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.
She turned to move away, and the window burst outwards as a dark figure smashed through it. Powerful arms grabbed Fisher from behind and hauled her back through the shattered window. Hawk lunged forward, but she’d already disappeared into the dark building. He took a deep breath, and pulled himself up and through the window in one quick, graceless movement.
He hit the floor rolling and threw himself to one side. He scrambled up into a defensive crouch, axe held out before him, and then froze where he was. He couldn’t see a damn thing, and all he could hear was his own carefully controlled breathing. There was always the chance the attacker had already fled, but Hawk didn’t think so. This whole thing smelled like a planned ambush. He started to wonder why and then pushed the thought firmly to one side. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was what had happened to Fisher.
He bit his lip angrily. He couldn’t just stay put. The attacker’s eyes were bound to be more used to the dark than his. For all Hawk knew, the bastard was already creeping up on him from behind. That thought was enough to push Hawk into a decision. Moving quickly but carefully, he put his axe down on the floor, ready to hand, and then eased a box of matches from his pocket. He opened the box and took out a single match. He pressed it against the side of the box and then hesitated. It had to light on the first try. If it didn’t, the sound would be enough to give away his position and what he was doing. He’d be an easy target. Hawk took a deep breath, let it out, and struck the match.
Light flared at his hand, illuminating the room. Fisher was down on one knee, on the other side of the room. A dark, hooded figure stood over her, knife in hand. Hawk dropped the match and snatched up his axe.
“Isobel! Hit the floor!”
Fisher threw herself forward without hesitation, and in that brief moment before the match reached the floor and went out, Hawk aimed and threw his axe with all his strength behind it. Darkness filled the room. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor, and then silence. Hawk scrabbled at his box of matches and quickly lit another match. Light flared up again. The hooded figure was lying on its back, the heavy steel blade of the axe buried in its chest. Fisher was in a defensive crouch not far away, unharmed, sword at the ready. Hawk let out a long sigh of relief. He took his emergency stub of candle from his pocket and lit it with the match. He put it down on the floor and walked over to Fisher.
“You all right, lass?”
“A few cuts and scratches, that’s all. My cloak protected me from anything worse.”
Hawk nodded, relieved, and leant over the body to retrieve his axe. He grabbed the hilt, and the body came alive.
It surged up off the floor, reaching for Hawk’s throat.
He stumbled backwards, trying to pull the axe free, but the blade was tightly wedged in the figure’s breastbone. Heavy, powerful hands closed around Hawk’s throat.
Fisher loomed up behind the attacker, snarling with rage, and her sword flashed once in the candlelight as it swept round to sink deep into his neck. Hawk pulled at the hands round his throat and felt them loosen. Fisher jerked her sword free in a flurry of blood and struck again, grunting with the effort. Blood flew again as the sword half-severed the head from the body. Hawk pulled free, and with that, all the strength seemed to go out of the hooded figure, and it fell to the floor and lay still. Hawk kicked the body several times, just to be sure, and then tugged his axe free. Fisher knelt down and pulled back the figure’s hood. Her hand came away bloody, but that wasn’t what made her gasp. Even in the dim light, both she and Hawk recognised the face.
It was the Dark Man. The sorcerer Bode’s double.
“Damn me,” said Hawk shakily “How many times do we have to kill him before he stays dead?”
“It’s not the same man ...” said Fisher slowly. “The build’s different. Not nearly as muscular. Which suggests that Bode didn’t stop with just the one double....”
“So there could be any number of them still out there,” said Hawk. “Just waiting for another chance at us.”
“Great,” said Fisher. “Just what this case needs. More complications.”
4
HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION
“The Hellfire Club?” said Charles Buchan. “Of course I’ve heard of it. But I don’t see what it’s got to do with anything.”
“Let us worry about that,” said Hawk. “You just tell us what you know.”
The God Squad and the two Guards were back in their headquarters’ drawing room, catching up on what they’d all been doing. Tomb in particular seemed very interested in Hawk and Fisher’s reactions to the various Beings they’d seen, and kept pressing them for details. Rowan looked utterly disinterested, and kept rubbing at her forehead as though bothered by a persistent headache. She’d spent most of the day in bed, sleeping. It didn’t seem to have helped her much. Buchan looked calm and completely self-possessed, as always. Hawk’s stomach rumbled. The sooner they got this over with and settled down to a good supper, the better.
“The Hellfire Club is the latest craze among the younger Quality,” said Buchan easily. “They get dressed up in strange costumes, take whatever drugs are fashionable, chant rituals, and try to raise something from the Gulfs so they can sell their souls to it, in return for power and miracles. It’s harmless.”
“It doesn’t sound harmless,” said Fisher. “What if they succeed?”
“They won’t,” said Buchan. “It takes more than a few chants and bad intentions to raise a demon. No, Captain, it’s just playacting, nothing more. A way to let off some steam and upset their parents at the same time. If it even looked like they were succeeding at raising something nasty, they’d either run a mile or faint from shock.”
“Either way, it’s still illegal,” said Hawk flatly. “Any kind of religious rite or ceremony is expressly forbidden outside the Street of Gods. It’s the only way to keep these things under control. Why haven’t you reported the Hellfire Club to the Council?”
“We did,” said Rowan, her voice too tired to hold its usual acid. “We reported it to the Council, they reported it to the Guard, and your superiors filed the report carefully away and ignored it. The Hellfire Club is run by the Quality for the Quality, and the Guard knows bette
r than to try and interfere. The Quality don’t give a damn about the law. They don’t have to. They own it.”
“Not always,” said Fisher. She looked at Hawk. “I think we’d better do something about this, Hawk.”
Hawk frowned. “It’s not really our province, Isobel. Our authority is limited to the Street of Gods, for the time being.”
“Come on, Hawk,” said Fisher. “Doesn’t it seem just a little too coincidental to you that soon after the Quality start their rituals, the Beings start dying? There must be a connection, or why would the priest have told us about the Club?”
Hawk looked at Buchan. “She’s got a point.”
“They won’t talk to you,” said Buchan. “The Quality don’t talk to outsiders about anything.”
“They’ll talk to us,” said Hawk. “Isobel and I talk very loudly, and we don’t take kindly to being ignored.”
Buchan sighed. “In that case, I’d better come with you. I talk the Quality’s language. Maybe I can keep them from killing you. Or vice versa.”
The Quality were throwing a party.
Nothing unusual in that. The city aristocracy based their lives around parties, politics, and the pursuit of pleasure. Not necessarily in that order. But this one looked to be something rather special, and Hawk and Fisher were determined to be there. According to Buchan, at this particular party the Hellfire Club would be in session.
They made their way through High Tory, that part of Haven exclusively reserved for the Quality. While Hawk and Fisher looked interestedly around them at the magnificent halls and mansions, Charles Buchan kept up a running commentary on the Quality, and how they fitted into Haven life. Hawk and Fisher knew most of it already, but let him talk. There was always the chance they’d learn something new; about Buchan, if not the Quality.
There were exactly one hundred Families in the Quality, never more, and together they formed a separate little state within the city-state of Haven. The only way in was to be born a part of it, or marry into it. Personal wealth wasn’t enough. A man could be poor as a church mouse, and still look down on the wealthiest of merchants, if he had the right blood in his veins. The aristocracy’s wealth was mostly inherited, though some of it still came from rents and the like; between them the Quality owned most of Haven and the surrounding lands. They could have been even richer if some of that wealth had been invested in Haven’s businesses, but that just wasn’t done. Trade was for the lower, merchant classes. Technically, the Quality were subordinate to the elected city Council, which represented King and Parliament, but in reality both sides were careful not to put pressure on the relationship from either direction.
Hawk let Buchan drone on, listening with one ear at most. He had his own problems. The party they were going to gate-crash was being hosted by Lord Louis Hightower, and that might lead to complications. The present Lord Hightower had come to his estate after the tragic deaths of both his father and elder brother. Both men had died violently during the course of enquiries into murders on which Hawk had been the investigating officer. No one blamed him for the deaths. Officially, he’d been cleared of any negligence. It remained to be seen what Lord Louis Hightower felt about the matter. The Quality had its own private ideas on justice and retribution. Officially, the Guard were exempt from the Code Duello, or any other form of vengeance, but that was just officially. In this, as in so many other matters, the Quality went its own way when it suited them.
The cold winter air was brisk and bracing after the artificial summer warmth of the Street of Gods. Hawk kicked moodily at the dirty slush that covered the road and the pavement. The Council was supposed to scatter grit and salt on the road at the first sign of approaching winter, but they always left it too late, with the excuse of not wanting to waste money by acting too soon. So this year, as every year, a gritting that could have been done in an hour or two would now take two or three days, during which business would grind to a halt all over the city. Typical..
Hightower Hall loomed up ahead, dominating the surroundings at the end of Royal Row. It was a long, impressive two-storey building of the best local stone, the great wide windows blazing with light. A high stone wall surrounded the luxurious grounds, topped with iron spikes and broken glass. Four men-at-arms in chain mail manned the tall iron gates. They looked very professional. Hawk slowed his pace, and put a hand on Buchan’s arm to stop his monologue.
“Looks like they’re expecting trouble,” he said quietly, nodding at the men-at-arms. “The Quality’s security measures aren’t usually so ostentatious. And you can bet that if there are four armed men in clear sight, there are a hell of a lot more patrolling the grounds and scattered throughout the Hall. Are you sure this is the right place, Buchan? I’d hate to fight my way in and then find I was at the wrong address.”
Fisher sniggered. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“This is the place,” said Buchan. “I still have a few contacts with High Society. The Hellfire Club meets here tonight. And Captain, please: no violence. The God Squad has its reputation to think of. Besides, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting in; I’ve acquired invitations for all of us.”
“Pity,” said Fisher. “I was quite looking forward to a good dust-up. There’s nothing like kicking a few supercilious backsides to put you in a good mood.”
Buchan looked at her sharply. She didn’t appear to be joking. “Please, Captain Fisher. Promise me you won’t kill anyone.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Hawk. “We’ll be on our best behavior. We’ll just ask our questions, get some answers, and leave. Right, Isobel?”
Fisher sniffed. “You’re getting old, Hawk.”
“I’m not even sure what we’re doing here,” said Buchan. “The Hellfire Club may be technically illegal, but there isn’t a Court in Haven that would convict a member of the Quality on such a minor charge.”
“You’re probably right,” said Hawk. “Personally, I don’t give much of a damn about the Hellfire Club itself; but there’s got to be a reason why that priest pointed us in their direction. It may just be professional jealousy, but I don’t think so. Somewhere, there’s a connection between the Club and the God murders, and I want to know what it is.”
The men-at-arms at the gate looked suspiciously at Buchan’s engraved invitations, and passed them back and forth amongst themselves before reluctantly opening the gates and standing back. Buchan retrieved the invitations while Hawk and Fisher strolled casually into the grounds as though they owned the place. Buchan smiled politely at the men-at-arms and then hurried after Hawk and Fisher as they strode off up the gravel pathway that led to Hightower Hall.
“Not the front door,” he said quickly. “The men-at-arms might have been fooled by the invitations, but no one else will be. Anyone with real authority will take one look at your Guards’ cloaks and slam the door in our faces. Only the Quality and their personal servants are allowed into a Quality home. Our only chance of crashing this party is to sneak in through the servants’ entrance at the back. Once inside, everyone will just assume you’re wearing costumes in rather bad taste.”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and Buchan’s heart sank as he took in their expressions. “We don’t sneak in through the back door,” said Hawk firmly. “We’re Captains in the city Guard. We go in through the front door. Always. Right, Isobel?”
“Right, Hawk.” Fisher smiled slowly. “And anyone who tries to slam the door in my face will regret it.”
The two Guards headed determinedly for the front door, their hands resting on the weapons at their sides. Buchan wished briefly but vehemently that he was somewhere else, anywhere else, and followed them.
Hawk pulled the bell rope and knocked firmly on the front door. Fisher kicked it a few times for good measure. After a discreet pause, the massive oak door swung open, revealing a tall and very dignified butler dressed, as tradition demanded, in slightly out-of-date formal wear. He had a thick mane of carefully groomed grey hair, and a pair of impressiv
ely bushy eyebrows that descended slowly into an even more impressive scowl as he took in the two Guards standing before him. ,
“Yes?” he said, disdainfully, his mouth tucking in at the corners as though he’d just bitten into an especially sour lemon.
“We’re here for the party,” said Hawk easily. “Show him the invites, Buchan.”
Buchan quickly held them forward. The butler didn’t even bother to look at them. “There must be some mistake ... sir. This gathering is exclusively for the young gentlemen and ladies of the Quality. You have no business here ... sir.”
“My partner and I are Captains in the city Guard,” said Hawk. “We’re here on official business.”
The butler gestured sharply, and two men-at-arms appeared behind him, swords in hand. The butler smiled slightly, his eyes cold and contemptuous.
“You forget your place, Captain. Your petty rules and regulations have no bearing here, among your betters; your lords and masters. Now kindly remove yourselves from these premises. At once.”
“You’re not going to be reasonable about this, are you?” said Hawk.
“Leave now,” said the butler, “Or I’ll have my men set the dogs on you.”
Hawk hit him briskly, well below the belt, waited a moment as the butler folded forward, and then punched him out. By the time the two men-at-arms had reacted, Hawk had drawn his axe and Fisher had drawn her sword, and the two Guards had walked over the butler’s unconscious body and into the hallway. The men-at-arms looked at them, and then at Charles Buchan, the most famous duellist in Haven, and quickly sheathed their swords.