He crossed over to stand beside Fisher on the cliff edge, careful to keep a respectful distance between him and the crumbling stone brink. The wind tugged at his hair and drew tears from his eyes. Fisher nodded at him happily, and indicated the view with a sweeping wave of her arm. Hawk had to admit it was pretty breathtaking. Far below, waves pounded the rocks with unrelenting fury, falling reluctantly back in streams of froth and spume. The choppy sea stretched away to the horizon in endless shades of blue and green and grey, empty of sails for once. Winter was closing in, and ships now were few and far between. The steely blue sky was clear of clouds for the moment, thanks to the city weather wizards, and gulls hung on the air like drifting shadows, tossed here and there by the gusting wind. Their mournful keening was all that broke the morning quiet, save for the distant crash of breakers down below.
“Listen to the sea and the gulls,” said Fisher. “So wild, so free. We really should get out here more often, Hawk.”
“Maybe we will, come the summer. And you’d better call me Richard from now on, even when there’s no one around. We don’t want to get caught out on something that simple.”
“Sure. Why did we have to be brother and sister? Why couldn’t we be husband and wife?”
“Beats me. Maybe we’re supposed to get information out of people by romancing them.”
Fisher wrinkled her nose. “Not really our style, that.”
“True.”
“I never get tired of looking at the sea. I never even saw the ocean before we left the North.”
“I like the view too, Isobel, but we can’t stay here. We have a job to do, and time is pressing.”
“I know. It’s just that we never seem to have any time to ourselves these days.”
“When did we ever?”
“True. Let’s go.”
They turned away from the cliff edge and made their way back through the grass to the narrow stony trail. The Tower loomed ahead of them, straight and uncompromising against the skyline, silent and enigmatic. Its height made it look deceptively slim until you got close enough to realize just how huge the Tower really was. Hawk thought for a moment on how backbreaking it must have been, hauling building stone up the cliffs to this spot, and then decided firmly that he wasn’t going to think about it anymore. Just trying to visualize the logistics was enough to make his head ache. He realized Fisher was staring at the Tower too, and deliberately quickened his step.
“Come on, Isobel,” he said briskly. “There’s no telling how long Fenris will stay put in the Tower. If he decides to leave before we can get there to stop him, Dubois will have our heads. Probably literally.”
“I don’t know why Fenris didn’t just keep running,” said Fisher, picking up the pace. “I would have. What made him think he’d be safe here?”
“The longer he stayed in the open, the more likely it was he’d be spotted,” said Hawk. “And the Tower’s a good place to go to ground. It’s within easy reach of the city but out of everyone’s thoughts. I wouldn’t have thought to look for him here. If it hadn’t been for the Council’s sorcerers, he’d have probably got away with it. And let’s face it. If worst came to worst, and for some reason the MacNeils decided not to hand him over, we’d have one hell of a job getting him out of the Tower. You’d need an army and every sorcerer in the city to breach those walls, by all accounts. No, my guess is Fenris is probably biding his time in there, looking over his shoulder a lot and waiting for one of his own people to contact him with a safe route out to the Low Kingdoms. Assuming someone hasn’t already done so.”
“I still haven’t figured out what we’re going to do once we’re inside the Tower,” said Fisher. “I mean, we’ve no idea what he looks like now. He could be anybody. He could be passing himself off as an out-of-town MacNeil cousin, like us, or a friend of one, or a newly hired servant, or ... Hell, I don’t know. The man’s a spy, after all; he’s used to pretending to be someone he isn’t. How are we going to trip up someone like that? This case is a mess, and we’ve barely even started yet. Do you think we’re going to be able to recognize him?”
“Not a hope,” said Hawk. “If I had to fight him again I might recognize his style, but I’m damned if I’m going to go round challenging everyone to a duel. Especially without my axe. Have you seen this stupid sword they’ve given me? One good parry and it’ll snap in half. I’d be better off sneaking up behind my opponent and clubbing him to death with the hilt.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Same as usual, lass. Ask lots of questions, keep our eyes open, and hopefully make enough of a nuisance of ourselves that the killer will do something stupid to try and shut us up.”
“Great,” said Fisher. “I just love being a target.”
They both fell silent as they finally drew near the Tower MacNeil. The large, squarish front door was a different shade of white from the surrounding stonework, and Hawk felt a sudden, unsettling thrill go through him as he realized the door had been carved from a single huge slab of polished ivory. He tried to visualize the size of the whale that could donate such a bone, and quickly decided he’d rather not know. He tugged briskly at the bell pull, and then he and Fisher took turns using the black iron boot-scraper. They were Quality now, and had to keep up appearances.
The door swung smoothly open on well-oiled counterweights, revealing a medium-height, heavyset man in his mid-forties, wearing the slightly outdated formal wear that was the accepted hallmark of the Haven butler. He had dark, lifeless hair, a flat immobile face that might have been carved from stone, and a general air of gloomy efficiency for which the long black frock coat was the perfect finishing touch. He bowed formally to Hawk and Fisher, each bow nicely calculated to the inch to show respect for his betters whilst reminding them that as butler of the household he was a force to be reckoned with in his own right. It was a masterful performance. Hawk felt like applauding.
“I am Richard MacNeil of Lower Markham,” he said gravely. “This is my sister, Isobel. We’ve come to pay our respects to the new head of the Family.”
“Of course, sir and madam. I am Greaves, butler of Tower MacNeil. Please come in.”
He stood back to allow them to enter. He seemed faintly disapproving, possibly because they came from a backwater like Lower Markham, but most likely because butlers always seemed faintly disapproving. Hawk suspected it was part of the job description. He strolled into the hallway as though he owned the place, with Isobel on his arm, smiling demurely. The smile didn’t suit her, but Hawk admired the effort that had gone into it. Greaves closed the door behind them, and Hawk’s ears pricked up as he heard the sound of heavy bolts being thrown home. It could be that the Tower MacNeil household was routinely security-minded ... or it could be that right now they had reason to be. He took off his cloak, and found the butler already there waiting to receive it. Fisher handed Greaves her cloak, and raised a painted eyebrow enquiringly.
“Are you the only staff here, Greaves? Surely it’s not a butler’s place to take the cloaks from guests. Don’t you have any maids under you?”
Greaves’s expression didn’t alter in the least as he arranged the cloaks neatly on the wall by the door. “Alas, madam, I’m afraid Tower MacNeil is extremely short staffed at present. Normally we have a staff of twenty-two, but everyone else left some time ago.”
Hawk looked at him sharply. “And why is that?”
“It’s not really my place to say, sir. If you and the young lady would care to follow me, I’ll take you to the MacNeil himself. I’m sure he will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
He turned his back on them, politely but firmly, and started off down the hall. Hawk and Fisher exchanged a look behind his back, shrugged pretty much in unison, and followed him. They’d only been in the place a few moments and already they were up to their ears in questions. What the hell could have happened here to drive all the servants out? And since it had happened recently, could it have something to do with Fenris’ a
rrival? The butler worried Hawk as well. The man was being far too calm and pleasant. Most butlers were worse snobs than their masters and would have had coronaries at the mere mention of their doing maids’ work. And yet Greaves seemed to be implying he was doing all the servants’ work at Tower MacNeil. What kind of hold could keep him at his duty, despite the humiliation?
Hawk shrugged inwardly. Perhaps Greaves was just angling for a larger than usual gratuity when Hawk left. In which case, he was going to be disappointed. Wardrobe might have provided Hawk with aristocratic clothes, but they’d absolutely declined to fill the purse on his belt. He’d had to do that, with his bonus money, and he was damned if he was going to part with one penny more than he absolutely had to.
The butler led Hawk and Fisher down a stylishly appointed passage and ushered them into a large and spacious drawing room. Early morning light streamed through the immaculately polished windows, reflecting brightly from the pure white of the stonework, illuminating the room like a vision of paradise. The whole ceiling was covered with a single delightful piece of art depicting nymphs and shepherds at play. In a romantic and extremely tasteful way, of course. Everywhere there were luxurious chairs and couches, fine displays of wines and spirits, silver trays bearing all kinds of cold food, and every other comfort the mind could imagine. Hawk did his best to look unimpressed.
Standing with his back to the roaring fire was a tall, well-built young man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, and his unruly mop of tawny hair made him look even younger. Nevertheless, there was a dignity and strength in his stance, and a composure in his face, that was quietly impressive. Hawk didn’t need Greaves to tell him this was their host, Jamie MacNeil. The MacNeil, as he now was. He was dressed all in black, being still in mourning for his father, but the clothes were of the finest cut and impeccably fashionable. He stepped forward as the butler introduced them, and greeted his two cousins warmly, kissing Isobel’s hand with style, and shaking Hawk’s hand in a grip that was firm without being overbearing. He gestured for the butler to leave them, and Greaves bowed and backed out, closing the door after him. Jamie led Hawk and Fisher over to the drinks cabinet and politely enquired as to their pleasure. He seemed genuinely pleased to see them, and yet somehow preoccupied, as though part of his attention was always somewhere else.
“So good of you to come,” he said graciously. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Bearable,” said Hawk, accepting his drink with a nod. “We left our belongings in Haven, ghastly place, and came straight here. Though I gather from your butler that we may have arrived at a bad time ... he said something about all the servants leaving?”
Jamie MacNeil smiled easily, but Hawk could see the effort it took. “Just a minor domestic crisis, but I’m afraid we’re all going to have to rough it for the moment. Please accept my apologies, and bear with us. Do feel free to stay for as long as you wish: there are plenty of spare bedrooms, and Haven’s inns are notoriously unsafe.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Hawk.
“Not at all, not at all. I’ll just let Greaves know, and he’ll prepare rooms for you and your sister.”
He reached for the bell pull by the fireplace, but had barely taken hold of it when the door swung open and Greaves entered. Hawk blinked bemusedly at such a quick response, and then smiled slightly as Greaves stepped to one side and two ladies of the Quality swept in, not even deigning to notice the butler’s bow. Jamie smiled at them both, a genuine smile full of warmth and affection, and more than a little concern. Hawk sipped his wine thoughtfully as Jamie spoke quietly to the butler. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about Tower MacNeil. Something was going on here; something he was beginning to suspect had nothing to do with the spy Fenris. He took a healthy gulp of his wine, careful to keep his little finger crooked. On the other hand, he could just be getting paranoid. If Jamie MacNeil knew about the spy, then getting rid of a bunch of gossiping servants was a sensible precaution. But according to Greaves, the servants had left some time ago, long before Fenris could have arrived.... Hawk quickly put the thought to one side for later consideration as Jamie dismissed the butler and turned to him and Fisher.
“Dear cousins, allow me to present my sister Holly, and my aunt, Katrina Dorimant.”
Hawk bowed and the women curtsied, Fisher with more efficiency than grace. Holly MacNeil was a blazing redhead in her late twenties, almost as tall as her brother, but as slightly built as he was broad. Hawk’s first thought was that the poor lass could do with a good meal or two. Her pale face was gaunt and strained, though still attractive, her large green eyes giving her an innocent, vulnerable look, like a young fawn suddenly confronted with a pack of wolves. Whatever was going on at Tower MacNeil, it was clear she knew about it too. Like her brother, Holly MacNeil was formally but stylishly dressed in black, which against the paleness of her skin only served to emphasize her frailty. She offered Hawk a trembling hand, and he had to steady it with his own before he could kiss it. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it, and thought he glimpsed a quick smile. Holly and Fisher embraced each other briefly. There was no warmth in it, and Holly held the contact only as long as convention demanded.
Jamie’s aunt, Katrina Dorimant, was a roguishly attractive woman in her mid-forties, with a broad grin and flashing eyes. She wore a long, wine-red gown, and enough jewellery to finance a minor war or two. She was average height, with a tight, compact body and a brisk, captivating manner. She smiled widely at Hawk as he kissed her hand, and her eyes lingered on him for a long moment before she turned to embrace Fisher. Once again the embrace was over almost as soon as it had begun, and the two women exchanged a cool, appraising look before dismissing each other with averted eyes. Hawk hid a smile. Fisher had better keep her guard up. Katrina looked like a scrapper.
“Welcome to Tower MacNeil!” said Katrina brightly. “I’m so glad you’re here. We need some new blood to stir things up. The place has been awfully gloomy just lately, though I can’t think why. Dear Duncan never approved of sour faces when he was alive, and he certainly wouldn’t have expected us to wander around sobbing and beating our breasts just because he’s dead.”
“You never did believe in tears or regrets, did you, Aunt?” said Holly flatly.
“Certainly not. They make your eyes puffy and give you wrinkles.”
“Are you here for the reading of the will?” asked Fisher politely.
“Actually, no, my dear. I’m currently separated from my husband, bad cess to the man, and dear Jamie has been kind enough to allow me to stay here until the divorce is finalized.”
“I had in mind a few weeks, Auntie,” said Jamie goodnaturedly. “In actual fact, you’ve been here five months now.”
“Don’t exaggerate, dear. It’s four and a bit.”
“Are we the only guests?” said Hawk. “I can’t believe we’re the only Family come to pay our respects to the MacNeil.”
“There are other guests,” said Jamie. “They’re upstairs in their rooms at present, but they’ll be joining us for a late breakfast soon. We keep very relaxed hours here, especially since the servants left. But it must be said there aren’t nearly as many Family here as one might have wished for.”
“Why not?” asked Fisher bluntly.
The three MacNeils exchanged a quick glance. “I take it you’ve never heard of the MacNeil Curse,” said Jamie slowly. “Not really surprising, I suppose, buried as you are in the depths of Lower Markham. It’s not something we’re proud of, and we don’t care to discuss it with outsiders. But since you are both Family, and you’ve come all this way to be here ... The Curse is the reason why so few have come to pay their respects, even with the reading of the will to tempt them. It’s why the servants ran away, and why the Quality no longer accept invitations to Tower MacNeil. Please, be seated, all of you, and I’ll tell you of the secret Shame of the MacNeils, and how it has come back to haunt us. I think it’s time for
the truth.”
Everyone found themselves chairs, and drew them up in a semicircle facing the fireplace. Jamie stayed where he was, with his back to the fire, standing almost to attention, with his hands clasped behind his back, so the others wouldn’t see them shaking. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even and very controlled.
“Most people have heard something about the Curse of the MacNeils. That there is a monster which haunts us, and has done for generations. There have been many songs about it, and even one or two plays. Romantic fictions, all of them. We don’t object; they help conceal the reality behind the myth. There is a Secret in our Family, handed down from father to eldest son alone, from generation to generation.
“Long ago, in the days before proper records were kept, a child was born to the MacNeils, to the head of the Family at that time. That child was the eldest son, destined to continue the Family bloodline. Unfortunately, he was also horribly deformed. He should have been killed at birth, but the MacNeil was a kind and tender-hearted man. The creature was, after all, his son. Perhaps a cure could be found. The MacNeil all but bankrupted the Family trying to find it, paying for doctors and sorcerers and healers of all kinds, but no cure was ever found.
“The creature became increasingly violent, and eventually had to be put away, for everyone’s safety. The MacNeil took full responsibility for his awful son, and none of the Family or servants ever saw it again. Finally, some years later, the creature died, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The normal second son became the eldest son, the bloodline continued through him, and everything returned to normal.
“That is not the Secret. The songs and the romances and the plays are based loosely on what I have just told you, and from those distorted stories come the vague rumours that most people mean when they refer to the Curse of the MacNeils. The Secret, handed down from father to eldest son, is very simple. The creature did not die.
“The MacNeil had finally despaired of his monstrous son, and decided it should die, to free the Family of its burden. He gave the creature poison to drink, and walled up its room. He and the second son did the job themselves, rather than risk bringing in workmen or servants who might have talked. And all the time they laboured with bricks and mortar, they could hear the creature pacing restlessly back and forth in its cell. The poison did not kill it. Time and again the MacNeil and his son returned to listen at the wall they’d built, but though the creature had no access to food or water, still it lived. They could hear it moving about in its cell, and sometimes scratching at the walls.
Guards of Haven Page 7