"We daren't try to widen the hole," said Fisher. "This whole area is touchy as hell. One wrong move, and the shaft could collapse in on itself."
"We can't just leave the child there," said a woman dully, kneeling at the edge of the shaft. "Someone could go down on a rope, and fetch it up."
"Not someone," said Hawk. "Me. Get me a length of rope and a lantern."
He started stripping off his cloak and furs. Fisher moved in close beside him. "You don't have to do this, Hawk."
"Yes I do."
"You couldn't have known this would happen."
"I should have thought, instead of just barging straight in."
"That shaft isn't stable. It could collapse at any time."
"I know that. Keep an eye on my furs and my axe, would you? This is Haven, after all."
He stood by the shaft in his shirt and trousers, looking down into the darkness, and shivered suddenly, not entirely from the cold. He didn't like dark, enclosed places, particularly underground, and the whole situation reminded him uncomfortably of a bad experience he'd once had down a mine. He didn't have to go down the shaft. There were any number of others ready to volunteer. But if he didn't do it, he'd always believe he should have.
Someone came back with a length of rope, and Fisher fastened one end round his waist. Someone else tied the other end to a sturdy outcropping of broken stone, and Hawk and Fisher took turns tugging on the rope to make sure it was secure. One of the men gave him a lantern, and he held it out over the shaft. The pale golden light didn't penetrate far into the darkness. He listened, but couldn't hear anything. The hole itself was about three feet in diameter and looked distinctly unsafe. Hawk shrugged. It wouldn't get any safer, no matter how long he waited. He sat down on the edge, very slowly and very carefully, swung his legs over the side, and then lowered himself into the darkness, bracing his back and his knees against the sides of the shaft. He took a deep breath and let it out, and then inch by inch he made his way down into the darkness, the lantern resting uncomfortably on his chest.
Jagged edges of stone and wood cut at him viciously as he descended, and the circle of daylight overhead grew smaller and smaller. He moved slowly down in his pool of light, stopping now and again to call out to the child below, but there was never any reply. He pressed on, cursing the narrow confines around him as they bowed in and out, and soon came to the bottom of the shaft. He held up the lantern and looked around him. Rough spikes of broken wood and stone protruded from every side, and a dozen openings led off into the honeycomb of wreckage. Most were too small or too obviously unsafe for him to try, but one aperture led into a narrow tunnel barely two feet high. Hawk called out to the child, but there was only the silence and his own harsh breathing. He looked back up the main shaft, but all he could see was darkness. He was on his own. He looked again at the narrow tunnel, cursed again briefly, and got down on his hands and knees.
The rope played out behind him as he wriggled his way through the tunnel darkness in his narrow pool of light, stopping now and then to manoeuvre past outcroppings from the tunnel walls. The child had to be around here somewhere. He couldn't have come all this way for nothing. He thought briefly about the sheer weight of wreckage pressing from above, and his skin went cold. The roof of the tunnel bulged down ahead of him, and he had to lie on his back and force himself past the obstruction an inch at a time, pulling the lantern behind. The unyielding stone pressed against his chest like a giant hand trying to crush the breath out of him. He breathed out, emptying his lungs, and slowly squeezed past.
In the end, he found the child by bumping into her. He'd just got past the obstruction when his head hit something soft and yielding. His first thought was that he'd run into some kind of animal down in the dark with him, and his imagination conjured up all kinds of unpleasantness before he got it back under control. He squirmed over onto his stomach, wishing briefly that he'd brought his axe, and then stopped as he saw her, lying still and silent on the tunnel floor. She looked to be about five or six years old, covered in dirt and blood, but still breathing strongly. Hawk spoke to her, but she didn't respond, even when he tapped her sharply on the shoulder. He pulled himself along beside her, and saw for the first time that one of her legs was pinned between two great slabs of stone, holding her firmly just below the ankle.
Hawk put his lantern down and pushed cautiously at the slabs, but they wouldn't budge. He took hold of the girl's shoulders and pulled until his arms ached, but she didn't budge either. The stones weren't going to give her up that easily. Hawk let go of her, and tried to think. The air was full of dust, and he coughed hard to try and clear it from his throat. The side of his face grew uncomfortably warm from having the lantern so close, and he moved it a bit further away. Shadows leapt alarmingly in the cramped tunnel and then were still again. He scowled, and worried his lower lip between his teeth. He had to get the child out of there. The tunnel could collapse at any time, bringing tons of stone and timber crashing down on her. And him too, for that matter. But there was no way he could persuade the stone slabs to give up their hold on her foot. He had no tools to work with, and even if he had, there wasn't enough room to apply any leverage. No, there was only one way to get the child out. Tears stung his eyes as the horror of it clenched at his gut, but he knew he had to do it. He didn't have any choice in the matter.
He squirmed and wriggled as best he could in the confined space, and finally managed to draw the knife from his boot and slide his leather belt out of his trousers. There was a good edge on the blade. It would do the job. He took a close look at the stone slabs where they held the child's foot, checking if there was room enough to work, but he already knew the answer. There was room. He was just putting it off. He looped his belt around the girl's leg, close up against the stone, and pulled it tight, until flesh bulged thickly up on either side of it. Hawk hefted the knife, and then brushed the little girl's hair gently with his free hand.
"Don't wake up, lass. I'll be as quick as I can."
He placed the edge of the knife against her leg, as close to the stones as he could get it, and began sawing.
There was a lot more blood than he'd expected, and he had to tighten the belt twice more before he could stem most of the flow. When he was finished, he tore off one of his sleeves and wrapped it tightly round the stump. His arms and face were splashed with blood, and he was breathing in great gulps, as though he'd just run a race. He turned over on his back again, grabbed his lantern, and began inching his way back down the tunnel, dragging the unconscious girl along behind him. He didn't know how long he'd spent in the narrow tunnel, but it felt like forever.
The tunnel roof soon rose enough to let him get to his hands and knees again, and he crawled along through the darkness, hugging the child to his chest. He suddenly found himself at the base of the main shaft, and stopped for a moment to get his breath. He ached in every muscle, and he'd torn his hands and knees to ribbons. But he couldn't let himself rest. The little girl needed expert medical help, and she was running out of time. He held the girl tightly to his chest with one arm and slowly began to climb back up the shaft, with only his legs and his back to support his weight and that of the child.
It didn't take long before the pain in his tired muscles became excruciating, but he wouldn't stop. The girl was depending on him. Foot by foot he fought his way up the shaft, grunting and snarling with the effort, his gaze fixed on the gradually widening circle of light above him. He finally drew near the surface, and eager hands reached down to take the child and help Hawk the rest of the way. He clambered laboriously out and lay stretched out on the rubble, squinting at the bright daylight and drawing in deep lungfuls of the comparatively clean air. Fisher swore softly at the state of his hands and knees, helped him sit up, and wrapped his cloak around him. Someone brought him a cup of lukewarm soup, and he sipped at it gratefully.
"The child," he said thickly. "What have they done with her?"
"A doctor's looking at her now," said Fisher. "And as soon as
you've finished that soup we're going to get one to take a look at you, as well. God, you're a mess, Hawk. Was it bad down there?"
"Bad enough."
Eventually he got to his feet again, and Fisher found him a doctor who could work the right healing spells. The wounds closed up easily enough, but there was nothing the doctor could do for physical and emotional exhaustion. Hawk and Fisher looked around them. The dead and injured had been laid out in neat rows on the snow, the dying and the recovering lying side by side. A large pile of unidentified body parts had been tactfully hidden under a blood-spattered tarpaulin. Hawk shook his head numbly.
"All this, to catch one drug baron and his people. Tomorrow there'll be a dozen just like him fighting to take his place, and it will all have to be done again."
"Stop that," said Fisher sharply. "None of this is your fault. It's Morgan's fault, for having set up a pocket dimension here in the first place. And if we hadn't acted to stop the super-chacal being distributed, there's no telling how many thousands might have died across the city."
Hawk didn't answer. He looked slowly about him, taking in the situation. Engineers and sorcerers had got together to stabilize the surrounding buildings, and people were being allowed back into them again. That should please the slum landlords. Even they couldn't charge rent on a pile of rubble. Firemen were moving among the wreckage, shoring up the few broken walls and inner structures that hadn't collapsed completely. A few people were still sifting through the rubble, but the general air of urgency was gone. Much of the real work had been done now, and most people had accepted that there probably weren't going to be any more survivors. The volunteers had gone home, exhausted, and Hawk felt he might as well do the same. There was nothing left for him to do, he was out on his feet, and it had to be well past the end of his double shift. He was just turning to Fisher to tell her it was time to go, when there was the sound of gentle flute music, and the dry, acid voice of the communications sorcerer filled his head.
Captains Hawk and Fisher, return to Guard Headquarters immediately. This order supersedes all other directives.
Hawk looked at Fisher. "Typical. Bloody typical. What the hell do they want now?"
"Beats me," said Fisher. "Maybe they want to congratulate us for finally nabbing Morgan. There are a lot of people at Headquarters who'll fight for the chance to ask him some very pointed questions."
Hawk sniffed. "With our luck, they'll probably screw it up in the Courts, and he'll plea-bargain his way out with a fine and a suspended sentence."
"Relax," said Fisher. "We got him dead to rights this time. What can possibly go wrong?"
"What do you mean, you let him go?" screamed Hawk. He lunged across the desk at Commander Glen, and Fisher had to use all her strength to hold him back. The Commander pushed his chair back well out of reach, and glared at them both.
"Control yourself, Captain! That's an order!"
"Stuff your order! Do you know how many people died so we could get that bastard?"
He finally realized he couldn't break free from Fisher without hurting her, and stopped struggling. He took a deep breath and nodded curtly to Fisher. She let go of him and stepped back a pace, still watching him warily. Hawk fixed Commander Glen with a cold, implacable glare. "Talk to me, Glen. Convince me there's some reason behind this madness. Or I swear I'll do something one of us will regret."
Commander Glen sniffed, and met Hawk's gaze unflinchingly. Glen was a tallish, blocky man in his late forties, with a permanent scowl and a military-style haircut that looked as though it had been shaped with a pudding bowl. He had large, bony hands and a mouth like a knife-cut. He'd spent twenty years in the Guard, and amassed a reputation for thief-taking unequaled in the Guard. He'd been day Commander for seven years, and ran his people like his own private army, demanding and getting complete obedience. Ordinarily, he didn't have to deal much with Hawk and Fisher, which suited all of them.
Glen pushed his chair forward, and leaned his elbows on the desk. "You want me to explain myself, Captain Hawk? Very well. Thanks to your going after Morgan without waiting for orders or a backup, we now find ourselves faced with major loss of life and destruction of property within the Devil's Hook. We still don't know exactly how many died because of your actions, but the current total is four hundred and six. The Hook's still in shock at the moment, but when they finally realize what's happened, and that the Guard was responsible, we're going to be facing riots it'll take half the Guard to put down! On top of that, there's the cost of rebuilding and repairs, which is going to run into thousands of ducats. The landlord of the tenement is suing the Guard for that money, and he'll probably win. And finally, you assaulted a gang leader in front of his own people. Does the word vendetta mean anything to you, Captain Hawk?"
"I don't give a damn about any of that," said Hawk, his voice carefully controlled. "What I did was justified by the circumstances. Morgan was preparing to distribute a drug that would have killed thousands of people and torn Haven apart. Now, explain to me, please, why this man was allowed to go free."
"There was no evidence against him," said Glen flatly.
"No evidence? What about the super-chacal?" said Fisher. "There were crates of the damn stuff; I helped number and label them."
"I never saw any drugs," said Glen. "Neither has anyone else. And none of the prisoners had any drugs in their possession when they were searched here. None of them had even heard of this super-chacal you keep mentioning. And thanks to your efforts, we don't even have any proof the pocket dimension ever existed. That leaves only your word and that of your men. And that's not good enough, against someone like Morgan. He's a man of standing in the business community, and a pillar of society. He also has a great many friends in high places. People with influence. He hadn't been in Headquarters ten minutes before pressure began coming down from Above. Without real evidence, we didn't have a case. So I let him go, along with all of his people. I might add that Morgan is strongly considering suing us for false arrest, and you in particular for assault. I can't believe you were stupid enough to hit him in front of witnesses."
For a while, none of them said anything. It was very quiet in Glen's office, the only sound the murmur of people going back and forth about their business in the corridors outside.
"There were crates of the drug," said Hawk finally. "If they've disappeared, it can only mean they vanished on their way here, or they were removed by people working inside Headquarters. Either way, we're talking about corrupt Guards. I demand an official investigation."
"You can demand anything you want; you won't get it."
"I want to talk to my men, the Constables who were with me on the raid."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. They've already been detailed to other duties. Haven't you got the picture yet, Captain? As far as our superiors are concerned, this whole incident is a major embarrassment, and they want it forgotten as soon as possible. You've got some very important people mad at you. At both of you. They're looking for scapegoats, and you're tailor-made to fill the bill."
"Let me see if I've got this straight," said Hawk, his voice dangerously calm. "Morgan has walked. So have all his people. And several tons of the most dangerous drug Haven has ever seen have gone missing. Have I missed anything?"
"Yes," said Glen. "I've been instructed to suspend both of you, indefinitely, while a number of official charges against you are investigated. Charges such as reckless endangering of life and property, disobeying orders, assaulting citizens without provocation, brutality, and possible collusion in a vendetta against a faultless pillar of society. That last was Morgan, in case you were wondering."
Hawk grabbed Glen's desk with both hands and threw it to one side. Papers flew on the air like startled birds as he grabbed two handfuls of Glen's uniform, picked him up, and slammed him against the nearest wall. He thrust his face close to the Commander's, until they were staring into each other's eyes.
"No one's suspending me, you son of a bitch! Those drugs
are still out there, waiting to be distributed! They have to be found and seized, and I can't do that with both hands tied behind my back! Do you understand me?"
Glen looked over Hawk's shoulder at Fisher, standing by the overturned desk. "Call your partner off. Fisher."
She shrugged, and folded her arms. "This time, I think I agree with him. If I were you, I'd agree with him too. Hawk can get very upset when he thinks people are conspiring against him."
The door burst open behind them and two Constables rushed in with drawn swords, alarmed at the sounds of violence from the Commander's office. Fisher drew her sword and quickly moved to stand between them and Hawk and Glen. Hawk slowly put Glen down, but kept a tight hold on him.
"Tell them to leave, Glen. This is private."
"Not anymore," said Glen. "Not after your foul-up this morning. You can't fight your way out of this one, Hawk. Not even you and Fisher can take on the entire Guard."
Hawk grinned suddenly. "Don't bet your life on it, Glen. We've faced worse odds in our time. Now, tell those over-eager friends of yours to leave, and we'll… discuss the situation."
He let go of Glen, and stepped back a pace, his right hand resting casually on the axe at his side. The Commander nodded, and gestured for the two Constables to leave. They looked at each other, shrugged, put away their swords and left, not quite slamming the door behind them. Glen looked at Hawk.
"You've upset them."
"Oh dear," said Hawk. "What a pity. I'm not going on suspension, Glen. I've got too much to do."
"Right," said Fisher.
"Help me pick up my desk," said Glen, "and we'll talk about it."
Hawk did so, while Fisher leaned against the wall, still holding her sword. Glen picked up his chair, and sat down behind his desk again. He glanced briefly at the papers scattered over the floor, then fixed his attention on Hawk and Fisher.
"All right, no suspension. But I'll have to find somewhere to put you so you're out of sight until things calm down again."
Guard Against Dishonor Page 5