Guards of Haven

When it rains in Haven, it really rains. The rain hammered down without mercy, beating with spiteful persistence at every exposed surface. Ritenour—sorcerer, shaman, and now ex-convict—looked around him with interest as he strode along behind the taciturn man-at-arms called Horn. They were both protected by Ritenour’s rain-avoidance spell, but everyone else in the crowded street looked like so many half-drowned sewer rats. The rains had barely begun when Ritenour had been thrown into Damnation Row, but they were in full force now, as blindly unstoppable as death or taxes. A continuous wave of water three inches deep washed down the cobbled street. past the overflowing gutters. Ritenour stamped enthusiastically through the water, smiling merrily at those people he splashed. He ignored the furious looks and muttered curses, secure in the knowledge that Horn wouldn’t allow him to come to any harm.

Ritenour’s smile widened as they made their way through the Northside. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t give a damn. He was back in the open air again, and even the stinking streets of the Northside seemed light and fresh after the filthy rat-hole he’d shared with three other magic-users on Sorcerers Row. In fact, he felt so good about things in general, he didn’t even think about killing the insensitive men and women who crowded around him in the packed street. There’d be time for such things later.

He studied the back of the man in front of him thoughtfully. Horn hadn’t said much to him since collecting him from the professionally anonymous men who’d smuggled him out of Damnation Row under cover of the riot. Apparently Horn fancied himself as the strong, silent type. Deeds, not words—that sort of thing. Ritenour sighed happily. Such types were delightfully easy to manipulate. Not that he had any such thing in mind at the moment, of course. Horn was taking him to Daniel Madigan, and you don’t kill the goose that may produce golden eggs. Not until you’ve got your hands on the golden eggs, anyway.

Ritenour wondered, not for the first time, what a terrorist’s terrorist like Madigan wanted with a lowly sorcerer shaman like him. Arranging the prison riot must have cost Madigan a pretty penny; he had to be expecting Ritenour to provide something of more than equal value in return. Ritenour shrugged. Whatever it was, he was in no position to argue. He’d only been in gaol for tax evasion, but all too soon he’d have ended up in Court under a truthspell, and then they’d have found out all about his experiments in human as well as animal vivisection. They’d have hanged him for that, even though his experiments had been pursued strictly in the interests of sorcerous research. Madigan had rescued him in the very nick of time, whether the terrorist knew it or not.

He let his mind drift on to other matters. Horn had promised him, on Madigan’s behalf, a great deal of money if he would agree to work with the terrorist on a project of mutual interest. Ritenour was always interested in large amounts of money. People had no idea how expensive sorcerous research was these days, particularly when your subjects insisted on dying. But it had to be said that Madigan was not the sort of person Ritenour would have chosen to work with. The man was an idealist, and fanatically devoted to his Cause: the overthrowing and destruction of Outremer. He was very intelligent, inhumanly devious and determined, and had raised violence and murder to a fine art. Ritenour frowned slightly. Whatever Madigan wanted him for, it was bound to be unpleasant and not a little dangerous. In the event he decided to go through with this project, he’d better be careful to get most of his money up front. Just in case he had to disappear in a hurry.

Horn stopped suddenly before a pleasantly anonymous little tavern tucked away in a side court. Ritenour looked automatically for a sign, to see what the place was called, but there didn’t seem to be one. Which implied the tavern was both expensive and exclusive (you either knew about it already or you didn’t matter), and therefore very security conscious. Just the sort of place he’d expect to find Madigan. The best place to lie low was out in the open, hidden behind a cloud of money and privilege.

Horn held open the door for him, and then followed him into the dimly lit tavern. People sat around tables in small, intimate groups, talking animatedly in lowered voices. No one looked up as Horn led the way through the tables to a hidden stairway at the back of the room. The stairs led up to a narrow hallway, and Horn stopped before the second door. It had no number on it, but there was an inconspicuous peephole. Horn knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice. Ritenour smiled. Secret knocks, no less. Terrorists did so love their little rituals. He wondered hopefully if there’d be a secret password as well, but the door swung open almost immediately, suggesting someone had already studied Horn through the peephole. Ritenour assumed a carefully amiable expression and followed Horn in. The door shut firmly behind him, and he heard four separate bolts sliding into place. He didn’t look back, and instead put on his best open smile and looked casually about him.

The room was surprisingly large for tavern lodgings, and very comfortably furnished. Apparently, Madigan was one of those people who believed the mind works best when the body is well cared for. Ritenour was glad they had something in common. Most of the fanatics he’d had dealings with in the past had firmly believed in the virtues of poverty and making do with the barest essentials. Luxuries were only for the rich and the decadent. They also believed in compulsory hair shirts and cold baths, and had shown no trace whatsoever of a sense of humor. Ritenour wouldn’t have dealt with such killjoys at all if his experiments hadn’t required so many human subjects. His main problem had always been obtaining them discreetly. After all, he couldn’t just go out into the streets and drag passersby into his laboratory. People would talk.

A young man and attractive woman, seated at a table at the far end of the room, were keeping a watchful eye on him. Ritenour gave them his best charming smile. Another man was standing guard by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. He had to be the largest man Ritenour had ever seen, and he was watching Ritenour closely. The sorcerer nodded to him politely, uncomfortably aware that Horn hadn’t moved from his side since they’d entered the room. Ritenour didn’t need to be told what would happen if Madigan decided he couldn’t use him after all. Or, to be more exact, what might happen. Ritenour might be unarmed, but he was never helpless. He always kept a few nasty surprises up his metaphorical sleeves, just in case of situations like this. You met all sorts, as a working sorcerer.

One man was standing on his own before the open fireplace, his face cold and calm, and Ritenour knew at once that this had to be Daniel Madigan. Even standing still and silent, he radiated power and authority, as though there was nothing he couldn’t do if he but put his mind to it. He stepped forward suddenly, and Ritenour’s heart jumped painfully. Although Madigan wore no sword, Ritenour knew the man was dangerous, that violence and murder were as natural to him as breathing. The threat of sudden death hung about him like a bloodied shroud. Ritenour felt an almost overwhelming urge to back away, but somehow made himself hold his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other terrorists looking at Madigan with respect, and something that might have been awe or fear. Or both. Madigan held out a hand for Ritenour to shake, and the sorcerer did so, finding a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his hand wasn’t shaking. Madigan’s hand was cold and hard, like a store mannequin’s. There was no warmth or emotion in the handshake, and Ritenour let go as soon as he politely could. Madigan gestured at the two chairs before the open fire.

“Of course,” said Ritenour, bowing formally. His mind was racing. When in doubt, take the initiative away from your opponent. “I wonder if I could prevail on you for a bite of something, and perhaps a glass of wine? Prison fare tends to be infrequent, and bordering on inedible.”

There was a moment of silence as Madigan stared at him impassively, and Ritenour wondered if he’d pushed it too far, too early. Everyone else in the room seemed to have gone very still. And then Madigan bowed slightly, and everyone relaxed a little. He nodded to the young man sitting at the table, and he rose quickly to his feet and left the room, fumbling at the door’s bolts in his haste. Ritenour followed Madigan to the two chairs by the fire, and was careful to let Madigan sit down first. Horn moved in to stand beside Madigan’s chair.

“Allow me to introduce my associates in this glorious venture,” said Madigan mildly. “You’ve already met Horn, though I doubt he’s told you much about himself. He is the warrior of our little group, a most excellent fighter and an experienced killer. His family were deported from Outremer some generations ago, stripped of title and land and property. Horn has vowed to avenge that ancient insult.

“The young lady watching you so intently from that table is Eleanour Todd, my second-in-command. When I am not available, she is my voice and my authority. Her parents died in an Outremer cell. She fought as a mercenary for the Low Kingdoms for several years, but now they have betrayed her by seeking peace with Outremer she has joined me to exact a more personal revenge.

“The large gentleman at the door is Bailey. If he has another name, I’ve been unable to discover it. Bailey is a longtime mercenary and a seasoned campaigner. And yet despite his many years of loyal service to both Outremer and the Low Kingdoms, he has nothing to show for it, while those he served have grown fat and rich at his expense. I have promised him a chance to make them pay in blood and terror.”

Someone outside the door gave the secret knock. Bailey looked through the peephole, and then pulled back the bolts and opened the door. The young man who’d left only a few moments before bustled in carrying a tray of cold meats and a glass of wine. He set down the tray before Ritenour, who smiled and nodded his thanks. The young man grinned cheerfully, and bobbed his head like a puppy that’s just got a trick right, then looked quickly at Madigan to check he’d done the right thing.

“And this young gentleman is Ellis Glen,” said Madigan dryly. “One of the most savage and vicious killers it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. You must let him show you his necklace of human teeth some time. It’s really quite impressive. I have given his life shape and meaning, and he has vowed to obey me in everything. I expect great things of Ellis.”

He tilted his head slightly, dismissing Glen, and the young man scurried over to sit at the table, blushing like a girl who’d been complimented on her beauty. Madigan settled back in his chair and waved for Ritenour to begin his meal. The sorcerer did so, carefully not hurrying. More and more it seemed to him he couldn’t afford to seem weak in front of these people. Madigan watched him patiently, his face calm and serene. Ritenour could feel the pressure of the others’ watching eyes. and took the opportunity his meal provided to study them unobtrusively.

Horn looked to be standard hired muscle, big as an ox and nearly as smart. You could find a dozen like him in most taverns in the Northside, ready for any kind of trouble as long as it paid well. He had a square, meaty face that had taken a few too many knocks in its time. He wore a constant scowl, aimed for the moment at Ritenour, but its unvarying depth suggested it was probably his usual expression anyway. And yet there was something about the man that disturbed the sorcerer on some deep, basic level. He had the strong feeling that Horn was the kind of warrior who would just keep coming towards you, no matter how badly you injured him, until either you were dead or he was.

Ritenour suppressed a shudder and switched his gaze to Eleanour Todd. She was altogether easier on the eye, and Ritenour flashed her his most winning smile. She looked coldly back, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him as he ate. Judging by the length of her splendid legs, she would be easily his height when standing, and her large frame was lithely muscular. She wore a standard mercenary’s outfit, hard-wearing and braced with leather in strategic places for protection, but cut tightly here and there to emphasize her femininity. With her thick mane of long black hair and calm dark eyes, she reminded Ritenour of nothing so much as a trained fighting cat, awaiting only her master’s instruction to leap upon her prey and rend it with slow, malicious glee. She held his gaze for a moment, and then smiled slowly. Ritenour’s stomach muscles tightened. Her front teeth had been filed to sharp points. Ritenour nodded politely and looked away, making a firm mental note never to turn his back on her.

The huge warrior, Bailey, could well be a problem. He had to be in his late forties, maybe even early fifties, but he was still in magnificent shape, with a broad muscular chest and shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways when he walked through a doorway. Even standing still on the other side of the room, he seemed to be looming over everyone else. He made Horn look almost petite. And yet his face was painfully gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as though he’d been having trouble sleeping. Ritenour shrugged inwardly. Any mercenary Bailey’s age was bound to have more than a few ghosts haunting his memories. Ritenour studied the man’s face thoughtfully, searching for clues. Bailey’s hair was iron-grey, cropped short in a military cut. His eyes were icy blue, and his mouth was a thin line like a knife-cut. Ritenour could see control in the face, and strength, but his cold mask hid everything else. Ritenour decided he wouldn’t turn his back on this one either.

Despite Madigan’s unsettling praises of the young man, Ritenour didn’t see Ellis Glen as much of a problem. He was barely out of his teens, tall and gangling and not yet into his full growth. His face was bright and open, and he was so full of energy it was all he could do to sit still at his table while Ritenour ate. He was probably only there to run errands and take care of the scutwork no one else wanted to be bothered with. Useful battle fodder too; someone expendable Madigan could send into dangerous situations to check for traps and ambushes.

And finally, of course, there was Daniel Madigan himself. You only had to look at him for a moment to know he was the leader. He was darkly handsome and effortlessly charismatic, and even sitting still and silent, he radiated strength and authority and presence. He was the first person everyone’s eyes went to on entering a room, drawing attention in much the same way a wolf would, or any other predator. Looked at coolly, he wasn’t physically all that outstanding. He was slightly less than average height, and certainly not muscular, but still he was the most dangerous man in the room, and everyone knew it. Ritenour felt increasingly unsettled by Madigan’s gaze, but forced himself to continue his meal and his appraisal of the terrorist leader.

The more he studied Madigan, the clearer it became that violence of thought and deed was always simmering just below a calm surface. And yet there was nothing special you could put your finger on about his face or bearing. Ritenour had heard it said that Madigan, when he felt like it, could turn off his personality in a moment, and become just another anonymous face in the crowd. It was an attribute that had enabled him to escape from many traps and tight corners in his time. Ritenour studied the man’s features carefully. Just now, Madigan was showing him a cool, unemotional politician’s face, half hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were dark and unwavering, and his occasional smile came and went so quickly you couldn’t be sure whether you’d seen it or not. He looked to be in his early thirties, but had to be at least ten years older, unless he’d started his career of death and terror as a child. Not that Ritenour would put that past him. If ever a man had been born to violence and intrigue and sudden death, it was Daniel Madigan. No one knew how many people he’d killed down the years, how many towns and villages he’d destroyed in blood and fire, how many outrages he’d committed in the name of his Cause.

He had vowed to overthrow and destroy Outremer. No one knew why. There were many stories, mostly concerning the fate of his unknown family, but they were only stories. The Low Kingdoms had long since disowned him and his actions. He was too extreme, too ruthless ... too dangerous to be associated with, even at a distance. Madigan didn’t care. He went his own way, following his own Cause, ready to kill or destroy anyone or anything that got in his way.

And now he was sitting opposite Ritenour, studying him coolly and waiting to talk to him. With a start, Ritenour realised he’d finished his meal and was staring openly at Madigan. He buried his face in his wineglass and fought his way back to some kind of composure. He finally lowered his glass and put it carefully down on the arm of his chair, aware that the other terrorists were watching him with varying shades of impatience.

“An excellent choice,” said Ritenour, smiling calmly back. In fact, he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t a clue as to what he’d just drunk. It could have been dishwater for all he knew. He braced himself, and met Madigan’s unnerving gaze as firmly as he could. “What do you want with me, Madigan? I’m no one special, and we both know it. I’m just another mid-level sorcerer, in a city infested with them. What makes me so important to you that you were ready to start a riot to break me out of Damnation Row?”

“You’re not just a sorcerer,” said Madigan easily. “You’re also a shaman, a man with intimate knowledge of the life and death of animals and men. I have a use for a shaman. Particularly one who’s followed the path of your recent experiments. Oh yes, my friend, I know all the secrets of your laboratory. I make it my business to know such things. Relax; no one else need ever know. Providing you do this little job for me.”

Ritenour looked at him blankly, too stunned even to register the shock that he felt. He’d known the Kings had arrived in Haven. That news had penetrated even Damnation Row’s thick walls. But the sheer enormity of the plan took his breath away. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a snap.

“Then why the hell ... ?” Horn stirred suddenly at Madigan’s side, reacting to the baffled anger in Ritenour’s voice, and he shut up quickly to give his mind a chance to catch up with his mouth. There had to be a reason. Madigan did nothing without a reason. “Why do you want to kill your own King?”

“Because the Low Kingdoms’ Parliament has betrayed us all by agreeing to his new Peace Treaty. Once this worthless scrap of paper has been signed, land that is rightfully ours and has been for generations will be given away to our hereditary enemies. I will not allow that to happen. There can be no peace with Outremer. As long as that country exists, it is an abomination in the sight of the Gods. That land was ours, and will be again. Outremer must be brought down, no matter what the price. So, both their King and ours must die, and in such a fashion that no one knows who is responsible. Both Parliaments will blame the other, both will deny any knowledge of any plot, and in the end there will be war. The people of both countries will demand it. And Outremer will be wiped from the face of the earth.”

“I have a hundred armed men at my command, hand-picked and assembled just for this project. But if all goes well, we shouldn’t even need them much, except to ensure our security once we’ve taken control of Champion House. You must learn to trust me, sir sorcerer. Everyone in this room has committed their lives to carrying out this plan.”

Madigan chuckled briefly. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Don’t worry, my friend. You’ll get your money. It’s being held in a safe place until after this mission is over. And to answer the question you didn’t ask; no, you will not be required to die for our Cause. Once you have performed the task I require of you, you are free to leave.”

There was a knock at the door, an ordinary, everyday knock, and Madigan’s people tensed, their hands moving quickly to their weapons. Bailey stared through the peephole, grunted once and relaxed. “It’s all right. It’s just the traitor.” He unbolted the door and pulled it open, and a young nobleman strode in as if he owned the place.

He was tall and very slender, with a skin so pale it all but boasted that its owner never voluntarily put a foot outdoors. His long, narrow face bore two beauty spots and a look of utter disdain. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with tightly cut trousers and a padded jerkin with a chin-high collar. He had the kind of natural poise and arrogance that comes only with regular practice since childhood, and his formal bow to Madigan bordered on insolence. He swept off his wet cloak and handed it to Bailey without looking at him. The old warrior held the dripping garment between thumb and forefinger, and for a moment Ritenour thought Bailey might tell the young nobleman what he could do with it. But Madigan glanced briefly at him, and Bailey hung the cloak carefully on the rack by the door. The young noble strutted forward, ostentatiously ignoring everyone, and warmed his hands by the fire.

“Beastly weather out. Damned if I know why your city weather wizards allow it. My new boots are positively ruined.” He glared at Ritenour as though it was his fault. The sorcerer smiled in response, and made a mental note of the young man’s face for future attention. The nobleman sniffed loudly and turned his glare on Madigan. “This is the sorcerer fellow, is it? Are you sure he’s up to the job? I’ve seen better dressed scarecrows.”

He pulled a roll of papers from inside his jerkin, and moved over to spread them out on the table, scowling at Glen and Eleanour Todd until they stood up and got out of the way. Ritenour and Madigan got up and went over to join him at the table. The sorcerer studied Sir Roland with interest. Either the man had nerves of steel, or he was totally insensitive to the fact that he was making enemies of some very dangerous people. Sir Roland secured his papers at the comers with the terrorists’ wineglasses, and gestured impatiently for Madigan to move in beside him. He did so, and everyone else crowded in behind him.

“These are the floor plans for Champion House,” said Sir Roland brusquely. “All the details you’ll need are here, including the location and nature of all the security spells. I’ve also marked the routes of the various security patrols, and how many men-at-arms you can expect to encounter at each point. You’ll find details of their movements, a timetable for each patrol and so on, in the other papers. I don’t have time to go through those with you now. I’ve also got you the plans you requested for the cellar, though what good that’s going to do you is beyond me. No one’s been down there for simply ages, and the whole place is a mess. It’s full of rubbish and probably crawling with rats. And if you’re thinking of breaking in that way, you can forget it. The cellar was built on solid concrete, and there are unbreakable security wards to prevent anyone from teleporting into the House.

“Now then, this sheet gives you both Kings’ separate schedules, inside and outside the building, complete with details of how much protection they’ll have. With these schedules, you’ll be able to tell exactly where each King should be at any given moment. There are bound to be alterations from time to time, to accommodate any whims or fears of the Kings’ security people, but I’ll see you’re kept up to date as much as possible. For the moment, everyone’s so afraid of offending somebody that they’re all following their schedules to the letter, but you know how paranoid security people can get. You’d almost think they had something to worry about. Finally, this sheet gives you the names of those people who can be trusted to support you, once the operation is underway. You’ll notice the list includes names from the parties of both countries.” The young noble smiled slightly. “Though of course they won’t reveal themselves unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Still, I think you can rely on them to keep their fellow hostages in line, prevent any heroics, that sort of thing.

“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 practised 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.

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.”

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 Councillor who’d started out in the same mean streets as them. But now no one recognised 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.

He smiled, and shrugged resignedly. Being a city Councillor 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.

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 too many times. Without having to be told, Saxon knew that Billy Doyle was no longer one of life’s successes.

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

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.

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.

“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 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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“Yeah. You could say that. You’re not from around here, not with fancy clothes like those. You don’t belong here. This is Serpent territory. We’re the Serpents. You want to walk around where we live, that’s going to cost you. Think of it as an informal community tax.”

The young tough rose lithely to his feet, holding his knife out before him. Saxon stepped forward, took him by the throat with one hand, and lifted him off his feet. The Serpent’s eyes bulged and his grin vanished. His feet kicked helplessly inches above the floor. He started to lift his knife, and Saxon turned and threw him the length of the hall. He slammed into the end wall by the door, and slid unconscious to the floor. Saxon looked at the Serpents still blocking the stairs, and they scrambled to get out of his way.

He started up the stairs, and one of them produced a length of steel chain from somewhere and whipped it viciously at Saxon’s face, aiming for the eyes. The other two produced knives and moved forward, their eyes eager for blood. Saxon swayed easily to one side and the chain missed, though he felt the breath of its passing on his face. His attacker stumbled forward, caught off balance, and Saxon took the Serpent’s throat in his hand and crushed it. Blood flew from the man’s mouth, and he fell dying to the floor. Saxon kicked him out of the way. That left two.

He slapped the knife out of one Serpent’s hand, and kicked the other in the leg. He felt, as well as heard, the bone break beneath his boot. The man fell back, screaming and clutching at his leg. The other was down on one knee, scrabbling frantically for his knife. Saxon kicked him in the face. The Serpent’s neck snapped under the impact, and he flew backwards to lie unmoving on the hall floor. Saxon turned and looked at the last Serpent, who cringed from him, his back pressed against the stairway banisters. Saxon reached down, grabbed a handful of the man’s leathers, and lifted him up effortlessly, so that they were face to face. Sweat ran down the Serpent’s face, and his eyes were wide with shock and fear.

“I’m Saxon. Wulf Saxon. I’ve been away, but now I’m back. I’m going up to visit my sister now. If anyone feels like coming up after me and disturbing my visit, I’m relying on you to convince them that it’s a bad idea. Because if anyone else annoys me, I’m going to get really unpleasant.”

He dropped the Serpent, and continued on up the stairs without looking back. The second floor was dark and gloomy. The windows had been boarded up, and there were no lamps. The doors all looked much the same, old and hard-used and covered with an ancient coat of peeling paint. The numbers had been crudely carved into the wood, probably because any attached number would have been pried off and stolen in the hope someone would pay a few pennies for it. In this kind of neighborhood, anything that wasn’t actually nailed down and guarded with a drawn sword was considered fair game.

He found the right door, raised a hand to knock, and then hesitated. He wondered suddenly if he wanted to meet the person his sister had become. Billy Doyle had been a good sort once; brave, reliable, honourable. Saxon slowly lowered his hand. His sister was Annathea, not this Jenny Grove; whoever she was. Perhaps the best thing would be to just turn around and leave. That way he’d at least have his memories of Annathea. He pushed the temptation aside. He had to know. Whatever she’d done, whoever she’d become, she was still family, and there might be something he could do to help. He knocked briskly at the door. There was a pause, and then he heard the muffled sound of footsteps from inside.

There was a long pause, and then he heard the sound of bolts being drawn, and the door opened to reveal a faded, middle-aged woman in a shapeless grey robe. Her thin grey hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, and he didn’t know her face at all. Saxon relaxed a little, and some of the weight lifted from his heart. He had come to the wrong place after all. He’d make his excuses, apologise for disturbing the old lady, and leave. And then she leaned forward, and raised a veined hand to touch his arm, her face full of wonder.

She stepped back while he was still searching for an answer, and gestured for him to enter. He did so, and she shut the door, carefully pushing home the two heavy bolts. Saxon stood uncertainly in his sister’s single room and looked around him, as much to give him an excuse for not speaking as anything else. It was clean, if not particularly tidy, with a few pieces of battered old furniture that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the city dump. Which was probably where they’d come from. A narrow bed was pushed up against the far wall, the bedclothes held together by patches and rough stitching.

The woman gestured for him to sit down on one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs pulled up to the fire. He did so, and she slowly lowered herself into the facing chair. Her bones cracked loudly in the quiet, sounding almost like the damp logs spitting in the fire. For a while Saxon and the woman just sat there, looking at each other. He still couldn’t see his sister in the drawn, wrinkled face before him.

“Ah yes. Dear Robbie. He was so alive, always joking and smiling and full of big plans. Sometimes I think I married him because he reminded me so much of you. That should have warned me, but I was lonely and he was insistent. He ran through what was left of the family fortune in twelve months, and then I woke up one morning and he was gone. He left me a nice little note, thanking me for all the good times. I never saw him again. Things were hard for a while after that. I had no money, and Robbie left a lot of debts behind him. But I coped. I had to.”

Jenny Grove looked at him. “I thought you’d know by now. They’re all dead, Wulf. It broke mother’s heart when you ran off and left us without even a word or a note. Father spent a lot of money hiring private agents to try and track you down, but it was all money wasted. Your friends were convinced something must have happened to you, but they couldn’t find out anything either. Mother died not long after you left. She was never very strong. Father faded away once she was gone, and followed her a year later. George and Curt both became soldiers. George joined the army, and Curt became a mercenary. You know they never could agree on anything. They died fighting on opposite sides of the same battle, over fifteen years ago. That just left me. For a long time I clung to the hope that you might come back to help me, but you never did. After a while, after a long while, I stopped hoping. It hurt too much. How could you do it, Wulf? You meant so much to us; we were all so proud of you. How could you just run off and leave us?”

She shrugged. “Your money took us out of the Northside, and let us live the good life, for a while. I wish it hadn’t. It made it so much harder to go back to being nothing again. Annathea and her life became just a dream, a dream I wanted to forget, because it drove me mad. So I became Jenny Grove, who’d never been anything but poor, and had no memories to forget.”

“Friends ... you’d be surprised how quickly friends disappear once the money’s run out. And you made a lot of enemies when you disappeared so suddenly. Friends who’d been as close as family wouldn’t even speak to us, because of the way you left them in the lurch. They were convinced we must have known about it, you see. Not everyone turned their back on me. Billy Doyle—you remember Billy—he helped sort out the debts Robbie left me, and helped me start a new life. I drove him away in the end. He was part of the old days, and I just wanted to forget. Dear Billy; he had such a crush on me when we were younger. I don’t suppose you remember that.”

“I read the cards, tell fortunes, that sort of thing. Father would never have approved, but it’s harmless enough. Mostly I just tell them what they want to hear, and they go away happy. I have my regular customers, and they bring me enough to get by on.”

“You mean a whore. I was, dear. What else was there for me, then? But I got too old for that. I decided I’d spent enough time staring at my bedroom ceiling, and took up the cards instead. Dear me, Wulf, you look shocked. You shouldn’t. There are worse ways to make money, and you’ll find most of them here in the Hook. Why did you come here, Wulf? What do you want from me?”

“No,” said Jenny Grove flatly. “That was someone else. Annathea Saxon died years ago—of a broken heart, like her parents. Go away, Wulf. We’ve nothing to say to each other. All you can do is stir up memories best forgotten by both of us. Go away, Wulf. Please.”

Saxon stomped down the stairs, scowling angrily. There had to be someone left from his past who’d be glad to see him. Someone he’d started on the road to success ... He smiled suddenly. Richard Anderson. Young Richard had been just starting out in Reform politics twenty-three years ago, and Saxon had provided both financial and personal backing when no one else believed in Anderson at all. Saxon had believed in him. Richard Anderson had shown drive and ambition and an almost savage grasp of how to play the political game. If anyone had succeeded and prospered in Saxon’s absence, it would be Anderson. And someone with his genius for keeping a high profile shouldn’t be that difficult to track down.

He started down the stairs that led to the ground floor, and then stopped suddenly, his hand dropping to his sword. The entry hall was crammed with a dozen young toughs and bravos, all wearing the same leathers as the four Serpents he’d encountered earlier. Apparently the survivor had gone running for his friends. Well, crawling anyway. They carried knives and clubs and lengths of steel chains, and they looked at Saxon with mocking grins and hungry eyes. Saxon looked calmly out at them.

He ran down the last few stairs and launched himself into their midst. He landed heavily on two Serpents, and his weight threw them all to the floor. He lashed out with his fist, and one Serpent’s face disappeared in a mess of blood and broken bone. Stamping down hard as he rose to his feet, Saxon felt the other Serpent’s ribs break and splinter under his boot. Knives and bludgeons flailed around him, but he was too fast for them. He moved among the Serpents like a deadly ghost, his fists lashing out with supernatural strength and fury. He picked up one of his assailants and used him as a living flail with which to batter his fellows. The Serpent screamed at first, but not for long. Bones broke and splintered, blood flew on the air, and Serpents fell to the floor and did not rise again. Saxon soon tired of that, and threw the limp body away. He needed it to be more personal. He needed to get his hands on them.

But the few remaining Serpents turned and ran rather than face him, and he was left alone in the hallway, surrounded by the dead and the dying. Blood pooled on the floor and ran down the walls, the stink of it heavy on the air. Saxon looked slowly around him, almost disappointed there was no one left on whom he could take out his frustration, and realised suddenly that he wasn’t even breathing hard. Something strange had happened to him during his time in the Portrait. He’d lost his mind, and recovered it in some fashion he didn’t really understand, but he’d gained something too. Not only had he not aged, but when he fought it was as though all the lost years burned in him at once. He was stronger and faster than anyone he’d ever known. The Serpents hadn’t been able to lay a finger on him. His gaze moved slowly over the broken and bloodied bodies that lay scattered across the hallway, and he grinned suddenly. He’d been away, but now he was back, and he wasn’t in the mood to take any shit from anyone. Haven might have gone to hell while he was away, but he was going to drag it back to civilisation, kicking and screaming all the way if necessary.

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?”

“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?”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.