Captains Hawk and Fisher, you are to report to the Deity Division on the Street of Gods. Your orders are waiting for you there. You are seconded to the Division until further notice. Message ends.
The rasping voice was suddenly gone from their minds. Hawk spat out his mouthful of sausage, and shook his head gingerly. “If he doesn’t stop using that bloody gong I swear I’m going to pay him a visit and stick it somewhere painful.”
Fisher snorted. “From what I hear, you’d have to join the queue. This would have to happen now, right in the middle of a murder case. The Deity Division; what the hell does the God Squad want with us?”
“Beats me,” said Hawk. “Maybe a God’s got out of hand, and they want us to lean on him.”
Fisher looked at him. “I hope you’re not going to talk like that on the Street of Gods, Hawk. Because if you are, I’d be obliged if you’d keep well away from me. As I understand it, most Gods don’t have a sense of humour. And the few that do have a downright nasty one. After all, we’re talking about Beings who tend towards striking down heretics with lightning bolts, and dispensing plagues of boils when Church takings are down on the week before.”
“You worry too much,” said Hawk.
“And it’s all because of you,” said Fisher.
The Street of Gods lies in the centre of Haven, right in the middle of the high-rent district. Hundreds of religions crowd side by side up and down the Street, promising hope and salvation, doom and destruction, and whatever else people need to keep them from thinking about the darkness at the end of all life. Everyone needs something to believe in, something that offers comfort in the face of despair, and whatever it is you’re looking for, you’ll find it somewhere on the Street of Gods. Churches and temples of all kinds stand shoulder to shoulder, each proclaiming the glory of its particular God and ostentatiously ignoring everyone else’s. Everywhere you look there’s a High Priest claiming to know the Truth of All Existence, and ready to share it with the faithful in return for regular tithes and offerings. Religion is big business in Haven.
According to the official city maps, the Street of Gods is exactly half a mile long. In fact, the Street is as long as it has to be to fit everything in. It’s possible to start at one end of the Street, walk all day, and still not reach the far end before night falls. And then there are always the little side streets and back alleys, unmarked on any map, where the persistent enquirer can find the more controversial faiths and religions, the existence of which is often hotly denied in the clear light of day. There are doors that lead to mysteries, to wonders and nightmares, and few of them can be found in the same place twice.
Reality tends to be rather elastic on the Street of Gods.
The Deity Division, commonly known as the God Squad, exists to keep order on the Street. The city Council appoints its members, pays its wages, and does its best to pretend the Squad doesn’t exist. Most of the time they try to pretend the whole damned Street doesn’t exist. It makes them nervous. On the whole, things tend to be quiet on the Street. The great majority of Beings prefer to believe they’re the only ones there, and won’t even admit the existence of any other Churches. But there are always the occasional feuds and vendettas, human and inhuman natures being what they are. The God Squad was there to try and head off confrontations before they happened, whenever possible. Sometimes it wasn’t possible, and that was when the Squad earned their money.
“You worked with the Squad once, didn’t you?” said Hawk to Fisher, as they made their way through the slush-covered streets towards the heart of the city. The sun was starting its slow climb up the sky, and the freezing streets were full of well-wrapped people heading to and from work.
“Briefly,” said Fisher. “It was while you were working on that werewolf case, the one where young Hightower died. I was teamed with five other Guards on the Shattered Bullion case, and we spent a few days working with the God Squad. Didn’t come to anything.”
“What were they like?” said Hawk.
Fisher shrugged. “Stuck-up bunch, as I recall.”
“Apart from that, what were they like? Give me some details, Isobel. Like it or not, we’ve got to work with these people, and I want to know what I’m getting into.”
Fisher scowled thoughtfully. “The Squad is always made up of three people: a sorcerer, a mystic, and a warrior. Individuals come and go, but the mix stays the same. Presumably the Council are so relieved at finally finding a balance that works, they don’t want to mess with it. This particular group has been together for four years. They’ve got a good track record.”
“The sorcerer is called Tomb. Cheerful name. He’s a bit older than us, quiet, thoughtful, powerful as all hell, and so easygoing it’s disgusting. One of those people who prides himself on never raising his voice. A pigeon could crap on his head and he wouldn’t ask for a handkerchief. Probably have ulcers by the time he’s forty.
“The mystic is called Rowan. She’s young, a pleasant enough sort, but crazy as a brewery-rat. Heavily into signs and omens and herbalistic remedies. She gave me a herb tea for my head cold, and I had the runs for two days. She’s got the Sight, and a few minor magics, but mostly she earns her keep by figuring out how the various Beings think. She’s supposed to be very good at that. Probably because she’s just as weird as they are.
“The warrior is Charles Buchan. You must have heard of him. The greatest duellist, intriguer, and womanizer this city’s ever known. Mid-forties, handsome, daring, and debonair—and about as modest as a peacock. Been getting into scrapes all his life, and talking and fighting his way out of them with equal ease. But he really shouldn’t have sneaked past the King’s Guards and gone to bed with the King’s latest mistress on the same night the King decided to pay her a visit.
“Apparently he was given a straight choice: a career in the Guard or a lifetime in gaol. How he ended up in the God Squad is anybody’s guess, but he’s taken to it like a politician to bribes.”
“And this is the group we’re joining,” said Hawk. “Great. Just great. I’m going to hate this assignment; I just know it. I was looking forward to working on the dead sorcerer case. How is it that whenever there’s a particularly dangerous or unpleasant job that needs doing, our names are always at the top of the list?”
“Because we’re the best,” said Fisher. “And because we’re too honest for our own good. The odds are we were getting too close to something sensitive, and someone wanted us out of the way for a while.”
“Someone among our own superiors in the Guard.”
“Probably. That’s Haven for you.”
Hawk growled something indistinct under his breath.
They came finally to the Street of Gods and stepped suddenly out of winter and into summer. The snow and slush stopped dead at the entrance to the Street, and the air was dry and warm. A bright midday sun shone overhead in a clear blue sky. Hawk looked at Fisher, but neither of them said anything. The Street of Gods went its own way and followed its own rules. Whatever they were.
Hawk and Fisher made their way down the Street, staring resolutely straight ahead. They’d visited the Street before, while working on their last case, and knew how easy it was to get distracted. Crowds of priests and worshippers bustled back and forth on unknown errands, and the air was full of the clamour of the street preachers, spreading the Word to anyone who would listen. A huge shadow plunged the Street into gloom for a moment as something impossibly massive passed by overhead. Hawk didn’t look up. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to know. The shadow passed on, and the bright sunlight returned. Hawk began to sweat heavily under his furs and cloak.
Something like a man-sized toad squatted on a street corner and sang sweetly with a young girl’s voice. The begging bowl before it was filled with bloody pieces of meat. Something long and spindly with too many legs scuttled up the side of a building, hugging a dead cat to its thorax. A small child with ancient eyes thrust steel pins through its own arms, giggling obscenely. A street preacher was levitating three or four feet above the ground, his head hanging back, his face a mask of ecstasy. Only the tourists paid any attention. It took more than mere exhibitionism to attract a following on the Street of Gods.
The God Squad’s headquarters turned out to be a squat little two-storey building tucked away in one of the many quiet backwaters off the Street of Gods. Hawk knocked twice on the discreet front door, and then he and Fisher waited patiently on the front step, keeping a watchful eye on the area, just in case. The narrow back alley seemed calm and quiet, but Hawk wasn’t ready to take anything on trust in the Street of Gods. The door finally opened, revealing a short bald man in his early thirties, dressed in sorcerer’s black. He beamed at the two Guards like a benevolent uncle, and it took Hawk a moment to realise that this pleasant-looking fellow had to be the sorcerer Tomb.
“Captain Fisher, my dear. How nice to see you again. And you must be Captain Hawk. Delighted. Do come in, do come in. We’ve been expecting you.”
He ushered the two Guards down a short passage and into a small but comfortably appointed drawing room. He fussed around them as they settled into their chairs, keeping up a pleasant chatter all the while. Hawk took all of this with a pinch of salt. Tomb might like to come across as everyone’s favourite relative, but you didn’t get to be a first-class sorcerer through good intentions and a charming personality. It took long years of single-minded dedication, and not a little ruthlessness. Hawk smiled politely at Tomb’s jokes, and made a mental note not to turn his back on the sorcerer. He didn’t trust people who smiled too much. Tomb finally produced an exquisite cut-glass decanter and poured three generous glasses of sherry. Hawk took his and sipped it perfunctorily. He’d never much cared for the syrupy stuff, but he knew Fisher loved it. Tomb stopped talking for a moment as he savoured his sherry, and Hawk took advantage of the pause to get in a few words of his own.
“Pardon me, sir Tomb, but perhaps you could inform us as to what we’re doing here. Usually when the God Squad needs help, you call in the Special Wizardry And Tactics team. What good can a couple of ordinary Guards do you?”
Tomb bit his lower lip and looked suddenly furtive. “If you don’t mind, Captain Hawk, I think we ought to wait until both my colleagues are here. They won’t be long. The situation is ... rather complicated.”
The door suddenly flew open, and Hawk and Fisher looked round, startled, as a stocky young woman strode in, slamming the door shut behind her. She stood glaring at Hawk and Fisher for a long moment, nose in the air and hands on hips. She was short, barely five feet in height, which made her look even heavier than she was, and her round, pleasant face was marred by a perpetual scowl. Her dark hair was cropped short like a helmet, and her heavy eyebrows intensified her fierce demeanour. The dark, shapeless robe she wore was more suited to an older woman. She couldn’t have been much into her twenties, but she looked at least ten years older.
“What are they doing here?” she snapped, switching her glare to the sorcerer Tomb. “I told you I didn’t want them here.”
“The Council sent them,” said Tomb easily, apparently unaffected by her angry stare. “They seem to think we could do with a little help.”
The woman sniffed loudly. “If we can’t work out what the hell’s going on with all our experience, I don’t see how a couple of strong-arm bullies from the Guard are going to help.”
“That’s enough, Rowan,” said Tomb sharply, and there was enough bite in his tone to silence the mystic.
Hawk studied Tomb thoughtfully over his sherry glass. It would seem the sorcerer had hidden depths after all. Hawk was just nerving himself to try another sip of his sherry, when the door flew open again and a tall muscular man strode in, shoulders back, head held high. Hawk didn’t need Fisher to tell him that this was the notorious Charles Buchan.
He was handsome in a harsh, brooding way, with a head of close-cropped blond curls and icy blue eyes, and his arms and chest showed the kind of muscle definition you only get from lifting weights. He was supposed to be in his forties, but his superb physique made him look a good ten years younger. He was dressed in the latest fashion and wore it well, which took some doing when you considered that the latest style consisted of tightly cut trousers and a padded jerkin with a chin-high collar. In fact, if the trousers had been cut any more tightly, Hawk would have seriously considered arresting the man for indecent exposure. Buchan’s clothes were brightly coloured but stopped just short of being garish; so short that the effect had to be intentional. Hawk couldn’t help noticing that the outfit had been carefully tailored so that there was plenty of give around the chest and shoulders. Charles Buchan might like to look up-to-the-minute, but clearly he wasn’t prepared to let that interfere with his fighting abilities.
Hawk shot a glance at Fisher to see what she made of the man, and was disturbed to find her studying Buchan with a smile on her face. Hawk’s eyebrows had just started to descend into a scowl, when Buchan stepped forward and greeted him cheerfully, slapping him just a little too hard on the shoulder. Hawk winced despite himself. Buchan turned to Fisher, who extended a hand to him. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it expertly, his eyes on hers. Hawk’s scowl deepened. Fisher didn’t normally let people kiss her hand. Buchan let go of her hand with becoming reluctance, and straightened up to his full height, pulling back his shoulders a little so as to show off his broad chest and flat stomach.