“All right, sir Adamant; I think there are a few questions that need answering. Like, what was all that about, and who or what is Mortice?”
Adamant sighed quietly. “Yes. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to know about him, but ... I think you had better meet him.”
“May I suggest we get out of these clothes first?” said Dannielle. “I’m soaked and half-frozen, and this dress is ruined.”
“She has a point,” said Fisher. “I look like I’ve been skinny-dipping in an abattoir.”
“I’m sure we can find you and your partner some fresh clothes,” said Dannielle. “Come with me, Captain Fisher, and I’ll see what I can dig out for you. James, you look after Captain Hawk.”
Fisher and Dannielle disappeared up the stairs together. Hawk looked at Adamant. “All right, first a change of clothes, but then I want to meet Mortice. No more delays; is that clear?”
“Of course, Captain,” said Adamant. “But ... do try and make allowances for Mortice’s temper. He’s been dead for some five months now, and it hasn’t done a thing for his disposition.”
Hawk walked up to the full-length mirror, and studied himself for some time. It didn’t help. He still looked like a poor relation down on his luck. He and Adamant were roughly the same height, but Adamant had a much larger frame. As a result, the clothes Adamant had lent Hawk hung around him like he’d shrunk in the wash overnight. It wasn’t even a particularly fetching outfit. Grey tights, salmon-pink knickerbockers, and a frilly white shirt; whatever the current fashion was, Hawk was pretty damn sure this wasn’t it. The frilly shirt in particular worried him. The last time he’d seen a shirt this frilly a barmaid had been wearing it. And no matter what Adamant said, he was damned if he was going to wear that bloody silly three-cornered hat.
He looked at himself in the mirror one last time, and sighed deeply. He’d worn worse, in .his time. At least he still had his Guardsman’s cloak. He picked it up off the bed and put it on, pulling the heavy cloak around him so that it hid the clothes beneath. Luckily all Guards’ cloaks came with a built-in spell that kept them clean and immaculate no matter what indignities they were subjected to. It was part of the Guard’s image, and along with the occasional healing spell, was one of the few good perks of the job.
He ought really to be rejoining the others, but it wouldn’t do them any harm to wait a while. He had several things he wanted to think through, while he had the chance. He looked around Adamant’s spare bedchamber. It was clean, tidy, and very comfortably appointed. The bed itself was a huge four-poster, with hanging curtains. Very elegant, and even more expensive. What was a champion of Reform doing, living like a king? All right; no one expected him to live like a pauper just to make a point, but this ostentatious display of wealth worried Hawk. According to Adamant, the house had been provided by Reform higher-ups. So where were they getting the money from? Who funded the Reform Cause? The Trade Guilds, obviously, and donations from the faithful. Wealthy patrons like Adamant. But that wouldn’t be enough to pay for houses like this. Hawk frowned. This wasn’t really any of his business. He was just here to protect Adamant from harm.
Not that he was doing such a great job so far. The blood-creatures had caught him off guard. If Mortice hadn’t saved their hides with his sorcery, the election would have been over before it had even begun. More mysteries. Mortice had to be a sorcerer of some kind. And Adamant had to know that associating with a sorcerer was grounds for disqualification. So why was he willing to let Hawk and Fisher meet him? And what was that crack about him being dead for five months? What was he? A ghost? Hawk sighed. He’d only been on the case an hour and already he had more questions than he could shake a stick at. This was going to be just like the Blackstone case all over again, he could tell. He settled his axe comfortably on his right hip, and made his way out onto the landing and down the stairs.
The hall was sparkling clean, with no trace of blood or ice. Mortice again, presumably. Fisher was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in her Guard’s cloak. One look at the thunderclouds in her face was enough to tell Hawk that she’d been no luckier in her choice of new clothes than he. He went down to join her, looked ostentatiously round to make sure they were alone, and then whispered “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
Fisher snorted a quick laugh, and smiled in spite of herself. “You first.”
Hawk opened his cloak with a flourish and stood posed in the traditional flasher’s stance. Fisher shook her head. “Hawk, you look like a Charcoal Street ponce. And it’s still not as bad as mine.”
She opened her cloak, and Hawk had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Apparently they hadn’t been able to find any of Dannielle’s clothing that would fit Fisher, and had compromised by lending her men’s clothing. Very old and very battered men’s clothing. The shirt and trousers had probably started out white, but had degenerated over the years into an uneven grey. The cuffs were frayed, there were patches of different colors on the elbows and knees, and there were several important buttons missing.
“Apparently they originally belonged to the gardener,” said Fisher through gritted teeth. “We can’t go out looking like this, Hawk; people will laugh themselves to death.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep our cloaks shut and save what’s underneath as a weapon of last resort,” said Hawk solemnly.
“Ah, Captain Hawk,” said Medley, poking his head out of the study door. “I thought I heard voices. Everything all right?”
“Fine,” said Hawk. “Just fine.”
Medley stepped out into the corridor, followed by Adamant and Dannielle. They were all in fresh clothes and looked very smart.
“If you’re quite ready, could we please get a move on?” said Medley. “Mortice knows we’re coming, and he hates to be kept waiting. The last time he got impatient, he called down a plague of frogs. It took us hours to get those nasty little creatures out of the house.”
“If he’s your friend,” said Fisher dryly, “your enemies must really be something.”
“They are,” said Adamant. “If you’d care to follow me ...”
He led them down the hall and through a series of corridors that opened eventually onto a simple stone-walled laundry room. There were tables and towels and a freshly scrubbed stone floor. Hawk looked expectantly around him, and wondered if he was supposed to make a comment of some sort. As he hesitated, Medley moved over to the middle of the floor and bent down. He took hold of a large steel ring set into the floor, and for the first time Hawk spotted the outlines of a trapdoor. Fisher looked at Adamant.
“You keep your sorcerer in the cellar?”
“He chose it,” said Medley. “He finds the dark a comfort.”
Hawk looked at Adamant. “You said Mortice was dead. Perhaps you’d care to explain that.”
Adamant gestured for Medley to move away from the trapdoor, and he did. Adamant frowned unhappily. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, and he chose his words with care. “Mortice is my oldest friend. We’ve faced many troubles together. I trust him implicitly. He’s a first-class sorcerer; one of the most powerful in the city. He died just over five months ago. I even went to his funeral.”
“But if he’s dead,” said Fisher, “what have you got in your cellar?”
“A lich,” said Medley. “A dead body, animated by a sorcerer’s will. We don’t know exactly what happened, but Mortice was defending us from a sorcerous attack when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The spell killed him, but somehow Mortice managed to trap his spirit within his dead body. In a sense he’s both living and dead now. Unfortunately his body is still slowly decaying, despite everything he can do to prevent it. The pain and rot of corruption are always with him. It makes him rather ... short-tempered.”
“He’s haunting his own body,” said Adamant. “Trapped in a prison of decaying flesh, because he wouldn’t leave me unprotected.”
“His name was Masque, but he calls himself Mortice, these days,” said Dannielle, a faint
moue
of distaste pulling at her mouth. “Igor Mortice. It’s a joke. Sort of.”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. “All right,” said Hawk. “Let’s go meet the corpse.”
“I can see you and he are going to get on like a house on fire,” said Medley.
He reached down and took a firm hold of the steel ring set into the trapdoor. He braced himself and pulled steadily. The trapdoor swung open on whispering hinges, and a rush of freezing air billowed out into the laundry room. Hawk shivered suddenly, gooseflesh rising on his arms. Adamant lit a lamp, and then started down the narrow wooden stairway that led into the darkness of the cellar. Dannielle lifted her dress up around her knees and followed him down. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. Hawk shrugged uneasily, and followed Dannielle, his hand resting on the axe at his side. Fisher followed him, and Medley brought up the rear, slamming the trapdoor shut behind him.
It was very dark and bitterly cold in the cellar. Hawk wrapped his cloak tightly around him, his breathing steaming on the still air. The stairs seemed to go a long way down before they finally came to an end. Adamant’s lamp revealed a large square box of a room, packed from wall to bare wall with great slabs of ice. A layer of glistening frost covered everything, and a faint pearly haze softened the lamplight. In the middle of the room, in a small space surrounded by ice, sat a small mummified form wrapped in a white cloak, slumped and motionless on a bare wooden chair. There was no way of approaching it, so Hawk studied the still figure as best he could from a distance. The flesh had sunk clean down to the bone, so that the face was little more than a leathery mask, and the bare hands little more than bony claws. The eyes were sunken pits, with tightly closed eyelids. The rest of the body was hidden behind the cloak, for which Hawk was grateful.
“I take it the ice is here to preserve the body,” he said finally, his voice hushed.
“It slows the process,” said Adamant. “But that’s all.”
Fisher’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Seems to me it’d be kinder to just let the poor bastard go.”
“You don’t understand,” said Medley. “He
can’t
die. Because of what he did, his spirit is tied to his body for as long as it exists. No matter what condition the body is in, or how little remains of it.”
“He did it for me,” said Adamant. “Because I needed him.” His voice broke off roughly. Dannielle put a comforting hand on his arm.
Hawk shivered, not entirely from the cold. “Are you sure he’s still ... in there? Can he hear us?”
The mummified body stirred on its chair. The sunken eyelids crawled open, revealing eyes yellow as urine. “I may be dead, Captain Hawk, but I’m not deaf.” His voice was low and harsh, but surprisingly firm. His eyes fixed on Hawk and Fisher, and his sunken mouth moved in something that might have been meant as a smile. “Hawk and Fisher. The only honest Guards in Haven. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Nothing good, I hope,” said Fisher.
The dead man chuckled dryly, a faint whisper of sound on the quiet. “James, I think you’ll find you’re in excellent hands with these two. They have a formidable reputation.”
“Apart from the Blackstone affair,” said Dannielle.
“Everyone has their off days,” said Hawk evenly. “You can trust us to keep you from harm, sir Adamant. Anyone who wants to get to you has to get past us first.”
“And there’s damn few who’ve ever done that,” said Fisher.
“You weren’t doing so well against the blood-creatures,” said Dannielle. “If Mortice hadn’t intervened, we’d have all been killed.”
“Hush, Danny,” said Adamant. “Any man can be brought down by sorcery. That’s why we have Mortice, to take care of things like that. Is there anything you need while we’re here, Mortice? You know we can’t stand this cold for long.”
“I don’t need anything anymore, James. But you need to take more care. It would appear Councillor Hardcastle is more worried about your chances in the election than he’s willing to admit in public. He’s hired a first-class sorcerer, and turned him loose on you. The blood-creature was just one of a dozen sendings he’s called up out of the darkness. I managed to keep out the others, but there’s a limit to what my wards can do. I don’t recognise my adversary’s style, but he’s good. Very good. If I were alive, I might even be worried about him.”
Adamant frowned. “Hardcastle must know he’s forbidden to use sorcery during an election.”
“So are we, for that matter,” said Medley.
“That’s different,” said Dannielle quickly, darting a quick glance at Hawk and Fisher. “Mortice just uses his magic to protect us.”
“The Council isn’t interested in that kind of distinction,” said Mortice. “Technically, my very presence in your house is illegal. Not that I ever let technicalities get in my way. But the Council’s always had ants in its pants about magic-users. Right, Captain Hawk?”
“Right,” said Hawk. “That’s what comes of living so near the Street of Gods.”
“Tough,” said Mortice. “All the candidates have some kind of sorcery backing them up. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Magic is like bribery and corruption; everyone knows about it and everyone turns a blind eye. I don’t know why I should sound so disgusted about it. This is Haven, after all.”