Wolf in the Fold

by Simon R. Green

  "Good crowd in tonight, Howard. How's business?"

  "Fine! Just fine," said Howard quickly. "Couldn't be better. Can I get you a drink? Or a table? Or… Oh hell, Hawk, you're not going to bust up the place again, are you? I only just finished redecorating from the last time you were here, and those mirrors are expensive. And you know the insurance people won't pay out if you're involved. They class you and Fisher along with storm damage, rogue magic, and Acts of Gods."

  "No need to be so worried, Howard," said Fisher. "Anyone would think you had something to hide."

  "Look, I just run the place. No one tells me anything. You know that."

  "We're looking for someone," said Hawk. "Fenris. It's a spy's code name. You ever heard it before?"

  "No," said the bartender quickly. "Never. If I had, I'd tell you, word of honor. I don't have any truck with spies. I'm a patriotic man, always have been, loyal as the day is long…"

  "Pack it in," said Fisher. "We believe you, though thousands wouldn't. Who's in tonight that might know something?"

  Howard hesitated, and Hawk frowned at him. The bartender swallowed hard. "There's Fast Tommy, the Little Lord, and Razor Eddie. It's just possible they might have heard a thing or two…"

  Hawk nodded, and turned away from the bar to stare out over the restaurant. People had started eating again, but the place was still silent as the tomb, save for the odd clatter of cutlery on plates. It didn't take him long to spot the three faces Howard had named. They were all quite well known, in their way. Hawk and Fisher had met them before; in their line of business, it was inevitable.

  "Thank you, Howard," said Hawk. "You've been a great help. Now, tell that bouncer of yours, who thinks he's hidden behind the pillar to our left, that if he doesn't put down that throwing knife and step into plain sight, Isobel and I are going to cut him off at the knees."

  Howard made a quick gesture, and the bouncer stepped reluctantly into view, his hands conspicuously empty. "Sorry," said the bartender. "He's new."

  "He'd better learn fast," said Fisher. "Or he's never going to be old."

  They turned their backs on Howard and the bouncer, and threaded their way through the packed tables. Glaring faces and hostile eyes followed the two Captains as they headed for Fast Tommy's table. As usual, Tommy was dressed in the height of last month's fashion, had enough heavy rings on his fingers to double as knuckle-dusters, and was accompanied by a gorgeous young blonde half falling out of her dress. Tommy glared at Hawk and Fisher as they pulled up chairs opposite him, but made no objections. He undoubtedly had a bodyguard or two somewhere nearby but had enough sense not to call them. Hawk and Fisher might have taken that as an affront, and then he'd have had to find some new bodyguards. No one messed with Hawk and Fisher. It was quicker and a lot safer just to tell them what they wanted to know, and hope they'd go away and bother someone else.

  Fast Tommy was a gambling man. He got his name as a lightning calculator, though some uncharitable souls suggested it had more to do with his love life. He was a short, squarish, dark-haired man in his early forties, with a gambler's easy smile and unreadable eyes. He nodded politely to Hawk and Fisher.

  "My dear Captains, so good to see you again. May I purchase you wine, or cigars? Perhaps a little hot chocolate; very warming in the inclement weather…"

  "Tell us about the spy, Tommy," said Hawk.

  "I'm afraid the name Fenris is unknown to me, Captain, but I can of course inquire of my associates…"

  "You're holding out on us, Tommy," said Fisher reproachfully. "You know how it upsets us when you do that."

  "Upon my sweet mother's grave…"

  "Your mother is alive and well and still paying interest on the last loan you made her," said Hawk.

  Fisher looked thoughtfully at the gambler's blond companion. "Little old for you, isn't she, Tommy? She must be all of seventeen. Maybe we should check our records, make sure she isn't some underage runaway."

  The young blonde smiled sweetly at Fisher, and lifted her wineglass so she could show off the heavy gold bracelet at her wrist.

  "She's sixteen," said Tommy quickly. "I've seen the birth certificate." He swallowed hard, and smiled determinedly at the two Guards. "Believe me, my dear friends, I know nothing of this Fenris person…"

  "But you can find out," said Hawk. "Leave word at Guard Headquarters, when you know something."

  "Of course, Captain, of course…"

  Fisher leaned forward. "If we find out later that you've been holding something back from us…"

  "Do I look suicidal?" said Fast Tommy.

  Hawk and Fisher got to their feet, and made their way through the tangle of tables to join the Little Lord in her private booth at the back. No one knew the Little Lord's real name, but then, nobody cared that much. Aliases were as common as fleas in the Northside, and a damn sight easier to live with. The Lord was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-thirties who always dressed as a man. She had close-cropped dark hair, a thin slash of a mouth, and dark piercing eyes. She dressed smartly but formally, in that old male style that never really goes out of fashion, and affected an upper class accent that was only occasionally successful. She always had money, though no one knew where it came from. Truth be told, most people weren't sure they wanted to know. She peered short-sightedly at Hawk and Fisher as they sat down opposite her, and screwed a monocle into her left eye.

  "As I live and breathe, Captain Hawk and Captain Fisher. Damned fine to see you again. Care to join me in a glass of bubbly?"

  Hawk eyed the half bottle of pink champagne in the nearby ice bucket, and shuddered briefly. "Not right now, thank you. What can you tell us about the spy Fenris?"

  "Not a damned thing, old boy. Don't really move in those circles, you know."

  "You're looking very smart," said Fisher. "Those diamond cuff links are new, aren't they?"

  "Present from me dear auntie. The old girl and I were up at Lord Bruford's the other day, meeting that new Councilor chappie. Adamant, I think his name was…"

  "Never mind the social calendar," said Fisher. "A set of matched diamonds disappeared mysteriously during a Society bash last week. You wouldn't know anything about that, I suppose?"

  "Not a thing, m'dear. Shocked to hear it, of course."

  "Of course," said Hawk. "Are you sure you haven't heard something about Fenris, my Lord? After all, someone such as yourself, moving in your circles, would be bound to hear something; perhaps spoken in confidence in an unguarded moment?"

  The Little Lord raised an elegant eyebrow, and her monocle fell out. She caught it deftly before it hit the tabletop, and screwed it back in place. "My dear chap, surely you're not asking me to peach on a friend? Just ain't done, you know."

  "Those diamond cuff links are looking more and more familiar," said Fisher. "Perhaps the three of us should take a little walk down to Headquarters, so we can compare them with the artist's rendering of the missing items…"

  "I assure you, Captain, I haven't heard a thing about your beastly spy! But of course I'd be only too happy to keep my eyes and ears alert for any morsel of gossip that might float my way."

  "That's the spirit," said Hawk. "Noblesse oblige, right? And by the way, I've met Councilor Adamant, and I know for a fact he's never bloody heard of you."

  He and Fisher left the spluttering Lord in her booth, and made their way through the last of the tables to their final port of call, a single table at the rear of the tavern, half hidden in shadows. Razor Eddie wasn't fond of even dim light. Hawk and Fisher borrowed chairs from nearby tables, and sat down facing him. Razor Eddie was a slight, hunched figure wrapped in a tattered grey cloak apparently held together only by accumulated filth and grease. Even across a table the smell was appalling. He was said to be so dirty, plague rats wouldn't go near him in case they caught something. He was painfully thin, with a hollowed face and fever-bright eyes. At first glance he looked like just another down and out, but you only had to be in the man's presence a few moments to know there was
something special about him. Special… and not a little disturbing.

  Razor Eddie got his name in a street fight over territory between two neighboring gangs. He was fourteen at the time, a slick and vicious killer, and already more than a little crazy. He spent the next few years working for anyone who'd have him, just for the action. And then, at the age of seventeen, he visited the Street of Gods and got religion in a big way. He turned his back on his violent past and walked the streets of the Northside, preaching love and understanding. A few people laughed at him, and threw things. Later, they were found dead, under mysterious circumstances. They weren't the last. After a while people learned to leave Razor Eddie strictly alone. He walked through the most dangerous areas in Haven, spreading his message, and came out unscathed. Once, a gang of ten bravos went into the Devil's Hook after him. No one ever saw them again. Razor Eddie had no fixed abode or territory; he slept in doorways and wandered where he would. Neither heat nor cold affected him, and he always seemed to have a little money, even in the hardest of times.

  He knew a lot of things, about a lot of people—if you could persuade him to talk. Most couldn't, but he'd taken a shine to Hawk and Fisher. Probably because unlike most other people, they weren't frightened of him. Hawk leant back in his chair and smiled easily at the hunched figure opposite him.

  "Hello, Eddie. How's life treating you?"

  "Mustn't grumble, Captain," said Razor Eddie. His voice was low and calm and very reasonable, but his eyes shone with a wild light. "There's always someone worse off than yourself. I've been waiting for you. You'll find the spy Fenris in the house with three gables on Leech Street. He uses it as a drop for passing information. You'll know Fenris by his bright green cravat. It's a signal for his contact."

  "You're not normally this forthcoming, Eddie," said Fisher, frowning. "What's so special about this Fenris?"

  "Unless someone stops him, two great houses will go down in flames. Blood will run in gutters and the screams will never end. There are wolves running loose among the flock, and they will bring us all down."

  Hawk and Fisher looked at each other briefly, and when they looked back, Razor Eddie's chair was empty. They looked quickly about them, but there was no sign of him anywhere in the tavern.

  "I hate it when he does that," said Fisher. "Well, what do you think? Is it worth a trip to Leech Street?"

  Hawk scowled. "Anyone else, I'd take it with a pinch of salt. But Eddie's different. He knows things. And if he thinks we're all in danger because of this Fenris…"

  "Yeah," said Fisher. "Worrying, that."

  "It's the best lead we've got."

  "It's the only lead we've got."

  "Exactly."

  Fisher shook her head. "Let's go check it out."

  They grinned at each other, got up, and made their way back through the crowded tables. The restaurant was still utterly silent, their every move followed by hostile eyes. They got to the door, and Hawk paused and looked back. He smiled, and bowed courteously to the sea of unfriendly faces. Fisher blew the room a kiss, and then the two Guards disappeared into the night.

  Leech Street was bold and brassy and more than a little shop-soiled. Brightly painted whores gathered together on street corners like so many raucous birds of paradise, or leaned out of first-floor windows in revealing underwear, watching the world go by with knowing mascarad eyes. Street traders hawked jewelry so freshly stolen the true owners hadn't even realized it was gone yet, and hole-in-the-wall taverns provided cheap shots of spirits so rough they all but seethed in the bottle. The air was full of chatter and laughter and the harsh banter of the strip-show barkers. Here and there, gaudily dressed pimps leant casually in open doorways, ostentatiously cleaning their fingernails with the point of a knife, alert for the first sign of trouble. Prospective clients, trying to appear anonymous, thronged one end of the street to the other, eyeing the various merchandise and working up their courage to the sticking point.

  Hawk, watching the bustling scene from the concealing shadows of an alley mouth, yawned widely. He and Fisher had been in position for almost an hour waiting for Fenris to show up, and what little tawdry glamour the street possessed had long since worn thin. When you got past the noise and the bright colors, Leech Street seemed more sad and sleazy than anything else, with everyone trying desperately to pretend they were something other than what they really were. Hawk derived some amusement from the attempts of most of the would-be customers to give the impression they just happened to be passing through, but the street itself held no attractions for him. He'd seen the official figures on violence and robbery in this area, not to mention venereal disease. In some establishments, the crabs were reputed to be so big they jumped out on dithering passersby and dragged them bodily inside.

  Bored, Hawk leant gingerly back against the grimy alley wall and kicked at an empty bottle on the ground. It rolled slowly away, hesitated, and then rolled back again. After a fruitless hour standing watch, this was almost exciting. Hawk sighed deeply. He hated doing stakeouts. He didn't have the patience for it. Fisher, on the other hand, actually seemed to enjoy it these days. She'd taken to watching the passersby and making up little histories about who they were and where they were going. Her stories were invariable more interesting than the case they were working on, but now, after a solid hour of listening to them, Hawk found their charm wearing a bit thin. Fisher chattered on, blithely unknowing, while Hawk's scowl deepened. His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him of missed meals. Fisher broke off suddenly, and Hawk quickly looked round, worried she'd noticed his inattention, but her gaze was fixed on something down the street.

  "I think we've finally struck gold, Hawk. Green cravat at three o'clock."

  Hawk followed her gaze, and his interest stirred. "Think he's our man?"

  "Would you wear a cravat like that if you didn't have to?"

  Hawk smiled. She had a point. The cravat was so bright and virulent a green it practically glowed. The suspect looked casually about him, ignoring the birdlike calls of the whores. He fit the description, what there was of it. He was definitely tall, easily six foot three or four, and decidedly lean. His clothes, apart from the cravat, were tastefully bland, with nothing about them to identify the kind of man who wore them. For a moment his gaze fell upon the alley from which Hawk was watching. Hawk damped down an impulse to shrink further back into the shadows; the movement would only draw attention to him. The spy's gaze moved on, and Hawk breathed a little more easily.

  "All right," said Fisher. "Let's get him."

  "Hold your horses," said Hawk. "We want whoever he's here to meet as well, not just him. Let's give him a minute, and see what happens."

  One of the bolder whores advanced aggressively towards the spy. He smiled at her and said something that made her laugh, and she turned away. He can't just stand around much longer, thought Hawk. That would be bound to attract attention. So what the hell's he waiting for? Even as the thought crossed Hawk's mind, the spy turned suddenly and walked over to a building on the opposite side of the street. He produced a key, unlocked the door and slipped quickly inside, pulling the door shut behind him. Hawk counted ten slowly to himself and then stepped out of the alley, Fisher at his side. The house the spy had gone into looked just like all the others on the street.

  "I'll take the front," said Hawk. "You cover the back, in case he tries to make a run for it."

  "How come I always have to cover the back?" said Fisher. "I always end up in someone's back yard, trying to fight my way through three weeks' accumulated garbage."

  "All right. You take the front and I'll cover the back."

  "Oh, no; it's too late now. You should have thought of it without me having to tell you."

  Hawk gave her an exasperated look, but she was already heading for the narrow alley at the side of the building. Sometimes you just couldn't talk to Fisher. Hawk turned his attention back to the house's front door as it loomed up before him. A faded sign hanging above the door gave the name of the
place as mistress lucy's establishment. The sign boasted a portrait of the lady herself, which suggested she'd looked pretty faded even when the sign was new. Hawk casually tried the handle. It turned easily in his grasp, but the door wouldn't open. Locked. Surprise, surprise. Maybe he should have let Fisher have the front door after all. She was a lot better at picking locks than he.

  On the other hand… When in doubt, be direct.

  He knocked politely on the door, and waited. There was a pause and then the door swung open, and a hand shot out and fastened on his arm. Hawk jumped in spite of himself, and his hand started towards his axe before he realized the person before him was very definitely not the spy Fenris. Instead, Hawk found himself facing a large, heavy-set woman wrapped in gaudy robes, with a wild frizz of dark curly hair and so much makeup it was almost impossible to make out her features. Her smile was a wide scarlet gash and her eyes were bright and piercing. Her shoulders were as wide as a docker's, and she had arms to match. The hand on his arm closed fiercely, and he winced.

  "I'm glad you're here," said the woman earnestly. "We've been waiting for you."

  Hawk looked at her blankly. "You have?"

  "Of course. But we must hurry. The spirits are restless tonight."

  Hawk wondered if things might become a little clearer if he went away and came back again later. Like maybe next year.

  "Spirits," he said, carefully.

  The woman looked at him sharply. "You are here for the sitting, aren't you?"

  "I don't think so," said Hawk.

  The woman let go of his arm as though he'd just made an indecent proposal, drew herself up to her full five-foot-nine, and fixed him with a steely glare. "Do I understand that you are not Jonathan DeQuincey, husband of the late and much lamented Dorothy DeQuincey?"