“Have someone clean up the mess,” he said coldly, and then turned and left the gallery, followed by Wulf and Jillian. Roxanne looked at the torn and blood-soaked body down below.
Hardcastle strode into his study and poured himself a large drink. The speech had gone down well, and that little bastard Steele had got what was coming to him. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all. He was just lowering himself into his favourite chair when the commotion began. Someone was shouting in the corridor, and there was the sound of running feet and general panic. Hardcastle rose quickly from his chair, and his gaze went immediately to the family long-sword hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It had been a good few years since he’d last drawn that in anger, but he’d had a strong feeling he’d need the blade sooner or later during his campaign. And with Wulf’s war on Adamant’s house finally beginning to warm up, it was only to be expected that Adamant would resort in kind. Hardcastle snorted angrily as he put down his glass and pulled the long-sword from its sheath. So much for Adamant’s puerile insistence on playing by the rules. There was only one rule in politics, and that was to win.
It felt good to have a sword in his hands again. He’d spent too long in smoke-filled rooms, arguing with fools for money and support that should have been his by right. The commotion in the hall was growing louder. Hardcastle nodded grimly. Let them come. Let them all come. He’d show them he was a force to be reckoned with. He shot a quick glance at Jillian, who was standing uncertainly by the door, one hand raised to her mouth. Useless damned mouse of a wife. He’d tried to knock some backbone into her, and little good it had done him. He gestured curtly for her to get away from the door, and she fled to the nearest chair and stood behind it. The sorcerer Wulf stayed by the door, making hurried gestures with his hands and muttering under his breath.
“Well?” said Hardcastle impatiently. “What’s out there? Are we under attack?”
“Not by magic, Cameron. My wards are still holding. The attack must be on the physical plane. Mercenaries, perhaps.” He stopped suddenly, and sniffed at the air. “Can you smell smoke?”
They looked at each other as the same thought struck them both at the same time. They didn’t need to say her name. Hardcastle hurried out into the hall, sword in hand, followed by Wulf. Roxanne had her back to the wall and her sword at the ready as she faced off against two of Hardcastle’s mercenaries. She was grinning broadly. The mercenaries looked scared but determined. A little further down the hall, a huge wall tapestry was going up in flames. Several servants were trying to put it out with pans of water.
Hardcastle’s face purpled dangerously. “Roxanne! What’s the meaning of this?”
“Just having a little fun,” said Roxanne easily. “I was doing all right till these two spoilsports interfered. I’ll be with you in a minute, as soon as I’ve dealt with them.”
“Roxanne,” said Wulf quickly, before Hardcastle could say something unwise, “please put away your sword. These men belong to your employer, Councillor Hardcastle. They are under his protection.”
Roxanne sniffed ungraciously, and sheathed her sword. The mercenaries put away their swords, looking more than a little relieved. Wulf gestured for them to leave, and they did so quickly, before he could change his mind. Wulf looked at Roxanne reproachfully.
“When you signed the contract to work for Councillor Hardcastle, there was a specific clause stating that you wouldn’t start any fires except those we asked you to.”
Roxanne shrugged. “You know I can’t read.”
“I read it aloud to you.”
“It was an ugly tapestry anyway.”
“That’s as may be. But as long as you work for the Councillor you will abide by your contract. Or are you saying your word is worthless?”
Roxanne glared at him. Wulf’s stomach lurched, but he stood his ground. He knew any number of spells that would stop her in her tracks, but he had a sneaking suspicion she’d still survive long enough to kill him, no matter what he did to her. Confronting her this early was a definite risk, but it had to be done. Either her word was binding or it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t, then she was too dangerous a weapon to be used. He’d have to let her go, and hope he could kill her safely from a distance.
Roxanne scowled suddenly, and leaned against the wall with her arms folded. “All right, no more fires. You people have no sense of fun.”
“Of course not,” said Wulf. “We’re in politics.”
“If you’ve quite finished,” said Hardcastle acidly, “perhaps you’d care to accompany me back to my study. I’m expecting some very important guests, and I want both of you present. If you can spare the time.”
“Of course,” said Roxanne cheerfully. “You’re the boss.”
Hardcastle gave her a hard look, and then led the way back to his study. The DeWitt brothers were already there, waiting for him. Hardcastle silently promised his butler a slow and painful death for not warning him, and then smiled courteously at the DeWitts and walked forward to shake hands with them. At the last moment he realised he was still holding his sword, and handed it quickly to Wulf to replace on the wall. At least Jillian had had the sense to get the DeWitts a glass of wine. Perhaps the situation could still be saved.
Marcus and David DeWitt were both in their late forties, and on first impression looked much the same: tall, slender, elegant, and arrogant. Dark hair and eyes made their faces appear pale and washed out, giving their impassive features the look of a mummer’s mask. There was a quiet, understated menace in their unwavering self-possession, as though nothing in the world would dare disturb them. They’d left their swords at the front door, along with their bodyguards, as a sign of trust, but Hardcastle wasn’t fool enough to believe them unarmed. The DeWitts had many enemies and took no chances. Even with a supposed ally.
Between them, Marcus and David DeWitt ran a third of the docks in Haven, on the age-old principle of the minimum investment for the maximum gain. Their docks were notorious for being the worst maintained and the most dangerous work areas in Haven. If the DeWitts gave a damn, they hid it remarkably well. Life was cheap in Haven, and labour even cheaper. And the DeWitts’ charges were attractively low, so they never wanted for traffic. But now the dock strike was crippling them, despite the zombie scab labour. The dead men were cheap enough to run and never got tired, but they weren’t very bright and needed constant supervision. They were also easy targets for dock-worker guerrilla units armed with salt and fire.
A Conservative-backed Council would support the DeWitts against the Dock-workers Guild, even if it came down to open violence and intimidation. Reform would back the Guild. So the DeWitts were making the rounds before the election, buying themselves Councillors. Unfortunately for them, they needed Hardcastle more then he needed them. So if they wanted his support, they were going to have to pay through the nose for it.
Wulf leaned back in his chair and quietly studied the DeWitt brothers. They were an unpleasant pair, by all accounts, but he’d worked with worse in his time. Like Hardcastle, for example. A brute and a bully and not nearly as clever as he thought he was. Wulf had done a great many unpleasant things himself, down the years; his style of magic demanded it. But he did them in a businesslike way, because they were necessary. Hardcastle did unpleasant things because he enjoyed it. He was one of those people who can only prove how important they are by showing how unimportant everyone else is. Wulf frowned slightly. Such men are dangerous—to themselves, and those around them.
But for the moment, he was a man with power, a rising star; a man on the way up. Wulf could go far, riding the coattails of such a man. And when Hardcastle’s star began to wane, Wulf would move on. He had ambitions of his own. Hardcastle was just a means to an end.
“Twenty thousand ducats,” said Marcus DeWitt in his cold, flat voice. He took a folded bank draft from his coat pocket and laid it carefully on the table before him. “I trust that will be sufficient?”
“For the moment,” said Hardcastle. He gestured easily to Wulf, who leaned forward and picked up the bank draft.
“James Adamant has a hell of a lot of followers out on the streets,” said David DeWitt, opening a small silver snuff box and taking out a pinch of white powder. He sniffed delicately, and then sighed slowly as the dust hit his system. He smiled, and looked steadily at Hardcastle. “Just how do you intend to deal with this very popular Reformer, sir Hardcastle?”
“The traditional way,” said Hardcastle. “Money, and force of arms. The carrot and the stick. It never fails, providing it’s applied properly. My people are already out on the streets.”
“Adamant has money,” said Marcus. “He also has Hawk and Fisher.”
“They’re not infallible,” said Hardcastle. “They couldn’t keep Blackstone from being killed.”
“They caught his killer,” said David DeWitt. “And made sure he didn’t live to stand trial.”
“There’s no need to worry,” said Wulf. “We have our own wild card. Gentlemen, may I present the legendary Roxanne.”
She smiled at the DeWitt brothers, and they both flinched a little.
“Ah, yes,” said Marcus. “I thought I smelt something burning as we came in.”
“I always thought she’d be taller,” said David. “Taller, and covered with fresh blood.”
Wulf smiled. “She’s everything the legends say she is, and more.”
Marcus DeWitt frowned. “Does Adamant know she’s working for you?”
“No,” said Hardcastle. “Not yet. We’re saving that for a surprise.”
The sorcerer known as the Grey Veil huddled in a comer of the deserted church, shivering with the cold. He’d been there for several hours, gathering together what was left of his magic. He couldn’t believe how fast everything had fallen apart. One moment he had been a force to be reckoned with, a sorcerer with hundreds of lesser minds under his command; and then suddenly his control was broken by an interfering Guard, and he’d had to run for his life like a thief in the night. His slaves were free again, and he was a wanted man with a price on his head.
It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Enter the election as a candidate, and then possess enough people to raise an army of voters. Once on the Council, all kinds of powerful men would have been vulnerable to his possession. A simple plan; so simple it seemed foolproof. He should have known something would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Veil hugged his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had no idea how the Guards had found him out. It didn’t really matter. He’d staked everything he had on one roll of the dice and had nothing left with which to start again. He’d be lucky to get out of Haven alive.
He pulled his thin cloak tightly about him. He should have known it would come to this. All his life everything he’d turned his hand to had failed him. He’d been born into a debt-ridden family, which, as time went on, only slid further and further into poverty. He was put to work as soon as he was able, at the age of seven. He spent his childhood in the sweatshops of the Devil’s Hook, and in his adolescence moved restlessly from one lousy job to another, searching always for the one lucky break that would change his life. Whatever money he made went on plans and schemes and desperate gambles, but none of them ever came to anything. Even the girl he loved went to another man.
And then he met the old man, who found in Veil a gift for magic. He worked himself to exhaustion to pay for the old man’s lessons in sorcery, and when that wasn’t enough he stole what he needed from his friends. When he was powerful enough he killed the old man, and took his gri moires and objects of power. He became the Grey Veil, and swore an oath on his own blood that whatever happened, whatever he had to do, he would never be poor again.
Veil smiled bitterly. He should have known better. A loser was still a loser, no matter what fancy new name he took. He breathed heavily on his hands, trying to coax some warmth into his numb fingers. It was very cold in the Temple of the Abomination.
There were many abandoned churches on the Street of Gods. A Being’s power would wane, or its followers prove fickle, or perhaps simply the fashion would change, and overnight a church whose walls had once rung to the sound of hymns of adoration and the dropping of coins into offertory bowls would find itself suddenly deserted and abandoned. Eventually another congregation would take over the building, worshipping another god, and business would go on as usual. But some abandoned churches were left strictly alone, for fear of what might linger in the silence.
The Temple of the Abomination had stood empty and alone for centuries; a simple, square stone building on the lower end of the Street of Gods. It wasn’t very large, and from the outside it looked more like a downmarket mausoleum than a church. It had no windows, and only the one door. It wasn’t locked or bolted. The Temple of the Abomination had a bad reputation, even for the Street of Gods. People who went in tended not to come out again. Veil didn’t give a damn. He needed a place to hide where no one else would think to look. Nothing else mattered.
It slowly occurred to him that the church didn’t seem as dark as it had been. When he’d first crept inside the church, he’d pulled the door shut behind him, closing out the light. The pitch darkness had been a comfort to him then, an endless night that would hide him from prying eyes. But now he could clearly make out the interior of the church, such as it was. There wasn’t much to see, just plain stone walls and a broken stone altar set roughly in the centre of the room. Veil frowned. Where the hell was the light coming from?