Or he could go to see Le Bel Inconnu.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t go now. It was far too dangerous, with Hawk and Fisher out on the Street. They wouldn’t understand. But he couldn’t stay away either. It was already too long since his last visit. He glanced back up the stairs. Rowan would be all right. The protective wards around the house would make sure she wasn’t disturbed. And if she wanted anything, she only had to call and Tomb would hear her, wherever he was. She knew that.
He hurried down the hall, took his cloak from the rack, and swung it round his shoulders. He pulled the hood forward, adjusting it so that its shadow covered his face. He could have used a disguise spell, but there were too many places on the Street where magic couldn’t be relied on.
And this was too important to take unnecessary risks.
The sorcerer Tomb opened the door with a wave of his hand, and went out onto the Street of Gods.
Hawk and Fisher slogged up and down the Street of Gods, working their way through the list of names Tomb had given them. Hours passed, but the sun overhead didn’t move. It was noon on the Street of Gods, and had been for several days. Robed acolytes hurried past them on unknown missions, heads bowed to show respect and humility, and to avoid having to see churches and temples more splendid than their own. The street preachers were still working themselves into hysterical rages and setting fire to each other, but no one was paying much attention except the tourists. Hawk and Fisher tramped grimly back and forth, getting what information they could from the Beings that Tomb had named as potentially helpful, and doing their best to ignore the wonders and terrors that thronged the Street.
The Night People were an old necromantic sect, not as well-supported as they had once been. Their High Priest met Hawk and Fisher in the Ossuary, the Cathedral of Bone. Intricate patterns of polished bones formed the floor and walls and ceilings of the Ossuary. Some were recognisa bly human. Others were so large and grotesque that Hawk preferred not to think about where they might have come from originally. The air smelt of musk and cinnamon, and strange lights flickered in far off windows. All the time they were there, Hawk had a strong feeling they were being watched, as though something awful and implacable lurked just out of sight, waiting patiently for him to drop his guard. He kept his hand near his axe.
The Night People were blind, their eyelids stitched together, but they all moved and spoke with an eerie certainty that bordered on the unnerving. Hawk did his best to ignore the uneasy prickling on the back of his neck, and asked to see the nameless Being the Night People worshipped. The High Priest shook his head slowly. Only the faithful might see God, and that sight was so glorious it burned out the eyes of all who saw. Hawk tried to press the matter further, but the High Priest would not be moved. He wouldn’t even ask questions on the Guards’ behalf. Neither would he allow them to question the faithful. No one knew anything that might help the Guards. No one knew anything about the God killings. No one knew anything about anything.
Hawk and Fisher went from church to temple to meeting-house, and the message was always the same. The Hanged Man was polite but unhelpful. Sweet Corruption wasn’t even polite. The Lord of the New Flesh refused even to see them.
And so it went the length of the Street, until finally they came to the Legion of the Primevil. The Legion’s church was a tall building of spires and domes and crenellated towers. There were magnificent stained-glass windows, and flags and banners in a dozen different hues. Some other time Hawk might have been impressed, but as it was, all he could think of was his aching feet. It had been a long day.
The Legion priests, however, were frankly disturbing. Each and every one had a staring alien eye embedded somewhere in his flesh. It was large and crimson with a dark split pupil, and it blazed unblinkingly from forehead, chest, or hand. In a few cases it had displaced one of the priest’s original eyes, and it bulged uncomfortably in the too-small socket, glaring balefully at the world. Legend had it that the Legion was the means whereby an ancient Being from another plane of existence was able to observe the world of men.
The High Priest seemed happy enough to talk to Hawk and Fisher, but could do little to help them. With three Beings murdered in a matter of weeks, gossip ran wild on the Street of Gods. But no one knew anything for sure. People were scared. So were some of the Beings. Everyone was looking for a villain; someone to blame and strike back at. No one had mentioned God War yet, but everyone was thinking about it.
Hawk and Fisher talked with the High Priest for some time, trying to avoid staring at the great crimson eye that glared unblinkingly from his forehead. Nothing much came of it until right at the end, when the High Priest suddenly leaned forward on his throne and fixed Hawk with his unnerving stare.
“Tell me, Captain. Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?”
“No,” said Hawk cautiously. “Can’t say that I have.” He looked at Fisher, and she shook her head slightly.
The High Priest leaned back on his throne, his expression unreadable beneath the glowing third eye. “Ask Charles Buchan, Captain. He knows.”
And that was all he would say. In a matter of minutes the two Guards were back on the Street again, not much wiser than when they’d started. It was still midday, and the air was uncomfortably warm. Hawk and Fisher decided simultaneously that what they really needed to help put things in perspective was a stiff drink. Or two. Accordingly, they made their way to the nearest temple dedicated to John Barleycorn, and ordered a ceremonial libation in tall glasses. They took their drinks and settled into a private booth at the back of the temple where the lights were comfortably dim. Hawk stretched out his legs with a luxurious sigh, and propped his aching feet on a nearby chair. Fisher took off one of her boots and massaged her toes. Some moments were just too precious to interrupt, but eventually they turned their attention to their drinks, and the matter at hand.
“All right,” said Hawk. “Let’s run through what we’ve got. Three Beings are dead. Since they are dead, I think it’s safe to call them Beings rather than Gods. The Dread Lord died nine days ago. His body had been torn apart. The Sundered Man was stabbed to death six days ago. And the Carmadine Stalker apparently aged to death three days ago. Doesn’t take a genius to spot the pattern, does it?”
“A murder every three days,” said Fisher. “With another due sometime today, if the pattern continues.”
“Right,” said Hawk. “And there’s nothing we can do to prevent it. We don’t have enough information, and no one will talk to us.”
Fisher smiled briefly. “Why should the Street of Gods be any different from the rest of Haven?”
Hawk sniffed. “Anywhere else, I could persuade someone to talk to us. But the mystic was right; strong-arm tactics aren’t going to work here. If I start shoving my axe in a Being’s face, I’ll probably end up snapping at flies on a lily pad. Intimidation is very definitely out. That just leaves diplomacy.”
“I’ll leave it to you,” said Fisher. “I don’t have the knack.”
“I had noticed,” said Hawk. “What do we have on the killer? He comes and goes at will, even when the temples are heavily guarded by well-armed fanatics. Which means he’s either invisible, which means a sorcerer, or a master of disguise. Or it’s someone they expect to see, someone they don’t recognise as a threat.
“Each Being died in a different way, and as far as we can tell, none of them had anything in common. So how does the killer choose his victims? At random? Dammit, I don’t even know where to start on this case, Isobel.”
“Don’t give up so easily. Look at it this way. The killer has to be immensely strong, and able to pass unseen. So how about a supernatural killer, like a vampire? He could get past the guards by shapeshifting into a bat or a mist, and he’d be more than strong enough to tear apart the Dread Lord. It would even explain why all the killings took place in the early hours of the morning.”
Hawk thought about it. “It’s a possibility, lass, but I can’t believe the Beings wouldn’t have protective wards specifically designed to keep out supernatural vermin like that. Everybody else does, that can afford them. No, Isobel; I think magic is the key here.”
“You mean a rogue sorcerer?”
“Maybe. An invisibility spell would get him past the wards and the guards, and then he could use magic to blast apart the Dread Lord and age the Stalker to death.”
“But then why use a knife on the Sundered Man?”
“To be misleading?”
“That makes my head hurt,” said Fisher. She took a long drink from her glass, and frowned hard as she concentrated. “Wait a minute, though.... Turn it around. You can also see the killings as being linked by a lack of magic. The wards couldn’t keep the killer out. The magic keeping the Stalker alive failed. So did the magic keeping the Sundered Man out of time. And maybe it was only magic that was holding the Dread Lord together. He was hollow, remember? So maybe what we’re looking for is a sorcerer, or a man with an object of Power, that can dispel magic and leave the Beings vulnerable.”
“An object of Power that dispels magic,” said Hawk slowly. “The Exorcist Stone?”
“Oh, hell!” said Fisher. “One of the God Squad as a God killer? Come on, Hawk.”
“They’re the only ones that can use the Exorcist Stone.”
“But the Council put a compulsion on them to prevent them from misusing it!”
Hawk smiled sourly. “If this was an easy case, they wouldn’t need us to solve it. It has to be one of the God Squad, Isobel; it’s the only theory that fits all the facts. The killer must have found some way to bypass the geas.”
“We don’t dare accuse any of them without a hell of a lot of proof,” said Fisher. “These people have friends in high places. Sometimes literally. Dammit, Hawk, we’re supposed to be working with these people. How can we keep something like this from them?”
“Very carefully,” said Hawk. “Whichever one of them is the killer has already destroyed three Beings. I don’t think they’d hesitate to kill a couple of Guards who were getting too close to the truth.”
They sat in silence for a while. “So what are we going to do?” said Fisher.
“Take things one step at a time,” said Hawk. “To start with, I think we’ll have a word with Charles Buchan, and see what he knows about the Hellfire Club. Whatever that is.”
“He was the only one of the God Squad to be named during our investigation,” said Fisher thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Hawk. “Interesting, that. But perhaps just a little too obvious. Unless we’re supposed to think that ...”
Fisher groaned and shook her head, and reached for her glass again.
Hawk and Fisher left the temple of John Barleycorn, and found that night had fallen without warning. Here and there, street lamps pushed back the night as best they could, but darkness pooled thickly between them. Unfamiliar stars shone in the night sky, forming alien constellations that bore no resemblance to those seen elsewhere in Haven. There was no moon, and the night air had a feverish, unsettled quality. The Street of Gods was almost deserted. The street preachers had disappeared, and only a few hooded figures still bustled back and forth on their eternal errands. Hawk frowned unhappily. The Street wouldn’t normally be this quiet just because it suddenly got dark. But with a God killer on the loose, most people had clearly decided against taking unnecessary risks.
The two Guards headed back down the Street toward the God Squad’s headquarters. For once, Hawk’s internal clock agreed with the Street’s time, and he was quietly looking forward to a good supper. He wondered what kind of cook the Squad had. He usually did the cooking at home. Fisher hadn’t the temperament for it.
They’d just passed the mouth of a narrow alleyway when they heard a muffled cry for help. As one, they spun quickly to face the dark opening, weapons in hand, but didn’t immediately rush in to see what was happening. In the Northside, a cry for help in a dark place was bait for a trap as often as not. A single lamppost glowed dully at the end of the alley, casting more shadows than light. There was no sign of whoever had called out. Hawk looked at Fisher, and she shrugged briefly. It might just be genuine. Hawk nodded, and stepped cautiously into the alleyway. Fisher moved quietly at his side, the amber lamplight gleaming on her sword blade.
Hawk scowled unhappily as the two of them moved slowly down the alley, alert for any sign of movement. The buildings on each side were dark and silent, with no lights showing at their windows. A low scraping sound cut across the quiet somewhere up ahead, and the two Guards froze where they were, eyes straining at the shadows. Nothing moved. The silence was so deep it was like a physical presence. Fisher gently tapped Hawk’s arm to get his attention, and nodded at the structure just ahead and to their right. A window shutter was open just a crack. No light shone from inside. Fisher padded silently forward, and set her back against the wall next to the shutter. She reached up with her sword and eased the shutter open. She waited a moment, and when there was no reaction, she moved away from the wall and peered in through the window. She couldn’t see anything but the darkness, and there wasn’t a sound anywhere. Fisher looked back at Hawk, and shrugged.