“I wouldn’t count him out completely,” said Adamant. “Brotherhood militants took The Downs away from the Conservatives at the last election. I think it would be wise to keep a good weather eye on General Longarm.”
“Any more candidates?” said Fisher, helping herself to more wine from the nearest decanter.
“Just one,” said Medley. “A mystery candidate. A sorcerer, called the Grey Veil. No one’s seen or heard anything about him, but his name’s on the official list. Magicians aren’t actually banned from standing in the election, but the rules against using magic are so strictly enforced, most magic-users don’t bother. They say they’re unfairly discriminated against, and they may well be right. Mortice says he’s never even heard of the Grey Veil, so he can’t be that powerful.”
Hawk frowned. “We had a run-in with a sorcerer, earlier today. It might have been him.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” said Fisher. “We ran him off. If he was the Grey Veil, I think we can safely assume he’s no longer standing. Running, maybe, but not standing. The report we filed will see to that.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Hawk. “Apart from us, there’s Hardcastle and his mercenaries, militant Brothers of Steel, and a handful of independents with whatever bullies and bravos they can afford. Adamant, this isn’t just an election, it’s an armed conflict. I’ve known battles that were safer than this sounds like it’s going to be.”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” said Dannielle.
“I think that’s covered everything,” said Adamant. “Now, would anyone like a quick snack before we leave? I doubt we’ll have time to stop to eat once we’ve started.”
Hawk looked hopefully at Fisher, but she shook her head firmly. “Apparently we’re fine,” said Hawk. “Thanks anyway.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Dannielle. “It’ll only take a minute to send word to the kitchen staff and the food taster.”
Hawk looked at her. “Food taster?”
“People are always trying to poison me,” said Adamant, shrugging. “Reform has a lot of enemies in Haven, and particularly in the High Steppes. Mortice sees to it that none of the attempts get past the kitchens, so the food taster’s really only there as a backup. Even so, you wouldn’t believe what he’s costing me in danger money.”
“I don’t think we’ll bother with the snack,” said Hawk. Fisher gave the wine at the bottom of her glass a hard look.
“You stick with us, Hawk,” said Medley, grinning. “And we’ll give you a solid grounding on politics in Haven. There’s a lot more to it than meets the eye.”
“So I’m finding out,” said Hawk.
3
WOLVES IN The Fold
Brimstone Hall stood aloof and alone in the middle of its grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall emblazoned with protective runes. Armed men watched from behind the massive iron gates, and guard dogs patrolled the wide-open grounds. Rumour had it the dogs had been fed human meat just long enough to give them a taste for it. There used to be apple trees in the grounds. Hardcastle had them torn up by the roots; they offered shelter to potential assassins.
Cameron Hardcastle was a very careful man. He trusted nothing and no one, with good cause. He had destroyed many men in his time, one way or another, and helped to ruin many more. It was said he had more enemies than any other man in Haven. Hardcastle believed it, and took pride in the fact. In a city of harsh and ruthless men, he had made himself a legend. Constant death threats were a small price to pay.
The Hall itself was a crumbling stone monstrosity held together by ancient spells and never-ending repair work. It was stiflingly hot in the summer and impossible to heat in the winter, but it had been home to the Hardcastles for years past counting, and Cameron would not give it up. Hardcastles never gave up anything that was theirs. They were supposed to have been instrumental in the founding of Haven, which might have been why so many of them had been convinced they should be running it.
Cameron Hardcastle began his career in the Low Kingdoms army. It was expected of him, his class, and his family, and he hated every minute of it. He left the army after only seven years, retiring in haste before he could be court martialled. It was said the charges would have been extreme cruelty, but no one took that seriously. Extreme cruelty was usually what got you ahead in the Low Kingdoms army. The men fought so well because they were more afraid of their officers than they were of the enemy.
More importantly, there were rumours of blood sacrifice behind locked doors in the officers’ mess, but no one talked about that. It wasn’t considered healthy.
Hardcastle himself was an average-height, stocky man, with a barrel chest and heavily muscled upper arms. He was good-looking in a rough, scowling way, with a shock of dark hair and an unevenly trimmed moustache. He was in his mid-forties, and looked it, but you only had to meet him for a few moments to feel the strength and power that radiated from him. Whatever else people said about him—and there was a lot of talk, most of it unpleasant—they all admitted the man had presence. When he entered a crowded room, the room fell silent.
He had a loud, booming laugh, though his sense of humour wasn’t very pleasant. Most people went to the theatre for their entertainment; Hardcastle’s idea of a good time was a visit to the public hangings. He enjoyed bear-baiting, prizefights, and kept a half-dozen dogs to go ratting with. On a good day he’d nail the rats’ tails to the back door to show his tally.
He was Conservative because his family always had been, and because it suited his business interests to be so. The Hardcastles were of aristocratic stock, and no one was allowed to forget it. Of late, most of their money came from rents and banking, but no one was foolish enough to treat Hardcastle as a merchant or a businessman. Even as a joke. It wouldn’t have been healthy. When he thought about politics at all, which wasn’t often, Hardcastle believed in everyone knowing their place, and keeping to it. He thought universal suffrage was a ghastly mistake, and one he fully intended to rectify at the first opportunity. Reform was nothing more than a disease in the body politic, to be rooted out and destroyed. Starting with James bloody Adamant.
Hardcastle sat in his favorite wing chair, staring out the great bow window in his study and scowling furiously. Adamant was going to be a problem. The man had a great deal of popular support, more than any previous Reform candidate, and taking care of him was going to be difficult and expensive. Hardcastle hated spending money he didn’t have to. Fortunately, there were other alternatives. He turned his gaze away from the window, and looked across at his sorcerer, Wulf.
The sorcerer was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a fine noble head that was just a little too large for his body. Thick auburn hair fell to his shoulders in a mass of curls and knots. His face was long and narrow, and heavy-boned. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. He dressed always in sorcerer’s black, complete with cape and cowl, and looked the part to perfection.
Wulf was a newcomer to Haven, and as yet hadn’t shown much evidence of his power, but no one doubted he had it. A few weeks back he’d been attacked by four street thugs. It took the city Guard almost a week to find a horse and cart sturdy enough to carry the four stone statues away. They ended up on the Street of Gods. Tourists burn incense sticks before them, but the statues are still silently screaming.
Sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, with head bowed and hands clasped neatly in her lap, was Jillian Hardcastle, Cameron’s wife. She was barely into her mid-twenties, but she looked twenty years older. She had been pretty once, in an unremarkable way, but life with Hardcastle had worn her away until there was no character left in her face; only a shape, and features that faded from memory the moment she was out of sight. She dressed in rich and fashionable clothes because her husband expected it of her, but she still looked like what she was: a poor little country mouse who’d been brought into the city and had every spark of individuality beaten out of her. Those who spent time in Hardcastle’s company had learned not to comment on the occasional bruises and black eyes that marked Jillian’s face, or the mornings she spent lying in bed, resting.
They’d been married seven years. It was an arranged marriage. Hardcastle arranged it.
He glared at Wulf for a long moment, and when he finally spoke his voice was deceptively calm and even. “You told me your magics could break through any barrier Adamant could buy. So why is he still alive?”
Wulf shrugged easily. “He must have found himself a new sorcerer. I’m surprised anyone would work with him after what I did to his last magic-user, but then, that’s Haven for you. There’s always someone, if the money’s right. It won’t make any difference in the long run. It may take a little time to find just the right opening, but I doubt this magic-user will be any more difficult to dispose of than the last one.”
“More delays,” said Hardcastle. “I don’t like delays, sorcerer. I don’t like excuses, either. I want James Adamant dead and out of the way before the people vote. I don’t care what it costs, or what you have to do; I want him dead. Understand, sorcerer?”
“Of course, Cameron. I assure you, there’s no need to worry. I’ll take care of everything. I trust the rest of your campaign is running smoothly?”
“So far,” said Hardcastle grudgingly. “The posterers have been out since dawn, and my mercenaries have been dealing with Adamant’s men quite successfully, in spite of the interfering Guard. If Adamant is foolish enough to try and hold any street gatherings, my men will see they don’t last long. Commoners don’t have the guts to stand and fight. Spill some blood on the cobbles, and they’ll scatter fast enough.”
“Quite right, Cameron. There’s nothing at all to worry about. We’ve thought of everything, planned for every eventuality. Nothing can go wrong.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, sorcerer. Something can always go wrong. Adamant’s no fool, either; he wouldn’t still be investing so much time and money in his campaign if he didn’t think he had a bloody good chance of beating me. He knows something, Wulf. Something we don’t. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Whatever you say, Cameron. I’ll make further enquiries. In the meantime, I have someone waiting to meet you.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,”
said Hardcastle. “Your chief of mercenaries. The one you’ve been so mysterious about. Very well; who is it?”
Wulf braced himself. “Roxanne.”
Hardcastle sat up straight in his chair. “Roxanne? You brought that woman into my house? Get her out of here now!”
“It’s perfectly all right, Cameron,” said Wulf quickly. “I brought two of my best men to keep an eye on her. I think you’ll find her reputation is a little exaggerated. She’s the best sword-for-hire I’ve ever come across. Unbeatable with a blade in her hand, and a master strategist. She works well on her own, or in charge of troops. She’s done an excellent job for us so far, with remarkably few fatalities. She’s a genuine phenomenon.”
“She’s also crazy!”
“There is that, yes. But it doesn’t get in the way of her work.”
Hardcastle slowly settled back into his chair, but his scowl remained. “All right, I’ll see her. Where is she?”
“In the library.”
Hardcastle sniffed. “At least there’s not much there she can damage. Jillian, go and get her.”
His wife nodded silently, got to her feet and left the study, being careful to ease the door shut behind her so that it wouldn’t slam.
Hardcastle turned away from the bow window, and stared at the portrait of his father, hanging on the wall opposite. A dark and gloomy picture of a dark and gloomy man. Gideon Hardcastle hadn’t been much of a father, and Cameron had shed no tears at his funeral, but he had been a Councillor in Haven for thirty-four years. Cameron Hardcastle was determined to do better. Being a Councillor was just the beginning. He had plans. He was going to make the name Hardcastle respected and feared throughout the Low Kingdoms.
Whatever it took.
Roxanne prowled restlessly back and forth in Hardcastle’s library, her boots sinking soundlessly into the thick pile carpet. The two mercenaries set to guard her watched nervously from the other side of the room. Roxanne smiled at them now and again, just to keep them on their toes. She was tall, six foot three even without her boots, with a lithe, muscular body. She wore a shirt and trousers of bright lime-yellow, topped with a battered leather jacket. She looked like a vicious canary. She wore a long sword on her left hip, in a well-worn scabbard.
At first sight she was not unattractive. She was young, in her early twenties, with a sharp-boned face, blazing dark eyes, and a mass of curly black hair held in place with a leather headband. But there was something about Roxanne, something in her unwavering gaze and disturbing smile that made even the most experienced mercenary uneasy. Besides, everyone knew her reputation.
Roxanne first made a name for herself when she was fifteen, fighting as a sword-for-hire in the Silk Trail vendettas. The rest of her company were wiped out in an ambush, and she had to fight her way back alone through the enemy lines. She killed seventeen men and women that night, and had the ears to prove it. The people who saw her stride back into camp that night, laughing and singing, covered in other people’s blood and wearing a necklace of human ears, swore they’d never seen anything more frightening in their lives.