their story, so in the end Hawk decided he believed them. Hawk and Burns stood
together in the street outside the last distributor's warehouse, and looked at
each other thoughtfully.
'Maybe Morgan's set up his own distribution network,' said Burns.
'No,' said Hawk. 'If he had, I'd have heard about it.'
'You didn't know about the super-chacal.'
'That was different.'
'How?'
'The drug could be produced and guarded by relatively few people, hidden away in
the pocket dimension. A new distribution system would need a lot of people, and
someone would have been bound to talk. No, Morgan has to be using an established
distributor. Maybe someone who doesn't normally move drugs, but has the right
kind of contacts.'
'Maybe.' Burns pulled his cloak tightly about him, and stamped his feet in the
snow. 'So, what's our next step?'
'We go and talk with the one man who might know what Morgan is up to; the man
who knows everything that's going on in the Northside, because nothing happens
here without his approval. The big man himself: Saint Christophe.'
Burns looked at him sharply. 'Wait a minute, Hawk, even I've heard of Saint
Christophe. He takes a cut from every crime committed in Haven. Word is he has a
dozen judges in his pocket, and as many Councilors. Not to mention a personal
army of four hundred men, and a private mansion better protected than Guard
Headquarters. We don't stand a chance of getting in to see him, and even if we
did somehow manage it, he'd probably just have us killed on sight. Slowly and
very horribly.'
'Calm down,' said Hawk, amused. 'We're not going anywhere near his house.'
'Thank all the Gods for that.'
'I've got a better idea.'
Burns looked at him suspiciously. 'If it involves bursting in on him where he
works and smashing up his desk, you are on your own. Saint Christophe is the
only person in the Northside with an even worse reputation than you.'
'Have you finished?' said Hawk.
'Depends,' said Burns darkly. 'Tell me your idea.'
'Every day, at the same time, Saint Christophe has a bath and sauna at a private
little place not far from here. It's pretty well guarded, but there's a way to
get in that not many people know about. I did the owner a favor once.'
'And at what time of day does Saint Christophe visit this bathhouse?' said
Burns.
'About now. '
Burns nodded glumly. 'I thought so. You've had this in mind all along, haven't
you?'
Hawk grinned. 'Stick with me, Burns. I know what I'm doing.'
Burns just looked at him.
The private baths turned out to be a discreet little place tucked away on a side
street in a surprisingly quiet and upmarket area right on the edge of the
Northside. It stayed quiet and upmarket because the Northside's more successful
villains used the area for their own rest and relaxation, and everyone else had
the sense to stay out of their way. Everyone except Hawk.
He walked breezily down an alleyway and slipped into the baths through a door
marked 'Staff Only.' Burns hurried in after him and shut the door quickly behind
them, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Hawk looked around once to get his
bearings, then set off confidently through a maze of corridors that Burns
wouldn't have tackled without a map and a compass. Every now and again they
encountered a member of the staff, but Hawk just nodded to each attendant
briskly, as though he had every right to be there, and the attendant just nodded
back and continued on his way. Burns grew increasingly nervous, and felt a
growing need to find a privy.
'Are you sure you know where you're going?' he whispered harshly.
'You must learn to trust me, Burns,' said Hawk airily. 'The owner himself showed
me this route. We'll find Saint Christophe in cubicle seventeen, just down this
corridor here. Assuming he hasn't changed his routine.'
'And if he has?'
'Then we'll just walk up and down the corridor, slamming doors open, till we
find him.'
Burns realized with a sinking heart that Hawk wasn't joking. He thought about
the number of major villains who were probably relaxing all unknowing behind the
other doors, and swallowed hard. He started to plot an emergency escape route
back through the corridors, realized he was hopelessly lost, and felt even
worse.
Cubicle seventeen looked like all the others, a plain wooden door with a gold
filigree number. Hawk put his ear against the door and listened for a moment,
then stood back and loosened the axe at his side. Then he kicked the door open,
strolled casually into the steam-filled sauna and leaned against the door,
holding it open. Burns stood in the doorway, keeping one eye on the corridor, in
case some of the staff happened along. The steam quickly cleared as the
temperature dropped, revealing Saint Christophe sitting at the back of the room,
surrounded by twelve muscular female bodyguards wearing nothing but sword belts.
The bodyguards surged to their feet, grabbing for their swords as they
recognized the Guards' uniforms. Hawk just leaned against the door, and nodded
casually to Saint Christophe. Burns wanted desperately to draw his sword, but
had enough sense to know it wouldn't help him much if he did. His only hope was
to brazen it out and hope Hawk knew what he was doing. He squared his shoulders
and lifted his chin, and gave the bodyguards his best intimidating glare. If it
bothered them at all, they did a great job of hiding it. And then Saint
Christophe stirred on his wooden bench, and everybody's attention went to him.
He gestured briefly to his bodyguards, and they all immediately put away their
swords and sat down again, ignoring the two Guards. Burns blinked. He couldn't
have been more surprised if they'd all started speaking in tongues.
Saint Christophe was a big man, in more ways than one. Though no longer
personally involved in any particular racket, every other villain in the city
paid him homage, not to mention tribute. He funded a great many operations, and
planned many more, but never took a single risk himself. He ran his organization
with brutal efficiency and was reputed to be one of the richest men in Haven, if
not the Low Kingdoms. He had a partner, once. No one knew what happened to him.
It wasn't considered prudent to ask.
The man himself was over six feet tall, and was reputed to weigh three hundred
and fifty pounds. Sitting down, he looked almost as wide as he was tall, a
mountain of gleaming white flesh running with perspiration. Rumor had it there
was a surprising amount of muscle under all the fat, and Burns believed it. Even
