There was a sudden knocking at the door, and Nightingale jumped in spite of himself. He cleared his throat carefully, and called for his visitor to enter. A key turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung open to reveal Major de Tournay, carrying a bottle of wine. Nightingale was somewhat surprised to see the Major, but kept all trace of it from his face. De Tournay had taken the news of Nightingale’s treachery surprisingly calmly, given that his life had been one of those threatened, but even so he was one of the last people Nightingale had expected to drop by for a chat. Still, recent events had done much to turn up unexpected allies.
“Come in, my dear Major,” he said warmly. “Is that wine for me? How splendid.” He studied the bottle’s label, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. “I’m obliged to you, de Tournay. The Ambassador means well, but his cellar is shockingly depleted.”
“I need to talk to you, my lord,” said de Tournay bluntly. He looked vaguely round the room, as though embarrassed to be there and unsure how to proceed. Nightingale waved for him to sit down on a chair opposite, and the Major did so, sitting stiffly and almost at attention. “We need to discuss the present situation, my lord. There are matters which need to be ... clarified.”
“Of course, Major. But first, let us sample this excellent wine you’ve brought me.”
De Tournay nodded, and watched woodenly as Nightingale removed the cork, sniffed it, and poured them both a generous glass. They toasted each other politely, but though de Tournay drank deeply, his attention remained fixed on Nightingale rather than the wine.
“Before we begin, Major,” said Nightingale, leaning elegantly back in his chair, “perhaps you would oblige me by bringing me up to date on what is happening with Captains Hawk and Fisher. I must confess I half expect every knock at my door to be them, come to drag me off in chains to face Haven justice, or worse still, administer it themselves.”
“You needn’t worry about them,” said de Tournay. “They had their chance to kill you, and chose not to. They understand the realities of the situation. And since they’ve been cleared of all charges, they’re not foolish enough to risk their necks again by harassing you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Nightingale drank his wine unhurriedly, ignoring de Tournay’s impatience to get to the point of his visit. Nightingale smiled. It was very good wine. “Now then, Major, what exactly did you want to see me about?”
“Are there really plans to use this super-chacal drug as a weapon in a war against Haven?”
“Of course. I feel sure it will be very effective. The few test results we’ve seen have been very promising.”
“It’s a dishonourable way to fight a war,” said de Tournay flatly.
Nightingale laughed, honestly amused. “There’s nothing honourable about war, Major. It’s nothing but slaughter and destruction on a grand scale, and the more efficiently it’s pursued, the better. The drug is just another weapon, that’s all.”
“But your way leaves no room for heroes or triumphs. Only the spectacle of mad animals, tearing each other to pieces.”
Nightingale poured himself another glass of wine, and topped up de Tournay’s. “I take it you’re one of those people who doesn’t want this war, de Tournay. Allow me to remind you that a war is vital if your career is to advance at all. There’s no other way for you to gain rank or position so quickly. Or are you content to be a Major all your life?”
“I have ambitions. But I’d prefer to obtain my advances cleanly and honourably.”
“Oh don’t worry, Major. There will be plenty of honest slaughter for you and your troops to get involved in. The drug will be used mainly against the civilian population, as a means of destroying morale. You should be grateful, Major. The drug will make your job a great deal easier. Leave policy to the politicians, de Tournay. It’s not your province to worry about such things.”
De Tournay shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.” He rose abruptly to his feet, gulped down the last of his wine, and put down the empty glass with unnecessary force. “I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer, my lord. Business to attend to. Enjoy your wine.” He bowed formally and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Nightingale listened to the key turning in the lock, and shrugged. Poor, innocent Major de Tournay. A good judge of wine, though. He raised his glass in a sardonic toast to the closed door.
De Tournay walked unhurriedly down the corridor, and nodded to the bored guard standing at the far end. “The Lord Nightingale doesn’t wish to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. See to it, would you?”
The guard nodded, and then smiled his thanks at the Major’s generous tip. De Tournay made his way through the bustling corridors of the Embassy and out into the packed streets, paying no attention to anyone he passed, lost in his own thoughts. The wine should be taking effect soon. There was a certain ironic justice in Nightingale’s falling prey to the very drug he’d championed so highly. It hadn’t been too difficult to obtain a small supply of the super-chacal from Guard Headquarters, though procuring an antidote he could take in advance had proved rather expensive. But he’d known he’d have to drink the wine too, so Nightingale wouldn’t be suspicious. The drug should be raging through Nightingale’s system by now. Left alone, locked in his room, Lord Nightingale would tear himself apart, victim of his own murderous intentions. Which only went to prove there was some justice in the world. You just had to help it along now and again.
De Tournay smiled briefly, and walked off into the city, disappearing into the milling crowds.
Hawk and Fisher stood together outside Guard Headquarters, watching the crowds. They’d been officially cleared of all outstanding charges, officially yelled at for getting themselves into such a mess in the first place by going off on their own, officially congratulated for exposing the traitors Bums and Nightingale, and very officially refused any extra overtime payments. At which point Hawk and Fisher had decided it was time to leave, before things got even more complicated. Hawk thought briefly about apologising to Commander Glen for hitting him, but one look at Glen’s simmering glare was enough to convince him it might not be the best time to bring the matter up.
He smiled regretfully, and looked about him. The streets were packed with people trudging determinedly through the snow and slush, none of them paying Hawk and Fisher any attention at all. Hawk grinned. He liked it that way. After everything they’d been through, it made a pleasant change.
“I still can’t believe how quickly everyone believed you were crazy and I was a traitor,” said Fisher. “When you consider everything we’ve done for this city ...”
“Yeah, well,” said Hawk. “That’s Haven for you. And it has to be said, our reputations didn’t help. Half of Haven thinks we’re crazy anyway for being so honest, and thinking we can change things, and the other half is scared stiff we’re going to kill them on sight.”
“We need our reputations; we couldn’t get any work done without them. It’s still no reason to turn on us like that. You know, Hawk, the more I think about it, the more I think Haven is such a worthless cesspool it’s not worth saving. It’s crooked and corrupt and so steeped in sin we might have done the Low Kingdoms a favour by just staying out of things and letting Morgan dump his drugs onto the streets.”
“Now don’t be like that, Isobel. Most people in Haven are just like anyone else in any other city—good people struggling to make ends meet, keep their heads above water, and hold their families together. They’re too busy working all the hours God sends to think about making trouble. That’s why we do this job; because they’re worth protecting from the scum out there who try to steal what little those people have. Most people here are all right.”
“Yeah?” growled Fisher. “Name two.”
She broke off as a woman wrapped in tattered furs waded through the thick slush to get to them. She was hauling along by one hand a little girl of about five or six, so buried under mismatched furs as to be little more than a bundle on legs. The mother lurched to
a halt before Hawk and Fisher and stopped for a moment to get her breath. The little girl looked up at Hawk, smiled shyly, and then hid her face behind her mother’s leg. The mother nodded to Fisher, and smiled broadly at Hawk.
“I just wanted to say thank you, Captain. For going down into the rubble after the tenement collapsed, and bringing out my little Katie safe and sound. She’d have died, if it hadn’t been for you. Thank you.”
Hawk looked down at the little girl, and smiled slowly. “They told me she was dead.”
“Bless your heart, no, Captain! Someone found her foot in the rubble, and the doctors stuck it back on with a healing spell! And the Guard is paying the bill! Almost makes you believe in miracles. She’s right as rain now. Thanks to you, Captain. I never did believe all the terrible things they say about you.”
She plunged forward, hugged him tight, kissed him quickly and stepped back again. She nodded to Fisher and set off down the street, hauling her daughter along behind her. The little girl looked back briefly and waved goodbye, and then mother and child disappeared into the crowd and were gone. Fisher looked at Hawk.
“All right, that’s two.”
THE BONES OF HAVEN
The book is dedicated to Grant Morrison, boy genius, and The Waterboys, sui generis, without whose inspiration this book could not have been written.
Haven is an old city, but still growing, with new houses built on the bones of the old. But some parts of Haven are older than others and have never been properly put to rest. Down below the surface of the city, the remains of older structures stir uneasily in their sleep and dream dark thoughts of the way things used to be. There are new buildings all over Haven, and some of them stand on unquiet graves....
1
Hell Wing
Rain had come to Haven with the spring, and a sharp, gusting wind blew it in off the sea. The rain hammered down with mindless ferocity, bouncing back from the cobbles and running down the gutters in raging torrents. Water dripped from every surface, gushed out of drainpipes, and flew in graceful arcs from carved gargoyle mouths on the smarter buildings. It had been raining on and off for weeks, despite everything the city weather wizards could do, and everyone was heartily sick of it. The rain forced itself past slates and tiles and gurgled down chimneys, making fires sputter and smoke. Anyone venturing out into the streets was quickly soaked, and even inside the air seemed saturated with moisture. People gritted their teeth and learned to ignore damp clothing and the constant drumming of rain on the roof. It was the rainy season, and the city endured it as the city endured so many other afflictions—with stubborn defiance and aimless, sullen anger.
And yet things were not as gloomy in the port city of Haven as they might have been. The rain-soaked streets were decked with flags and bunting and decorations, their bright and gaudy colors blazing determinedly through the grayness of the day. Two Kings had come to Haven, and the city was putting on an attractive face and enjoying itself as best it could. It would take more than a little rain to dampen Haven’s spirits when it had an excuse to celebrate. A public holiday had been declared from most jobs, on the grounds that the eager citizens would have taken one anyway if it hadn’t been granted, and people held street parties between the downpours and boosted the takings at all the inns and taverns. Tarpaulins were erected in the streets wherever possible, to ward off the rain, and beneath them could be found street fairs and conjurers and play-actors and all manner of entertainments.
Of course, not everyone got to take the day off. The city Guard still went about its business, enforcing the law and protecting the good citizens from pickpockets and villains and outrages, and, most important of all, from each other. Haven was a harsh, cruel city swarming with predators, even during a time of supposedly universal celebration. So Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard, made their way through the dismal gray streets of the Northside and wished they were somewhere else. Anywhere else. They huddled inside their thick black cloaks, and pulled the hoods well forward to keep the rain out of their faces.
Hawk was tall, dark, and no longer handsome. He wore a black silk patch over his right eye, and a series of old scars ran down the right side of his face, giving him a cold, sinister look. Huddled inside his soaking wet black cloak, he looked like a rather bedraggled raven that had known better days. It had to be said that even when seen at his best, he didn’t look like much. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and was beginning to build a stomach. He wore his dark hair at shoulder length, swept roughly back from his forehead and tied at the nape of his neck with a silver clasp. He’d only just entered his thirties, but already there were streaks of gray in his hair. It would have been easy to dismiss him as just another bravo, perhaps already past his prime, but there was a dangerous alertness in the way he carried himself, and the cold gaze of his single eye was disturbingly direct. He carried a short-handled axe on his right hip, instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He’d had lots of practice.
Isobel Fisher walked at his side, unconsciously echoing his pace and stance with the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six foot in height, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her late twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful, with a rawboned harshness to her face that contrasted strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Some time ago, something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Even wrapped in her thick cloak against the driving rain, she moved with a determined, aggressive grace, and her right hand never strayed far from the sword on her hip.
People gave them plenty of room as they approached, and were careful to look away rather than risk catching the Guards’ eyes. None of them wanted to be noticed. It wasn’t healthy. Hawk and Fisher were feared and respected as two of the toughest and most honest Guards in Haven, and everyone in the Northside had something to hide. It was that kind of area. Hawk glared balefully about him as he and Fisher strode along, and stamped his boots unnecessarily hard on the water-slick cobbles. Fisher chuckled quietly.
“Cheer up, Hawk. Only another month or so of utter misery, and the rainy season will be over. Then you can start looking forward to the utter misery of the boiling hot summer. Always something to look forward to in Haven.”
Hawk sniffed. “I hate it when you’re this cheerful. It’s not natural.”
“Me, or the rain?”
“Both.” Hawk stepped carefully over a tangled mass of bunting that had fallen from a nearby building. “I can’t believe people are still going ahead with celebrations in this downpour.”
Fisher shrugged. “Any excuse for a holiday. Besides, they can hardly postpone it, can they? The Kings will only be here two more days. Then it’ll all be over, and we can get back to what passes for normal here in the Northside.”
Hawk just grunted, not trusting himself to any more than that. His job was hard enough without extra complications. Haven was without doubt the most corrupt and crime-ridden city in the Low Kingdoms, and the Northside was its dark and rotten heart. No crime was too vile or too vicious to be overlooked, and if you could make any kind of profit out of it, you could be sure someone was doing it somewhere. And double-crossing his partner at the same time, like as not. Violence was commonplace, along with rape and murder and protection rackets. Conspiracies blossomed in the shadows, talking treason in lowered voices behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Throughout Haven, the city Guard was stretched thin to breaking point and beyond, but somehow they managed to keep a lid on things, most of the time. Usually by being even harsher and more violent than the people they fought. When they weren’t taking sweeteners to look the other way, of course. All of which made it increasingly difficult for anyone to figure out why the Parliaments of both the Low Kingdoms and Outremer had insisted on their respective Kings coming to Haven to sign the new Peace Treaty between the two countries.
It was true that the Peace Talks at
which the Treaty had been hammered out had taken place in Haven, but only after the Guard had protected the negotiators from treacherous assault by mercenaries and terrorists. There were a great many people in both countries who had vested interests in seeing the Peace Talks fail, and they’d shown no hesitation in turning Haven into their own private battle-ground. Hawk and Fisher had managed to smash the worst conspiracy and preserve the Talks, but it had been a very close thing, and everyone knew it. Everyone except the two Parliaments apparently. They’d set their minds on Haven, and weren’t going to be talked out of it. Probably because they simply couldn’t believe what their Advisors were telling them about the city.
Upon hearing of the singular honour being bestowed on their fair city, Haven’s city Councillors practically had a collective coronary, and then began issuing orders in a white-hot panic. No one had ever seen them do so much so quickly. One of the first things they did was to give the Guard strict instructions to get all the villains off the streets as quickly as possible, and throw the lot of them in gaol, for any or no reason. They’d worry about trials and sentences later, if at all. For the moment, all that mattered was rounding up as many villains as possible and keeping them safely out of the way until the Kings had left Haven. The prison Governor came closer to apoplexy than a coronary, though it was a near thing, and demanded hysterically where he was supposed to put all these extra bodies in his already overcrowded prison. That, he was curtly informed, was his problem. So the Guards had gone out into the streets all over the city, backed up by as many men-at-arms and militia as the Council could put together, and started picking up villains and hauling them away. In some cases where their lawyers objected strongly, the Guards took them in as well. Word soon got around, and those miscreants who managed to avoid the sweeps decided it would be wisest to keep their heads down for a while, and quietly disappeared. The crime rate plummeted, overnight.