Wulf leaned back in his chair and quietly studied the DeWitt brothers. They were an unpleasant pair, by all accounts, but he'd worked with worse in his time. Like Hardcastle, for example. A brute and a bully and not nearly as clever as he thought he was. Wulf had done a great many unpleasant things himself, down the years; his style of magic demanded it. But he did them in a businesslike way, because they were necessary. Hardcastle did unpleasant things because he enjoyed it. He was one of those people who can only prove how important they are by showing how unimportant everyone else is. Wulf frowned slightly. Such men are dangerous—to themselves, and those around them.
But for the moment, he was a man with power, a rising star; a man on the way up. Wulf could go far, riding the coattails of such a man. And when Hardcastle's star began to wane, Wulf would move on. He had ambitions of his own. Hardcastle was just a means to an end.
"Twenty thousand ducats," said Marcus DeWitt in his cold, flat voice. He took a folded bank draft from his coat pocket and laid it carefully on the table before him. "I trust that will be sufficient?"
"For the moment," said Hardcastle. He gestured easily to Wulf, who leaned forward and picked up the bank draft.
"James Adamant has a hell of a lot of followers out on the streets," said David DeWitt, opening a small silver snuff box and taking out a pinch of white powder. He sniffed delicately, and then signed slowly as the dust hit his system. He smiled, and looked steadily at Hardcastle. "Just how do you intend to deal with this very popular Reformer, sir Hardcastle?"
"The traditional way," said Hardcastle. "Money, and force of arms. The carrot and the stick. It never fails, providing it's applied properly. My people are already out on the streets."
"Adamant has money," said Marcus. "He also has Hawk and Fisher."
"They're not infallible," said Hardcastle. "They couldn't keep Blackstone from being killed."
"They caught his killer," said David DeWitt. "And made sure he didn't live to stand trial."
"There's no need to worry," said Wulf. "We have our own wild card. Gentlemen, may I present the legendary Roxanne."
She smiled at the DeWitt brothers, and they both flinched a little.
"Ah, yes," said Marcus. "I thought I smelt something burning as we came in."
"I always thought she'd be taller," said David. "Taller, and covered with fresh blood."
Wulf smiled. "She's everything the legends say she is, and more."
Marcus DeWitt frowned. "Does Adamant know she's working for you?"
"No," said Hardcastle. "Not yet. We're saving that for a surprise."
The sorcerer known as the Grey Veil huddled in a corner of the deserted church, shivering with the cold. He'd been there for several hours, gathering together what was left of his magic. He couldn't believe how fast everything had fallen apart. One moment he had been a force to be reckoned with, a sorcerer with hundreds of lesser minds under his command; and then suddenly his control was broken by an interfering Guard, and he'd had to run for his life like a thief in the night. His slaves were free again, and he was a wanted man with a price on his head.
It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Enter the election as a candidate, and then possess enough people to raise an army of voters. Once on the Council, all kinds of powerful men would have been vulnerable to his possession. A simple plan; so simple it seemed foolproof. He should have known something would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Veil hugged his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had no idea how the Guards had found him out. It didn't really matter. He'd staked everything he had on one roll of the dice and had nothing left with which to start again. He'd be lucky to get out of Haven alive.
He pulled his thin cloak tightly about him. He should have known it would come to this. All his life everything he'd turned his hand to had failed him. He'd been born into a debt-ridden family, which, as time went on, only slid further and further into poverty. He was put to work as soon as he was able, at the age of seven. He spent his childhood in the sweatshops of the Devil's Hook, and in his adolescence moved restlessly from one lousy job to another, searching always for the one lucky break that would change his life. Whatever money he made went on plans and schemes and desperate gambles, but none of them ever came to anything. Even the girl he loved went to another man.
And then he met the old man, who found in Veil a gift for magic. He worked himself to exhaustion to pay for the old man's lessons in sorcery, and when that wasn't enough he stole what he needed from his friends. When he was powerful enough he killed the old man, and took his grimoires and objects of power. He became the Grey Veil, and swore an oath on his own blood that whatever happened, whatever he had to do, he would never be poor again.
Veil smiled bitterly. He should have known better. A loser was still a loser, no matter what fancy new name he took. He breathed heavily on his hands, trying to coax some warmth into his numb fingers. It was very cold in the Temple of the Abomination.
There were many abandoned churches on the Street of Gods. A Being's power would wane, or its followers prove fickle, or perhaps simply the fashion would change, and overnight a church whose walls had once rung to the sound of hymns of adoration and the dropping of coins into offertory bowls would find itself suddenly deserted and abandoned. Eventually another congregation would take over the building, worshipping another god, and business would go on as usual. But some abandoned churches were left strictly alone, for fear of what might linger in the silence.
The Temple of the Abomination had stood empty and alone for centuries; a simple, square stone building on the lower end of the Street of Gods. It wasn't very large, and from the outside it looked more like a downmarket mausoleum than a church. It had no windows, and only the one door. It wasn't locked or bolted. The Temple of the Abomination had a bad reputation, even for the Street of Gods. People who went in tended not to come out again. Veil didn't give a damn. He needed a place to hide where no one else would think to look. Nothing else mattered.
It slowly occurred to him that the church didn't seem as dark as it had been. When he'd first crept inside the church, he'd pulled the door shut behind him, closing out the light. The pitch darkness had been a comfort to him then, an endless night that would hide him from prying eyes. But now he could clearly make out the interior of the church, such as it was. There wasn't much to see, just plain stone walls and a broken stone altar set roughly in the centre of the room. Veil frowned. Where the hell was the light coming from?
Curiosity finally stirred him from his hiding place in the corner, and he rose slowly to his feet. He moved forward, wincing as his stiff joints creaked protestingly. The small sounds seemed very loud on the quiet. Outside on the Street of Gods the clamor of a hundred priests filled the air from dawn to dusk, augmented by the hymns and howls of the faithful, but not a whisper of that turmoil passed through the thick stone walls.
Veil peered about him, but there seemed no obvious source to the dim blue light that filled the church. He glanced down at his feet to see which way his shadow was pointing, and his heart missed a beat. He didn't have a shadow. A cold hand clutched at his heart, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. There had to be a shadow; there were other shadows all around him. Some of them were moving. Veil stumbled back a step and looked quickly about him, but there was nothing and no one in the church with him, and the quiet remained unbroken. He took a deep breath and made himself hold it for a long moment before letting go. This was no time to be letting his imagination get the better of him. The light was nothing to worry about. There were bound to be stray vestiges of magic in a place like this.
He made himself walk over to the stone altar. It didn't look like much, up close. Just a great slab of stone, roughly the shape and size of an average coffin. He winced mentally at the comparison, and walked slowly round the altar. It was cracked from end to end, and someone had cut runes of power into the stone with a chisel. Veil's lips moved slowly as he worked out the meaning. T
he runes were part of a restraining spell, meant to hold something in the stone.
Veil frowned. All he knew about the Temple of the Abomination was what everybody knew. Hundreds of years ago, when the city was still young, a cult of death and worse than death had flourished on the Street of Gods, until the other Beings had joined together to destroy the Abomination and all its worshippers. It all happened so long ago that no one even remembered what the Abomination was anymore. On an impulse, Veil placed his hands on the altar and called up his magic, trying to draw out whatever impressions still remained in the stone.
Power rushed through him like a tidal wave, awful and magnificent, blinding and deafening him with its intensity. He staggered drunkenly back and forth as strange thoughts and feelings swept through him, none of them his own.
Memories of priests and carriers swept through him and were gone, blazing up and disappearing like so many candles snuffed by an unforgiving darkness. There were too many to count, but all of them had served the Abomination, and it had granted them power over the earth and everything that moved upon it.
Veil slowly lifted his head and looked about him. The church was lit as bright as day. He could feel the power surging within him, impatient to be released. He would use that power to gather followers, and bring them to what moved within him. And the thing that men had once called the Abomination would thrive and grow strong again.
That was not its true name, of course. Veil knew what the Abomination really was. He'd known it all his life. He laughed aloud, and the horrid sound echoed on and on in the silence.
Chapter Four
VARIOUS KINDS OF TRUTH
Hawk and Fisher lounged around Adamant's study, waiting impatiently for him to make an appearance. They were due to go out campaigning in the streets soon, but Adamant had promised them a chance to talk with everyone first. Hawk and Fisher still thought of themselves primarily as bodyguards, but there was still the problem of a possible traitor and embezzler somewhere in Adamant's inner circle. Hawk was determined to get to the bottom of that. He didn't like traitors.
Fisher helped herself to a large drink from one of the decanters, and looked enquiringly at Hawk. He shook his head. "You shouldn't either, Isobel. We're going to need clear heads to get through today."
Fisher shrugged, and poured half the drink back into the decanter. "Where the hell is Adamant, anyway? He promised us at least an hour for these interviews."
"We'll manage," said Hawk. "Maybe we should start with someone else. Adamant's got a lot on his mind right now."
"You like him, don't you?" said Fisher.
"Yes. He reminds me a lot of Blackstone. Bright, compassionate, and committed to his Cause. I'm not going to lose him as well, Isobel."
"Don't get carried away," said Fisher. "Remember, as Guards we're strictly neutral. We don't take sides. We're protecting the man, not his Cause. If you want to get enthusiastic about Reform, do it on your own time."
"Oh, come on, Isobel. Doesn't Adamant stir your blood even a little? Think of the things he could do once he gets elected."
"If he gets elected."
The door opened, and they quickly fell silent. Adamant nodded briskly to the two Guards, and pretended not to notice the drink in Fisher's hand. "Sorry I'm late, but Medley keeps coming up with problems he insists only I can deal with. Now, what can I do for you?"
"We need more detail on the death threats, the information leaks, and the embezzlement," said Hawk. "Let's start with the death threats."
Adamant sat on the edge of his desk, and frowned thoughtfully. "I didn't pay them much attention at first. There are always threats and crank letters. Reform has many enemies. But then the threats became specific. They said my garden would die, and it did. More magical attacks followed, including the one that killed Mortice. The last communication said I would die if I didn't resign. Blunt as that.
"There's not much I can tell you about the embezzling. My accountants stumbled across it quite by accident. Medley has the details. They've agreed to keep quiet about it until we can find the traitor, but they won't stay silent for long. They work for the Cause, not me personally."
"The information leaks," prompted Fisher.
"After the embezzlement I started checking through my records, and I found that what I'd thought of as nothing more than a run of really bad luck was actually something more than that. Something more sinister. Someone had been tipping off the Conservatives about my plans and movements. Crowds were dispersed before I could address them, potential allies were intimidated, and meetings were disrupted by planted thugs. Not everyone has access to that kind of information in advance. It has to be someone close to me."
"Assuming we identify the traitor," said Hawk slowly, "what if it turns out to be someone very close to you?"
"You let the law take its course," said Adamant flatly.
"Even if it's a friend?"
"Especially if it's a friend."
In the cellar, in the darkness, the sorcerer Mortice sat alone amid blocks of ice and felt his body decay. The pain howled within him, awful and never-ending, gnawing away at his courage and his sanity. At first the concentration needed to maintain Adamant's defenses had helped to protect him from the pain and the horror of his situation, but it wasn't enough anymore. Through all the endless hours of the day and night there was nothing for him to do but sit and think and feel.
He had gone through anger and acceptance and horror, and now existed from minute to minute in quiet desperation. He had long ago given up on hope. He would have gladly gone mad, if he hadn't needed to keep control to protect Adamant. He still might. More and more his thoughts tended to wander and fray at the edges.
No one had been to see him for a long time. He could understand that. It was cold in the cellar, and they all had things to do, important things. But time passed slowly in the dark, and no one had been to see him in a very long time. And Adamant, his good friend James Adamant, came least of all.
Mortice sat alone in the cold, in the dark, in the pain, going slowly insane and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Medley came breezing into the study with a sheaf of papers in his hand, and then stopped dead as he saw Hawk and Fisher.
"Oh, damn! You wanted to see me, didn't you? Sorry, but James has been running me off my feet this morning. What can I do for you?"
"To start with, tell us about the embezzlement," said Hawk. "Exactly how much money has gone missing?"
"A fair amount," said Medley, sitting casually on the edge of Adamant's desk. "About three thousand ducats in all, spread over a period of three months. Small amounts at first, but growing steadily larger."
"Who has access to the money?" said Fisher.
Medley frowned. "That's the problem; quite a few people. James and myself, of course; Dannielle, the butler Villiers and half a dozen other servants, and of course several Reform people who worked on the campaign with us."
"We'll need a list of names," said Hawk.
"I'll see you get it."
"How was the money taken?" said Fisher.
"I'm not actually sure," said Medley. "The accountants were the first to notice something was wrong. Do you want to take a look at the books?"
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "Maybe later," said Hawk. "Tell me about Adamant. How has he responded to the death threats?"
"Fairly coolly. They're not the first he's had, and they won't be the last. It's a part of politics in Haven. The magic attacks worry him, of course; Mortice isn't as reliable as he once was."
"Then why doesn't he hire a new sorcerer?" said Fisher.
"Mortice is James's friend. And he lost his life defending James from attack. James can't just abandon him. And besides, when he's in form, Mortice is still one of the most powerful sorcerers in Haven."
They sat in silence for a while, each looking expectantly at the other.
"If there's nothing else…" said Medley.
"You're in charge of Adamant's affairs,"
said Hawk. "Who do you think has been leaking information?"
"I don't know," said Medley. "It has to be someone with a grudge against James, but I'm damned if I know who. James is one of the fairest and most honorable men I know. The only enemies he has are political ones. Now if you'll excuse me…"
He dropped his papers on the desk, nodded briskly to the Guards to indicate the interview was over, and left the study. Hawk let him go. He leafed through the papers on the desk, but they told him nothing.
"For a political Advisor, he's either extremely tactful or not very bright," said Fisher. "I can think of several possible enemies among Adamant's own people. Mortice, to start with. He saves Adamant's life, and ends up a rotting corpse for his trouble. And then there's his wife, Dannielle. She wouldn't be the first woman to be mad at her husband because he was more interested in his work than he was in her. And finally, what about Medley himself? He's in charge of the day-to-day running of the campaign; who has a better chance to embezzle money without it being missed?"
"Wait a minute," said Hawk. "Mortice and Dannielle I'll go along with, but Medley? What's his motive?"
"As I understand it, he worked both sides of the political fence before he came to work for Adamant. He could still be on the Conservative payroll as an undercover agent."
Hawk scowled unhappily. "This is going to be another tricky one. If we point the finger at the wrong person, or even the right person but without enough proof, we could end up in a hell of a lot of trouble."
"You got that right," said Fisher.
Up in the Adamants' bedroom, Dannielle sat elegantly on the edge of the bed and watched critically as James held a shirt up against himself for her approval. It didn't look any better than the first two, but she supposed she'd better agree to this one or he'd get annoyed with her. She wouldn't have minded if he just got red in the face and shouted at her, but James tended more to looking terribly hurt and put upon, and being icily polite. When he wasn't sulking. Dannielle sometimes found herself picking fights with the servants just to have someone she could yell at. At least some of them would yell back at her. She realized James was still waiting patiently, and she quickly smiled and nodded her approval of the shirt. He smiled, and put it on.