Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)

by Simon R. Green

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

  “Where did you come from originally?” said Burns.

  “Up north. There were family problems over my marriage to Isobel, so we struck out on our own. Travelled around a lot, and finally ended up here. It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “There are worse places than Haven.”

  “Name two.” Hawk looked thoughtfully into his empty glass. “It was my fault, you know. If I hadn’t gone barging in, without checking the situation properly, I might have found a way to shut down Morgan’s factory without destroying everything. And all those men and women and children would be alive now.”

  “Maybe,” said Burns. “But I doubt it. Morgan was ready to ship those drugs out. If we’d burst in even an hour later, we’d probably have found nothing but an empty warehouse. But either way, it doesn’t make any difference. You did what you thought was right at the time. That’s all any of us can do. Beyond a certain point, worrying about past mistakes just becomes self-pity and self-indulgence.”

  Hawk looked at him, and smiled. “Maybe. Let’s talk about Morgan, the bastard. The first thing we have to do is figure out where the super-chacal disappeared to, and then try and link it directly to Morgan in a way he can’t shrug off. Which means asking pointed questions and making a nuisance of ourselves until people tell us what we want to know.”

  “Just once,” said Burns, “wouldn’t you like to try it the easy way? Morgan is going to have to shift the super-chacal in a hurry, so that he can’t be caught with it in his possession. Which means using established channels of distribution. And there aren’t that many people in Haven who can handle a deal that size. All we have to do is discover which distributor has suddenly become very busy, and we’ll have our first lead.”

  “But that’s only part of it,” said Hawk. “We also need to know which Guards took money from Morgan to look the other way while the drugs went missing.”

  “If you say so,” said Burns. “But Hawk, we’re going to do this professionally, right? Getting personally involved in a case is always a bad idea. It stops you thinking clearly. In Haven, you win some and you lose some. That’s just the way it is.”

  Hawk looked at him. “I don’t believe in losing.”

  3

  Talking Peace and War

  Fisher strode scowling through the well-ordered streets of Low Tory, and wished Hawk was with her. She didn’t like leaving him alone in his present mood. He’d taken the deaths in the Hook personally, and right now he was mad enough and depressed enough to do something stupid. Usually it was the other way round, with Hawk keeping her from doing something dumb, but there were times when he needed her to see the right path clearly. He needed her now, and she couldn’t be with him. Commander Glen had made it very clear that their splitting up was a condition of their continuing to work. Still, they’d had time to discuss who Hawk should choose as his new partner, and Captain Burns seemed solid enough. She wondered what her own new partner would be like. Probably turn out to be some ex-mercenary with more muscle than brain, and even less ethics. There were a lot like that in the Guard.

  She looked unobtrusively about her as she strode along, trying to get the feel of the new area. She hadn’t worked Low Tory before, but by all accounts it was an upwardly mobile, middle-class area, full of merchant families so long established they were city aristocracy in all but blood and breeding. They were indecently rich, had a finger in every political pie, and, as a class, showed all the ethical restraint of a shark in a feeding frenzy. Having reached the pinnacle of their profession, their ambition turned in the only direction left to them, and they set their sights on the Quality. Even in Haven, the poorest aristocrat could still look down his nose at the richest trader. So, in recent times certain wealthy merchant families had been negotiating marriage contracts with the more impoverished Quality Families, quite openly offering to pay off a Family’s debts in return for marriage into the Quality. The results were rarely happy, with the nouveau Quality snubbed and openly mocked by High Society, but the practice persisted.

  As a result, Low Tory had flourished in the past few years, tearing down the faded and crumbling houses of the lesser Quality and replacing them with grand new mansions that rivalled and occasionally even surpassed the old Family Halls and Granges of High Tory. The streets were wide and open and bordered with neat, orderly rows of specially imported trees. New walls had been replaced with newer walls carefully constructed to appear old and weathered. Everything had to look right. Unlike most of Haven, the streets were calm and quiet and practically deserted. Regular patrols by private guards and men-at-arms saw to that. Only those with approved business in the area were allowed to tarry in Low Tory. To Fisher, more used to the bustling crowds of the Northside, the streets appeared almost eerily deserted.

  The recent snow had been shovelled aside into tidy piles at the street kerbs, but here and there small bands of workmen still struggled with the more stubborn drifts. Servants attired in finery more costly than that worn by some lower-class merchants hurried along, looking neither left nor right, bearing messages and business documents and an almost palpable sense of their own self-importance. Private guards patrolled in pairs, looking faintly embarrassed by their overelaborate uniforms. None of them looked particularly pleased to see Fisher. She ignored them all, and concentrated on the directions she’d been given. They’d seemed simple enough back at Guard Headquarters, but Fisher had a positive genius for getting lost, and today seemed no different. Still, after a certain amount of back-tracking she’d finally found the right street, so all she had to do now was locate the right house.

  It occurred to her that this street was actually surprisingly busy, by Low Tory standards. There were half a dozen workmen lackadaisically shovelling snow, and as many servants strolling unhurriedly up and down the street. A hot-chestnut seller was tending his brazier, but showed remarkably little interest in drumming up trade. Two men were bent over an open sewer grating, but seemed to be spending as much time watching the street as anything else. Fisher had to smile. Try as they might, some Guards just couldn’t get the hang of plainclothes work. It wasn’t enough to look the part; you had to act it as well. Still, it showed she was in the right place.

  None of the plainclothes people made any move to approach her, for which Fisher was grateful. She wasn’t in the mood to explain what she was doing there without Hawk. She finally reached her destination, and stopped at the main gate to study the surroundings with an experienced eye. It was a plain, pleasantly unornamented house, standing a way back from the street in its own grounds. The high stone wall surrounding the snow-covered lawns was topped with iron spikes and broken glass. Fairly impressive, but the tall iron gates were unlocked and unguarded. She’d have to speak to someone about that.

  She pushed the gates open and walked into the grounds. A few yards away stood a life-sized figure of a warrior, carved from pale marble in the classically idealized style popular in the last century. It carried a sword and shield, and was minutely detailed, even down to bulging veins on the muscular arms. Fisher looked away. She didn’t care for such statues. They’d always given her the creeps as a child.

  As she passed the marble warrior, there was a low, grating sound as the statue slowly turned its head and looked at her. Fisher jumped back, her hand dropping to her sword. She stayed where she was, her heart beating painfully fast, but the statue made no further move. Fisher edged closer, a foot at a time, and reached out to poke it with a hesitant fingertip. It felt hard and unyielding, the way marble should. Fisher took a deep breath and backed away, still keeping a careful eye on the statue. The thing must be part of the house’s security system. They might have warned her.... She turned her back on the marble figure and continued on her way. Behind her she again heard a low grating sound as the statue turned its head to follow her progress. Fisher wouldn’t let herself look back, but walked a little faster, despite herself. Up ahead, scattered acros
s the grounds, were three more statues, staring off in different directions.

  Snow crunched loudly under Fisher’s boots as she approached the house. Now that she’d had a chance to get used to the idea, she approved of the statues. Simple but effective security, and completely unobtrusive until activated by an intruder. She couldn’t help wondering what other surprises Captain ap Owen might have set up in the grounds. The thought had only just crossed her mind when a huge dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere right in front of her. She stumbled to a halt, and the great hound thrust its head forward, sniffed at her suspiciously, and then vanished into thin air. Fisher opened her mouth to say something, and a second, different dog appeared out of nowhere just to her left. It was even bigger than the first, its head on a level with her belt. It sniffed at her, wagged its tail, then snapped out of existence. Fisher realised her mouth was still hanging open, and shut it. Guard dogs. Of course. Entirely logical. She walked on, and tried to get her breathing to go back to normal.

  She finally came to a halt before the massive front door, beat on it smartly with her fist, and made a quick use of the iron boot-scraper. And if anything else appears, I’m going to hit it first, and ask questions afterwards. The door opened almost immediately, confirming that they’d been watching her.

  The man in footman’s uniform looked convincing enough, and even had the barely civil bow and haughty expression down right, but there was no getting away from the fact that he was simply far too muscular for a gentleman’s servant. He stood back politely as she entered the brightly lit hall, then shut the door firmly behind her. The sound of a key turning in the lock was quickly followed by the sound of four separate bolts sliding home. Fisher smiled, and relaxed a little. Maybe they did know what they were doing here, after all. She handed the footman her cloak, waited patiently while he figured out where to hang it up, and then allowed him to lead her down the hall and into the study, where Captain David ap Owen was waiting for her.

  The study was too large to be really cosy, but had all the comforts money could buy. Captain ap Owen sat behind a large, ornate desk, talking quietly to someone who looked as though he might be a real footman. Ap Owen glanced at Fisher as she came in, but finished giving his instructions before waving both footmen away. He got up from behind the desk and came forward to greet Fisher with an outstretched hand. His handshake was firm, but hurried, and he sat down on the edge of the desk to take a good look at her. Fisher stared back just as openly.

  Captain ap Owen was in his mid-thirties, and a little less than average height, which meant he had to tilt his head back to meet her gaze. It didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did some people. His build was stocky rather than muscular, and his uniform had a sloppy, lived-in look. Fisher approved of that. In her experience, Guards who worried too much about their appearence tended not to worry enough about getting the job done right. Ap Owen had flaming red hair and bright green eyes, along with a broad rash of freckles across his nose and cheekbones which made him look deceptively youthful and open. His apparently relaxed stance was undermined by an unwavering slight frown and occasional sudden, jerky movements. Even sitting still, he gave the impression of a man constantly on edge, just waiting for an attack so he could leap into action.

  “Take a seat, Captain Fisher,” he said finally. “Glad to have you with us. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “It’s all true,” said Fisher easily. She dragged a chair over to the desk, ignoring what that did to the carpet, and slumped gracelessly into it. The chair was a rickety antique, but more comfortable than it appeared. She looked sharply at ap Owen. “I take it you’ve heard the latest news about me?”

  “Of course,” said ap Owen. “If it hadn’t been for your recent... troubles, I’d never have got you on my team. Make no mistake, Captain, everyone here, including you and me and the six delegates, are all considered expendable. If these Talks work out successfully, fine; if not, no one’s going to miss us. They’ll just start over, with new delegates and new Talks. The odds are we’re all going to be killed before the Talks are over. There are a lot of people out there who want us dead, for various political and business reasons, and I haven’t been allowed enough men to ward off a determined attack by a group of lightly armed nuns. Had to be that way. The whole idea of this operation is to be unobtrusive and hopefully overlooked. Personally, I think it’s a dumb idea, given the number of spies and loose mouths in this city, but no one asked my opinion. The point is that if things go wrong and our cover is blown, we are supposed to defend these Talks with our lives, and we probably will. Even though they and we are completely replaceable.”

  “I see you’re the kind of leader who believes in a good pep talk,” said Fisher. “Are you normally this optimistic?”

  Captain ap Owen grinned briefly. “I like my people to know what they’re getting into. Ideally, this should have been a volunteers-only operation, but since we couldn’t tell them what they’d be volunteering for, there didn’t seem much point. How much did they tell you about our situation here?”

  “Not much. Just that it was minimum security, with essentially no backup.”

  “You got that right, but it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The Talks aren’t actually taking place in the house itself, the building’s far too vulnerable. Instead, a Guard sorcerer has set up a pocket dimension, linked to the house. It’s been so thoroughly warded, a sorcerer could walk through this place from top to bottom and never know the dimensional gateway was here. Clever, eh?”

  “Very,” said Fisher carefully. “But pocket dimensions aren’t exactly stable, are they? If you know about my current problems, then you can understand that I’m a bit bloody wary about going into another pocket dimension.”

  “Don’t worry about it; once the dimension’s been established, it’s perfectly secure. The only reason Morgan’s fell apart is because he designed it that way, with booby traps in case he was discovered. He didn’t want any evidence surviving to incriminate him.”

  Fisher looked at him blankly. “You mean it wasn’t Hawk’s fault after all? Then why didn’t Commander Glen tell us that? He must have known . . . Damn, I’ve got to talk to Hawk!”

  She jumped to her feet, but ap Owen didn’t budge. “Sit down, Captain Fisher. You’re not going anywhere. No one here is allowed to leave these premises until the Talks are over. It’s a matter of security. You must see that.”

  “You can’t stop me leaving.”

  “No, I probably couldn’t. But if you did leave, Glen would undoubtedly have you declared a rogue, and put out an order for your arrest. And how is that going to help Hawk?”

  Fisher glared at ap Owen, then nodded reluctantly and sank back into her chair. “That’s why Glen sent me here, so Hawk would be left alone with his guilt. He’s always easiest to manipulate when he’s feeling guilty. Glen wants Hawk to go on believing it was his fault, so he’ll be properly motivated to go after Morgan. Damn him!”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. When Fisher finally spoke again, her voice was calm and cold and very deadly. “When this is all over, there’s going to be an accounting between me and Commander bloody Glen.”

  “Assuming we get out of this alive,” said ap Owen.

  Fisher glanced at him sharply. “You’re a real cheerful sort, you know that?”

  “Just being realistic. Let me fill you in on the six delegates taking part in the Talks. They’re a pretty rum bunch themselves, particularly the Outremer delegates. They were mad as hell when they arrived. Apparently it took them the best part of five weeks to get here through the winter weather, and that was before the worst of the storms hit. I don’t see why they couldn’t have just teleported in.”

  “Teleports don’t work that way,” said Fisher. “It’s hard enough to shift one person over a short distance. There isn’t a sorcerer alive with the kind of magic it would take to teleport three people from one country to another. There are lots of nasty ways for a teleport to go wrong. Get the decimal point in
the wrong place and you could end up appearing a hundred feet above your destination. Or under it.”

  “I didn’t realise you were such an expert,” said ap Owen dryly.

  Fisher shrugged. “I’ve had some experience with travelling that way.”

  “Actually, the weather is something of a blessing. The storms are keeping Outremer’s more disruptive elements from getting here. Let’s just hope the storms continue till the Talks are over.”

  “Maybe someone should have a word with the city weather wizards.”

  “No, low profile, remember? Nothing that would attract attention.”

  “True. All right, tell me about the delegates. Who’s representing the Low Kingdoms? Anyone I might have heard of?”

  “Maybe. Lord Regis is heading the home team. This is his house we’re in. Mid-forties, old Haven Family, good reputation, with an impressive background in the army and the diplomatic corps. Can’t say I warm to him myself. Smiles too much, and takes too long to shake your hand. Likes to clap you on the shoulder while looking you right in the eye. Hail-fellow-well-met type. He gets on my nerves something fierce, but he goes down well enough with the other delegates.

  “Then there’s Jonathon Rook, representing the Merchants Association. Early forties, and better padded than the average sofa. He likes his food, does Jonathon. Sharp as a tack when it comes to business, but he does love a title. Practically milorded Regis to death this morning, while we were waiting for the Outremer delegates to show up. Word is he’s angling for a Family marriage for his eldest, more fool he.

  “And finally, there’s Major Patrik Comber. You’ve probably heard of him. Led his battalion into Death’s Hollow to rescue a company of his men who’d been cut off by Outremer troops. Took on better than five-to-one odds, and kicked their arses something cruel. Won all sorts of medals, and a swift promotion. He also sacrificed a lot of good men in the process, but the minstrels don’t usually mention that.”