“It’s over,” said Dorimant. “It’s finally over.”
“Yes,” said Hawk, getting tiredly to his feet. “I think it is.” He looked at Fisher. “Are you all right, lass?”
“I’ll live,” said Fisher dryly, flexing her aching leg.
“He was one of the best,” said Dorimant, staring sadly at Stalker’s body. “I never liked him. but I always admired him. He was one of the greatest heroes ever to come out of the Low Kingdoms. He really did do most of the things the legends say he did.”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “I know. And that’s why we’re going to say Hightower was responsible for all the deaths. No one really blames a werewolf. Haven needs legends like Stalker more than it needs the truth.”
Dorimant nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right. A man’s past should be buried with the man.”
There was a sudden lurch as the house seemed to drop an inch. A subtle tension on the air was suddenly gone.
“The isolation spell,” said Fisher. “It’s finished. Let’s get the hell out of this place.”
They all looked at Gaunt, sleeping peacefully in his chair.
“You go on,” said Dorimant. “I’ll stick around till he wakes up. Someone’s got to brief him on the story we’re going to tell. Besides ...” Dorimant looked levelly at Hawk and Fisher. “I promised Visage I’d look after her. I don’t want to leave her here, in the company of strangers.”
“All right,” said Hawk. “We won’t be long. What will you do now, Dorimant, now that Blackstone is dead ... ?”
“I’ll think of something,” said Dorimant. “If nothing else, I’ll be able to dine out on this story for months.”
They laughed, and then Hawk and Fisher made their goodbyes and left. They walked unhurriedly down the hall to the closed front door. Hawk hesitated a moment, and then pulled the door open. A cool breeze swept in, dispelling the heat of the long night. The sun had come up, and there were rain clouds in the early morning skies, and a hint of moisture on the air. Hawk and Fisher stood together a while, quietly enjoying the cool of the breeze.
“It was partly the heat,” said Fisher finally. “It brings out the worst in people.”
“Yeah,” said Hawk. “But only if the evil is there to be brought out. Come on, lass, let’s go.”
They shut the door behind them, and walked out of the grounds and down the steep hill that led back into the shadowed heart of the city. Even in the early morning light, Haven is a dark city.
WINNER TAKES All
1
ThE Hollow MEN
Every city has its favourite blood sports. Some cities prefer the traditional cruelties of bearbaiting or cockfights, while others indulge their baser appetites with gladiators and arenas. The city port of Haven gets its thrills from the dirtiest, bloodiest sport of all: politics.
It was election time in Haven, and the shutters were going up all over town. It was a time for banners and parades, speeches, and festivities, and the occasional, good old-fashioned riot. The streets were packed with excited crowds, pickpockets and cutpurses were having the time of their lives, and the taverns were making money hand over fist. Work in the city slowed to a standstill as everyone got caught up in election fever. Everyone except the Guards, who were working double shifts in an increasingly vain attempt to keep Haven from turning into a war zone.
It was autumn in Haven, and the weather was at its most civilised. The days were comfortably warm, and the nights delightfully cool. There was a constant breeze from off the ocean, and it rained just often enough to make people grateful for the times when it didn’t. Just the kind of weather to make a man dissatisfied with his lot, and determined to get out and enjoy the weather while it lasted. Which meant there were even more people out on the streets than was usual for an election. The smart money was betting on a complete breakdown of law and order by mid-afternoon. Luckily the city only allowed twenty-four hours for electioneering. Anything more than that was begging for trouble. Not to mention civil war.
Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard, strolled unhurriedly down Market Street, and the bustling crowds parted quickly before them. Patience tended to be in short supply and tempers flared quickly around election time, but no one in Haven, drunk or sober, was stupid enough to upset Hawk and Fisher. There were quicker and less painful ways to commit suicide.
Hawk was tall and dark, but no longer handsome. A series of old scars ran down the right side of his face, pale against the tanned skin, and a black silk patch covered his right eye. He wore a simple white cotton shirt and trousers, and the traditional black cloak of the Guards. Normally he didn’t bother with the cloak. It got in the way during fights. But with so many strangers come to town for the election, the cloak served as a badge of authority, so he wore it all the time now, with little grace and even less style. Hawk always looked a little on the scruffy side, and his boots in particular were old and battered, but a keen eye might have noticed that they had once been of very superior quality and workmanship. There were many rumours about Hawk’s background, usually to do with whether or not his parents had been married, but no one knew anything for sure. The man’s past was a mystery, and he liked it that way.
On the whole, he didn’t look like much. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and beginning to build a stomach. He wore his dark hair at shoulder length, in defiance of fashion, swept back from his forehead and tied with a silver clasp. He had only just turned thirty, but already there were thick streaks of grey in his hair. At first glance he looked like just another bravo, past his prime and going to seed. But few people stopped at the first glance. There was something about Hawk, something in the scarred face and single cold eye that gave even the drunkest hardcase pause for thought. On his right hip Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He’d had plenty of practice, down the years.
Isobel Fisher walked at Hawk’s side, echoing his pace and stance with the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six feet in height, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her mid- to late-twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face that contrasted strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Somewhere in her past something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Like Hawk, she wore a white cotton shirt and trousers, and the regulation black cloak. The shirt was half unbuttoned to show a generous amount of bosom, and her shirt sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle and lined with old scars. Her boots were battered and scuffed and looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned in years. Fisher wore a sword on her left hip, and her hand rested comfortably on the pommel.
Hawk and Fisher were known throughout Haven. Firstly, they were honest, which was in itself enough to mark them as unusual amongst Haven’s overworked and underpaid Guards. And secondly, they kept the peace; whatever it took. Hawk and Fisher brought in the bad guys, dead or alive. Mostly dead.
People tended to be very law-abiding while Hawk and Fisher were around.
They made their way unhurriedly down Market Street, enjoying the early morning warmth, and keeping an eye on the street traders. The election crowds meant good pickings for the fast-food sellers, souvenir stalls, and back-alley conjurers with their cheap charms and amulets. Stalls lined the streets from one end to the other without a gap, varying from tatty affairs of wood and canvas to established family concerns with padded silk and beaded awnings. The clamour of the merchants was deafening, and the more tawdry the goods, the louder and more extravagant were the claims made on their behalf.
There were drink stands everywhere, competing with the taverns by offering cheap spirits with the traditional sign: DRUNK FOR A PENNY; DEAD DRUNK FOR TUPPENCE. There was beer as well, for the less adventurously minded. That came free, courtesy of the Conservatives. On the whole, they preferred the electorate to be well the worse for drink on polling day. That way, they were either grateful enough to vote Conservative in the hope of more free booze, or too drunk to raise any real opposition. And since the populace was also usually too drunk to riot, the Guards liked it that way too.
Everywhere Hawk and Fisher looked there were more traders’ stalls, crowding the streets and spilling into the alleyways. There were flags and fireworks and masks and all kinds of novelties for sale, every one of them guaranteed to be worth a damn sight less than what you paid for it. If you wanted more upmarket souvenirs, like delicate china and glassware tastefully engraved with designs and slogans from the election, then you had to go uptown to find them. The Northside might have been upmarket once, but if so, it was so long ago that no one could remember when. These days the Northside was the harshest, poorest, and most dangerous area in Haven. Which was why Hawk and Fisher got the job of patrolling it. Partly because they were the best, and everyone knew it, but mainly because they’d made just as many enemies inside the Guard as out. It was possible to be too honest, in Haven.
Hawk looked wistfully at a stall offering spiced sausage meat on wooden skewers. It looked quite appetising, if you ignored the flies. Fisher noticed his interest, and pulled him firmly away.
“No, Hawk; we don’t know what kind of meat went into those sausages. You can’t afford to spend the rest of the day squatting in the jakes with your trousers round your ankles.”
Hawk laughed. “You’re probably right, Isobel. It doesn’t matter; if I remember correctly, there’s a tavern down here on the right that does an excellent lobster dinner for two.”
“It’s too early for dinner.”
“All right; we’ll have a lobster lunch, then.”
“You’re eating too many snacks these days,” said Fisher sternly. “It’s a wonder you can still do up your sword belt.”
“Everyone’s entitled to a hobby,” said Hawk.
They walked on in silence for a while, just looking around them, seeing what there was to be seen. People in the crowds waved and smiled, or ostentatiously ignored them. Hawk and Fisher gave them all the same polite nod, and walked on. They couldn’t trust the smiles, and the rest didn’t matter. Hawk’s attention began to drift away. He’d been in Haven for five years now, and some days it seemed like fifty. He missed his homeland. He felt it most of all at autumn. Back in the Forest Kingdom, the leaves would be turning bronze and gold, and the whole sight and sound and smell of the Forest would be changing as the great trees prepared for winter. Hawk sighed quietly and turned his attention once again to the grimy stone houses and filthy cobbled streets of Haven. For better or worse, he was a city boy now.
Explosions shook the air ahead, and Hawk’s hand went to his axe before he realised it was just more fireworks. The Haven electors were great ones for fireworks; the louder and more extravagant the better. Bright splashes of magically augmented colors burst across the sky, staining the clouds contrasting shades until they looked like a rather messy artist’s pallet. There were several attempts at sign-writing in the sky, but they all got entangled with each other, producing only broken lines of gibberish. The various factions quickly grew bored, and began using the fireworks as ammunition against each other. There were shouts and yells and the occasional scream, but luckily the fireworks weren’t powerful enough to do any real damage. Hawk and Fisher just looked the other way and let them get on with it. It kept the crowds amused.
Sudden movement up ahead caught Hawk’s eye, and he increased his pace slightly. The crowd at the end of the street had turned away from the fireworks to watch something more interesting. Already there were cheers and catcalls.
“Sounds like trouble,” said Hawk resignedly, drawing his axe.
“It does, doesn’t it?” said Fisher, drawing her sword. “Let’s go and make a nuisance of ourselves.”
They pressed forward, and the crowd parted unwillingly before them, giving ground only because of the naked steel in the Guards’ hands. Hawk frowned as he saw what had drawn the crowd’s attention. At the intersection of two streets two rival gangs of posterers were fighting each other with fists, clubs, and anything else they could get their hands on. The crowd cheered both sides impartially, and hurried to lay bets on the outcome.
Since most of the electorate was barely literate, the main political parties couldn’t rely on pamphlets or interviews in Haven’s newspapers to get their message across. Instead, they trusted to open-air gatherings, broadsheet singers, and lots of posters. The posters tended to be simple affairs, bearing slogans or insults in very large type. COUNCILLOR HARDCASTLE DOES IT WITH TRADESMEN was a popular one at the moment, though whether that was a slogan or an insult was open to interpretation.
Posters could appear anywhere; on walls, shopfronts, or slow-moving passersby. A gang of posterers moving at full speed could slap posters up all over Haven in under two hours. Assuming the paste held out. And also assuming no one got in their way. Unfortunately, most gangs of posterers spent half their time tearing down or defacing posters put up by rival gangs. So when two gangs met, as was bound to happen on occasion, political rivalry tended to express itself through spirited exchanges and open mayhem, to the delight of whatever onlookers happened to be around at the time. Haven liked its politics simple and direct, and preferably brutal.