Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (66 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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He left the tenement building and strode off into the Northside, in search of Richard Anderson.
“Councillor Anderson,” said Saxon. “I’m impressed, Richard; really. You’ve come up in the world.”
Saxon leaned back in his chair and puffed happily at the long cigar he’d taken from the box on Anderson’s desk. The rich smell of cigar smoke filled the office, obliterating the damp smell from Saxon’s clothes. There were fresh bloodstains on his clothes too, but so far, Anderson had carefully refrained from mentioning them. Saxon looked around the office, taking his time. He liked the office. It had been his once, back when he’d been a Reform Councillor. One of the first Reform Councillors, in fact. The office had been extensively renovated and refurnished since then, of course, and it looked a hundred times better. Everything was top quality now, including the paintings on the walls. Saxon could remember when the only painting had been a portrait of their main Conservative rival. They’d used it for knife-throwing practice. Saxon sighed, and looked down at the floor. There was even a fitted carpet now, with an intimidatingly deep pile. He looked back at the man sitting on the opposite side of the desk, and tried hard to keep the frown off his face.
Councillor Richard Anderson was a stocky, tolerably handsome man in his middle forties, dressed in sober but acceptably fashionable clothes. Saxon thought he looked ridiculous, but then fashions had changed a lot in the past twenty-three years. Anderson looked impassively back at Saxon, wearing a standard politician’s face—polite but uninvolved. There was nothing in his expression or posture to show how he felt about seeing the man who had once been his closest friend and colleague, back from the dead after all the long years. Nothing except the slow anger in his eyes.
“What the hell happened to you, Richard?” said Saxon finally. “How did you of all people end up as a Conservative Councillor? You used to be even more of a Reformer than I was; a hotheaded rebel who couldn’t wait to get into politics and start making changes. What happened?”
“I grew up,” said Anderson. “What happened to you?”
“Long story. Tell me about the others. I assume they haven’t all become Conservatives. What’s Dave Carrera doing these days?”
“He’s an old man now. Sixty-one, I think. Left politics after he lost two elections in a row. Runs a catering business in the Eastside.”
“And Howard Kilronan?”
“Runs a tavern, the Inn of the Black Freighter.”
“Aaron Cooney, Padraig Moran?”
“Aaron was killed in a tavern brawl, twenty years ago. I don’t know what happened to Padraig. I lost touch over the years.”
Saxon shook his head disgustedly. “And we were going to change the world. We had such hopes and such plans.... I take it there is still a Reform movement in Haven?”
“Of course. It’s even had a few successes of late. But it won’t last. Idealists don’t last long in Haven as a rule. What are you doing here, Wulf?”
“I came to see a friend,” said Saxon. “I don’t seem to have many left.”
“What did you expect, after running out on us like that? All our plans fell apart without you here to lead us. You were a Councillor, Wulf; you had responsibilities, not just to us but to all the people who worked and campaigned on your behalf. When you just up and vanished, a lot of people lost heart, and we lost the Seat on the Council back to the Conservatives. All of us who’d put money into the Cause lost everything. Billy Doyle spent a year in a debtors’ prison. You know how he felt about you, and your sister. Have you seen her yet?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you do something to help her?”
“I tried. She didn’t want to know.”
They sat in silence for a while, both of them holding back angry words. Saxon stubbed out his cigar. The taste had gone flat. He rose to his feet and nodded briskly to Anderson. “Time to go. I’ll see you again, Richard; at the next election. This is my office, and I’m going to get it back.”
“No, wait; don’t go.” Anderson rose quickly to his feet and gestured uncertainly. “Stay and talk for a while. You still haven’t told me how you’ve stayed so young. What have you been doing all these years?”
Saxon looked at him. Anderson’s voice had been carefully casual, and yet there had been a definite wrong note; a hint of something that might have been alarm, or even desperation. Why should it suddenly matter so much to Anderson whether he left or not? A sudden intuition flared within him, and he moved over to look out the window. In the street below, Guard Constables were gathering outside the house. Saxon cursed dispassionately, and turned back to look at Anderson.
“You son of a bitch. You set me up.”
Anderson’s face paled, but he stood his ground. “You’re a wanted criminal, Wulf. A common murderer and arsonist. I know my duty.”
Saxon stepped forward, his face set and grim. Anderson backed quickly away, until his back slammed up against the wall. Saxon picked up the heavy wooden desk between them and threw it effortlessly to one side, and then stood still, staring coldly at Anderson.
“I ought to tear your head right off your shoulders. After all the things I did for you ... But it seems I’m a bit pressed for time at the moment. I’ll see you again, Richard; and then we’ll continue this conversation.”
He turned away and headed for the door. Anderson struggled to regain his composure.
“They’ll find you, Saxon! There’s nowhere you can hide. They’ll hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog!”
Saxon smiled at him, and Anderson flinched. Saxon laughed softly. “Anyone who finds me will regret it. I’ve got nothing left to lose, Richard; and that makes me dangerous. Very dangerous.”
He left the office, not even bothering to slam the door behind him. He ran down the stairs to meet the Guard, feeling his new strength mount within him like a fever. He wasn’t going to let the Guard stop him. He had things to do. He wasn’t sure what they were yet, but he was sure of one thing: someone was going to pay for all the years he’d lost, for all the friends and hopes that had been taken from him. The first of the Guard Constables appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Saxon smiled down at him.
“You know something? I’ve had a really bad day. You’re about to have a worse one.”
The other Guards arrived, and he threw himself at them.
The cemetery wasn’t much to look at, just a plot of open land covered with earth mounds and headstones. Incense sticks burned at regular intervals, but the smell was still pretty bad. Saxon stood looking down at the single modest stone bearing both his parents’ names, and felt more numb than anything. He’d never meant for them to be buried here. He’d always intended they should be laid to rest in one of the more discreet, upmarket cemetaries on the outskirts of the city. But by the time they died, most of the money he’d brought to the family was gone, and so they were buried here. At least they were together, as they’d wanted.
The rain had died away to a miserable drizzle, though the sky was still dark and overcast. Saxon stood with his head bare, and let the rain run down his face like tears. He felt cold, inside and out. He knelt down beside the headstone, and set about methodically clearing the weeds away from the stone and the grave. He’d known his parents would probably be dead, as soon as he was told how many years he’d been away, but he hadn’t really believed it. Then Anna told him they’d died, but he still didn’t believe it, not really. For him it was only yesterday that they’d both been alive and well, and proud of him. Their son, the city Councillor. And now they were gone, and they’d died believing he deserted them, and all the people who depended on him. He stopped weeding and sat still, and the tears burst from him with a violence that shook him.
They finally passed, leaving him feeling weak and drained. He’d never felt so alone. In the past, there had always been family and friends to look out for him, to pick him up when he fell over his own feet from trying to run too fast. They’d always been there when he needed them, family and friends, and Mum and Dad. Now they were gone, and there was no one left but him. So that would have to be enough.
He’d drifted into Reform politics because he thought people needed him, to protect them from the scum who preyed on them, both inside and outside the law. That seemed more true than ever now. Except that things had got so bad he couldn’t tell the guilty from the innocent anymore. Something had to be done, but he no longer had any faith in politics; he needed to take a more personal stand. To get his hands on the bad guys and make them hurt, the way he was hurting. He could do that. He was different now; stronger, faster, maybe even unbeatable. He could find the people responsible for making Haven what it had become, and exact vengeance for himself and everyone else who’d lost all hope and faith in the future. He smiled slowly, his eyes cold and savage. He would have his vengeance, and the Gods help anyone who got in his way.
He rose to his feet, and took one last look at the headstone. Whatever happened, he didn’t think he’d be coming back.
“Goodbye, Mum, Dad. I’ll make you proud of me again. I’ll put things right. I promise.”
He turned and left the cemetery, and walked back into the unsuspecting city.
3
Hostages
The rain was still hammering down, and Hawk was getting distinctly tired of it. He pulled his hood well forward and ran after Jessica Winter as she led the SWAT team down the wide, empty road that led into Mulberry Crescent. They’d been running flat out for the last five streets, ever since Winter got the emergency call from the Guard communications sorcerer. She was still running well and strongly, but Hawk was starting to find it hard going. Personally, he thought she was just showing off. Whatever the emergency was, it couldn’t be so important they had to sprint all the way there. Hawk had never been much of a one for running, mainly because he’d always tended towards stamina rather than speed. But he couldn’t afford to look bad before the rest of the team, so he gritted his teeth and pounded along in Winter’s wake, glaring at her unresponsive back.
He still found the time to keep a wary eye on his surroundings, and was surprised to find the street was totally empty. Even allowing for the foul weather, there should have been some kind of crowd out on the street, celebrating the Peace Treaty. But though strings of brightly colored bunting hung damply above them, and flags flapped limply in the gusting wind, the SWAT team were alone in the middle of the fashionable Westside street. And that was strange in itself. Guards weren’t usually welcome in the Westside. The well-to-do and high-placed families who lived there tended to prefer their own private guards when it came to keeping the peace; men who knew where their loyalties lay, and could be relied on to look the other way at the proper moments. Hawk smiled sourly. It would appear the private guards had run into something they couldn’t handle, and then been forced to call in the SWAT team. Hawk’s grin widened at the thought. He bet that had rankled. Hawk didn’t have much use for private guards. In his experience, they tended to be overpaid, overdressed, and about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
Winter finally slowed to a halt at the end of the street, and looked out over Mulberry Crescent. The rest of the team formed up around her. Hawk did his best to hide his lack of breath, and squinted through the rain at the killing ground before him. Bodies lay scattered the length of the Crescent. Men, women, and children lay twisted and broken, like discarded toys a destructive child had tired of. Water pooled around the bodies, tinted pink with blood. Hawk counted twenty-nine in plain sight, and had a sick feeling there were probably more he couldn’t see yet. No one moved in the Crescent, and no one stared from the windows. If there was anybody left alive, they were keeping their heads well down. Which suggested that whatever had happened here, it wasn’t over yet.
There was still no sign anywhere of the private guards, which didn’t surprise Hawk one bit. They were all very well when it came to moving on undesirables and manhandling the occasional troublemaker, but show them a real problem and they tended to be suddenly scarce on the ground. He looked at the pathetic contorted bodies lying abandoned in the rain, and his hands curled into fists. Someone was going to pay for this. One way or another. He looked at Winter, who was standing silently beside him.
“I think it’s time you filled us in on why we’re here, Winter. The Crescent looks like it was ambushed. What exactly are we dealing with here?”
“A sniper,” said Winter, not taking her eyes off the scene before her. “He’s been active for less than forty minutes, but there are already thirty-two dead that we know of. No wounded. He kills every time. And just to complicate things, he’s a magic-user, and a pretty powerful one at that. He’s holed up in an upper story of one of these houses, somewhere down the far end. He’s been using his magic to blast everything that moves, irrespective of who or what it might be. Local guards have cleared the streets, but it’s up to us to do something about the sniper.” She glanced briefly at Storm. “Well, do you See anything useful?”
“Not really,” said Storm, scowling unhappily. “He’s in the third house from the end, down on the left, but he’s protected himself very thoroughly against any form of magical attack. I can break through his wards, given enough time, but he could do a hell of a lot of damage to the surrounding area before I took him out.”
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