They approached the location of the domestic dispute cautiously, but at least this time there was no flying crockery to dodge. Or flying knives. The address was a poky little apartment in the middle of a row of shabby tenements. Neighbors watched silently as the two Guards entered the building. Hawk took the lead and kept a careful eye on the house's occupants as they made way before him. Guards were the common enemy of all Northsiders; they represented and enforced all the laws and authority that kept the poor in their place. As a result, Guards were targets for anyone with a grudge or a mad on, and one of the nastier surprise attacks these days was the Haven mud pie—a mixture of lye and grease. Thrown at close range, the effect could be devastating. The lye burned through clothing as though it wasn't there, and if it hit bare skin it could eat its way right down to the bone. The grease made the lye stick like glue. Even a small mud pie could put a Guard in hospital for weeks, if his partner didn't get him to a doctor fast enough. And doctors tended to be few and far between in the Northside. The last man to aim a mud pie at Hawk had got both his arms broken, but there were any number of borderline crazies in the Northside, just waiting to be pushed over the edge by one frustration too many. So Hawk and Fisher stayed close together and kept a wary eye on shadowed corners and doors left just a little too far ajar.
They made their way through the hall and up the narrow stairs without incident. Mothers and small children watched in stony silence, while from above came the sound of domestic unrest. A man and a woman were shouting and screeching at the tops of their voices, but Hawk and Fisher didn't let themselves be hurried. As long as the couple were still shouting they weren't searching for blunt instruments or something with a sharp edge. It was when things went suddenly quiet that you had to worry. Hawk and Fisher reached the landing and strode down the hall, stepping over small children playing unconcernedly on the floor. They found the door with the right number, the sounds from within made it pretty hard to miss. Hawk hammered on the door with his fist, and an angry male voice broke off from its tirade just long enough to tell him to go to hell. Hawk tried again, and got a torrent of abuse for his trouble. He shrugged, drew his axe, and kicked the door in.
A man and a woman looked round in surprise as Hawk and Fisher stood in the doorway taking in the scene. The woman was less than average height, and more than a little undernourished, with a badly bruised face and a bloody nose. She was trying to stop the flowing blood with a grubby handkerchief, and not being very successful. The man was easily twice her size, with muscles on his muscles, and he was brandishing a fist the size of a mallet. His face was dark with rage, and he glared sullenly at Hawk and Fisher as he took in their Guards' cloaks.
"What are you doing here? You've no business in this house, so get out. And if you've damaged my door I'll see you pay for the repairs!"
Hawk smiled coldly. "If you've damaged that woman, you'll pay for it. Now, stand back from her and put down that fist, and we'll all have a nice little chat."
"This is family business," said the man quickly, before the woman could say anything. He lowered his fist, but stood his ground defiantly.
Fisher moved forward to speak to the woman, and the man fell back a step in spite of himself. She ignored him, and spoke softly to the woman. "Does this kind of thing happen often?"
"Often enough," said the woman indistinctly, behind her handkerchief.
Fisher frowned. "Just say the word, and we'll drag him off to gaol. You don't have to put up with this. Are you married to him?"
The woman shrugged. "More or less. He's not so bad, most of the time, but he can't keep a job because of his temper. He just lost another one today."
"So he comes home and takes it out on you." Fisher nodded understandingly.
"That's enough!" snapped the man suddenly, stung at being talked about as though he wasn't there. "She's got nothing more to say to you, Guard, if she knows what's good for her. And you two can get out now, or I'll throw you out."
Hawk stirred, and looked at him with interest. "You and what army?"
"I really think you should swear out a complaint against him," said Fisher. "Next time he might not just break your nose. A few mights in gaol might calm him down a bit, and if nothing else, it should make him think twice about hitting you again."
The woman nodded slowly. "You're right. I'll swear out a complaint."
"You lousy bitch!" The man lurched forward, raising his huge hands menacingly. Fisher turned and smacked him solidly between the eyes with her fist. The man fell back a step and then sat down abruptly, blinking dazedly. Fisher looked at Hawk.
"We'd better get him downstairs. You take one arm and I'll take the other."
"Right," said Hawk. "There's some railings outside we can chain him to until we can find a Constable to take him back to Headquarters for charging."
They got him to his feet easily enough and were heading for the door when Hawk, hearing a muffled cry behind them, looked back just in time to see the woman heading straight for him with a knife in her hand. Hawk dropped the man and stepped quickly to one side, but the woman kept coming at him, her eyes wild and desperate. Fisher stuck out a leg and tripped her. The woman fell heavily and lost her grip on the knife. Hawk stepped forward and kicked it out of reach. The woman burst into tears. Hawk looked at Fisher.
"What the hell was that all about?"
"She loves him," said Fisher, shaking her head sadly. "She might not like the treatment, but she loves him just the same. And when she saw us hauling him off to gaol, she forgot how angry she was and decided we were the villains of the piece, for threatening her man… Now we have to take them both in. Can't let anyone get away with attacking a Guard, or we'll never have any peace."
Hawk nodded reluctantly, and they set about manhandling the man and the woman down the stairs and out into the street.
They found a Constable, eventually, and let him take over, then set off on their beat again. The rain continued to show signs of letting up without ever actually doing anything about it. The day wore slowly on, fairly quiet by Northside standards. Hawk and Fisher broke up half a dozen fights, ran off a somewhat insecure flasher, and helped talk a leaper out of jumping from a second-story building. The city didn't really care if a leaper killed himself or not, but there was always the chance he might land on someone important, so official policy in such cases was to clear the street below and then just let the would-be suicide get on with it. As in many other things, Hawk and Fisher ignored official policy and took the time to talk quietly and encouragingly to the man, until he agreed to go down the normal way, via the stairs. The odds were that by tomorrow he'd be back up on the roof again, but at least they'd bought him some time to think it over. Working in the Northside, you learned to be content with little victories.
"You know," said Hawk as he and Fisher walked away, "sometimes, when I'm up on a roof with a leaper, I have an almost overwhelming urge to sneak up behind him and shout Boo! in his ear. Just to see what would happen."
"You're weird, Hawk," said Fisher, and he nodded solemnly. At which point a rush of gentle flute music poured through their minds, followed by the dry, acid voice of the Guard communications sorcerer.
All Guards in the Northern sector, report immediately to Damnation Row, where there is a major riot in progress. This order supersedes all other instructions. Do not discuss the situation with anyone else until you have reported to the prison Governor. That is all.
Hawk scowled grimly as he and Fisher turned around and headed back down the street shoulders hunched against the renewed heavy rain. Damnation Row was Haven's oldest and largest prison, as well as the most secure. A great squat monstrosity of basalt stone, surrounded on all sides by high walls and potent sorceries, it was infamous throughout the Low Kingdoms as the one prison no one ever escaped from. Riots were almost unknown, never mind a major riot. No wonder they'd been instructed not to talk about it. The prison's reputation was part of its protection. Besides, if word did get out, the streets would be thron
ged with people heading for the prison to try and help the inmates break out. Most people in Haven knew someone in Damnation Row.
The prison itself stood jammed up against the city wall on the far boundary of the Northside, and Hawk and Fisher could see its outline through the driving rain long before they got to its gatehouse. The exterior walls were huge, dark, and largely featureless, and seemed especially grim and forbidding through the downpour. Hawk hauled on the steel bell pull at the main gate, and waited impatiently with Fisher for someone to answer. He'd never been inside Damnation Row before and was curious to see if it was as bad as everyone said. Conditions inside were supposed to be deliberately appalling. Haven had nothing but contempt for anyone dumb enough or unsuccessful enough to get caught, and the idea was that a stay in Damnation Row would scare the offender so much he'd do anything rather than be sent back—including going straight. The prison's excellent security record also made it a useful dumping ground for dangerous lunatics, untrustworthy magic-users, and political and religious embarrassments. The city firmly believed in taking revenge on its enemies. All of them.
Hawk yanked on the bell pull again, hammered on the door with his fist, and kicked it a few times for good measure. All he got out of it was a stubbed toe and an unsympathetic glance from Fisher. Finally a sliding panel in the door jerked open and a grim-faced prison guard studied their Guards' uniforms for a long moment before slamming the panel shut and opening the judas gate in the main door to let them in. Hawk and Fisher identified themselves, and weren't even given time to dump their dripping wet cloaks before being hustled through the outer precincts of the prison to the Governor's office. Everywhere they looked there was bedlam, with prison guards running this way and that, shouting orders no one listened to and getting in each other's way. Off in the distance they could hear a dull roar of raised voices and the hammering of hard objects on iron bars.
The Governor's office was comfortably furnished, but clearly a place of work rather than relaxation. The walls were bare save for a number of past and present Wanted posters, and two framed testimonials. The plain, almost austere desk was buried under paperwork, split more or less equally into two piles marked "Pending" and "Urgent." The Governor, Phillipe Dexter, stood up from behind his desk to shake hands briefly with Hawk and Fisher, gestured for them to take a seat, and then returned to his own chair quickly, as though only sheer willpower had kept him on his feet that long. He was an average-looking man in his late forties, dressed fashionably but conservatively, and had a bland, politician's face. At the moment he looked tired and drawn, and his hand had trembled slightly with fatigue when Hawk shook it. The two Guards took off their cloaks and draped them over the coat rack before sitting down. The Governor watched the cloaks dripping heavily on his carpet, and closed his eyes for a moment, as though that was definitely the last straw.
"How long has this riot been going on?" asked Hawk, to get the ball rolling.
"Almost four hours now." The Governor scowled unhappily, but his voice was calm and measured. "We thought we could contain it at first, but we just didn't have the manpower. This prison has always suffered from overcrowding, with two or even three inmates locked up in a cell originally meant for one. Mainly because Haven has almost doubled in size since this prison was built. But we coped, because we had to. There was nowhere else to put the prisoners; all the other gaols in Haven are just holding pens and debtors' prisons, and they face the same problem as us. But, thanks to the Council's ill-advised purge of the streets/we've had prisoners arriving here in the hundreds over the last week or so, and my staff just couldn't cope with the resulting crush. We had four, sometimes five, to a cell in some places, and not even enough warning to allow for extra food and blankets. Something had to give.
"The prisoners decided this morning that they couldn't be treated any worse than they already were, and attacked the prison staff during breakfast and slopping-out. The violence soon spread, and we didn't have enough manpower to put it down. Essentially, we've lost half the prison. Barricades and booby traps have been set up by the inmates in all the approaches to two of the main Wings, and they've been throwing everything they can get their hands on at us to make us keep our distance. They've started several fires, but so far the prison's security spells have been able to stamp them out before they could get out of control. So far, no one's actually escaped. Our perimeter is still secure.
"We've tried to negotiate with the inmates, but none of them have shown any interest in talking. Pretty soon the Council is going to order me to take the occupied Wings back by force, before the Kings get to hear about the riot and start getting worried. But that, believe it or not, isn't the main problem. Adjoining the two occupied Wings is Hell Wing, where we keep our supernatural prisoners. Creatures of power and magic, locked away here while awaiting trial. Hell Wing is in its own pocket dimension, surrounded by powerful wards, so it should still be secure. But there are reported to be several magic-users among the rioters, and if they find a way into Hell Wing and set those creatures loose, a whole army of Guards wouldn't be enough to control them."
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then back at the Governor. "If it's as serious as all that," said Hawk, "why are you wasting time talking to us? You need somebody with real power, like the God Squad, or the SWAT team."
The Governor nodded quickly. "The God Squad have been alerted, but at present they're busy coping with an emergency on the Street of Gods. I've sent for the Special Wizardry and Tactics team; they're on their way. When they get here, I want you two to work with them. You've both worked with the God Squad in the past, you have experience coping with supernatural creatures, and you have a reputation for salvaging impossible situations. And right now, I'm so desperate I'll grab at any straw."
There was a brief knocking at the door, and it swung open before the Governor could even ask who it was. A woman and three men filed into the office and slammed the door shut behind them. The woman fixed the Governor with a harsh gaze.
"You sent for the SWAT team. We're here. Don't worry, we've been briefed." She looked at Hawk and Fisher. "What are they doing here?"
"They'll be working with you on this," said the Governor firmly, trying to regain control of the situation. "The God Squad's been delayed. These two officers are…"
"I know who they are." The woman nodded briskly to Hawk and Fisher. "I'm Jessica Winter, team leader and tactician. My associates are Stuart Barber, weaponmaster; John MacReady, negotiator; and Storm, sorcerer. That takes care of introductions; anything more can wait till later; we're on a tight schedule and time's running out. Let's go. Sit tight. Governor; you'll have your prison back in a few hours. Oh, and if any more Guards arrive, keep them out of our way."
She smiled briefly, and hustled her people out of the office before the Governor could work up a reply. Hawk and Fisher nodded to him and hurried out after the SWAT team. Jessica Winter led the way down the corridor with casual confidence, and Hawk took the opportunity to surreptitiously study his new partners. He knew them all by reputation but had never worked with any of them before.
Winter was a short, stocky woman with a determined, friendly manner that reminded Hawk irresistibly of an amiable bulldog. She was in her early thirties and looked it, and clearly didn't give a damn. She'd been through two husbands that Hawk knew of, and was currently pursuing her third. She moved and spoke with a brisk, no-nonsense efficiency, and by all accounts could be charming or overwhelming as the mood took her. She was dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, topped with a chain-mail vest that had been polished within an inch of its life, and wore a sword on her hip in a plain, regulation issue scabbard. She'd been with the SWAT team for seven years, two of them as leader and tactician. She had a good if somewhat spotty record, and preferred to dismiss her failures as learning experiences. Given that her team usually wasn't called in until things had got totally out of hand, Winter had built up a good reputation for finding solutions to problems at the last possible moment. She al
so had a reputation for convoluted and devious strategies, which Hawk felt might come in very handy just at the moment. He had a strong feeling there was a lot more to this situation than met the eye.
He glanced across at Stuart Barber, the weaponmaster, and felt a little reassured. Even walking down an empty corridor in the midst of friends and allies, Barber exuded an air of danger and menace. He was a tall, powerfully-built man in his mid-twenties, with arms so tightly muscled the veins bulged fiercely even when his arms were apparently relaxed. He had a broad, brutal-looking sword on his hip, in a battered leather scabbard, and wore a long chain-mail vest that had been repaired many times, not always neatly. He had a long, angular head, with pale, pinched features accentuated by dark hair cropped short in a military cut. He had a constant slight scowl that made him look more thoughtful than bad-tempered.
John MacReady, the negotiator, looked like everyone's favorite uncle. It was his job to talk people out of things before Winter let Barber loose on them. MacReady was average height and well-padded, in a friendly, non-threatening way. He smiled a lot, and had the charming gift of convincing people he was giving them his entire attention while they were talking. He was in his mid-forties, going bald, and trying to hide it with a somewhat desperate hairstyle. He had an easy, companiable way about him that made him hard to distrust, but Hawk decided to try anyway. He didn't put much faith in people who smiled too much. It wasn't natural.