empty warehouse. But either way, it doesn't make any difference. You did what
you thought was right at the time. That's all any of us can do. Beyond a certain
point, worrying about past mistakes just becomes self-pity and self-indulgence.'
Hawk looked at him, and smiled. 'Maybe. Let's talk about Morgan, the bastard.
The first thing we have to do is figure out where the super-chacal disappeared
to, and then try and link it directly to Morgan in a way he can't shrug off.
Which means asking pointed questions and making a nuisance of ourselves until
people tell us what we want to know.'
'Just once,' said Burns, 'wouldn't you like to try it the easy way? Morgan is
going to have to shift the super-chacal in a hurry, so that he can't be caught
with it in his possession. Which means using established channels of
distribution. And there aren't that many people in Haven who can handle a deal
that size. All we have to do is discover which distributor has suddenly become
very busy, and we'll have our first lead.'
'But that's only part of it,' said Hawk. 'We also need to know which Guards took
money from Morgan to look the other way while the drugs went missing.'
'If you say so,' said Burns. 'But Hawk, we're going to do this professionally,
right? Getting personally involved in a case is always a bad idea. It stops you
thinking clearly. In Haven, you win some and you lose some. That's just the way
it is.'
Hawk looked at him. 'I don't believe in losing.'
Chapter Three
Talking Peace and War
Fisher strode scowling through the well-ordered streets of Low Tory, and wished
Hawk was with her. She didn't like leaving him alone in his present mood. He'd
taken the deaths in the Hook personally, and right now he was mad enough and
depressed enough to do something stupid. Usually it was the other way round,
with Hawk keeping her from doing something dumb, but there were times when he
needed her to see the right path clearly. He needed her now, and she couldn't be
with him. Commander Glen had made it very clear that their splitting up was a
condition of their continuing to work. Still, they'd had time to discuss who
Hawk should choose as his new partner, and Captain Burns seemed solid enough.
She wondered what her own new partner would be like. Probably turn out to be
some ex-mercenary with more muscle than brain, and even less ethics. There were
a lot like that in the Guard.
She looked unobtrusively about her as she strode along, trying to get the feel
of the new area. She hadn't worked Low Tory before, but by all accounts it was
an upwardly mobile, middle-class area, full of merchant families so long
established they were city aristocracy in all but blood and breeding. They were
indecently rich, had a finger in every political pie, and, as a class, showed
all the ethical restraint of a shark in a feeding frenzy. Having reached the
pinnacle of their profession, their ambition turned in the only direction left
to them, and they set their sights on the Quality. Even in Haven, the poorest
aristocrat could still look down his nose at the richest trader. So, in recent
times certain wealthy merchant families had been negotiating marriage contracts
with the more impoverished Quality Families, quite openly offering to pay off a
Family's debts in return for marriage into the Quality. The results were rarely
happy, with the nouveau Quality snubbed and openly mocked by High Society, but
the practice persisted.
As a result, Low Tory had flourished in the past few years, tearing down the
faded and crumbling houses of the lesser Quality and replacing them with grand
new mansions that rivaled and occasionally even surpassed the old Family Halls
and Granges of High Tory. The streets were wide and open and bordered with neat,
orderly rows of specially imported trees. New walls had been replaced with newer
walls carefully constructed to appear old and weathered. Everything had to look
right. Unlike most of Haven, the streets were calm and quiet and practically
deserted. Regular patrols by private guards and men-at-arms saw to that. Only
those with approved business in the area were allowed to tarry in Low Tory. To
Fisher, more used to the bustling crowds of the Northside, the streets appeared
almost eerily deserted.
The recent snow had been shoveled aside into tidy piles at the street kerbs, but
here and there small bands of workmen still struggled with the more stubborn
drifts. Servants attired in finery more costly than that worn by some
lower-class merchants hurried along, looking neither left nor right, bearing
messages and business documents and an almost palpable sense of their own
self-importance. Private guards patrolled in pairs, looking faintly embarrassed
by their overelaborate uniforms. None of them looked particularly pleased to see
Fisher. She ignored them all, and concentrated on the directions she'd been
given. They'd seemed simple enough back at Guard Headquarters, but Fisher had a
positive genius for getting lost, and today seemed no different. Still, after a
certain amount of backtracking she'd finally found the right street, so all she
had to do now was locate the right house.
It occurred to her that this street was actually surprisingly busy, by Low Tory
standards. There were half a dozen workmen lackadaisically shoveling snow, and
as many servants strolling unhurriedly up and down the street. A hot-chestnut
seller was tending his brazier, but showed remarkably little interest in
drumming up trade. Two men were bent over an open sewer grating, but seemed to
be spending as much time watching the street as anything else. Fisher had to
smile. Try as they might, some Guards just couldn't get the hang of plainclothes
work. It wasn't enough to look the part; you had to act it as well. Still, it
showed she was in the right place.
None of the plainclothes people made any move to approach her, for which Fisher
was grateful. She wasn't in the mood to explain what she was doing there without
Hawk. She finally reached her destination, and stopped at the main gate to study
the surroundings with an experienced eye. It was a plain, pleasantly
unornamented house, standing a way back from the street in its own grounds. The
high stone wall surrounding the snow-covered lawns was topped with iron spikes
and broken glass. Fairly impressive, but the tall iron gates were unlocked and
unguarded. She'd have to speak to someone about that.
She pushed the gates open and walked into the grounds. A few yards away stood a
life-sized figure of a warrior, carved from pale marble in the classically
idealized style popular in the last century. It carried a sword and shield, and
was minutely detailed, even down to bulging veins on the muscular arms. Fisher
looked away. She didn't care for such statues. They'd always given her the
creeps as a child.
As she passed the marble warrior, there was a low, grating sound as the statue
slowly turned its head and looked at her. Fisher jumped back, her hand dropping
to her sword. She stayed where she was, her heart beating painfully fast, but
the statue made no further move. Fisher edged closer, a foot at a time, and
