Wolf in the Fold

by Simon R. Green

  "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, hal
f 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 attracti
ve, 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.