Guard Against Dishonor h&f-5

by Simon R. Green

  apart with the other. If Regis was aware of this, it didn't seem to bother him.

  The two traders. Rook and Gardener, were talking together quite amicably,

  smiling and laughing as they rummaged through the out-of-season delicacies on

  the trays. Fisher's stomach rumbled, but she made herself pay attention to the

  two merchants. William Gardener of Outremer was in his early forties, with

  thinning hair and a droopy moustache. He was skinny as a rake, but wore clothes

  of the very latest cut with casual elegance. Jonathon Rook was the same age, and

  dressed just as well, but had the kind of figure politely referred to as stout.

  His hands were weighed down with jeweled rings, and he paid little or no

  attention to the expensive food with which he was stuffing his face. Fisher

  moved in a little closer to listen in on their conversation. They both

  studiously ignored her, which suited her fine. It soon became clear that both

  merchants thought they had a lot to lose in the event of a war, and were

  pressing for peace at practically any cost. It was also clear they were finding

  it an uphill struggle.

  Major Comber and Major de Tournay stood a little way off from the others,

  talking quietly and only picking at their food. They were both in their late

  thirties, with short-cropped hair and grim faces. They'd swapped their uniforms

  for civilian clothes, and Fisher was hard put to tell which of them looked the

  most uncomfortable. They both glared at her when she got too close, so she

  didn't get to overhear what they were saying. She sensed, however, that neither

  one was too pleased with the way the Talks were going, from which she deduced

  that neither side had gained the upper hand yet.

  They all finally put down their plates and turned away from the table. Captain

  ap Owen coughed loudly, and then again, louder still, and having got their

  attention, introduced Fisher to each of them. Fisher bowed formally, and got a

  series of perfunctory nods in reply. Lord Regis smiled at her coldly.

  "Good to have you with us, Captain. Your reputation precedes you."

  "You don't want to believe everything you hear," said Fisher easily. "Only the

  bad bits."

  Regis smiled politely. "Is your partner, Captain Hawk, not here with you?"

  "He's working on a case of his own at the moment, and can't leave it, I'm

  afraid. But not to worry, my lord. You're safe in our hands."

  "I'm sure we shall be."

  "I trust you'll pardon my interruption," said Lord Nightingale, looking only at

  Lord Regis, "but we are rather short of time. Perhaps you could continue this

  conversation later…"

  "Of course," said Regis.

  He nodded politely to Fisher and ap Owen, and turned to face the far wall. The

  door reappeared, and swung silently open. Fisher shivered suddenly. She tried to

  see what lay beyond the door, but there was only an impenetrable darkness. The

  delegates filed through, and the door swung shut behind them and vanished.

  Fisher sank back into her chair and stretched out her legs. This was going to be

  a long, hard job, she could tell. She looked thoughtfully at the food left on

  the table, but didn't have the energy to get up and go after it. She hoped Hawk

  was taking it easy, wherever he was, but doubted it. Without her to keep an eye

  on him, there was no telling what he'd get up to.

  Chapter Four

  A Matter of Trust

  Hawk led Captain Burns into the rotten heart of the Northside. The streets grew

  steadily narrower, choked with filthy snow and slush, and bustling crowds that

  made way for the two Guards without ever looking at them directly. Even so, they

  made slow progress, and Hawk had to fight to control his impatience. The

  pressure seemed to be bearing down on him from every side now, but he knew his

  only hope of dealing with it was to stay calm and controlled. His enemies would

  be delighted to see him striking out blindly in all directions and missing the

  real targets. Besides, he didn't want to spook Burns. And yet behind his grim,

  impassive face, Hawk's thoughts danced restlessly from one problem to another,

  searching for answers that eluded him. The super-chacal was out there somewhere,

  poised to sweep across the city in a tidal wave of blood and death. Morgan was

  out there too, hidden somewhere safe and plotting the deaths of everyone who

  knew the truth about his new drug. Not to mention Hammer, the gang leader from

  the Devil's Hook, and his threatened vendetta.

  And also back at the Hook, the little girl Hawk had rescued from underneath the

  wreckage was lying in a hospital bed, still in a coma. The doctors didn't know

  whether she'd ever regain consciousness.

  On top of all that, the Guard wanted his scalp for screwing up, and they'd taken

  Isobel away from him. Some days you just couldn't get a break. Hawk realized

  Burns was speaking to him, and looked round sharply.

  "I'm sorry. What?"

  "I said," Burns repeated patiently, "is it always this bad here? I'd heard

  stories, of course, but this place is disgusting."

  Hawk looked around at the squalid buildings and the ragged people, and the

  overriding sense of violence and despair that rose from them like an almost

  palpable mist. After five years working the Northside he'd grown inured to most

  of the misery and suffering, for the sake of his sanity, but it still disturbed

  him enough to appreciate how bad it must seem to an outsider. Haven was a dark

  city wherever you looked, but the Northside was dark enough to stamp out the

  light in anyone's soul eventually. Hawk realized Burns was still looking at him

  for an answer, and he shrugged harshly.

  "It's quiet today, if anything. The snow and the cold are keeping most people

  off the streets, even the beggars, and those who are out and about aren't

  hanging around long enough to start any trouble. But you can bet that somewhere,

  someone is starting a fight, or stabbing someone in the back for no good reason.

  There's all sorts of crime here, everything you'd expect in an area as poor as

  this, but the violence never ends. To a Northsider, everyone is an enemy, out to

  steal what little he has, and most of the time he's right. There's little love

  or comfort here, Burns, and even less hope. And the only thing the Northsiders

  hate more than each other is an outsider. Like us."

  "How do you cope with working here?" said Burns. "I'd go crazy in a week."

  Hawk shrugged. "I've seen worse. All you can do is try and make a difference for

  the best, where you can. What brought you here from the Westside?"

  "Doughty and I were filling in for some Guards who were down with the flu. When

  I heard they were sending us here, I seriously thought about calling in sick

  myself, but of course it was too late by then. Doughty didn't mind. There wasn't

  much that bothered him."

  "I'm sorry about your partner," said Hawk.

  "Yeah. He had a wife, you know. Separated three years back, but… Someone will

  have told her by now. I should have done it myself, but she never liked me

  anyway."

  They walked in silence for a while, not looking at each other.

  "So, what's the plan?" said Burns finally. "Are we headed anywhere in

  particula
r?"

  "I thought we'd start off with Short Tom," said Hawk. "Has a nice little

  distribution setup, down on Carlisle Street. He'll move anything for anyone, as

  long as the money's right. Not one of the biggest, but certainly one of the

  longest established. I doubt he's handling the super-chacal himself, but he'll

  probably have a damned good idea who might be."

  "Will he talk to us? Do you have a good relationship with him?"

  Hawk looked at Burns. "This is the Northside, no one here talks to the Guard

  willingly. We're the enemy, the ones who enforce the laws that keep them in

  their place. The poverty here's so bad, most people will do anything to escape

  it. They don't care who they rob or who they hurt. All they care about is making

  that one big score that will finally get them out of the Northside. You can't

  reason with people like that. Short Tom will talk to me because he knows what

  will happen to him if he doesn't."

  Burns stared straight ahead of him, his face expressionless. "I don't approve of

  strong-arm tactics. I put on this uniform to help people, not oppress them."

  "You've spent too long in the Westside, Burns. They still like to pretend

  they're living in a civilized city over there. Here in the Northside, they'd

  quite happily cut you down for the loose change in your pockets, or a chance at

  your boots. The only thing that keeps them off my back is the certain knowledge

  that I'll kill them if they even think of raising a hand against me. I have to

  be obviously more dangerous than they are at all times, or I'd be a dead man.

  Look… I used to think the same as you, once. There are good people here, same as

  there are good people everywhere, and I do my best to help and protect them.

  Even if it means bending or ignoring the rules to do so. But when you get right

  down to it, my job is to enforce the law. Whatever it takes."

  "Being a Guard doesn't give us the right to beat up someone just because we

  think they might have information that might help us. There are procedures,

  proper ways of doing things."

  Hawk sighed. "I know. I've read the Manual too. But the procedures take time,

  and for all I know, the super-chacal's already seeping out onto the streets. I

  could threaten to arrest Short Tom, maybe even drag him down to Headquarters and

  throw him in a cell to think things over. But I couldn't hold him for long, and

  he knows it. I don't have the time to be a nice guy about this, and to be blunt,

  I don't have the inclination. My way works, and I'll settle for that. I've never

  laid a finger on an innocent man, or killed a man who didn't deserve it."

  "How can you be sure? How can you be sure you haven't killed an innocent man by

  accident? The dead can't defend themselves from other people's accusations.

  We're Captains in the Guard, Hawk—not judge, jury, and executioner."

  "I go by what works," said Hawk flatly. "When the people in the Northside start

  playing by the rules, so will I. Look, there are just four Captains and a dozen

  Constables to cover the whole Northside. We can't be everywhere at once, so we

  have to let our reputations go ahead of us. It's a big area, Burns, and rotten

  to the core. All we can ever hope to do is keep the lid on. Now, I don't care if

  you approve of how I do my job or not; just watch my back and don't interfere.

  The only thing that matters now is stopping Morgan and his stinking drug."

  Burns nodded slowly. "Of course, finding the super-chacal would go a long way

  towards reinstating you in the Guard, wouldn't it?"

  Hawk looked at him coldly. "If you think that's the only reason I'm doing this,

  then you don't know me at all."

  "Sorry. You're right, of course. Hawk, can I ask you something… personal?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. What?"

  "What happened to your eye?"

  "Oh, that. I pawned it."

  Short Tom's place was a two-storey glorified lean-to, adjoining a battered old

  warehouse on Carlisle Street. The street itself was blocked from one end to the

  other by an open-air market and the tightly packed crowd it had drawn. The

  tattered, gaudy stalls crowded up against each other, and the vendors behind

  them filled the air with their aggressive patter. Most of them were bundled up

  to their ears in thick winter furs, but it didn't seem to be slowing them down

  any. Some of them were all but jumping up and down on the spot in their attempt

  to explain just how magnificent and amazingly affordable their goods were. Hawk

  glanced at a few stalls, but wasn't impressed. Still, with Haven's Docks closed

  by the winter storms, goods of all kinds were getting scarce, and even rubbish

  like this was starting to look good. The smell was pretty bad, particularly

  around the food stalls, and Burns pulled one face after another as he and Hawk

  made their way slowly through the crowd. Even their Guards' uniforms couldn't

  make them any room in such a crush.

  Short Tom's lean-to loomed up before them, looking more and more unsafe the

  closer they got. It looked like it had been thrown together on the cheap by a

  builder in a hurry, trying to stay one step ahead of his reputation. The walls

  weren't straight, the wood was stained and warped, and the door and window

  frames were lopsided. It was a mess, even by Northside standards. Still, it was

  no doubt cheap to rent, and for a man in Short Tom's line of business, that was

  all that really mattered.

  Two large bravos in heavy sheepskin coats stood before the main door, arms

  folded, glaring impartially about them. Hawk walked up to the one on the left,

  and punched him out. The second bravo yelped in disbelief and started to unfold

  his arms. Hawk kicked him in the knee, waited for him to bend forward, and then

  knocked him out with the butt of his axe. No one in the milling crowd paid any

  attention. It was none of their business. Burns looked at Hawk.

  "Was that really necessary?"

  "Yes," said Hawk. "They wouldn't have let us in without a fight, and if I'd

  given them a chance to draw their swords, someone would have got seriously hurt.

  Most probably them, but you never know. Now follow me, watch my back, and let me

  do all the talking. And try to at least look mean."

  He stepped over the unconscious bravos, pushed open the door and stepped

  through, followed closely by Burns. Inside, all was surprisingly neat and tidy,

  with clerks sitting behind two rows of desks, shuffling pieces of paper and

  making careful entries in two sets of ledgers. One of the clerks shouted for

  them to shut the bloody door and keep the bloody cold out, and Burns quickly did

  so. Hawk glanced at him, and shook his head. Far too long in the Westside. He

  looked back at the clerks, who had finally realized who the newcomers were. One

  clerk opened his mouth to shout a warning.

  "Don't," said Hawk.

  The clerk looked at the axe in Hawk's hand, thought about it, and shut his

  mouth.

  "Good boy," said Hawk. He looked about him, and the clerks shrank down behind

  their desks. Hawk smiled coldly. "My partner and I are going upstairs to have a

  nice little chat with Short Tom. Just carry on as normal. And by the way, if

  anyone was to come up after us and interrupt our little chat, I will be mo
st

  upset. Is that clear?"

  The clerks nodded quickly, and did their best to look as though the idea had

  never entered their heads. Hawk and Burns strolled casually between the desks

  and up the stairway at the back of the room. Burns watched the clerks' faces out

  of the corner of his eye. They'd all recognized Hawk by now, and there was real

  terror in their faces, and not a little awe. Burns frowned thoughtfully. He'd

  heard stories about Hawk—everyone had—but he'd never really believed them. Until

  now.

  They found Short Tom in his office, right at the top of the stairs. It was a

  nice little place, neat and tidy and almost cosy, with thick rugs on the floor,

  comfortable furniture, and attractive watercolor landscapes on the walls. Short

  Tom looked up as they entered, and his face fell. Not surprisingly, given his

  name, he was a dwarf, with stubby arms and legs and a large head. He wore the

  very latest fashion, and it was a credit to his tailor that he didn't look any

  more ridiculous than anybody else. He was sitting at a normal-sized desk, on a

  custom-made chair, and he pushed it back slightly as he reached for a desk

  drawer.

  "I wouldn't," said Hawk. "I really wouldn't."

  Short Tom nodded glumly, and took his hand away from the drawer. "Captain Hawk.

  How nice to see you again. Absolutely marvelous. What do you want?"

  "Just a little chat," said Hawk. "I've got a problem I thought you might be able

  to help me with."

  "I'm clean," said Short Tom immediately. "One hundred per cent. I'm entirely

  legitimate these days."

  "Of course you are," said Hawk. "In which case, you won't mind my bringing in

  the tax inspectors to go through all your invoices, will you?"

  Short Tom sighed heavily. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

  "Morgan's got a small mountain of drugs on his hands that he has to move in a

  hurry."

  "He hasn't contacted me. I swear he hasn't."

  "I know he hasn't. You're not big enough for this. But you can give me some

  names. With a deal this urgent, there's bound to have been talk already."

  "I've heard about your run-in with Morgan," said Short Tom carefully, "and I

  can't afford to get involved. I'm just a small-time operator, dealing in

  whatever odds and ends the big boys can't be bothered with. As long as I know my