Guard Against Dishonor h&f-5

by Simon R. Green

  stirred in his corner, and then shrugged uncomfortably as Regis turned his glare

  on him.

  "With respect, my lord, no security system is perfect. Fisher and ap Owen did

  their best, in extremely difficult circumstances."

  He shut up as Nightingale turned to glare at him too. Nightingale's voice was

  low and deadly. "When I want your advice, Major de Tournay, I will ask for it.

  Until then you will oblige me by keeping your mouth shut. Is that clear?"

  De Tournay and Comber looked at each other, nodded formally to their respective

  lords, and returned their attention to the whisky decanters. Regis sniffed, and

  looked back at Fisher and ap Owen.

  "Now then, Captains, it cannot have escaped your attention that our security

  here has been hopelessly breached. Whether this was the result of internal

  treachery or simple incompetence on your part has yet to be determined. You can

  both be very sure there will be a full enquiry into your behavior today…"

  "I don't think we can wait for that," said Nightingale flatly. "Someone has

  revealed to our enemies not only the location of this house, but also the

  coordinates of the pocket dimension. Quite a few people knew about the

  house—that was inevitable—but only a handful knew about the pocket dimension.

  Don't you find it interesting that our security problems only began after

  Captain Fisher joined us?"

  "Oh, come on," said ap Owen immediately. "You're not seriously accusing Fisher?

  She's a legend in Haven! And she fought like hell against the mercenaries and

  the creatures in the dimension. In fact, if not for her, I wouldn't have lived

  long enough to reach the dimension, and you wouldn't have lived long enough to

  close the dimensional doorway. We owe her our lives!"

  "Look at the facts," said Nightingale calmly. "The mercenaries didn't attack the

  house till she got here, and the creatures didn't attack us until she'd joined

  us in the pocket dimension…"

  "He has a point," said Regis slowly. "And it does seem odd that Captain Fisher

  should have been in the middle of so much fighting, and come out of it with only

  minor, superficial wounds."

  "She's a good fighter!" said ap Owen. "Everyone knows that."

  "No one's that good," said Nightingale.

  "And I must admit the new security forces have brought rather disquieting news

  concerning Fisher's partner, Captain Hawk," said Regis.

  "Hawk?" said Fisher sharply. "What about Hawk?"

  Regis fixed her with a steady gaze. "It appears that Captain Hawk is completely

  out of control. He's assaulted a superior officer and gone on a rampage through

  the city, attacking people in some kind of personal vendetta, and killing anyone

  who gets in his way. We don't know exactly how many people he's killed, but we

  have a confirmed account of more than thirty dead, and almost as many injured.

  At least a dozen were just innocent passersby."

  "I don't believe it," said Fisher.

  "In view of what you've just told me," said Lord Nightingale, ignoring Fisher,

  "I don't think I care to trust my well-being to any security force commanded by

  Captain Fisher. I'm afraid I must insist she be replaced, if the Talks are to

  continue."

  "I have to agree," said Regis. "Well, Fisher, have you anything to say for

  yourself?"

  "I didn't want to come here in the first place," said Fisher. "If you don't want

  me, I'll leave."

  "It's not that simple," said Nightingale coldly. "We can't allow you to just

  walk out of here. You know too much. And besides, I don't believe in letting

  traitors walk free. Regis, I want this woman arrested, and held incommunicado

  till these Talks are over."

  Regis nodded. "Fisher, hand over your sword. You're under arrest. The charge is

  treason."

  Nightingale smiled at Fisher coldly. "I'll see you hanged for your part in this,

  bitch."

  Fisher drew her sword and dropped into her fighting stance. "You and what army,

  Nightingale?"

  "Fisher, that's enough!" snapped Regis. "Give your sword to ap Owen. That's an

  order!"

  Fisher laughed at him. "Stuff your order. I may be slow, but I'm not crazy.

  You're just desperate for a scapegoat, and I look like the best bet. Well,

  sorry, people, but I'm afraid I must decline the honor."

  Regis looked at ap Owen. "Arrest her! Do whatever you have to, but stop her. She

  mustn't leave here alive!"

  Ap Owen hesitated, and Fisher threw a chair at him. She was across the room and

  out the door before the two Majors could get to their feet and ap Owen could

  disentangle himself from the chair. Regis and Nightingale remained where they

  were, shouting orders. Fisher slammed the door shut behind her, grinned briefly

  as she heard someone crash into it, and then sprinted down the corridor to the

  front door. She yanked it open and charged out into the grounds. The new

  security people looked up in surprise, and moved towards her, anticipating some

  kind of emergency in the house. Fisher grabbed the first officer she saw, and

  pointed him at the front door.

  "Block off that door and don't let anyone out, no matter what! Take as many men

  as you need. Everything depends on you! Move it!"

  The officer threw her a quick salute, and charged towards the door, yelling for

  his men to follow him. Fisher ran for the front gate, breathlessly informing

  every man-at-arms she passed of the terrible emergency up at the house. The

  emergency became more and more terrible, and the details more and more

  fantastic, as she passed through the main body of men, determined to stir up the

  maximum confusion. She finally reached the gate, and paused a moment to look

  back. The men-at-arms were milling aimlessly back and forth, trampling the snow

  into slush, shouting incoherently to each other, and searching desperately for

  some sign of the enemy. Fisher grinned, and set off down the street at a fast

  but eminently respectable pace, so as not to attract too much attention.

  First thing was to get rid of the Guard's uniform; it was too distinctive. Maybe

  change it for a long robe with a hood, something large and bulky enough to

  substantially alter her appearance. When word finally got out from the house,

  there were going to be an awful lot of people looking for Captain Fisher. There

  was no point in trying to protest her innocence. It was clear Nightingale had

  picked on her as the scapegoat, and the others would go along with him in order

  to keep the Talks going. As she'd been told from the beginning, the Peace Talks

  were far more important than any Guard Captain. She was expendable.

  But she wasn't about to let anyone or anything get between her and her search

  for Hawk. From the sound if it, things had got really out of hand since she left

  him with Burns. She frowned. Strange there hadn't been any mention of Burns. She

  shook her head fiercely. That could wait. All that mattered was finding Hawk. If

  he really was out of control, she was the only one with any chance of stopping

  him. Whatever had happened between Hawk and Morgan, he'd listen to her.

  And then they'd work together to find out who the real traitor was. Before, it

  had just been business. Now, it was
personal.

  In the study, Lord Regis and Lord Nightingale were taking turns shouting at

  Captain ap Owen. Outside in the grounds, Major Comber and Major de Tournay were

  trying desperately to restore some kind of order to the chaos Fisher had made

  out of the men-at-arms. Half of them were still running around like mad things,

  looking for something to hit and mistaking each other for the enemy as often as

  not. Ap Owen listened to the craziness outside, and somehow kept the smile from

  his lips. Eventually the lords ran out of accusations and curses, and stopped a

  moment to get their breath back. Ap Owen cleared his throat.

  "What exactly do you want me to do, my lords? What are your orders?"

  "Find Fisher!" snapped Nightingale, his cheeks mottled with rage. "I don't care

  how you do it, but find her!"

  "Take twenty men and go out into the city," said Regis. "Spread the word among

  the Guard and on the streets. I'm authorizing you to offer a reward of five

  thousand ducats for Fisher's capture, dead or alive."

  Ap Owen looked at him sharply. "But surely, my lord, we need her alive for

  questioning?"

  "We need her stopped before she can do any more damage," said Nightingale. "As

  long as she's free, she's a threat. You know her reputation, Captain; if you try

  and take her alive she'll just kill your men and disappear again.

  We can't risk that. If you find her, kill her. No quarter, no mercy."

  Ap Owen looked at Regis, who nodded steadfastly. "Do whatever you have to,

  Captain, but don't bring her back alive."

  Chapter Eight

  Cutting Loose

  Burns and Mistique followed Hawk silently as he led the way through a maze of

  narrow back streets and shadowed alleyways. He'd hardly said a word since

  Mistique reluctantly named Fisher as the traitor, and his cold, grim visage

  hadn't encouraged conversation. Burns and Mistique glanced at each other, but a

  few raised eyebrows and quick shrugs were enough to make it clear neither of

  them knew what was going through Hawk's mind. Given what he was capable of, his

  continued silence was worrying. Passersby hurried to get out of his way, but

  Hawk seemed totally oblivious of everything except his own thoughts. He walked

  unhurriedly through the shabby streets, staring straight ahead, his bloodied axe

  still in his hand.

  They finally emerged into a quiet side street, and Hawk led his companions into

  a squalid little tavern called The Dragon's Blood. The air was thick with smoke,

  and the sawdust on the floor looked like it hadn't been changed in years.

  Mistique wrinkled her nose. Burns pushed the door closed with his fingertips,

  and then wiped his hand fastidiously on his cloak. The place was as dark as a

  coal cellar, with only occasional pools of dirty yellow light at the occupied

  tables, and two storm lanterns hanging over the bar. The window shutters had

  been nailed shut to ensure privacy. Shadowed drinkers watched silently as Hawk

  led his companions to a booth at the back of the room. Conversation slowly

  resumed as the three Guards seated themselves, but only as a bare murmur. The

  bartender emerged from behind his bar to serve them personally, and Hawk ordered

  three beers. They sat in silence until he came back with the drinks. Hawk paid

  him the exact amount and then dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand. The

  bartender shrugged, and went back to the bar to continue polishing his glasses

  with a dirty rag. Mistique looked dubiously at the drink in front of her, and

  decided that she wasn't thirsty. Hawk took two deep swallows from his beer, and

  then put the glass down and stared into it.

  "The beer's safe enough here," he said quietly, "but don't touch the spirits.

  Half of it's made from wood alcohol."

  Burns sipped at his beer to show willing, and his lips thinned away from his

  teeth at the bitterness. "Nice place you've chosen, Hawk. Great atmosphere. I'll

  bet plague rats stay away from here in case they catch something. Do you drink

  here often?"

  "Only when I have some hard thinking to do. No one bothers me here." He drank

  from his glass again, and Burns and Mistique waited patiently for him to

  continue. Hawk wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, and

  leaned back in his chair, staring out into the gloom around them. "It all comes

  down to Morgan," he said finally. "He has all the answers. If we're ever going

  to get to the truth of what's really going on here, we have to find Morgan."

  "Half the Guards in Haven are trying to do just that," said Burns. "But Morgan's

  always been able to disappear when he needed to. He could be anywhere in Haven.

  Our people are out leaning on every loose mouth in the city, but no one knows

  anything. Morgan's gone to ground so thoroughly this time that even his own

  people don't seem to know how to contact him. You must really have thrown a

  scare into him."

  "He can't afford to be totally isolated," said Mistique. "He still has to move

  his super-chacal before word gets out how dangerous it is. And to do that, he

  must be doing business, however indirectly, with some distributor."

  "Exactly," said Hawk. "Morgan may have crawled into his hole and pulled it in

  after him, but his lieutenants are still out there, doing business on his

  behalf. All we have to do is tail them, and eventually one of them will lead us

  to Morgan."

  Burns shook his head. "Hawk, those people are professionals; they'll spot any

  tail we put on them."

  "They won't spot a sorcerer," said Hawk. "How about it, Mistique? Can you follow

  these people with your magic?"

  "There is a way…" said Mistique slowly. "But I don't know these lieutenants like

  you do. You'll have to open your minds so that I can learn what you know. Are

  you and Burns willing to do that?"

  "No," said Burns flatly. "Sorry, Hawk, but there are some things I won't do, for

  you or anyone else. My thoughts are private, and my memories are my own."

  "There's no need to be so defensive," said Mistique. "It's a common reaction to

  my ability. Though why anyone should assume their secret thoughts are so

  fascinating I couldn't resist peeking, is beyond me."

  "Take what you need from me," said Hawk. "But don't go wandering. There are

  things in my mind you don't want to know."

  "I can believe that," said Mistique. She closed her eyes, and a cold breeze

  swept through Hawk's mind, ruffling his thoughts, and picking things up and

  putting them down again. Images flickered in Hawk's mind like flaring candles,

  come and gone so quickly he barely recognized them, and then Mistique opened her

  eyes, and his mind was quiet again. Mistique nodded, satisfied. "Got it. Names

  and faces for all twenty of his lieutenants. Now I need both of you to sit still

  and be quiet. This is going to be very difficult, and I can't afford any

  distractions."

  She closed her eyes again and let her mind drift up and out, becoming one with

  the mists. Wherever mists and fogs rose throughout the city she had eyes and

  ears. She became the mists, flowing over houses and streets, through keyholes

  and under doors, and nothing was hidden from her. The mists carried her up into

  the sky, and
she soared high above the city, seeing it spread out below her like

  a vast dark stone labyrinth of sudden turnings and endless possibilities. Lights

  burned in its darkness like furnaces in hell. She swooped down over the city,

  spreading her consciousness among the many streets and alleyways as mists curled

  everywhere in Haven. Buildings raced past her at bewildering speed, people

  appearing and disappearing in an instant, but all of them observed and studied

  and dismissed. Words from a thousand conversations battered her hearing like

  pounding waves on the rocks outside the harbor. Mistique let it all flow past

  and over her, sifting through the endless noise and chaos until finally she

  found what she was looking for.

  His name was Griff—a shabby, skinny man with long, greasy dark hair, darting

  eyes, and a quick, unpleasant smile. He wore a long frock coat mended at the

  collar and elbows, and carried a quarterstaff. He didn't look like much, but

  bigger men than he bobbed their heads and smiled nervously in his presence. He

  was Morgan's eyes and voice and executioner, and everyone knew it. Mistique

  curled lazily on the air as Griff strode down a gloomy side street,

  unobtrusively checking now and again that he wasn't being followed. Mistique

  floated after him, everywhere and nowhere, ahead and behind him.

  Griff took a sudden turn into an alleyway and stopped dead, just inside the

  alley mouth. He looked casually about him to be sure he was unobserved, and then

  moved slowly forward, counting the steps under his breath. He then stopped,

  reached out and pressed five bricks in the left-hand wall in a careful sequence.

  A door slowly appeared in the wall, a great slab of solid steel, featureless

  save for a single moulded handle, forming itself moment by moment out of the

  dirty brickwork. Griff waited impatiently, his gaze darting back and forth, and

  then he pulled the door open, grunting with the effort. A bright crimson light

  flared out into the alley, and Griff stepped forward into it. The door slammed

  shut behind him, cutting off the bloody light, and melted back into the

  brickwork. In the renewed gloom of the alleyway, the roiling mists curled and

  twisted triumphantly.

  In the tavern, Hawk and Burns watched silently as Mistique closed her eyes and

  fell immediately into a trance state. All trace of personality dropped out of