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

by Simon R. Green

  “Well,” said Hawk, “things could have turned out worse.” The Governor’s face went an interesting shade of puce, but Hawk pressed on anyway. “Our main objective, according to your orders, was to prevent the inmates of Hell Wing from escaping and wreaking havoc in the city. I think we can safely assume the city is no longer in any danger from those inmates. Hell Wing itself is somewhat scorched and blackened, I’ll admit, but solid stone walls are pretty fire-resistant, as a rule. A lot of scrubbing and a lick of paint, and the place’ll be as good as new. And on top of all that, we managed to rescue Wulf Saxon from Messerschmann’s Portrait, and restore his sanity. I don’t think we did too badly, all things considered.”

  He waited with interest to see what the Governor’s response would be. The odds favored a coronary, but he wouldn’t rule out a stroke. The Governor took several deep breaths to calm himself down, and fixed Hawk with a withering stare.

  “Wulf Saxon has disappeared. But we were able to learn a few things of interest about him, by consulting our prison records. In his time, some twenty-three years ago, Saxon was a well-known figure in this city. He was a thief, a forger, and a confidence trickster. He was also an ex-Guard, ex-city Councillor, and the founder of three separate religions, two of which are still doing very well for themselves on the Street of Gods. He’s a confirmed troublemaker, a revolutionary, and a major pain in the arse, and you’ve let him loose in the city again!”

  Hawk smiled, and shook his head. “We had him captured. Your people let him loose.”

  “He’s still an extremely dangerous individual that this city was well rid of, until you became involved!”

  Fisher leaned forward suddenly. “If he’s that dangerous, does that mean there’s a reward for his capture?”

  “Good point, Isobel,” said Hawk, and they both looked expectantly at the Governor.

  The Governor decided to ignore both Hawk and Fisher, for the sake of his blood pressure, and turned to Winter. “Regretfully, I have no choice but to commend you and your SWAT team for your actions. Officially, at least. The city Council has chosen to disregard my objections, and has ordered me to congratulate you on your handling of the situation.” He scowled at Winter. “Well done.”

  “Thank you,” said Winter graciously. “We were just doing our job. Have you discovered any more about the forces behind the riot?”

  The Governor sniffed, and shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Unlikely as it seems, the whole thing may have been engineered to cover a single prisoner’s escape. A man named Ritenour. He disappeared early on in the riot, and there’s a growing body of evidence that he received help in doing so from both inside and outside the prison.”

  Winter frowned. “A riot this big, and this bloody, just to free one man? Who is this Ritenour? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No reason why you should have,” said the Governor, running his eyes quickly down the file before him. “Ritenour is a sorcerer shaman, specializing in animal magic, of all things. I wouldn’t have thought there was much work for him in a city like Haven, unless he likes working with rats, but he’s been here three years to our certain knowledge. He’s worked with a few big names in his time, but he’s never amounted to anything himself. He was in here awaiting trial for nonpayment of taxes, which is why he wasn’t guarded as closely as he might have been.”

  “If he worked for big names in the past,” said Hawk slowly, “maybe one of them arranged for him to be sprung, on the grounds he knew something important, something they couldn’t risk coming out at his trial. Prisoners tend to become very talkative when faced with the possibility of a long sentence in Damnation Row.”

  “My people are busy checking that connection at this moment, Captain,” said the Governor sharply. “They know their job. Now then, I have one last piece of business with you all, and then with any luck I can get you out of my life forever. It seems the security forces protecting the two Kings and the signing of the Peace Treaty have decided there might just be some connection between Ritenour’s escape and a plot against the two Kings. I can’t see it as very likely myself, but. as usual, no one’s interested in my opinions. The SWAT team. including Captains Hawk and Fisher, are to report to the head of the security forces at Champion House, to discuss the situation. That’s it. Now get out of my office, and let me get back to clearing up the mess you people have made of my prison.”

  Everyone bowed formally, except for the Governor, who ostentatiously busied himself with the files before him. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, nodded firmly, and advanced on the Governor. They each took one end of his desk, lifted it up, and overturned it. Papers fluttered on the air like startled butterflies. The Governor started to rise spluttering from his chair, and then dropped quickly back into it as Hawk and Fisher leaned over him, their eyes cold and menacing.

  “Don’t shout at us,” said Hawk. “We’ve had a hard day.”

  “Right,” said Fisher.

  The Governor looked at them both. At that moment, all the awful stories he’d heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot more believable.

  “If you’ve quite finished intimidating a superior officer, can we get out of here?” said Winter. “Those security types don’t like to be kept waiting. Besides, if we’re lucky, we might get to meet the Kings themselves.”

  “That’ll make a change,” said Hawk as he and Fisher headed unhurriedly for the door.

  “Yeah,” said Fisher. “If we’re really lucky, maybe we’ll get to intimidate them too.”

  “I wish I thought you were joking,” said Winter.

  2

  Something to Believe in

  When it rains in Haven, it really rains. The rain hammered down without mercy, beating with spiteful persistence at every exposed surface. Ritenour—sorcerer, shaman, and now ex-convict—looked around him with interest as he strode along behind the taciturn man-at-arms called Horn. They were both protected by Ritenour’s rain-avoidance spell, but everyone else in the crowded street looked like so many half-drowned sewer rats. The rains had barely begun when Ritenour had been thrown into Damnation Row, but they were in full force now, as blindly unstoppable as death or taxes. A continuous wave of water three inches deep washed down the cobbled street. past the overflowing gutters. Ritenour stamped enthusiastically through the water, smiling merrily at those people he splashed. He ignored the furious looks and muttered curses, secure in the knowledge that Horn wouldn’t allow him to come to any harm.

  Ritenour’s smile widened as they made their way through the Northside. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t give a damn. He was back in the open air again, and even the stinking streets of the Northside seemed light and fresh after the filthy rat-hole he’d shared with three other magic-users on Sorcerers Row. In fact, he felt so good about things in general, he didn’t even think about killing the insensitive men and women who crowded around him in the packed street. There’d be time for such things later.

  He studied the back of the man in front of him thoughtfully. Horn hadn’t said much to him since collecting him from the professionally anonymous men who’d smuggled him out of Damnation Row under cover of the riot. Apparently Horn fancied himself as the strong, silent type. Deeds, not words—that sort of thing. Ritenour sighed happily. Such types were delightfully easy to manipulate. Not that he had any such thing in mind at the moment, of course. Horn was taking him to Daniel Madigan, and you don’t kill the goose that may produce golden eggs. Not until you’ve got your hands on the golden eggs, anyway.

  Ritenour wondered, not for the first time, what a terrorist’s terrorist like Madigan wanted with a lowly sorcerer shaman like him. Arranging the prison riot must have cost Madigan a pretty penny; he had to be expecting Ritenour to provide something of more than equal value in return. Ritenour shrugged. Whatever it was, he was in no position to argue. He’d only been in gaol for tax evasion, but all too soon he’d have ended up in Court under a truthspell, and then they’d have found out all about his experimen
ts in human as well as animal vivisection. They’d have hanged him for that, even though his experiments had been pursued strictly in the interests of sorcerous research. Madigan had rescued him in the very nick of time, whether the terrorist knew it or not.

  He let his mind drift on to other matters. Horn had promised him, on Madigan’s behalf, a great deal of money if he would agree to work with the terrorist on a project of mutual interest. Ritenour was always interested in large amounts of money. People had no idea how expensive sorcerous research was these days, particularly when your subjects insisted on dying. But it had to be said that Madigan was not the sort of person Ritenour would have chosen to work with. The man was an idealist, and fanatically devoted to his Cause: the overthrowing and destruction of Outremer. He was very intelligent, inhumanly devious and determined, and had raised violence and murder to a fine art. Ritenour frowned slightly. Whatever Madigan wanted him for, it was bound to be unpleasant and not a little dangerous. In the event he decided to go through with this project, he’d better be careful to get most of his money up front. Just in case he had to disappear in a hurry.

  Horn stopped suddenly before a pleasantly anonymous little tavern tucked away in a side court. Ritenour looked automatically for a sign, to see what the place was called, but there didn’t seem to be one. Which implied the tavern was both expensive and exclusive (you either knew about it already or you didn’t matter), and therefore very security conscious. Just the sort of place he’d expect to find Madigan. The best place to lie low was out in the open, hidden behind a cloud of money and privilege.

  Horn held open the door for him, and then followed him into the dimly lit tavern. People sat around tables in small, intimate groups, talking animatedly in lowered voices. No one looked up as Horn led the way through the tables to a hidden stairway at the back of the room. The stairs led up to a narrow hallway, and Horn stopped before the second door. It had no number on it, but there was an inconspicuous peephole. Horn knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice. Ritenour smiled. Secret knocks, no less. Terrorists did so love their little rituals. He wondered hopefully if there’d be a secret password as well, but the door swung open almost immediately, suggesting someone had already studied Horn through the peephole. Ritenour assumed a carefully amiable expression and followed Horn in. The door shut firmly behind him, and he heard four separate bolts sliding into place. He didn’t look back, and instead put on his best open smile and looked casually about him.

  The room was surprisingly large for tavern lodgings, and very comfortably furnished. Apparently, Madigan was one of those people who believed the mind works best when the body is well cared for. Ritenour was glad they had something in common. Most of the fanatics he’d had dealings with in the past had firmly believed in the virtues of poverty and making do with the barest essentials. Luxuries were only for the rich and the decadent. They also believed in compulsory hair shirts and cold baths, and had shown no trace whatsoever of a sense of humor. Ritenour wouldn’t have dealt with such killjoys at all if his experiments hadn’t required so many human subjects. His main problem had always been obtaining them discreetly. After all, he couldn’t just go out into the streets and drag passersby into his laboratory. People would talk.

  A young man and attractive woman, seated at a table at the far end of the room, were keeping a watchful eye on him. Ritenour gave them his best charming smile. Another man was standing guard by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. He had to be the largest man Ritenour had ever seen, and he was watching Ritenour closely. The sorcerer nodded to him politely, uncomfortably aware that Horn hadn’t moved from his side since they’d entered the room. Ritenour didn’t need to be told what would happen if Madigan decided he couldn’t use him after all. Or, to be more exact, what might happen. Ritenour might be unarmed, but he was never helpless. He always kept a few nasty surprises up his metaphorical sleeves, just in case of situations like this. You met all sorts, as a working sorcerer.

  One man was standing on his own before the open fireplace, his face cold and calm, and Ritenour knew at once that this had to be Daniel Madigan. Even standing still and silent, he radiated power and authority, as though there was nothing he couldn’t do if he but put his mind to it. He stepped forward suddenly, and Ritenour’s heart jumped painfully. Although Madigan wore no sword, Ritenour knew the man was dangerous, that violence and murder were as natural to him as breathing. The threat of sudden death hung about him like a bloodied shroud. Ritenour felt an almost overwhelming urge to back away, but somehow made himself hold his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other terrorists looking at Madigan with respect, and something that might have been awe or fear. Or both. Madigan held out a hand for Ritenour to shake, and the sorcerer did so, finding a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his hand wasn’t shaking. Madigan’s hand was cold and hard, like a store mannequin’s. There was no warmth or emotion in the handshake, and Ritenour let go as soon as he politely could. Madigan gestured at the two chairs before the open fire.

  “Good of you to come and see me, sir sorcerer. Please; take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. And then we can have a little talk, you and I.”

  “Of course,” said Ritenour, bowing formally. His mind was racing. When in doubt, take the initiative away from your opponent. “I wonder if I could prevail on you for a bite of something, and perhaps a glass of wine? Prison fare tends to be infrequent, and bordering on inedible.”

  There was a moment of silence as Madigan stared at him impassively, and Ritenour wondered if he’d pushed it too far, too early. Everyone else in the room seemed to have gone very still. And then Madigan bowed slightly, and everyone relaxed a little. He nodded to the young man sitting at the table, and he rose quickly to his feet and left the room, fumbling at the door’s bolts in his haste. Ritenour followed Madigan to the two chairs by the fire, and was careful to let Madigan sit down first. Horn moved in to stand beside Madigan’s chair.

  “Allow me to introduce my associates in this glorious venture,” said Madigan mildly. “You’ve already met Horn, though I doubt he’s told you much about himself. He is the warrior of our little group, a most excellent fighter and an experienced killer. His family were deported from Outremer some generations ago, stripped of title and land and property. Horn has vowed to avenge that ancient insult.

  “The young lady watching you so intently from that table is Eleanour Todd, my second-in-command. When I am not available, she is my voice and my authority. Her parents died in an Outremer cell. She fought as a mercenary for the Low Kingdoms for several years, but now they have betrayed her by seeking peace with Outremer she has joined me to exact a more personal revenge.

  “The large gentleman at the door is Bailey. If he has another name, I’ve been unable to discover it. Bailey is a longtime mercenary and a seasoned campaigner. And yet despite his many years of loyal service to both Outremer and the Low Kingdoms, he has nothing to show for it, while those he served have grown fat and rich at his expense. I have promised him a chance to make them pay in blood and terror.”

  Someone outside the door gave the secret knock. Bailey looked through the peephole, and then pulled back the bolts and opened the door. The young man who’d left only a few moments before bustled in carrying a tray of cold meats and a glass of wine. He set down the tray before Ritenour, who smiled and nodded his thanks. The young man grinned cheerfully, and bobbed his head like a puppy that’s just got a trick right, then looked quickly at Madigan to check he’d done the right thing.

  “And this young gentleman is Ellis Glen,” said Madigan dryly. “One of the most savage and vicious killers it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. You must let him show you his necklace of human teeth some time. It’s really quite impressive. I have given his life shape and meaning, and he has vowed to obey me in everything. I expect great things of Ellis.”

  He tilted his head slightly, dismissing Glen, and the young man scurried over to sit at the table, blushing like a
girl who’d been complimented on her beauty. Madigan settled back in his chair and waved for Ritenour to begin his meal. The sorcerer did so, carefully not hurrying. More and more it seemed to him he couldn’t afford to seem weak in front of these people. Madigan watched him patiently, his face calm and serene. Ritenour could feel the pressure of the others’ watching eyes. and took the opportunity his meal provided to study them unobtrusively.

  Horn looked to be standard hired muscle, big as an ox and nearly as smart. You could find a dozen like him in most taverns in the Northside, ready for any kind of trouble as long as it paid well. He had a square, meaty face that had taken a few too many knocks in its time. He wore a constant scowl, aimed for the moment at Ritenour, but its unvarying depth suggested it was probably his usual expression anyway. And yet there was something about the man that disturbed the sorcerer on some deep, basic level. He had the strong feeling that Horn was the kind of warrior who would just keep coming towards you, no matter how badly you injured him, until either you were dead or he was.

  Ritenour suppressed a shudder and switched his gaze to Eleanour Todd. She was altogether easier on the eye, and Ritenour flashed her his most winning smile. She looked coldly back, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him as he ate. Judging by the length of her splendid legs, she would be easily his height when standing, and her large frame was lithely muscular. She wore a standard mercenary’s outfit, hard-wearing and braced with leather in strategic places for protection, but cut tightly here and there to emphasize her femininity. With her thick mane of long black hair and calm dark eyes, she reminded Ritenour of nothing so much as a trained fighting cat, awaiting only her master’s instruction to leap upon her prey and rend it with slow, malicious glee. She held his gaze for a moment, and then smiled slowly. Ritenour’s stomach muscles tightened. Her front teeth had been filed to sharp points. Ritenour nodded politely and looked away, making a firm mental note never to turn his back on her.