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

by Simon R. Green

  “Oh, it is,” said Saxon. “You have no idea.” He looked quickly around to be sure no one was looking, then briskly kneed the guard in the groin. The guard’s eyes bulged, and he bent slowly forward. His mouth worked as he tried to force out a scream and couldn’t. Saxon took him in a basic but very efficient stranglehold, and a few seconds later lowered the unconscious body to the floor. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his touch. He dragged the body over to a cupboard he’d spotted, and yanked it open. From now on, speed was of the essence. Anyone could come along, at any moment. The cupboard proved big enough to take both of them easily, and he took the opportunity to change his white coat and beggar’s rags for the guard’s honour outfit and chain mail. Leaving the door open a crack provided all the light he needed. The mail fit tightly in all the most uncomfortable places, but it would do. He kicked the guard spitefully for being the wrong size, and strapped the man’s sword to his own hip. He wished briefly for a mirror, and then pushed open the cupboard door and stepped out into the corridor. A passing servant stopped in his tracks and stared blankly at Saxon.

  “Excuse me ... this is probably a silly question, but what were you doing in the cupboard?”

  “Security,” said Saxon darkly, closing the door. “You can’t be too careful.”

  He met the servant’s gaze without flinching, and the man decided to continue about his business and not ask any more stupid questions. Saxon grinned at the servant’s departing back. It was his experience that people will believe practically anything you care to tell them, as long as you say it firmly enough. He fingered the bone medallion he’d found on the guard, and which was now hanging round his own neck. Presumably this was the charm that protected the guard against the House’s protective wards. With it, he should be able to go anywhere he wanted. Of course, if it wasn’t the charm, or the right charm, he was about to find out the hard way. He shrugged. Whatever happened, he’d think of something. He always did.

  He strode leisurely through the House as though he belonged there, nodding to people as they passed. They nodded back automatically, seeing only his uniform, sure he must have a good reason for being where he was. Saxon smiled inwardly, and studied his surroundings without seeming to do so. Everywhere he looked there was luxury, in the thick carpets and antique furniture, and the portraits and tapestries covering the walls. And so much space. He remembered the single room where his sister now lived, and his fury burned in him.

  He had to find the two Kings. He needed to see them, study their faces, look into their eyes. He wanted to know the people he was going to destroy. There was no satisfaction in taking vengeance on faceless people, on titles and positions rather than individuals. He wanted this first act of revenge to be entirely personal. He stepped out of a side corridor into a high-ceiling hall, and stopped to get his bearings. Servants scurried back and forth around him, intent on their various missions. He couldn’t just stand around watching without appearing conspicuous. So, when in doubt, be direct. Saxon stepped deliberately in front of a hurrying footman, and gave the man his best intimidating scowl.

  “You; where are the Kings?”

  “Fourth floor, in the main parlour, sir. Where they’ve been for the past two hours.”

  There had been more than a hint of insolence in the footman’s tone, so Saxon cranked up his scowl another notch. “And how do you know I’m not some terrorist spy? Do you normally give away vital information to the first person who walks up to you and asks? Shape up, man! And stay alert. The enemy could be anywhere.”

  Saxon stalked off in the direction of the stairs, leaving a thoroughly confused and worried footman behind him. He threaded his way through the bustling crowd, nodding briskly to the few guards he passed. He’d almost reached the stairs when a guard officer appeared out of nowhere right in front of him, and he had to stop or run the man down. The officer glared at him, and Saxon remembered just in time to salute him. The officer grunted and returned the salute.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, appearing on duty looking like that? Your uniform’s a disgrace, your chain mail looks like it was made for a deformed dwarf, and that was the sloppiest damn salute I’ve ever seen. What’s your name and your unit?”

  Oh, hell, thought Saxon wearily. I don’t need this. I really don’t.

  He glanced quickly around to be sure no one was looking and then gave the officer a vicious punch well below the belt. All the color drained out of the officer’s face, and his legs buckled. Saxon grabbed him before he fell and quickly walked him across the hall and back into the side corridor. He shook his head woefully at a passing guest.

  “Don’t touch the shellfish.”

  The guest blinked, and hurried on his way. Saxon waited a moment till the corridor was deserted, and then knocked the officer out with a crisp blow to the jaw. It was only a matter of a few seconds to stuff him into the cupboard along with the first guard. He considered for a moment whether to swap his outfit for the officer’s, but decided against it. Officers tended to stand out: the rank and file drew less notice. He hurried back down the corridor into the hall, and ran straight into another officer. This time he remembered to salute. The new officer returned it absentmindedly.

  “I’m looking for Major Tierman. Have you seen him?”

  “No, sir. Haven’t seen him all day.”

  “What do you mean, you haven’t see him all day? This is your commanding officer we’re talking about! What’s your name and unit?”

  Oh, hell.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir, I think I can take you right to the Major.”

  Back in the side corridor, Saxon finished stuffing the unconscious officer into the cupboard, and forced the door shut. He’d better not run into any more officers, or he’d have to find another cupboard. He set off again at a brisk walk, with a very determined expression that he hoped suggested he was going somewhere very important and shouldn’t be detained. He flexed the fingers of his right hand thoughtfully. There was one thing to be said for his new strength: when he hit someone they stayed hit. He doubted the two officers and the guard would be waking up for a good few hours yet. More than enough time for him to take his vengeance on the two Kings and depart.

  The main parlour turned out to be full of people trying to look important. The two Kings sat in state at the back of the room, surrounded by an ever-shifting mob of courtiers, local Quality, and guards. Any assassin trying to get close to the monarchs would probably have been trampled underfoot in the crush long before he got anywhere near his targets. Politicians and military mixed more or less amicably around the punch bowl, while merchants and nouveau riche Quality hovered desperately on the edges of conversations, angling hopefully for introductions to the right people. Polite conversation provided a steady roar of noise, easily drowning out the string quartet murdering a classical piece in the comer. No one even noticed Saxon’s entrance. He took up a position by the door, not too far from the buffet table, and studied the layout of the room. No one paid him any attention. He was just another guard.

  He watched the two Kings for a time. They didn’t look like much. Take away their crowns and their gorgeous robes of state, and you wouldn’t look at them twice in a crowd. But those two men, both in their late forties, were symbols of their countries and the Parliaments that governed them. A blow struck against them would be heard across the world. But of even more importance was the Peace Treaty, standing on display in a simple glass case between the two Kings.

  There were two copies of the Treaty, standing side by side under the glass; one for each Parliament. Two sheets of pale-cream parchment covered with the very best copperplate calligraphy, awaiting only the Kings’ signatures to make them law. Saxon smiled slowly. He flexed his leg, and felt the leather canister press against his bare skin. Inside the canister were two sheets of pale-cream parchment, carefully rolled, and protected by padding. From a distance, they looked exactly like the Treaty. And once Saxon had swapped them for the real Treaty, no one would be
able to tell the difference. At least, not until it was far too late.

  Saxon had put a great deal of thought into his first act of vengeance. It wasn’t enough just to hurt those in authority; they had to be publicly humiliated. His two sheets of parchment were covered with copperplate calligraphy, but a minor avoidance spell which Saxon had purchased from the son of one of his old contacts would ensure that no one studied the text too closely. The spell was too subtle and too minor to set off any security alarms and would fade away completely in a matter of hours anyway, but by then the damage would have been done. Both the Kings would have put their signatures, and thereby their Parliaments’ approval, to a Treaty that declared the authorities of both countries to be corrupt, incompetent, and complete and utter bastards without a single trace of human feeling. The text went on like that for some time, in increasingly lengthy and insulting detail. Saxon had written it himself in a fury of white-hot inspiration, and was rather proud of it.

  And the Kings were going to sign it. Right there in public, with everyone watching. They’d never live it down. When word got out, as it inevitably would, as to exactly what they’d put their names to, a shock wave of incredulous laughter would wash across Outremer and the Low Kingdoms. The more the authorities tried to suppress and deny the story, the more people would flock to read or listen to pirated copies of the false Treaty, and the wider the story would spread. The first part of Saxon’s vengeance would have begun. More practical jokes and humiliations would follow, and no one would be safe from ridicule. Powers that would stand firm against intrigue and violence were helpless when it came to defending themselves against derisive laughter. It’s hard to be scared of someone when their very appearance is enough to start you giggling. Saxon’s grin broadened. After today, both the Kings and their Parliaments were going to be laughingstocks.

  He looked around one last time, and let his hands drift casually into his trouser pockets, reaching for the smoke bombs he’d put there. One to go into the open fire, and the second for an emergency exit, if necessary. Under cover of the smoke and chaos, and while the security people were busy protecting the Kings from any attack, it would be child’s play for him to open the glass case and make the substitution. The real parchments would disappear into his leather canister, and it would all be over before the smoke cleared. And afterwards it should be easy enough for a single guard to disappear in all the confusion.

  It was a superb plan; simple but elegant. Nothing could go wrong.

  Daniel Madigan stood openly in the street under a rain avoidance spell, watching Champion House from the middle of a crowd of onlookers waiting patiently for a glimpse of the two Kings. Horn and Eleanour Todd stood on either side of him, watching the crowd. Just in case. The young killer Ellis Glen stood beside Todd, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. They’d been watching the House for the best part of an hour, waiting for a signal from the traitors inside the House. The signal would tell them that the protective wards had been temporarily lowered, and then the fun could begin. But until then, they could only wait and watch. Even with the sorcerer shaman Ritenour working for him, Madigan wasn’t prepared to take on the kind of magical defenses the Kings’ sorcerers would have set up. He hadn’t made his reputation by being stupid. Or impatient.

  Ritenour himself stood a little away from his new associates. Their constant aura of suppressed violence disturbed him. To his eyes, the House was surrounded by an ever-shifting aurora of lights and vibrations, flaring here and there with deadly intent. The magic within him stirred at the sight of it. He looked thoughtfully at the terrorists. He still wasn’t sure why he was there. The more he thought about what Madigan had planned, the less tempting the money seemed. He could still leave. Ritenour had no loyalty to anyone save himself, let alone anything as nebulous as a Cause. And he didn’t trust fanatics, particularly when it came to their paying their bills. But when all was said and done, he was intrigued, curious to see if Madigan could bring off his plan. And perhaps, just perhaps, he stayed with Madigan because he knew the terrorist would kill him if he tried to back out now.

  “Can’t keep still for a moment, can you?” said Horn to Glen, as the young man shifted his position yet again. “Like a big kid, aren’t you, Alice?”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Glen. He was blushing despite himself, but his eyes were cold. “I’ve told you; my name is Ellis.”

  “That’s what I said, Alice. It’s a nice name; suits a good looker like you. Tell you what: you do good in there today and I’ll get you a nice big bunch of flowers and a ribbon for your hair. How about that?”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to kill you, Horn. Right here and now.”

  “Now, Alice, behave yourself, or I’ll have to spank you.”

  Glen’s hand dropped to the sword at his side, and Todd glanced at Horn. “That’s enough. Leave the boy alone.”

  Glen shot her a look of almost puppyish adoration and gratitude, and looked away. Horn chuckled.

  “I think he fancies you, Eleanour. Isn’t that nice? All girls together.”

  Todd glared at him, and Horn looked away, still chuckling. He didn’t say anything more. Much as he enjoyed teasing Glen and challenging Todd’s authority, he knew he could only push it so far before Madigan would step in. Horn wasn’t stupid enough to upset Madigan. Over anything. He glanced surreptitiously at Eleanour Todd. Before Madigan brought her into the group, he’d been second-in-command, Madigan’s voice. And if something were to happen to her, he might be again. Of course, he’d have to be very careful. If Madigan even suspected he was plotting something against another member of the group ... The thought alone was enough to stop him chuckling, and he went back to studying the House.

  Glen stared straight ahead of him, not really seeing the crowd or the House. He could feel the warmth of the betraying blush still beating in his face, and his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. The need to cut and thrust and kill was almost overpowering, but he held it back. If he let it loose too soon, Madigan would be disappointed in him, and Glen would have cut off his own hand rather than disappoint Madigan. He had turned Glen’s life around, given him a Cause and a purpose. Told him that his talent for death was a skill and an asset, not something to hide or be ashamed of. Madigan understood his dark needs and bloody dreams, and had taught him to control and channel them. Now he killed only at Madigan’s order, and the joy was that much sweeter.

  He wondered if Eleanour had seen him blushing. He worshipped her almost as much as he did Madigan, though for different reasons. He’d kill for Madigan, but he’d die for Eleanour. She was everything he dreamed of being—a cool professional killer who stood at Madigan’s right hand, his trusted support and confidante. She was also heartstoppingly beautiful, and on the few occasions when she actually smiled at him. he walked around in a daze for minutes on end. He’d never told her how he felt, of course. He’d seen the way she looked at Madigan. But still he dreamed. And it was only in his dreams that it occurred to him that Eleanour might look more kindly on him if Madigan wasn’t around any longer....

  Bailey strode through the crowd to rejoin his associates, and people hurried to get out of his way. His huge frame was intimidating, even when he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. Ritenour was glad to see the big man back again, even though he couldn’t stand the fellow. Madigan had sent the warrior out on reconnaissance almost an hour ago, and the long wait had been wearing at everyone’s nerves. Everyone except Madigan, of course. Bailey ground to a halt before Madigan, and nodded briefly.

  “Everything’s set. The men are all in position, awaiting your signal to begin.”

  “Are you sure we can trust these men?” said Ritenour. “If they let us down, or turn against us, we’re dead.”

  “Relax, shaman,” said Madigan easily. “These are professional fighting men, every one; a hundred of the very best, gathered and placed under contract outside Haven so as not to draw unwelcome attention. We can trust them to fight and die like a
ny other mercenary, particularly on the wages they’ve been promised.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be happier with fanatics, ready to die for their Cause.”

  “I don’t want men who can die; I want men who can win. That’s enough questions for now, shaman. We have work to do ”

  “If you’d take the time to fill me in on what’s happening, I wouldn’t have to keep asking questions.”

  “You know all you have to. Now be quiet. Or I’ll have Bailey remonstrate with you.”

  Ritenour looked at the huge warrior looming over him, and decided there was nothing to be gained by pushing Madigan any further. He had to know more about the terrorists’ plans if he was to know the best time to cut and run, but that could wait. He had no intention of leaving without his money, anyway, and he also had to be sure that Madigan was in no position to come after him. He gazed haughtily up at Bailey, and turned his back on him. The huge warrior chuckled quietly. Ritenour pointedly ignored him, and fixed his attention on Champion House. A light flared briefly in an upper window. There was a slight pause, and then it flashed again. Madigan nodded calmly.

  “About time, Sir Roland. Bailey, give the signal. The wards are finally down, and we can proceed.”

  Bailey waved his hand over his head, and the mercenaries appeared from everywhere, with swords and axes in their hands. They came from among the gawking crowd, from the beggars at the main gate, and from every side street and alleyway. They were in a multitude of disguises, but all of them wore the identifying black iron tore of the mercenary on their wrist. They howled a deafening mixture of battle cries, and threw themselves at the various gates in the House’s outer walls. The honor guards fought well and valiantly, but were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of their attackers. The mercenaries hurdled their twitching bodies and raced on into the grounds.