Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (17 page)
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Authors: Simon R. Green
BOOK: Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)
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The hallway grew darker as they moved along. The Tower’s architects had seen no reason to waste expensive glass windows on a storage level used mainly by servants, and had mostly made do with arrow slits. There were lamp brackets on the walls at regular intervals, but with all the servants gone, none of the lamps was lit. The group moved from one pool of light to another, plunged occasionally into gloom as clouds passed before the sun, cutting off the daylight. Hawk peered watchfully about him, his free hand resting on the hammer head.
The second stretch of brickwork Jamie indicated looked just as innocuous as the first. Hawk tried all the lamp brackets in the vicinity, but nothing happened. A thorough search of the bricks and mortar failed to turn up any other hidden catches or levers, so they did it the hard way. Hawk and Jamie rolled up their sleeves, Jamie clumsily following Hawk’s example, and then they set to work with their sledgehammers on what looked like the weakest spot. The old brickwork gave way surprisingly easily, and they soon opened up a hole big enough for Alistair and Marc to work on with their crowbars while Hawk and Jamie took a rest. When the hole looked big enough, everyone stepped back to let Jamie peer into the gloom beyond.
“Well?” said Mark. “What’s in there?”
“Looks like a ... writing desk,” said Jamie. “There are papers on it. I’ve got to get in there. We’ll have to widen the hole some more.”
He stepped back, and between them the group knocked and levered away bricks until the hole was big enough for Jamie to squeeze through. Hawk clambered through after him, and then quickly turned to stop Marc and Alistair following him.
“You’d better stay where you are; this looks like a really bad place to be cornered in. Watch the corridor. We’ll yell out if we find anything interesting.”
Alistair sniffed and turned away, his back radiating disapproval. Marc just nodded and turned away. Hawk moved over to join Jamie, who was leaning over the desk, shuffling through a sheaf of papers and squinting at them in the meager light from the slit window. There was a lamp on the desk. Hawk picked it up and shook it, and heard oil gurgle. He raised an eyebrow. Someone had been in the room recently. Which meant there was a way in that they’d missed. He shrugged and lit the lamp, holding it over the papers. The crabbed handwriting was difficult to read, even with the additional light, but Hawk was able to make out enough of it to give him goose flesh. The author had to be the freak’s father. Jamie swore softly as he struggled with the handwriting.
“These are old, Richard, really old. I need to study them. This bit here seems to have been written directly after the freak was walled up and left to die; something about its ... unnatural appetites. There are hints here about what the freak actually is, and how to deal with it; all the things Dad never got around to telling me. Richard, we’ve struck gold!”
“Don’t get too excited yet,” said Hawk, keeping his voice low. “Here’s something else for you to think about: Someone was in here before us, not long ago.”
Jamie looked at him sharply. “How can you tell?”
“There was fresh oil in this lamp. What worries me is how he got in.”
“Presumably there’s a secret mechanism here somewhere, and we missed it.”
“Maybe. And maybe there isn’t, and our visitor used magic.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. “What are you saying?” said Jamie finally.
“I’m not sure. But if there is a secret magic-user here in Tower MacNeil, that could complicate the hell out of things.”
Jamie frowned. “Dad was the magic-user in this Family; I never ‘had much of a gift for it myself. He could have been here while he was putting together his notes for me.”
“That’s a possibility,” said Hawk. “But we can’t bank on it. Let’s keep this to ourselves for the time being. If there is a secret magic-user among us, we don’t want to spook him. Or her.”
Jamie started to say something, then stopped as Alistair leaned in through the hole in the wall. “What are you two muttering about?”
“Nothing,” said Hawk. “We’ve just found some old papers, that’s all. We’ll check them out downstairs.”
“Right,” said Jamie. He went quickly through the desk drawers, and gathered up a few more papers. He rolled them all up and stuffed them inside his shirt. “Let’s go. We’ve still got to find the third room.”
They found it sooner than they expected. They rounded a curve in the corridor, and stopped dead in their tracks as they saw a great hole in the wall and debris scattered across the floor. Jagged half-bricks jutted from the sides of the hole like broken teeth, and the wall itself bowed slightly outwards into the corridor, as though there’d been an explosion in the room beyond.
“That’s not possible,” said Jamie. “We passed this way less than half an hour ago, and there was no trace of this then!”
“It’s here now,” said Hawk. He knelt down among the rubble and examined it closely in the light of the lamp he’d brought with him from the last room. “This happened some time ago. There’s a layer of dust here that hasn’t been disturbed. But you’re right, Jamie; we did come this way before. You can see our footprints in the dust over there. Strange. There isn’t this much dust anywhere else on this floor.”
“What does that mean?” said Jamie.
Hawk shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe the servants just didn’t feel like dusting this particular bit of corridor for some reason.” He got to his feet, and moved over to inspect the broken wall. “This is interesting, too. Look at the way the bricks splay outwards. They must have been hit from the other side, from inside the room. The freak did this himself, presumably with his bare hands.”
“Gods save us,” said Jamie. “What kind of monster is it?”
Alistair moved over to study the hole, scowling thoughtfully. “Nothing human could have done this. The wall was stout and heavy, built to last.” He peered through the hole at the room beyond, and his voice changed. “Richard, bring that lamp over here, would you?”
Hawk did so, and the others crowded round so they could all see into the hidden room. Scattered across the floor of the tiny cell were hundreds of small bones. Among them were the bodies of several small creatures, rats and mice and other things too decayed and corrupt to identify. The room stank of age and decay, like a freshly opened tomb.
“Well, now we know what he ate,” said Jamie, his voice too steady to be natural.
“It doesn’t explain how they got into a bricked-up room,” said Hawk. “Besides, some of the less decayed bodies look practically untouched.”
He stepped back from the hole to get some fresh air, and the others gladly took this as an excuse to do the same. They looked at each other for a while, at a loss for words. Hawk nudged a brick on the floor with his foot, and the sudden grating sound seemed very loud.
“Perhaps there’s something in the papers that will explain this,” said Jamie finally. “I’ll check them when we get downstairs.”
“There’s only one explanation,” said Alistair. “Magic. Some kind of illusion. The hole in the wall was there all the time, and we walked right past it without seeing it. Hell, we must have been practically stumbling over the rubble.”
“So what happened to the illusion?” said Hawk. “Why are we able to see the hole now?”
“Perhaps we’re being allowed to see it,” said Marc. “Perhaps the freak doesn’t need to hide it from us any longer.”
They all looked at him. “You mean the freak knows we’re here, and what we’re doing?” said Jamie.
“Haven’t you felt you were being watched?” said Marc. “Haven’t you had that feeling right from the start?”
“The freak must be a magic-user of some kind,” said Alistair. “He set up the illusion after he broke out; first so that the servants wouldn’t see the hole, and then so that we wouldn’t ... until he wanted us to. Now he’s hiding behind another illusion, dogging us from one floor to another and laughing at us all the while.”
“Oh great,” said Hawk. “Not only is he inhumanly strong and a killer, but he can mess with our minds as well.”
They stood quietly for a while, staring into the creature’s cell, because it was easier than looking at each other and admitting they didn’t know what to do next. Marc finally broke the silence, his voice soft and reflective.
“Think what he must have endured, shut up in that tiny cell for years on end. No way to measure time, save by the passing of day into night and night into day. No sound save his own voice, no company save his own thoughts. And all the years passing, one into another ... Did he ever understand why he’d been shut away and left to die, except as a punishment for being ... different? Perhaps in the end that’s what kept him alive so long; a slow-burning fuse of hatred, waiting for a chance at revenge.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for the creature,” said Alistair. “He’s already killed one man. And he would undoubtedly kill you, given the chance.”
“We don’t know the freak is the murderer,” said Marc. “There’s no evidence, no proof; nothing to tie him directly to the killing. For all we know, one of us may be the murderer, for reasons of his own.”
Hawk studied him thoughtfully but said nothing. “We can discuss this better downstairs,” said Jamie, with just enough of an edge to his voice to make it clear that this was an order and not a suggestion. “It’s obvious the freak isn’t using his cell anymore, so there’s no point in hanging around here. We’ve been gone a long time. The others will be worried about us.”
He turned his back on the gaping hole in the wall, and started off down the corridor, followed by the others. They made their way silently back down the staircase, and all the way down Hawk thought of the dead rats in the freak’s cell. He’d studied the fresher bodies very carefully, and as far as he could see, none of them had any signs of a death wound. Just like the dead man in the chimney.
In the drawing room, after the search party left, those left behind at first busied themselves stacking furniture against the door, but that didn’t take long. The atmosphere became tense and strained. No one felt much like talking. Holly sat with her back pressed against the wall, her face pale and bloodless. Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, and she jumped at every sudden noise or movement. Katrina had given up trying to get through to her, and sat elegantly on her chair, sipping unhurriedly at her wine and thinking her own thoughts. Greaves and Brennan stood self-consciously on guard by the barricade. Brennan had an old short sword he’d taken from a plaque on the wall, while Greaves was holding a heavy iron poker from the fireplace. The butler’s cold features could have been carved in stone, as usual, while Brennan looked somehow larger and more imposing, as though having a sword in his hand had awakened memories of the man he used to be. David Brook and Lord Arthur sat close by Holly, trying to comfort her with their presence. And Fisher stood with her back to the fireplace, watching them all unobtrusively, and wishing desperately for a sword.
She wasn’t sure she believed in the freak, but that didn’t mean there was no danger. In her opinion there were enough human killers around without having to turn to the supernatural to explain a sudden violent death. It was much more likely the killing had something to do with the spy Fenris. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and hoped Hawk wouldn’t be long. She always thought more clearly when she had Hawk to discuss things with.
Lord Arthur got up and helped himself to another drink. David glared at him. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Arthur? You’re no use to us drunk.”
Arthur smiled. “I’m no use to anyone, drunk or sober, Davey. You should know that. Besides, to a seasoned drinker such as myself, getting drunk isn’t nearly so simple as it once was. As my system grows increasingly pickled, alcohol has less and less effect on it. I suppose eventually I shall reach a stage where alcohol has no effect on me whatsoever, but I hope and pray I shall have departed this sad vale of tears long before then. But whatever you do, Davey, don’t have me cremated. There’s so much booze in my body it would probably burn for a fortnight.”
“Don’t talk that way,” said Holly. “It’s depressing.”
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur immediately. “How are you feeling now, Holly?”
“Better, I think.” She smiled at him tremulously. “Do you think I could have a sip of your drink?”
“Of course,” said Arthur, and handed her his glass. “Approach it carefully; it’s rather potent.”
Holly took a cautious sip, and then swallowed hard. She pulled a face and thrust the glass back at him. “And you drink that stuff for fun? You’re tougher than you look, Arthur.”
“Why, thank you, my dear. It’s nice to be appreciated.”
They shared a smile. David stirred impatiently. “Don’t encourage him, Holly. We might need his sword yet.”
“If we ever reach the stage where everything depends on me and my poor skill with a sword, then we will be in serious trouble,” said Arthur calmly. “I have all the fighting skills of a depressed rabbit. I never was much of a warrior; I always believed in seeing the other fellow’s point of view. Preferably over a glass of something. No, Davey; if trouble occurs, I have every confidence that you will defend us nobly. You’re the swordsman here.”
“That’s right,” said Holly. “You always had to be the hero, David, even when we were young. I’d be the captive Princess, and you’d be the valiant hero on his milk-white charger, come to rescue me. I always needed saving back then for some reason or another.”
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