"I can't stay long," he said finally. "Now, what's so important that I had to come here today? You know I'm always glad to see you, but with Adamant's people just outside…"
She smiled, and squeezed his hands. "I know, I'm sorry. But I had to see you. I didn't know when I'd be able to get away again. How's your campaign going?"
"Fine, fine. Look, I can't stay long, or they'll come looking for me. And we can't afford to be seen even talking together."
"I know. They wouldn't understand. They'd stop us from seeing each other."
"I wouldn't let them," said Medley. "There's nothing in the world I value more than you."
"You say the nicest things."
"I love you."
"I love you too, Stefan," said Roxanne.
Cameron Hardcastle strode steadily and purposefully through the High Steppes, and the people lined the streets to watch him pass. Armed mercenaries surrounded him at all times, making sure the crowds kept a respectful distance. There was scattered applause from the onlookers, but little cheering. The bunting he'd ordered put up hung limply on the still air, and although his people had handed out Conservative flags and banners by the dozen well in advance, he could only see a few being waved. If it hadn't been for his followers singing campaign songs as they marched, the streets would have been embarrassingly quiet. Hardcastle smiled tightly. That would change soon enough. It always did, once he started to speak.
Jillian hurried quietly along beside him, eyes downcast as always. Hardcastle would just as happily have left her behind, but that was politically unacceptable. A strong marriage and a stable family were central tenets of Conservative thinking, so he had to show off his own wife in public. It was expected of him. She wouldn't disgrace him. She wouldn't dare.
The sorcerer Wulf walked a few paces behind them, disguised as one of the mercenaries. He couldn't afford to be recognized in public as Hardcastle's sorcerer. Firstly, it would have upset the crowds. They tended to distrust magic, and everyone associated with it. Usually with good reason. Secondly, his support was illegal. And thirdly, he would have made too tempting a target. A great many people would have liked a chance at him. But he couldn't let Hardcastle walk the streets unprotected, for the same reason. Even more people would have liked to see Councilor Hardcastle dead. So the great sorcerer Wulf tramped the streets of Haven in Hardcastle's shadow, sweating profusely under a mercenary's chain mail. Besides, he had to be there. Hardcastle couldn't make his speeches without him.
Hardcastle himself was in a surprisingly good mood. His speeches had all gone down very well and, according to first reports, his mercenaries were winning practically every encounter with Adamant's. He reached the platform his people had prepared for him, and climbed the steps onto the stage. Jillian came and stood silently at his side, smiling blankly at the crowd. The campaign song came to an end, and the crowd cheered him, one eye warily watching the mercenaries. Hardcastle lifted his hands for quiet, and silence fell quickly across the packed street. He began to speak, and the crowd's attention became fixed and rapt. A wave of euphoria and commitment swept over them, and soon they were stamping and shouting, and cheering at the end of every sentence. By the end of the speech the crowd was his, to a man. He could have ordered them naked and unarmed into battle, and they would have gone. Hardcastle smiled out over the cheering crowd, relishing the power he had over them.
There was a slight disturbance to one side, as someone pushed their way through the crowd towards him. Hardcastle tensed, and then relaxed a little as he recognized Roxanne. He gestured quickly for her to join him on the platform.
"I was beginning to wonder where you were," he said quietly, still smiling at the crowd.
"Just taking care of business," said Roxanne.
"I suppose I might as well make use of you while you're here." Hardcastle nodded graciously to her, as though he'd been expecting her, and then held up his hands for quiet again. The crowd was silent in a moment. "My friends, may I present to you the latest addition to our ranks, the renowned warrior, Roxanne! I'm sure you all know her fine reputation!"
He paused for a cheer that didn't come. The crowd stirred uneasily. "Oh, great," said an anonymous voice. "Someone send for the fire brigade now, while there's still time."
One of the mercenaries moved in quickly to shut him up with a mailed fist to the kidneys, but the damage had been done. The mood of the crowd had been broken. Most of the people there had heard of Roxanne, and while they were undoubtedly impressed, they were also extremely worried. If not downright scared. Her reputation had preceded her. She looked out over the crowd with a raised eyebrow, but had enough sense not to smile. Wulf glared surreptitiously about him, testing the feel of the crowd, and didn't like what he found. The euphoria of a moment before had vanished, as though it had never been. Wulf shrugged. There would be other times. He moved in close beside the platform and looked up at Hardcastle.
"I think we should be leaving now, Cameron. And in the future it might be wise to keep Roxanne in the background."
Hardcastle nodded curtly. He turned to give the order to leave, and at that moment the crowd went mad. Suddenly everyone was screaming and shouting and kicking out in all directions, and then scattering as fast as their legs would carry them. Hardcastle stared blankly about him, angry and confused, and then he saw the rats moving among the crowd. Hundreds of rats, in all shapes and sizes, many still sleek and shining with slime from the sewers. They scurried this way and that, mad with rage, sinking fangs and claws into anything that came within range. Hardcastle's hands clenched into fists and his face reddened. There was only one way so many rats could have appeared in one place at one time, and that was by magic. A sorcerer must have teleported them into the crowd. Adamant's sorcerer…
Wulf fought his way back to the platform. "We have to get out of here, Cameron! There's too many of them! There's nothing I can do!"
Hardcastle nodded stiffly, and signaled for his mercenaries to open a path through the chaos. A blazing anger pulled at his self-control as he descended from the platform, followed by Jillian and Roxanne. One way or another. Adamant would pay for this insult… whatever it cost.
Hardcastle arrived at his next meeting place to find a crowd already gathered, listening to someone else address them. He brought his people to a halt and gestured to one of his mercenary officers.
"I thought you said you'd cleared the Reformers out of this area."
"I did, sir. I can't understand it; my people were most thorough. I left men here with strict instructions not to allow any other speakers. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go and see what's happening."
He gestured quickly to half a dozen of his men. They drew their swords and followed him into the crowd. Wulf stirred suddenly at Hardcastle's side.
"There's trouble here, Cameron. Bad trouble."
Hardcastle smiled grimly. "My people will take care of it."
"I don't think so," said Wulf. "Not this time. There's a power here, and I don't like it. It's old magic; Wild Magic."
Hardcastle frowned impatiently and turned to glare at him. "What the hell are you talking about, Wulf?"
The sorcerer was staring at the man addressing the crowd, and Hardcastle reluctantly followed his gaze. The man was tall and slender, wrapped in a shabby grey cloak that had seen better days. He was too far away for Hardcastle to hear what he was saying, but there was no denying the impact his words had on the crowd. They couldn't take their eyes off him. And yet there was none of the shouting and clapping that Hardcastle's own speeches always elicited. The crowd was almost eerily silent, utterly engrossed with the speaker. Hardcastle suddenly realized the mercenaries he'd sent into the crowd hadn't come back. He looked quickly about him, but there was no sign of them anywhere. There was a faint whisper of steel on leather as Roxanne drew her sword from its scabbard.
"They've been gone too long," she said quietly. "Want me to go look for them?"
"Not on your own," said Hardcastle. "Jillian, you stay here wit
h my people. Wulf, you and Roxanne follow me. We're going to take a closer look at this… phenomenon."
He gestured to two of his mercenaries, and they opened up a path through the crowd for him. More mercenaries spread out through the crowd, flanking Hardcastle and his party as they moved. No one in the crowd paid them any attention, their gaze fixed on the slight grey figure on the platform. My platform, thought Hardcastle resentfully. There was still no sign of any of the missing mercenaries.
"I am the Lord of the Gulfs," said the Grey Veil, his eyes wide and unblinking, his face full of a cold and awful wonder. "He has given me power, power beyond imagining, and he will do the same for you. Only come to him and serve him, and he will make you masters among men. He is ancient and magnificent, older than mankind itself, and his time has come round again."
Hardcastle frowned, and looked about him. The grey figure was saying nothing new, and on the Street of Gods no one would have given him a second glance. So why was everyone so rapt? Why weren't there any hecklers in the crowd? He muttered instructions to the nearest mercenary, who nodded and moved quickly through the crowd, passing the instructions on to the other mercenaries. Soon the silence was broken by jeers and insults and catcalls, and the crowd began to stir.
The Grey Veil turned slowly to face the jeers, and some of the mercenaries' voices faltered. The Veil stopped speaking, and raised his hands above his head. The day suddenly grew dark. Hardcastle looked up and saw the sky was full of angry, swollen clouds, cutting off the daylight and spreading a chill across the crowd. He frowned uncertainly. He would have sworn the sky had been clear only moments before. He looked back at the grey figure, just in time to flinch as lightning cracked down to strike the upraised hands. An eerie blue glow crackled around the Grey Veil's hands, and then the lightning leapt out into the crowd, striking down each and every one of Hardcastle's men who'd raised their voices in mockery. The crowd screamed and shrank back as the mercenaries burst into flames and fell dying to the ground. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but somehow the crowd still held their ground instead of scattering, bound together by the Grey Veil's will. He slowly lowered his hands, and the sky began to clear.
The Veil smiled at Hardcastle, and fixed with his disturbingly direct gaze. "What else would you have me do? Shall I call down the rain or call up a hurricane? Shall I fill your lungs with water, or cause your blood to boil in your veins? Or shall I heal the sick and raise the dead: I can do all those things, and more. The Lord of the Gulfs has given me power beyond your petty dreams."
"Want me to kill him?" said Roxanne.
"You wouldn't get within ten feet of him," snapped Wulf. "Cameron, let me deal with him."
"Do it," said Hardcastle. "Destroy him. No one murders my men and gets away with it."
"I wouldn't stand any more of a chance than Roxanne," said Wulf. "I told you; he has the Wild Magic in him."
"So what do we do?" said Hardcastle.
"If we're lucky, we make a deal."
Wulf made his way through the silent crowd and approached the platform. He and the Grey Veil spoke together for some time, and then Wulf bowed to him and made his way back to Hardcastle and Roxanne. His face was carefully impassive, but there was no hiding its pallor, or the beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Well?" said Hardcastle.
"He's agreed to meet us privately," said Wulf. "I think we can do business."
"Who the hell is he? And what's this Lord of the Gulfs nonsense? I've never heard of him."
"You wouldn't," said Wulf. "It's a very old name. You probably know him better as the Abomination."
Hardcastle looked at him sharply. "The Abomination was destroyed. Every schoolchild knows that. Its Temple on the Street of Gods has been abandoned for centuries."
"Apparently he's back. Not as powerful as he was, or he wouldn't need to make deals with us."
Hardcastle nodded, back on familiar ground. "All right; what does he want?"
"That's what we're going to discuss." Wulf looked sharply at Hardcastle. "Cameron, we've got to get him on our side. Whatever it takes. With his power, he could hand us the election on a plate."
"What if the price is too high?" said Roxanne.
"No price is too high," said Hardcastle.
Chapter Five
HARLEQUIN AND OTHER BEINGS
Dressed in chequered black and white, with a white, clown's face and a domino mask, Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods. No one has ever seen his eyes, and he casts no shadow. He dances with a splendid ease, graceful and magnificent, pirouetting elegantly to a music only he can hear. And he never stops.
Morning, noon, and night. Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods.
Everyone needs something to believe in. Something to make them feel safe and secure and cared for. They need it so badly they'll give up anything and everything, just for the promise of it. They'll pay in gold and obedience and suffering, or anything else that has a market value. Which is why religion is such big business in Haven.
Right in the centre of the city, square in the middle of the high-rent district, lies the Street of Gods. Dozens of different churches and temples stand side by side and ostentatiously ignore each other. Then there are the smaller, more intimate meeting houses, for adherents of the lesser known or more controversial beliefs, who for the most part deal strictly in cash. And then there are the street preachers. No one knows where they come from or where they go, but every day they turn up by the hundreds to line the Street of Gods and spread the Word to anyone who'll listen.
There's never any trouble in the Street of Gods. Firstly, the Beings wouldn't like it, and secondly, it's bad for business. The people of Haven firmly believe in the right of everyone to make a profit.
Or prophet.
Hawk and Fisher looked curiously about them as they accompanied Adamant down the Street of Gods. It wasn't a part of Haven they knew much about, but they knew enough to be wary. Anything could happen on the Street of Gods. Not for the first time, Hawk wondered if they'd done the right thing in leaving the mercenaries behind, but Adamant had insisted. He'd left his followers behind as well. Apart from his bodyguards, only Medley and Dannielle remained with him now.
We're here to ask a favor, said Adamant. That means we come as supplicants, not as heads of a private army.
Besides, said Medley, we're here to make deals. We don't need witnesses.
The Street itself was a mess. The assorted temples and churches varied widely in size and shape and style of architecture. Fashions from one century stood side by side with modes and follies from another. Street preachers filled the air with the clamor of their cries, and everywhere there was the din of bells and cymbals and animal horns, and the sound of massed voices raised in praise or supplication. The Street itself stretched away into the distance for as far as Hawk could see, and his hackles stirred as he realized the Street of Gods was a hell of a lot larger than the official maps made it out to be. He pointed this out to Medley, who just shrugged.
"The Street is as long as it has to be to fit everything in. With so many magics and sorceries and Beings of Power jammed together, it's no wonder things get a little strange here from time to time."
"You got that right," said Fisher, watching interestedly as a street preacher thrust metal skewers through his flesh. He showed no sign of pain, and no blood ran from the wounds. Another preacher poured oil over his body, and set himself on fire. He waited until he'd burned out, and then did it again.
"Ignore them," said Adamant. "They're just exhibitionists. It takes more than spectacle to impress anyone here." He looked expectantly at Medley. "What's the latest news, Stefan?"
Medley gathered together a handful of notes and papers, presented to him by messengers reporting on the day's progress. "So far, not too bad. Hardcastle's mercenaries are wiping the streets with ours whenever the two sides meet, but they can't be everywhere at once. All the main polls show us running neck and neck with Hardcastle, which is actually pretty good thi
s early in the campaign. We could even improve as the day goes on. Wait until the drink wears off and they've spent all their bribe money; then we'll see how many Conservative voters stay bought…
"Mortice has been keeping busy. Apparently he's broken up several Conservative meetings by teleporting rats into the crowd. His sense of humor’s got very basic since he died.
"As for the other candidates: General Longarm has been making some very powerful speeches. He seems to be building quite a following among the city men-at-arms. Megan O'Brien isn't getting anywhere. Even his fellow traders don't believe he can win. And Lord Arthur Sinclair was last seen hosting one hell of a party at the Crippled Cougar Inn, and getting smashed out of his skull. No surprises there."
They walked on a while in silence. In the Street of Gods the time of day fluctuated from place to place, so that they walked sometimes in daylight and sometimes in moonlight. Once it snowed briefly, and rained frogs, and the stars in the sky outshone the sun. Gargoyles wept blood, and statues stirred on their pedestals. Once, Hawk looked down a side alley and saw a skeleton, held together by copper wire, beating its skull against a stone wall over and over again, and for a time a flock of burning birds followed Adamant's party down the Street, singing shrilly in a language Hawk didn't recognize. Adamant looked always straight ahead, ignoring everything outside of his path, and after a while Hawk and Fisher learned to do the same.
"How many Gods are there here?" said Fisher finally.
"No one knows," said Medley. "The number's changing all the time. There's something here for everyone."
"Who do you believe in?" said Hawk to Adamant.
Adamant shrugged. "I was raised orthodox. Brotherhood of Steel. I suppose I'm still a believer. It appeals to my pragmatic nature, and unlike most religions they're not always bothering me for donations."
"Right," said Medley. "You pay your tithes once a year, show up at meetings once a month, and they pretty much leave you alone. But it's a good church to belong to; you can make very useful contacts through the Brotherhood."