carried a vicious-looking scimitar. He threw himself at Hawk, the curved blade reaching for the Guard's throat. Hawk batted the sword aside easily, and buried the axe in the Stalker's face on the backswing. The Stalker fell to his knees, blood coursing down his grinning face, and then he crumpled to the floor as Hawk jerked the axe free.
More Stalkers came boiling out of the side tunnel, their eyes glaring wildly. Swords and axes gleamed in the eerie green light. Hawk and Fisher launched themselves at their attackers. The flood of Stalkers stumbled to a sudden halt as Hawk and Fisher slammed into them. Hawk swung his axe in short, vicious arcs, and Stalkers fell dead and dying to the floor. Fisher stamped and thrust at his side, warding off the few Stalkers with reflexes fast enough to start their own attacks. Blood splashed the tunnel walls and collected in pools on the floor.
The narrow tunnel meant that only a few of the Stalkers could press their attack at one time, and Hawk and Fisher were more than a match for them. But even so, the fanatical hatred and fervor of the Stalkers drove them forward over the bodies of the slain, and step by step Hawk and Fisher were driven back down the tunnel. Tomb retreated behind them, still lost in his muttering.
Hawk swung his axe double-handed, trying to open up some space before him, but the press of bodies was too strong. Everywhere he looked there were darting swords and glaring eyes and pointed teeth bared in snarling smiles. Fisher gutted a Stalker with a quick economical cut, and turned to face the next attacker while the first was still falling. A sharp jolt of surprise went through her as the dying Stalker grabbed her legs with both arms and tried to bring her down. She met a flailing sword with an automatic parry, and tried to kick the Stalker away, but he hung on with grim determination. Blood from his wound soaked her trousers. The first twinges of panic had begun to gnaw at Fisher's self-control, when Hawk spotted her problem and cut through the Stalker's neck with his axe. The Stalker went limp and fell away, and Fisher kicked herself free. The whole thing had only taken a moment or two, but there was a cold sweat on Fisher's forehead as she hurled herself back into the fray.
She cut down one Stalker, gutted a second, and blinded a third. Blood flew on the air, and she grinned nastily.
The Stalker before her paused suddenly, his mouth gaping with surprise, and then his head exploded. Blood and brains spattered the tunnel roof and walls as Fisher jumped back, startled. There was a series of brisk popping sounds, and within the space of a few moments the tunnel floor was littered with headless bodies. Hawk and Fisher lowered their weapons, looked at each other, and then turned to stare at Tomb.
'Sorry it took so long,' said the sorcerer calmly, 'but that kind of spell is rather tricky to work out. You have to be very careful where you put the decimal point.' He stopped suddenly, his head cocked to one side, listening to something only he could hear. 'I think it might be wise to press on. There are more Stalkers on their way. Rather more than I can handle, I'm afraid.'
'Then what the hell are we standing around here for?' snapped Hawk. 'Move it!'
He pushed Tomb ahead of him, and the three of them ran swiftly through the brick tunnels, heading for the outside world. They hadn't gone far when they heard the sound of running feet behind them. Hawk and Fisher ran faster, urging Tomb on. He led them through the maze of tunnels with unwavering confidence, and suddenly they were through the doorway and out on the Street of Gods, blinking dazedly in the bright summer sun. Tomb turned to face the door, gestured sharply, and the door disappeared, leaving a blank wall behind it.
'That should hold them,' said Tomb. 'Long enough for us to make ourselves scarce, anyway. I trust you found the visit useful?'
'Sure,' said Hawk, his breathing slowly getting back to normal. 'Nothing like being chased by an army of murderous fanatics to give you a good workout.'
'Good,' said Tomb. 'Because I'm afraid I have to leave you now. I do have other work to attend to, you know.' He produced a folded piece of paper from a hidden pocket, and handed it to Hawk. 'This is a list of Beings who may agree to speak to you. It would help you to have an overview of what's happening on the Street of Gods at the moment. Beyond that, I'm afraid I really don't know what else to suggest. Tracking down murderers is a little outside my experience.'
'We'll cope,' said Fisher. 'We're Captains of the Guard; we don't need our hands held. Right, Hawk?'
'Right,' said Hawk.
'I'm relieved to hear it,' said Tomb. 'If you need me again, or any other member of the Squad, just ask around. Someone will always know where we are. It's part of our job to have a high profile. Good day.'
He bowed politely to them both, and then set off down the Street at a pace obviously calculated to prevent any further discussion. Hawk looked at Fisher.
'He knows something. Something he doesn't want us asking him about. I wonder what.'
Fisher shrugged. 'On the Street of Gods, that could cover a whole lot of territory.'
Charles Buchan sat on the edge of his chair, and waited impatiently for them to bring Annette to him. The Sisters of Joy were officially classed as a religion, and had one of the largest establishments on the Street of Gods, but when you got right down to it, their lounge looked like nothing more than an upmarket brothel. Which wasn't really that far from the mark, if you thought about it.
The Sisters of Joy were an old established religion. Older than Haven itself, some said. It had branches all across the Low Kingdoms, to the impotent fury of equally old and established, but more conservative, religions. The Sisters had started out as temple prostitutes for a now forgotten fertility Goddess, probably not unlike the Bright Lady, and had somehow evolved through their discovery of tantric magic into something far more powerful. Not to mention sinister.
Tantric magic is based on sex, or to be more exact, sexuality. Basically, the Sisters of Joy drained people's strength and vitality through sex, leeching at their very life force. The stolen energy gave them greatly extended life spans, and made them powerful magicians, but only as long as the energy level was maintained. They needed a lot of people to maintain their power and their long lives, but human nature being what it was, the Sisters were never short of visitors. Or victims, depending on how you looked at it.
Tantric magic wasn't strictly speaking part of the High Magic at all, having its roots squarely in the older, less reputable Wild Magic, which was partly why most modern sorcerers would have nothing to do with it. The other reason was that women were a hell of a lot better at tantric magic than men, and the High Magic was still largely a male province. So the High Magic was socially acceptable, while tantric magic very definitely was not. The Sisters of Joy didn't give a damn. They went their own way, as they always had. Their door were always open, day and night, to those who came to them in need or despair. The Sisters offered care and comfort and affection, and in return bound all who came to them in a tightening web of emotional dependency and obligation. There were those who said the Sisters of Joy were addictive, and that those who fell under their influence became little more than slaves. No one said it too loudly, or too publicly, of course. It wouldn't have been wise.
Buchan got up out of his chair, and began to pace up and down. They would bring Annette to him soon.
The lounge was almost indecently luxurious. A thick pile carpet covered the floor, and the walls had disappeared behind a profusion of paintings and hanging tapestries, most of them obscene. Perfumes sweetened the air. There were comfortable chairs and settees and love seats, and delicately crafted tables bearing wines and spirits and cordials, and every kind of drug or potion. Nothing was forbidden here, and it was all free. To begin with. The Sisters of Joy had amassed a considerable fortune over the many centuries, and they still received very generous donations from their grateful clients. No one ever mentioned blackmail, of course. It wouldn't have been wise.
With an effort, Buchan stopped himself pacing. It was a sign of weakness, and he couldn't afford to be weak. He looked again at the brass-bound clock on the mantelpiece, and frowned. He couldn't stay long, or Tomb and Rowan might wonder where he was. They might ask questions. So might Hawk and Fisher. He would have to be careful around the two Guards. They had a reputation for sniffing out secrets and getting to the bottom of things. Buchan was always careful to go disguised when he made his visits to the Sisters of Joy, but no disguise was perfect, especially on the Street of Gods. Still, only the Quality knew for sure of his connection with the Sisters, and they didn't know as much as they thought they did. And when you got right down to it, the chances of the city aristocracy deigning to discuss such matters with the likes of Hawk and Fisher were pretty damned remote.
The Quality wouldn't discuss one of their own with outsiders. Even if they had disowned him.
He smiled slightly. It wasn't that long ago he'd been an important figure in the Quality, a member in good
