“We’ll just have to make them listen.”
“In that case, I want a sword. I can be much more convincing with a sword in my hand.”
Hawk looked at her, amused. “I thought we weren’t supposed to hurt them because they were just innocent bystanders?”
“I just meant we shouldn’t kill them. Apart from that, anything goes. No one chases me up three flights of cold stone stairs in my bare feet and gets away with it.”
Jamie and David made their way slowly along the first floor, carefully checking each room as they came to it. It hadn’t taken them long to work out an efficient system. They’d stop and listen carefully at the door, while Alistair and Brennan kept a watchful eye on the corridor. Then David would ease the door open, Jamie would kick it in, and they’d both charge into the room, swords at the ready. Once they were sure the room was empty, they’d turn the place upside down, just in case there were any secret hiding places Jamie didn’t know about. Then out into the corridor, and do the same with the next room. Over and over again. The long run of empty rooms was starting to take its toll on their nerves, but Jamie and David stuck at it. Having to just stand and watch helplessly as the freak drained the life out of Greaves had hardened their hearts till there was no room in either of them for anything but revenge.
Jamie still had trouble believing Greaves was dead. The man had been with the MacNeils for more than twenty years; to Jamie it seemed as though he’d always been there. He’d often played with Jamie when he was a child, and been his confidant and advisor when no one else could be bothered to listen. He’d never been a warm man—there had always been something distant about him—but he was always there when Jamie needed him. And now he was gone; dead and gone, like all the others, and there was no one left to tell him what to do for the best. He was the MacNeil now, and the Family depended on him. His Family and his friends. He was damned if he’d let them down.
Alistair kept a careful watch on the empty corridor as Jamie and David ransacked another room. The girl Isobel worried him. Why should she insist on sticking by her brother when it must have been obvious to her that he was the freak, and her real brother was dead? Surely the freak couldn’t be controlling her that completely.... No, if he had that kind of control, that kind of power, he wouldn’t have run from them in the first place. Could it be that Isobel had seen something in Richard that proved he was still who he claimed to be ... ? Alistair scowled. Richard had to be the freak; it was the only explanation that made sense after all the lies he’d caught the man in. Isobel just didn’t want to believe her brother was dead. Alistair sighed, and hefted his sword thoughtfully. He’d have to be careful she didn’t get hurt when they finally cornered the freak and killed him.
He glanced at Brennan, who was studying the darker shadows and alcoves with professional thoroughness. The man looked solid and reliable and somehow more alive than he’d ever seemed before. It was as though the man he’d once been had woken up and taken over from the second-rate minstrel he’d become. Alistair felt a hell of a lot safer with this new Brennan to guard his back. Jamie and David meant well, but they had no real experience with blood and pain and sudden death. That was why he let them check out the rooms. Wherever the freak had gone to ground, it wouldn’t be in any of the rooms. He was too clever for that. No; far more likely he’d be using one of the old secret passages or hidden bolt holes, waiting for a chance to jump out on his unsuspecting pursuers and pick them off one at a time while they were busy searching empty rooms....
Alistair took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. And swore to himself that when the moment finally came, no trace of compassion would stay his hand.
Hawk and Fisher sat side by’ side on the cold stone floor with their backs to the wall, as far away from the stairs as they could get. They’d been arguing for what seemed like hours, and they were still no nearer agreeing on anything. There were just too many theories and too few facts. They were after two men, not one, and anything that fit one case inevitably didn’t fit with the other. They finally fell silent, staring up and down the gloomy, curving corridor. They didn’t dare light any lamps for fear of giving away their position, and the shadows all around seemed dark and menacing and not a little mocking.
“There has to be an answer here somewhere,” said Hawk wearily. “But I’m damned if I can see it.”
“Keep looking,” said Fisher. “We’re running out of time. They’ll be here soon. There must be something we’re missing, something so obvious we’re looking right past it.”
“All right,” said Hawk, “Let’s try turning the problem on its head. Assume that all our assumptions so far are wrong. Where does that take us?”
“Right back where we started,” said Fisher. “We can’t just throw everything out, Hawk.”
“Why not? Our assumptions aren’t getting us anywhere. Start at the very beginning. We’ve been assuming the spy Fenris went to the sorcerer Grimm for a complete shapechange, so that no one would be able to recognize him. Which meant that anyone who could prove they’d had the same appearance for the past twenty-four hours could be ruled out as a suspect. But ... what if the spy had already been to Grimm for a shapechange earlier on, and had just gone back there to get his old shape back?”
Fisher looked at him. “How the hell did we miss something that obvious?”
“Trying to do two jobs at once. This is the first real chance we’ve had to sit down and think things through since we got here.”
“That’s true. But if Fenris didn’t change his appearance, then that throws everything wide open again. He could be anyone. That shapechange was the only way we had of separating Fenris out from the pack.”
Hawk grinned. “There’s one other way. Dubois told us the spy is a member of the Quality. And like I said at the time, why would one of the Quality want to be a spy? The usual incentives are politics and money, but most Quality don’t give a damn about politics and already have more money than they can hope to spend in one lifetime. But one of our merry band here at Tower MacNeil has money problems coming out of his ears. He’s admitted he has huge gambling debts, and even more damning, he actually talked about starting a business venture, a gossip paper, on the grounds it might make him money. What respectable member of the Quality would dirty his hands with vulgar trade, unless he was desperate to pay off his debts?”
“David ...” said Fisher. “David Brook. You’re right, Hawk; it fits!”
“He couldn’t go to his Family or friends for the money without admitting he’d made a fool of himself, and his pride wouldn’t allow him to do that. The moneylenders would want security he didn’t have; he doesn’t actually own anything solid until he inherits his estate on his father’s death. He was hoping to marry money through Holly, but according to Duncan’s will, all she gets is some jewellery and whatever allowance Jamie feels like granting her.”
“Right! That’s why he got so upset on her behalf at the will reading!”
“Right. Holly was his last chance. He must have known he couldn’t depend on her, and that’s why he took to spying. With so many of his Family in the army and the diplomatic corps, he had opportunities to get at all sorts of information. He’s our spy, Isobel. No doubt about it.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Fisher. “That’s all very well, but it doesn’t help us one damn bit with our current problem, which is how to identify the freak before the others get here. If we can’t point a convincing finger at someone else, they’ll kill us. Or we’ll have to kill them. And if we end up having to kill a bunch of Quality, even in self-defence, that’s the end of us in Haven. All the Families in the city would declare vendetta against us, and the Guard would withdraw our immunity rather than openly confront the Quality.”
“All right,” said Hawk. “Don’t panic. I’m working on it. I still think it’s Alistair. He lied to us about the Red Marches, and he was very quick to condemn me as the freak. Perhaps he thought he could turn suspicion away from himself by accusing me.”
r /> “He was pretty eager, wasn’t he?” said Fisher. “And it’s interesting that no one seems to actually remember him being banished from Tower MacNeil in the first place. He had to have been a contemporary of Duncan’s, so how is it Katrina had never even heard of him?”
“Because Alistair doesn’t exist,” said Hawk. “He’s just a mask the freak created to hide behind. Well, at least now we should be able to sow a few doubts; assuming we get a chance to speak our piece.”
He broke off suddenly and looked towards the stairs. They both tensed as they heard quiet, furtive footsteps slowly drawing nearer. They rose quickly to their feet, throwing off their tiredness with practiced ease. They’d be tired later, when they had the time. Fisher’s hand dropped to her side where her sword should have been, and she cursed briefly.
“We never did get round to finding me a sword.” She reached out and took an oil lamp from its niche in the corridor wall. She shook it and listened to the oil gurgle, unscrewed the lamp into its two parts, and spilled the oil in a wide sweep across the floor. She then threw away the lamp, took a box of matches from her pocket, and held them concealed in her hand.
“Good thinking,” said Hawk. “I’ve always admired your essentially sneaky and devious nature.”
“You say the nicest things,” said Fisher.
The footsteps grew louder. Hawk drew his sword, and he and Fisher stood side by side. Jamie and David appeared round the curve of the corridor, and came to a sudden halt as they saw their prey waiting patiently for them. Alistair and Brennan moved quickly in beside Jamie and David. Hawk fixed Jamie with his best authoritative gaze.
“Listen to me, Jamie; I’m not the freak, but I know who is.”
“Kill him,” said Jamie. “Shut his lying mouth.”
The four of them started forward, swords raised. Hawk cursed, but held his ground. “Listen to me, dammit! I can prove what I’m saying!” Jamie broke into a run, David only a step behind him. Hawk looked at Fisher. “All right; do it.”
Fisher struck a match. It flared up on the first try, and she dropped it into the oil. It caught in a second, and flames leapt up to block off the corridor. Hawk and Fisher backed away from the searing heat, and then tensed as a dark figure came hurtling through the flames. It was Alistair. He stood before them, smoke rising from his smouldering clothes, his mouth stretched in a cold and deadly grin. He stepped forward, sword at the ready, and Hawk went to meet him. Sparks flew in the narrow corridor as steel rang on steel, and Hawk knew right away that he was in serious trouble. Alistair was a superior swordsman, and Hawk wasn‘t, anymore. With his axe in his hand he could probably still have given a good account of himself, but as it was, it was all he could do to defend himself. He backed slowly down the corridor, using every trick he knew to buy himself some breathing space, but Alistair knew them all, and their counters. He began to press home his attack, his death’s-head grin never once faltering. And then Fisher stepped out of the shadows to Alistair’s left, and kicked him expertly behind the knee. He collapsed and fell forward as pain exploded in his leg. Hawk and Fisher turned and ran down the corridor.
Alistair slowly forced himself back onto one knee, paused for breath, and then got to his feet, favouring his aching leg. He’d underestimated Isobel. He wouldn’t do that again. He looked back, and saw the others gingerly making their way round the edges of the dying flames. He gestured impatiently for them to join him, and started down the corridor after his prey, ignoring the pain in his leg.
Farther down the corridor, Hawk stopped suddenly and Fisher almost ran into him. “What is it, Hawk? Problem?”
“More like a stroke of luck,” said Hawk. “I remember this bit of corridor. There’s a secret passage here ... somewhere. Jamie showed it to me earlier on.” He pressed hard against a particular piece of stone moulding, and a section of the wall swung soundlessly open. Hawk grinned.
“Grab a lamp, Isobel. With any luck, it’ll be ages before the others can be sure we’re no longer on this floor.”
Fisher took a lamp from the wall and lit it, and the two of them plunged into the narrow tunnel. The section of wall closed silently behind them.
In the library, Holly sat staring disconsolately into the fire. The quiet crackling of the flames was the only sound in the room. Arthur had tried to keep her spirits up with his usual dry humour and amusing anecdotes, but he soon stopped when he realized she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the thought that David was in danger and there was nothing she could do to help him.
She still couldn’t believe how easily Richard had taken her in. Taken them all in. She should have sensed something was wrong about him ... but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d actually found him rather likeable, in an unpolished kind of way. The thought depressed her, and she looked listlessly round the room, searching for something her eyes could settle on that wouldn’t require her to think or feel anything in particular. Arthur was sitting next to her, his eyelids drooping, a glass of something as always in his hand. He looked half asleep; either the drink or the strain was getting to him. Sitting next to him, Katrina glared blindly straight ahead, lost in thought, the heavy iron poker still clutched firmly in both hands. Her knuckles showed white from the fierceness of her grip. And Marc was sitting comfortably in his chair, a little away from the rest of them, staring thoughtfully at nothing. He seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, and Holly looked at him enviously. Sometimes it seemed to her that she’d never feel relaxed again.
The flames leapt up suddenly as a log shifted in the fire, and Arthur studied it out of one eye for a moment, before letting it half close again. In a way, he almost wished he’d gone with the others. At least then he would have been doing something, instead of just waiting and worrying, not knowing what was happening. Maybe it was all over by now, and they’d found Richard and killed him, and everything could get back to normal again. Or maybe Richard had killed them all, picking them off one at a time from hiding, and was now on his way back down the stairs, to finish the job and silence everyone who could identify him. Arthur stirred unhappily, but kept his features relaxed and his eyes half closed. He didn’t want Holly to see he was worried. She looked scared enough as it was.
His hand dropped self-consciously to the sword at his side. He’d had the same training all young Quality men went through as a matter of course, but truth be told he’d never drawn the blade in anger in his life. He’d never given much of a damn about his honour; certainly not enough to risk his life in a duel over it. Besides, he’d never been much of a swordsman, and he might have got hurt. But it wasn’t just his life that was at stake now. There was Holly to think of. She was depending on him and Marc to defend her if things went wrong. Arthur’s mouth tightened. Probably Marc would turn out to be an expert with a sword, and he wouldn’t be needed. That was how things usually went. No one had ever needed Arthur in his life. But if worst came to worst, and there was only him left between Holly and the freak, he hoped he’d find the courage to do the right thing, for once in his life.
He looked across at Marc, and frowned slightly. He couldn’t say he’d never warmed to the man. He seemed pleasant enough, in a dull, earnest kind of way, but basically Marc had all the character of a block of wood. He had no interests or opinions of his own, and absolutely no sense of humour. It wasn’t often that Arthur found someone he could feel superior to, and he rather enjoyed the novelty, but there was something about Marc he didn’t care for. He was too quiet, too bland, too self-effacing. It just wasn’t natural for a man to be that polite. And then Marc raised his head and looked at Holly, and Arthur felt a sudden chill go through him. Marc looked different somehow. He looked ... Arthur sat up straight suddenly as the thought hit him. Marc looked hungry.
Marc turned his head to look at Arthur, and smiled pleasantly.
“Something wrong, Arthur?”
Arthur tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was very dry. “I don’t know.”
“You look as th
ough you’ve seen a ghost. Or something worse. What do you think, Arthur? Have you seen something worse?”
“Maybe. Maybe I have.”
Katrina looked at them both, frowning. “What are you two talking about?”
“We’re talking about me,” said Marc. “It’s a fascinating subject, really.” He rose lithely to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, smiling easily at them all. “Tell me, Arthur, when did you first begin to suspect?”
“I’m not sure,” said Arthur numbly. “Maybe earlier on, when I noticed you never ate anything that was offered to you, and although you always had a glass of wine in your hand, you never drank from it. Drunks notice that kind of thing. And you were always too self-controlled, too unaffected by the things that were happening here.”
“Ah yes,” said Marc. “Emotions. I never could get the hang of them. Unless you count hunger as an emotion. I’m always hungry.”
“No,” said Holly, her eyes widening as she shrank back in her chair. “It can’t be. You can’t be ...”
“I’m afraid so,” said Marc. “And they’ve all gone off and left the three of you alone with me. We’re quite safe in here. No one can get to us; I’ve seen to that. Or did you never consider that a barricade will serve just as well to keep people in, as well as out?”
Katrina glared at him, holding her poker before her. “You come near me, and I’ll kill you, you ... freak!”
“Such a harsh word,” said Marc. “But unfortunately for you, perfectly accurate. I’m afraid I’ve waited as long as I can, and I really don’t care to wait any longer. The others will be busy killing each other by now, so we shouldn’t be interrupted.”
“You don’t have to do this,” said Holly. “We wouldn’t tell anyone about you. Honest.”
“Oh, I think you would.” said Marc. “If you had the chance. But I’m afraid I can’t afford to leave any witnesses. So I’ll take care of you three first, and then I’ll go upstairs and introduce myself to whatever survivors there may be. I couldn’t do that before: I wasn’t strong enough. And the memories got in the way. But now Greaves is mine, the memories are under control, and after I’ve drained the life and strength out of you as well ... When the wards go down tomorrow morning, I shall leave this Tower and go down into the city, and I will feed and feed and feed, and never be hungry again.