"I'd like a word with you, sir sorcerer."
"Of course, Adam. What can I do for you?"
"Sell me this house."
Gaunt shook his head firmly. "Adam, I've told you before; I'm not interested in selling. This house suits me very well, and I've spent a great deal of time investing both it and the grounds with my own magical protections. Moving now would be not only expensive and highly inconvenient, it would also mean at least six months' hard work removing those spells before anyone else could live here."
"The money needn't be a problem," said Stalker. "I'm a rich man these days. You can name your price, sorcerer."
"It's not a question of money, Adam. This house suits me. I'm quite happy here and I don't want to move. Now I hate to be ungracious about this, but there's really no point in your continuing to pester me about selling. Your gold doesn't tempt me in the least; I already have all I need. I don't see why this house is so important to you, Adam. There are others just like it scattered all over the city. Why are you so obsessed with mine?"
"Personal reasons," said Stalker shortly. "If you should happen to change your mind, perhaps you would give me first refusal."
"Of course, Adam. Now, while you're here, I'd like a word with you."
"Yes?"
"What's happened between you and William? Have you quarreled?"
"No." Stalker looked steadily at Gaunt. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, come on, Adam; I'm not blind. I don't think the pair of you have exchanged two words you didn't have to in the last few weeks. I thought perhaps you'd had a falling-out, or something."
Stalker shook his head. "Not really. I'm here, aren't I? It was just a difference of opinion over what our next project should be. It'll work itself out. And now, if you'll excuse me…"
He nodded stiffly to Gaunt, and walked away. The sorcerer watched him go, his face carefully impassive. Something was wrong; he could feel it. Stalker might talk calmly enough, but the man was definitely on edge. Still, it wasn't likely he'd make any trouble. Not here, not at William's party. Gaunt frowned. Just the same, perhaps he'd better have a word with Bowman; see if he knew anything. If something had happened to upset Stalker, he'd make a dangerous enemy.
Lord and Lady Hightower stood together, a little apart from the rest of the guests. Lord Roderik looked out over the gathering, his eyes vague and far away. Lady Elaine put a gentle hand on his arm.
"You look pale, my dear. Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine. Really."
"You don't look it."
"It's the heat, that's all. I hate being trapped in the city during the summer. Damn place is like an oven, and there's never a breath of fresh air. I'll be all right, Elaine. Don't fuss."
Lady Elaine hesitated. "I saw you talking to the Guards. That is him, isn't it?"
"Yes. He let our boy die."
"No, Rod. It wasn't that man Hawk's fault, and you know it. You can't go on blaming him for what happened. Do you blame yourself for every soldier under your command who died in battle because you didn't predict everything that could go wrong? Of course you don't."
"This wasn't a soldier. This was our son."
"Yes, Rod. I know."
"I was so proud of him, Elaine. He wasn't going to waste his life fighting other people's battles; he was going to make something of his life. I was so proud of him…"
"I miss him as much as you, my dear. But he's gone now, and we have to get on with our lives. And you've more important things to do than waste your time feuding with a Captain of the city Guard."
Lord Roderik sighed, and looked at her properly for the first time. For a moment it seemed he was going to say something, and then he changed his mind. He looked down at her hand on his arm, and put his hand on top of hers. "You're right, my dear. As usual. Just keep that man out of my sight. I don't want to have to talk to Captain Hawk again."
Stalker picked up one of the canapés and studied it dubiously. The small piece of meat rolled in pasta looked even smaller in his huge hand. He sniffed at it gingerly, shrugged, and ate it anyway. When you're out in the wilds for days on end you can't ever be sure where your next meal's coming from. So you eat what you can, when you can, or risk going hungry. Old habits die hard. Stalker looked about him, and his gaze fell on Graham Dorimant, talking with the witch Visage. Stalker's lip curled. Dorimant. Political adviser. Probably never drew a sword in anger in his life. All mouth and no muscle. He had his uses, but… Stalker shook his head resignedly. These were the kinds of people he was going to have to deal with, now that he'd entered the political arena. Stalker smiled suddenly. He'd thought life in the wilds was tough, until he'd entered politics. These people would eat you alive, given half a chance.
And politics was going to have to be his life, from now on. He was getting too old for heroics. He didn't feel old, but he had to face the fact that he just wasn't as strong or as fast as he once was. Better to quit now, while he was still ahead. He hadn't lasted this long by being stupid. Besides, politics had its own rewards and excitements. The pursuit of power… Long ago, when he was young and foolish, a princess of a far-off land had offered to marry him, and make him king, but he'd turned her down. He hadn't wanted to be tied down. Things were different now. He had money, and he had prestige, so what was there left to reach for, except power? The last great game, the last challenge. Stalker frowned suddenly. Everything had been going fine. He and William had been an unbeatable team, until… Damn the man. If only he hadn't proved so stubborn… Still, there wouldn't be any more arguments after tonight. After tonight, he'd be free to go his own way, and to hell with William Blackstone.
Stalker looked over at the young witch Visage, and smiled slightly. Not bad-looking. Not bad at all. Not quite to his usual taste, but there was a quiet innocence in her demure mouth and downcast eyes that appealed to him. It's your lucky night, my girl. He moved over to join her and Dorimant. They both bowed politely to him, but Stalker didn't miss the barely suppressed anger in Dorimant's eyes.
"Good evening, sir warrior," said Dorimant smoothly. "You honor us with your presence."
"Good to see you again," said Stalker. "Keeping busy, are you? Still digging up secrets and hauling skeletons out of the cupboards?"
"We all do what we're best at," said Dorimant.
"And how are you, my dear?" said Stalker to Visage. "You're looking very lovely."
"Thank you," said Visage quietly. She glanced at him briefly and then lowered her eyes again.
"Not drinking?" said Stalker, seeing her hands were empty. "Let me get you some wine."
"Thank you, no," said Visage quickly. "I don't care for wine. It interferes with my concentration."
"But that's why we drink it, my child," said Stalker, grinning. "Still, the alcohol in wine needn't always be a problem. Watch this."
He poured himself a large glass of white wine from a handy decanter, and then held up the glass before him. He said half a dozen words in a quick, rasping whisper, and the wine stirred briefly in the glass, as though disturbed by an unseen presence. It quickly settled itself, and the wine looked no different than it had before.
"Try it now," said Stalker, handing the glass to Visage. "All the taste of wine, but no alcohol."
Visage sipped the wine tentatively.
"Good trick," said Hawk.
Stalker looked quickly round. He hadn't heard the Guard approach. Getting old, he thought sourly. And careless. He bowed politely to Hawk.
"A simple transformation spell," he said calmly. "The wine doesn't change its basic nature, of course; that would be beyond my simple abilities. The alcohol is still there; it just can't affect you anymore. It's a handy trick to know, on occasion. There are times when a man's survival can rest on his ability to keep a clear head."
"I can imagine," said Hawk. "But I always thought you distrusted magic, sir warrior. That seems to be the one thing all the songs about you agree on."
"Oh, them." Stalker shrugged dismissively. "I never wrote any o
f them. When you get right down to it, magic's a tool, like any other; just a little more complicated than most. It's not that I distrust magic; I just don't trust those who rely on it too much. Sorcery isn't like a sword or a pike; magic can let you down. And besides, I don't trust the deals some people make to gain their knowledge and power."
He looked at Gaunt on the far side of the room, and his eyes were very cold. Hawk looked thoughtfully at Stalker. Dorimant and Visage looked at each other.
"Thank you for the wine, sir warrior," said Visage. "It's really very nice. But now, if you'll excuse us, Graham and I need to discuss some business with the Hightowers."
"And I must return to my partner," said Hawk.
They bowed politely, and then moved quickly away, leaving Stalker standing alone, staring after Visage. You rotten little bitch, he thought finally. Ah, well, she wasn't really my type anyway.
The sorcerer Gaunt raised his voice above the babble of conversation, and called for everyone's attention. The noise quickly died away as they all turned to face him.
"My friends, dinner will soon be ready. If you would like to go up to your rooms and change, I will be serving the first course in thirty minutes."
The guests moved unhurriedly out of the parlor and into the hall, talking cheerfully among themselves. Gaunt disappeared after them, presumably to check on how the first course was coming along. Hawk and Fisher were left alone in the great parlor.
"Change for dinner?" said Hawk.
"Of course," said Fisher. "We're among the Quality now."
"Makes a change," said Hawk dryly, and they both laughed.
"I'm getting rid of this cloak," said Fisher. "I don't care if we are representing the Guard; it's too damned hot to wear a cloak."
She took it off and draped it carelessly over the nearest chair. Hawk grinned, and did the same. They looked wistfully at the great table at the rear of the parlor, covered with a pristine white tablecloth and gleaming plates and cutlery. There was even a massive candelabrum in the middle of the table, with all the candles already lit.
"That looks nice," said Hawk.
"Very nice," said Fisher. "I wonder if we're invited to dinner."
"I doubt it," said Hawk. "We probably get scraps and leftovers in the kitchen, afterwards. Unless Blackstone decides he wants a food taster, and I think Gaunt would probably take that as an insult to his culinary arts."
"Ah, well," said Fisher. "At least now we can sit down for a while. My feet are killing me."
"Right," said Hawk. "It's been a long day…"
They drew up chairs by the empty fireplace, dropped into them, and stretched out their legs. The chairs were almost indecently comfortable and supportive. Hawk and Fisher sat in silence a while, almost dozing. The unrelenting muggy heat weighed down on them, making sleep seem very tempting. The minutes passed pleasantly and Hawk stretched lazily. And then Katherine Blackstone came hurrying into the parlor, and Hawk sat up with a jolt as he saw the worry in her face.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," said Katherine hesitantly.
"Not at all," said Hawk. "That's what we're here for."
"It's my husband," said Katherine. "He went into our room to get changed while I paid a visit to the bathroom. When I came back, the door to our room was locked from the inside. I knocked and called, but there was no answer. I'm afraid he may have been taken ill or something."
Hawk and Fisher looked quickly at each other, and got to their feet.
"I think we'd better take a look," said Hawk. "Just in case. If you'd show us the way, please…"
Katherine Blackstone nodded quickly, and led them out of the parlor and into the hall. Hawk's hand rested on the axe at his side. He had a bad feeling about this. Katherine hurried down the hall and up the stairs at the far end, grabbing at the banister as though to pull herself along faster. Hawk and Fisher had to push themselves to keep up with her. Katherine reached the top of the stairs first, and ran down the landing to the third door on the left. She hammered on the door and rattled the doorknob, then looked worriedly at Hawk.
"It's still locked. Captain. William! William, can you hear me?" There was no reply. Katherine stepped back and looked desperately at Hawk. "Use your axe. Smash the lock. I'll take the responsibility."
Hawk frowned as he drew his axe. "Perhaps we should talk to Gaunt first…"
"I'm not waiting! William could be ill in there. Break the door down now. That's an order. Captain!"
Hawk nodded, and took a good grip on his axe. "Stand back, then, and give me some room."
"What the hell is going on here?" said Gaunt, from the top of the stairs. "Captain; put down your axe."
Hawk looked steadily at the sorcerer. "Councilor Blackstone doesn't answer our calls, and his door is locked from the inside. Do you have a spare key?"
Gaunt came forward to join him. "No," he said slowly, "I've never needed any spares." He looked at the closed door, and his mouth tightened. "William could be hurt. Smash the lock."
Hawk nodded, and swung his axe at the brass lock, using all his strength. The blade sank deep into the wood, and the keen edge bit into the brass. The heavy door shook violently in its frame, but didn't open. Hawk jerked the blade free, and struck again. The axe sheared clean through the lock. Hawk smiled slightly as he pulled the blade free. It was a good axe. He kicked the door open, and he and Fisher hurried into the room, with Katherine and Gaunt close behind.
William Blackstone lay on his back on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A knife hilt protruded from his chest, and his shirtfront was red with blood.
Chapter Three
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Katherine Blackstone pushed past Hawk and Fisher, and ran forward to kneel beside her husband. Her hand went briefly to his chest, and then to his face. She looked back at Hawk, and her face was blank and confused.
"He's dead. He's really dead. Who… Who…"
She suddenly started to cry, great rasping sobs that shook her whole body. Fisher moved forward and knelt beside her for a moment before putting an arm round her shoulders and helping her to her feet. She led Katherine away from the body and made her sit down on the bed. Katherine accepted this docilely. Tears rolled down her face, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Shock. Hawk had seen it before. He looked at Gaunt, standing beside him in the doorway. The sorcerer looked shaken and confused, unable to take in what had happened.
"Gaunt," said Hawk quietly, "you're her friend; get her out of here. Fisher and I have to examine the body."
"Of course," said Gaunt. "I'm sorry, I… of course."
"And, Gaunt…"
"Yes?"
"Take her downstairs, get somebody to sit with her, and then set up an isolation spell. I don't want anyone or anything getting in or out of this house."
"Yes. I understand."
Gaunt went over to Katherine and spoke softly to her. Katherine shook her head dazedly, but got to her feet as Gaunt went on talking to her, his voice low and calm and persuasive. They left the room together, and Hawk shut the door behind them. Hawk and Fisher looked at the dead body, and then at each other.
"Some bodyguards we turned out to be," said Hawk.
Fisher nodded disgustedly. "This is going to be a real mess, Hawk. Blackstone was the best thing to happen to this city in years. What's going to happen with him gone?"
"If we don't find out who killed him, and quickly, there'll be riots in the streets," said Hawk grimly. "Damn. I liked him, Isobel. He trusted us to keep him safe, and we let him down."
"Come on," said Fisher. "We've got work to do. I'll check the room, you check the body."
Hawk nodded, and knelt down beside Blackstone. He looked the body over from head to toe, careful not to touch anything. Blackstone's face was calm and relaxed, the eyes open and staring at the ceiling. His hands were empty. One leg had buckled under him as he fell back, and was trapped beneath the other. The knife had been driven into his heart with such strength that the crosspiece of the kni
fe was flush with Blackstone's chest. Hawk looked at the weapon closely, but it seemed a perfectly ordinary knife. There were no other wounds on the body, or any sign that Blackstone had tried to defend himself. The shirt around the knife was soaked with blood. Hawk frowned. With a wound like that, you'd expect a lot more blood…
"Look at this," said Fisher.
Hawk looked up sharply.
Fisher was crouched down beside the bed, staring at a wineglass lying on its side on the thick rug. There was a little red wine left in the glass, and a few drops had spilled out onto the rug. The crimson stains looked disturbingly like blood. Fisher dipped a finger into the wine in the glass, and then lifted it to her mouth.
"Don't," said Hawk. "It could be poisoned."
Fisher sniffed at her finger. "Smells okay."
"Leave it anyway, until we've had a chance to check it."
"Come on, Hawk. Why poison Blackstone and then stab him through the heart?"
"All right, I'll admit it's highly unlikely. But you never know. Wipe your fingers off thoroughly, okay?"
"Okay." Fisher wiped her finger on the bedspread, and then moved over to crouch down beside Hawk. She stared glumly at the body, and shook her head slowly. "Well. How do you see it happening?"
Hawk frowned. "The door was locked from the inside, and Blackstone had the only key. At least, I assume he had it. I'll check in a minute to make sure. Anyway, I think we're fairly safe in assuming it wasn't suicide. First, he had everything to live for. Second, there had been threats on his life. And third, he'd have a hell of a hard job stabbing himself like that. Apart from anything else, the angle's all wrong. No, suicide is definitely out."
"Right," said Fisher. "So, somebody got in here, stabbed Blackstone, and then left, leaving the door locked from the inside. Tricky. Could Blackstone have locked the door himself, after he was stabbed?"
"No," said Hawk. "With a wound like that, he must have died instantly."