Three

  Ghosts And Memories

  Haven was an old city, but the dark and brooding cliffs that overlooked it were

  older still. Huge and forbidding, they rose out of the restless sea like grim,

  watchful guardians, protecting Haven on three sides from the raging storms that

  swept in off the sea. The waves pounded endlessly at the jagged spurs of rock,

  throwing spray high into the wind even on the calmest of days. Tower MacNeil

  stood firm and unyielding on an outcropping of dark basalt that jutted from the

  cliff face like a clenched fist against the encroaching sea.

  The Tower was tall and elegant, built entirely from the local white stone, with

  its distinctive pearly sheen. Its lines were clean and functional, the wide

  glass windows its only concession to comfort and luxury. It stood five stories

  tall, surmounted by open crenellated battlements. Down the centuries, Tower

  MacNeil had defied both time and the elements, as well as countless enemy

  attacks. Often scarred, and as often restored, it had never once fallen to its

  adversaries. Brilliant engineering and subtle sorceries maintained the Tower, as

  it maintained and protected the Family who dwelt within.