Tower really was. Hawk thought for a moment on how backbreaking it must have
been, hauling building stone up the cliffs to this spot, and then decided firmly
that he wasn't going to think about it anymore. Just trying to visualize the
logistics was enough to make his head ache. He realized Fisher was staring at
the Tower too, and deliberately quickened his step.
'Come on, Isobel,' he said briskly. 'There's no telling how long Fenris will
stay put in the Tower. If he decides to leave before we can get there to stop
him, Dubois will have our heads. Probably literally.'
'I don't know why Fenris didn't just keep running,' said Fisher, picking up the
pace. 'I would have. What made him think he'd be safe here?'
'The longer he stayed in the open, the more likely it was he'd be spotted,' said
Hawk. 'And the Tower's a good place to go to ground. It's within easy reach of
the city but out of everyone's thoughts. I wouldn't have thought to look for him
here. If it hadn't been for the Council's sorcerers, he'd have probably got away
with it. And let's face it. If worst came to worst, and for some reason the
MacNeils decided not to hand him over, we'd have one hell of a job getting him
out of the Tower. You'd need an army and every sorcerer in the city to breach
those walls, by all accounts. No, my guess is Fenris is probably biding his time
in there, looking over his shoulder a lot and waiting for one of his own people
to contact him with a safe route out to the Low Kingdoms. Assuming someone
hasn't already done so.'
'I still haven't figured out what we're going to do once we're inside the
Tower,' said Fisher. 'I mean, we've no idea what he looks like now. He could be
anybody. He could be passing himself off as an out-of-town MacNeil cousin, like
us, or a friend of one, or a newly hired servant, or… Hell, I don't know. The
man's a spy, after all; he's used to pretending to be someone he isn't. How are
we going to trip up someone like that? This case is a mess, and we've barely
even started yet. Do you think we're going to be able to recognize him?'
'Not a hope,' said Hawk. 'If I had to fight him again I might recognize his
style, but I'm damned if I'm going to go round challenging everyone to a duel.
Especially without my axe. Have you seen this stupid sword they've given me? One
good parry and it'll snap in half. I'd be better off sneaking up behind my
opponent and clubbing him to death with the hilt.'
'So what are we going to do?'
'Same as usual, lass. Ask lots of questions, keep our eyes open, and hopefully
make enough of a nuisance of ourselves that the killer will do something stupid
to try and shut us up.'
'Great,' said Fisher. 'I just love being a target.'
They both fell silent as they finally drew near the Tower MacNeil. The large,
squarish front door was a different shade of white from the surrounding
stonework, and Hawk felt a sudden, unsettling thrill go through him as he
realized the door had been carved from a single huge slab of polished ivory. He
tried to visualize the size of the whale that could donate such a bone, and
quickly decided he'd rather not know. He tugged briskly at the bell pull, and
then he and Fisher took turns using the black iron boot-scraper. They were
Quality now, and had to keep up appearances.
The door swung smoothly open on well-oiled counterweights, revealing a
medium-height, heavyset man in his mid-forties, wearing the slightly outdated
formal wear that was the accepted hallmark of the Haven butler. He had dark,
lifeless hair, a flat immobile face that might have been carved from stone, and
a general air of gloomy efficiency for which the long black frock coat was the
perfect finishing touch. He bowed formally to Hawk and Fisher, each bow nicely
calculated to the inch to show respect for his betters whilst reminding them
that as butler of the household he was a force to be reckoned with in his own
right. It was a masterful performance. Hawk felt like applauding.
'I am Richard MacNeil of Lower Markham,' he said gravely. 'This is my sister,
Isobel. We've come to pay our respects to the new head of the Family.'
'Of course, sir and madam. I am Greaves, butler of Tower MacNeil. Please come
in.'
He stood back to allow them to enter. He seemed faintly disapproving, possibly
because they came from a backwater like Lower Markham, but most likely because
butlers always seemed faintly disapproving. Hawk suspected it was part of the
job description. He strolled into the hallway as though he owned the place, with
Isobel on his arm, smiling demurely. The smile didn't suit her, but Hawk admired
the effort that had gone into it. Greaves closed the door behind them, and
Hawk's ears pricked up as he heard the sound of heavy bolts being thrown home.
It could be that the Tower MacNeil household was routinely security-minded… or
it could be that right now they had reason to be. He took off his cloak, and
found the butler already there waiting to receive it. Fisher handed Greaves her
cloak, and raised a painted eyebrow enquiringly.
'Are you the only staff here, Greaves? Surely it's not a butler's place to take
the cloaks from guests. Don't you have any maids under you?'
Greaves's expression didn't alter in the least as he arranged the cloaks neatly
on the wall by the door. 'Alas, madam, I'm afraid Tower MacNeil is extremely
short staffed at present. Normally we have a staff of twenty-two, but everyone
else left some time ago.'
Hawk looked at him sharply. 'And why is that?'
'It's not really my place to say, sir. If you and the young lady would care to
follow me, I'll take you to the MacNeil himself. I'm sure he will be happy to
answer any questions you may have.'
He turned his back on them, politely but firmly, and started off down the hall.
Hawk and Fisher exchanged a look behind his back, shrugged pretty much in
unison, and followed him. They'd only been in the place a few moments and
already they were up to their ears in questions. What the hell could have
happened here to drive all the servants out? And since it had happened recently,
could it have something to do with Fenris' arrival? The butler worried Hawk as
well. The man was being far too calm and pleasant. Most butlers were worse snobs
than their masters and would have had coronaries at the mere mention of their
doing maids' work. And yet Greaves seemed to be implying he was doing all the
servants' work at Tower MacNeil. What kind of hold could keep him at his duty,
despite the humiliation?
Hawk shrugged inwardly. Perhaps Greaves was just angling for a larger than usual
gratuity when Hawk left. In which case, he was going to be disappointed.
Wardrobe might have provided Hawk with aristocratic clothes, but they'd
absolutely declined to fill the purse on his belt. He'd had to do that, with his
bonus money, and he was damned if he was going to part with one penny more than
he absolutely had to.
The butler led Hawk and Fisher down a stylishly appointed passage and ushered
them into a large and spacious drawing room. Early morning light streamed
