"I think you'll find everything you need in here. I must say I'm rather looking forward to seeing Their Majesties' faces when they discover they're being held for ransom. Glorious fun. Now then, I must be off. I have to get back before I'm missed. I don't see any need for us to meet again, Madigan, but if you must contact me, do be terribly discreet. We don't want anything to go wrong at this late stage, now do we?"
He turned away from the table, and gestured imperiously for Bailey to fetch him his cloak. Bailey did so, after a look at Madigan, and Sir Roland swung the cloak around his shoulders with a practiced dramatic gesture. Ritenour almost felt like applauding. Sir Roland bowed briefly to Madigan, ignored everyone else, and left. Bailey closed and bolted the door behind him. Ritenour looked at Madigan.
"Dear Roland doesn't know what's really going on, does he?"
Madigan's smile flickered briefly. "He and his fellow conspirators believe they're part of a plot to disrupt the Peace Signing with a kidnapping. They believe this will delay the Signing, buy them time to sow seeds of doubt in their precious Parliaments, and generally stir up bad feeling on both sides. They also expect a large share of the ransom money to find its way into their hands. I fear they're going to be somewhat disappointed. I'm rather looking forward to seeing their faces when we execute the two Kings right before their eyes."
"Glorious fun," said Eleanour Todd, and everyone laughed.
"About these conspirators," said Ritenour diffidently, indicating the relevant page. "You do realize that all of them, and most particularly including Sir Roland, will have to die? Along with everyone who could identify us."
Madigan nodded. "Believe me, sir sorcerer, no one will be left alive to point the finger, and no one will pursue us. Haven… will have its own problems."
Ritenour looked around him, taking in the mocking smiles on the terrorists' faces, and a sudden chill clutched at his heart. "What exactly are you planning, Madigan? What do you want from me?"
Madigan told him.
Wulf Saxon strode through the old familiar district he used to live in, and no one knew him. The last time he'd walked these streets, twenty-three years ago, people had waved and smiled and some had even cheered. Everyone wanted to know him then—the local lad who'd made good. The city Councilor who'd started out in the same mean streets as them. But now no one recognized his face, and in a way he was glad. The Northside had always been rough and ready, shaped by poverty and need, but it had never seemed this bad. There was no pride or spirit left in the quiet, defeated people who scurried through the pouring rain with their heads bowed. The once brightly painted buildings were grey and faceless with accumulated soot and filth. Garbage blocked the gutters, and sullen-eyed bravos shouldered their way through the crowds without anyone so much as raising a murmur of protest.
Saxon had expected some changes after his long absence, but nothing like this. The Northside he remembered had been vile, corrupt, and dangerous, but the people had a spark then, a vitality that enabled them to rise above all that and claim their own little victories against an uncaring world. Whatever spark these people might once have possessed had been beaten out of them. Saxon trudged on down the street, letting his feet guide him where they would. He should have felt angry or depressed, but mostly he just felt tired. He'd spent the last few hours tracking down names and memories, only to find that most of the people he'd once known were now either missing or dead. Some names only produced blank faces. It seemed many things could change in twenty-three years.
He found himself standing in front of a tavern with a familiar name, the Monkey's Drum, and decided he could use a drink. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes narrowing against the sudden gloom. He took off his cloak and flapped it briskly out the open door a few times to lose the worst of the rain, and then hung it on a nearby peg. He shut the door and turned to study the tavern's interior with a critical eye.
It was fairly clean, in an absent-minded sort of way, and half-full of patrons sitting quietly at their tables, talking in lowered voices. None of them looked at Saxon for more than the briefest of moments, to make sure he wasn't the Guard. He smiled sourly, and headed for the bar. It seemed some things never changed. The Monkey's Drum had always been a place where you could buy and sell and make a deal. He made his way through the closely packed tables and ordered a brandy at the bar. The price made him wince, but he paid it with as much good grace as he could muster. Inflation could do a lot to prices in twenty-three years. The money he'd set aside in his secret lock-up all those years ago wasn't going to last nearly as long as he'd hoped. Twenty-three years… He kept repeating the number of years to himself, as though he could make himself believe it through sheer repetition, but it didn't get any easier. It was as though he'd gone to sleep in one world and awakened in another that bore only a nightmarish resemblance to the one he remembered.
That would teach him to try and steal a sorcerer's painting.
He smiled, and shrugged resignedly. Being a city Councilor had proved surprisingly expensive, and the pittance the city paid wasn't nearly enough to keep him in the style to which he intended to become accustomed. So he'd gone back to his previous occupation as a gentleman crook, a burglar with style and panache, and had broken into the house of a sorcerer he'd known was currently out of town. He'd been doing quite well, sidestepping all the sorcerer's protective wards with his usual skill, only to end up being eaten by Messerschmann's bloody Portrait. Sometimes there's no justice in this world.
Saxon put his back against the bar and looked round the room, sipping at his brandy while he wondered what to do next. He couldn't stay here, but he didn't know where else to go. Or even if there was any point in going anywhere. His ex-wife was probably still around somewhere, but there was nothing he wanted to say to her. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted, but it had only taken her a few years of marriage to decide that she didn't want him. No, he didn't want to see her. Besides, he owed her twenty-three years of back alimony payments. And then his gaze stumbled across a familiar face, and he straightened up. The years had not been kind to the face, but he recognized it anyway. He strode through the tables, a smile tugging at his lips, and loomed over the figure drinking alone at a table half hidden in the shadows.
"William Doyle. I represent the city auditor. Taxes division. I want to see all your receipts for the last four years."
The man choked on his drink and went bright red. He coughed quickly to get his breath back, and tried on an ingratiating smile. It didn't suit him. "Listen, I can explain everything…"
"Relax, Billy," said Saxon, dropping into the chair opposite him. "You always were easy to get a rise out of. It's your own fault, for having such a guilty conscience. Well, no words of cheer and greeting for an old friend?"
Bill Doyle looked at him blankly for a long moment, and then slow recognition crept into his flushed face. "Wulf…
Wulf Saxon. I'll be damned. I never thought to see you again. How many years has it been?"
"Too many," said Saxon.
"You're looking good, Wulf. You haven't changed a bit."
"Wish I could say the same for you. The years have not been kind to you, Billy boy."
Doyle shrugged, and drank his wine. Saxon looked at him wonderingly. The Billy Doyle he remembered had been a scrawny, intense young man in his early twenties. Not much in the way of muscle, but more than enough energy to keep him going long after most men gave up and dropped out. Billy never gave up. And now here he was, a man in his late forties, weighing twice what he used to and none of it muscle. The thinning hair was still jet-black, but had a flat, shiny look that suggested it was probably helped along with a little dye. The face that had once been so sharp and fierce was now coarse and almost piggy, the familiar features blurred with fat like a cheap caricature. He looked like his own father. Or like his father might have looked after too many good meals and too many nights on booze. His clothes might once have been stylish, but showed signs of having been washed and mended t
oo many times. Without having to be told, Saxon knew that Billy Doyle was no longer one of life's successes.
Doyle looked at him, frowning. "You haven't changed at all, Wulf. It's uncanny. What happened. You raise enough money for a rejuvenation spell?"
"In a way. So, what's been happening in your life, Billy? What are you doing these days?"
"Oh, this and that. Wheeling and dealing. You know how it is."
"I used to," said Saxon, slumping unhappily in his chair. "But things have changed while I was away. I went to where my old house used to be, and they'd torn it down and replaced it with some mock-Gothic monstrosity. The people who lived there had never even heard of me. I went to the old neighborhood and there was no trace of my family anywhere. Everyone I ever knew is either dead or moved on. You're the first friendly face I've seen all day."
Doyle looked at the clock on the wall, and gulped at his drink. "Listen," he said, trying hard to sound casual, "I'd love to sit and chat about the old days, but I'm waiting for someone. Business; you know how it is."
"You're nervous, Billy," said Saxon thoughtfully. "Now, what have you got to be nervous about? After all, this is me, your old friend Wulf. We never used to have secrets from each other. Or can it be that this particular piece of business you're involved in is something you know I wouldn't approve of?"
"Listen, Wulf…"
"Now, there aren't many things I don't approve of. I've tried most things once, and twice if I enjoyed it. And I was, after all, a gentleman thief, who robbed from the rich and kept it. But there was one thing I never would look the other way for, and that hasn't changed. Tell me, Billy boy, have you got yourself involved in childnapping?"
"Where do you get off, coming on so self-righteous?" said Doyle hotly. "You've been away; you don't know what it's like here these days. Things have changed. It's always been hard to make a living here, but these days there's even less money around than there used to be. You've got to fight for every penny and watch your back every minute of the day. If you won't take on a job, there are a dozen men waiting to take your place. There's a market for kids— brothels, fighting pits, sorcerers, you name it. And who's going to miss a few brats from the streets, anyway? Their parents are probably glad they've got one less mouth to feed. I can't afford to be proud anymore. The money's good, and that's all I care about."
"You used to care," said Saxon.
"That was a long time ago. Don't try and interfere, Wulf. You'll get hurt."
"Are you threatening me, Billy?"
"If that's what it takes."
"You wouldn't hurt me, Billy boy. Not after everything we've been through together."
"That was someone else. Get out of here, Wulf. You don't belong here anymore. Times have changed, and you haven't changed with them. You've got soft."
He looked past Saxon's shoulder, and rose quickly to his feet. Saxon got up too, and looked around, carefully moving away from the table so that his sword arm wouldn't be crowded. Two bravos were standing by the table, staring at him suspiciously. One of them was holding a young boy by the arm, as much to hold him up as prevent him escaping. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old, and his blank face and empty eyes showed he'd been drugged. Saxon looked at the bravos thoughtfully. They were nothing special; just off-the-shelf muscle. He looked at Doyle.
"Can't let you do this, Billy. Not this."
"It's what I do now, Wulf. Stay out of it."
"We used to be friends."
"And now you're just a witness." Doyle looked at the two bravos and gestured jerkily at Saxon. "Kill him, and dispose of the body. I'll take care of the merchandise."
The bravos grinned, and the one holding the boy let go of his arm. The child stood still, staring at nothing as the bravos advanced on Saxon. They went to draw their swords, and Saxon stepped forward to meet them with empty hands. He smiled once, and then his fist lashed out with supernatural speed. The first bravo's head whipped round as the force of the blow smashed his jaw and broke his neck, and. he crumpled lifelessly to the floor. The other bravo cried out with shock and rage, and Saxon turned to face him.
The bravo cut at him with his sword, and Saxon's hand snapped out and closed on the man's wrist, bringing the sword to a sudden halt. The bravo strained against the hold, but couldn't move his arm an inch. Saxon twisted his hand, and there was a sickening crunching sound as the man's wrist bones shattered. All the color went out of his face, and the sword fell from his limp fingers. Saxon let go of him. The bravo snatched a knife from his belt with his other hand, and Saxon slammed a punch into his gut. His hand sank in deeply, and blood burst from the man's mouth. Saxon pulled back his hand, and the bravo fell to the floor and lay still. Saxon heard a footstep behind him, and turned round to see Billy Doyle backing slowly away, a sword in his hand. Saxon looked at him, and Doyle dropped the sword. His eyes were wide and frightened, and his hands were trembling.
"You're not even breathing hard," he said numbly. "Who are you?"
"I'm Wulf Saxon, and I'm back. My time away has… changed me somewhat. I'm faster, stronger. And I don't have a lot of patience anymore. But some things about me haven't changed at all. You're out of the childnapping business, Billy. As of now. I'll hand the boy over to the Guard. You'd better start running."
Doyle stood where he was, deathly pale. He licked his lips, and shifted his feet uncertainly. "You wouldn't set the Guard on me, Wulf. You wouldn't do that to me. We're old friends, remember? You were never the sort to betray a friend."
"That was someone else," said Saxon. "One question, and then you can go. The correct answer buys you a half-hour start. If you lie to me, I'll hunt you down and kill you. Where's my sister, Billy? Where's Annathea?"
Doyle smiled. "Yeah, figures you'd have a job tracking her down. She doesn't use that name anymore. Hasn't for a long time. Ask for Jenny Grove, down on Cheape Street. Grove used to be her old man. Ran off years ago. He never was worth much."
"Where on Cheape Street?"
"Just ask. They all know Jenny Grove round there. But you aren't going to like what you'll find, Wulf. I'm not the only one that's changed. Your precious sister's been through a lot since you abandoned her."
"Start running, Billy. Your half hour starts now. And pass the word around. Wulf Saxon is back, and he's in a real bad mood."
Billy Doyle took in Saxon's icy blue eyes and the flat menace in his voice, and nodded stiffly, the smile gone from his mouth as though it had never been there. He was very close to death, and he knew it. He turned and headed for the door at a fast walk that was almost a run. He grabbed a drab-looking cloak from the rack, pulled open the door, and looked back at Saxon. "I'll see you regret this, Wulf. I have friends, important people, with connections. They aren't going to like this at all. Haven's changed since your day. There are people out there now who'll eat you alive."
"Send them," said Saxon. "Send them all. Twenty-eight minutes left, Billy boy."
Doyle turned and left, slamming the door behind him. Saxon looked around him unhurriedly, but no one moved at their tables. The tavern's patrons watched in silence as Saxon took the drugged boy by the arm and headed for the door. He collected his cloak, slung it round his shoulders, and pulled open the door. It was still raining. He looked back into the tavern, and the patrons met his gaze like so many wild dogs, cowed for the moment but still dangerous. Saxon bowed to them politely.
"You've got five minutes to get out of here by the back door. Then I'm setting fire to the tavern."
He handed the boy over to a Guard Constable who came to watch the fire brigade as they tried to put out the blazing tavern. The driving rain kept the fire from spreading, but the Monkey's Drum was already beyond saving. There were occasional explosions inside as the flames reached new caches of booze. Saxon watched for a while, enjoying the spectacle, and then got directions to Cheape Street from the Constable and set off deeper into the Northside.
He didn't know this particular area very well, except by reputation,
and undoubtedly that had also changed in the past twenty-three years, along with everything else. Certainly the streets he passed through seemed increasingly dingy and squalid, and he grew thankful for the heavy rain that hid the worst details from him. A slow, sick feeling squirmed in his gut as he wondered what Doyle had meant in his comments about Annathea. And why should she have changed her first name, just because she got married? It didn't make sense. Anyone would think she was hiding from someone.
It didn't occur to him until some time later that she might have been hiding from him.
Cheape Street turned out to be right on the edge of the Devil's Hook, a square mile of slums and alleyways bordering the Docks. The Hook was where you ended up when you'd fallen so far there was nowhere else to go but the cemetery. Poverty and suffering were as much a part of the Devil's Hook as the filthy air and fouled streets. Death and sudden violence were a part of everyday life. Saxon kept his hand conspicuously near his sword, and turned a hard glare on anyone who even looked like they were getting too close. He had no trouble in finding the address he'd been given, and stared in disbelief at the sagging tenements huddled together in the rain. This was the kind of place where absentee landlords crammed whole families into one room, and no one could afford to complain. What the hell was Annathea doing here? He stopped a few people at random, using the Jenny Grove name, and got directions to a second-floor flat right at the end of the tenement building.
Saxon found the right entrance and strode into the narrow hallway. Four men were sitting on the stairs, blocking his way. They were pretty much what he expected. Young, overmuscled, and out of work, with too much time on their hands and nothing to do but make trouble to relieve the endless boredom. Probably saw this filthy old fleatrap as their territory, and were glad of a chance to manhandle an outsider. Unfortunately for them, Saxon wasn't in the mood to play along. He strode towards them, smiling calmly, and they moved to block off the stairs completely. The oldest, who couldn't have been more than twenty, grinned insolently up at Saxon. He wore battered leathers pierced with cheap brass rings in rough patterns, and made a big play out of pretending to clean his filthy nails with the point of a vicious-looking knife.