Wolf in the Fold by Simon R. Green
Hawk & Fisher 04
Chapter One
A Head Start
When you are tired of life, come to Haven. And someone will kill you.
The city port of Haven was a bad place to be after dark. It wasn't much better
during the day. If there was a viler, more corrupt and crime-ridden city in the
whole of the Low Kingdoms, its existence must have been kept secret to avoid
depressing the general populace. If Haven hadn't been settled squarely on the
main trade routes, and made itself such a vital part of the Low Kingdoms'
economy, it would undoubtedly have been forcibly evacuated and burnt to the
ground long ago, like any other plague spot. As it was, the city thrived and
prospered, brimming with crime, intrigue, and general decadence.
It also made a lot of money from tourism.
Such a dangerous city needed dangerous men and women to keep it under something
like control. So from Devil's Hook to the Street of Gods, from the Docks to High
Tory, the city Guard patrolled the streets of Haven with cold steel always to
hand, and did the best they could under impossible conditions. Apart from the
murderers, muggers, rapists, and everyday scum, they were also up against
organized crime, institutionalized brutality and rogue sorcerers; not to mention
rampant corruption within their own ranks. They did the best they could, and for
the most part learned to be content with little victories.
They should have been the best of the best: men and women with iron nerves, high
morals, and implacable wills. Unstoppable heroes, ready to take on any odds to
overthrow injustice. But given the low pay, appalling working conditions and
high mortality rate, the Guard settled for what it could get. Most were
out-of-work mercenaries, marking time until the next war, but there was always a
ripe mixture of thugs, idealists, and drifters, all with their own reasons for
joining a losing side. Revenge was a common motive. Haven was a breeding ground
for victims.
The Guard squadroom was a large, cheerless office at the rear of Guard
Headquarters. It was windowless, like the rest of the building. Windows made the
place too vulnerable to assault. The Headquarters made do with narrow archery
slits and ever-burning oil lamps. The walls and ceilings were covered with grime
from the lamps and open fireplaces, but no one gave a damn. It fitted the
general mood of the place. Half the squadroom had been taken up by oaken filing
cabinets, spilling over from the cramped Records Division. At any hour of the
day or night, it was a safe bet you'd find somebody desperately searching for
the one piece of paper that might help them crack a case. There was a lot of
useful information in the files. If you could find it. They hadn't been properly
organized in over seventeen years, when most of the original files were lost in
a fire-bombing.
Rumor had it that if ever the files were successfully reorganized, there'd just
be another fire-bombing. So no one bothered.
And three times a day, regular as the most expensive clockwork, the squadroom
filled with Guard Captains waiting for the day's briefing before going out on
their shift. It was now almost ten o'clock of the evening, and twenty-eight men
and women were waiting impatiently for the Guard Commander to make his
appearance and give them the bad news. They knew the news would be bad. It
always was.
Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the Guard for more than five
years, stood together at the back of the room, enjoying the warmth of the fire
and trying not to think about the cold streets outside. Hawk was tall, dark, and
no longer handsome. The series of old scars that marred the right side of his
face gave him a bitter, sinister look, heightened by the black silk patch over
his right eye. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and building a
stomach, but even standing still the man looked dangerous. Anyone who survived
five years as a Captain had to be practically unkillable, but even those who
didn't know his reputation tended to give him plenty of room. There was
something about Hawk, something cold and unyielding, that gave even the hardest
bravo cause to think twice.
He wore the standard furs and black cloak of the Guard's winter uniform with
little style and less grace. Even on a good day Hawk tended to look as though
he'd got dressed in the dark. In a hurry. He wore his dark hair at shoulder
length, swept back from his forehead and tied at the nape with a silver clasp.
He'd only just turned thirty, but already there were streaks of grey in his
hair. On his right hip Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He
was very good with an axe. He'd had lots of practice.
Isobel Fisher leant companionably against him, putting an edge on a throwing
knife with a whetstone. She was tall, easily six feet in height, and her long
blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a
polished steel ball. She was heading into her late twenties, and handsome rather
than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face that suggested
strength and stubbornness, only slightly softened by her deep blue eyes and
generous mouth. Sometime in the past, something had scoured all the human
weaknesses out of her, and it showed. She wore a sword on her hip in a battered
scabbard, and her prowess with that blade was already legendary in a city used
to legends.
A steady murmur of conversation rose and fell around Hawk and Fisher as the
Guard Captains brought each other up to date on the latest gossip and exchanged
ritual complaints about the lousy coffee and the necessity of working the
graveyard shift. As in most cities, the night brought out the worst in Haven.
But the graveyard shift paid the best, and there were always those who needed
the extra money. As winter approached and the trade routes shut down one by one,
choked by snow and ice and bitter storms, prices in the markets rose
accordingly. Which was why every winter Hawk and Fisher, and others like them,
worked from ten at night to six the next morning. And complained about it a lot.
Hawk leant back against the wall, his arms folded and his chin resting on his
chest. He was never at his best at the beginning of a shift, and the recent
change in schedules had just made him worse. Hawk hated having his sleeping
routine changed. Fisher nudged him with her elbow, and his head came up an inch.
He looked quickly round the squadroom, satisfied himself the Commander wasn't
there yet, and let his chin sink back onto his chest. His eye closed. Fisher
sighed, and looked away. She just hoped he wouldn't start snoring again. She
checked the edge on her knife, and plucked a hair from Hawk's head to test it.
He didn't react.
