Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (11 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)
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“This is crazy,” said Fisher. “If this creature was walled up for centuries, what kept it alive? Everything feeds on something....”
“I don’t know,” said Jamie. “But whatever the creature is, it’s definitely not human. Maybe it hasn’t died because it can’t ...”
For a long moment, nobody said anything. The crackling of the fire seemed very loud in the quiet.
“All this started because your father died unexpectedly,” said Hawk finally. “Just how did he die?”
Katrina
looked at him sharply. “
You don’t know?
”
“Word often gets garbled when it has to travel long distances,” said Fisher smoothly. “We want to make sure we’ve got it right.”
“I was just wondering,” said Hawk carefully, “if perhaps there had been something unusual about your father’s death ... something that might give us a clue as to how the creature got out of its cell, after centuries of confinement. I mean, its room was supposed to have been bricked up. So, how did it finally get out?”
“I see.” Jamie nodded respectfully. “I hadn’t thought of that. But no, there was nothing suspicious about my father’s death. He was killed in a skirmish with Outremer troops up in the Northern borderlands. He shouldn’t really have been there, an officer of his rank. But there had been rumours of new troop movements, and he wanted to see for himself. Dad was like that. Never really trusted anyone’s opinion but his own. Anyway, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he and his whole column were wiped out. Just another borderland skirmish. There’s been a number of them just recently. Men are dying up there every day, just because our King and the Outremer Monarch can’t agree on exactly where the bloody border is. Good men dying for a line on a map ... I’m sorry. But it’s hard not to be bitter sometimes. Dad was a good soldier. He deserved a better end than this. But I don’t see how it could have had anything to do with the creature’s escape.”
“Did anything unusual happen here at the Tower, before the servants started seeing and hearing things?” said Fisher ...
Jamie thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I remember we were a bit short-staffed for a while about then. A lot of the servants had been going down with colds, but you expect that at this time of the year. A day off. and they were back at work again.”
“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Katrina firmly. “You’ll be quite safe here, I assure you. There’s no indication the creature’s ever tried to hurt anyone. That is right, isn’t it, Jamie?”
“Yes, it is. But I felt it only fair you should all know what the situation is. You see, before the will can be read, the Tower has to be isolated behind protective wards for twenty-four hours. That’s traditional.”
“You mean, once the wards are up, no one can leave the Tower for a full day?” said Hawk. “No matter what happens here?”
He and Fisher exchanged a quick glance.
“That’s right,” said Jamie. “But trust me, nothing’s going to happen. If the creature had meant any harm, it would have acted by now. All those years of imprisonment must have knocked the fight out of it.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Fisher. “But you couldn’t have known that, at the beginning. In fact, it must have been pretty scary, especially when the servants started leaving, rather than face whatever it was. So why did you stay? Wouldn’t it have been safer to evacuate the Tower?”
“This is my home,” said Jamie. “Home to my Family for generations. I won’t be driven out of it.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Well,” said Katrina brightly, “if all else fails, we can always call on the Guardian!”
“Who?” said Hawk.
There was another, longer pause as the MacNeils looked at him strangely. Hawk silently cursed. He knew he should have insisted on a full briefing. Nothing was more likely to trip him and Fisher up than not recognizing some Family in-joke or reference, and this was clearly one of them. Still, the harm was done now. All he could do was try and face it down. He stared innocently back at Jamie and Katrina, and noticed for the first time that Holly wasn’t paying any attention to the conversation. Instead, her eyes were far away, as though she were lost in some world of her own. Then Katrina started speaking, and Hawk quickly switched his attention back to her.
“You must have heard of the MacNeil Guardian,” said Katrina, speaking slowly and carefully, as though to a rather
backward
small child. “Perhaps you know him by a different name. The Guardian is one of our more pleasant and comforting Family legends. One of our more remote ancestors is supposed to haunt the Tower, duty bound to protect his descendants from harm. Apparently it’s a penance for some bloody crime he later came to regret but was unable to put right while he lived. The legend doesn’t say exactly what his crime might have been.”
“That’s often the way with legends,” said Hawk. “You’re right, of course. I recognize it now. Has anyone seen this ghost in recent times?”
“No one’s seen him for centuries,” said Jamie. “Though there have been any number of times when the Family could have used his help. So I’m afraid it is just a legend, after all.”
“I believe in him,” said Holly suddenly. “I pray every night he’ll come to save me. But he never does.”
Everyone looked at her strangely for a moment. For the first time, there had been real passion in her voice, and something that might have been despair. Jamie looked at her worriedly, but said nothing, and Holly quickly subsided into silence again. Katrina cleared her throat loudly.
“That’s supposed to be a portrait of the Guardian,” she said brightly, indicating a dark and gloomy portrait directly over the fireplace. “Painted not long before his death. It’s certainly old enough, so who knows?”
They all looked at the portrait. The pigments had darkened gradually over the years, but the image was still clear. The portrait showed a grim, unsmiling middle-aged man, posed uncomfortably in a large upholstered chair. He was dressed in battered leather armour, and his face was lined and weathered. He looked as though he would have been more at home riding a horse into combat than sitting for an official Family portrait. There was an air of strength and wildness about him, and his great mane of white hair and sharp, beaked nose reminded Hawk uncannily of a bird of prey, trained to duty but never tamed. Hawk had no trouble at all seeing him as a man who would do bloody crimes in the heat of passion.
Everyone jumped slightly as the door behind them swung suddenly open and the butler Greaves entered. He stepped to one side, and formally announced the arrival of Marc and Alistair MacNeil. The two men entered together, though with enough space between them to suggest they were neither comfortable nor happy in each other’s company. They both bowed briefly to Jamie MacNeil.
Marc was tall and slender, with a broad, bland face and a cool, unhappy smile. He looked to be in his late twenties, if you ignored his prematurely thinning hair, and he wore the latest fashion poorly, as though indifferent to the effect it was supposed to achieve. He looked like the kind of man who attaches himself to groups at parties, in the hope someone will talk to him. His handshake was harsh and perfunctory, and his lips lingered almost obnoxiously over Fisher’s hand. Jamie introduced him as another distant cousin, from Upper Markham.
“That makes him almost a neighbour of yours,” said Jamie, smiling happily at Hawk and Fisher. “I’m sure you’ll have lots in common to talk about.”
“Oh good,” said Hawk.
Marc sniffed. “I rather doubt it. No one worth knowing ever came out of Lower Markham.”
There was an icy silence. Hawk’s hand fell to his belt, before remembering he didn’t have his axe anymore. Fisher quickly dropped a restraining hand on his arm. Marc smiled stiffly, almost as though daring Hawk to take offense at such an obvious truth.
“That’s enough!” said Jamie sharply. “There will be no duels in the Tower while I’m the MacNeil. Now apologize, Marc.”
“Of course,” said Marc. “I’m sorry.”
His tone made the apology sound like another insult. Hawk’s scowl deepened. Fisher tightened her grip on his arm. Hawk bowed stiffly, and turned his back on Marc to greet Alistair MacNeil. Marc sniffed again, and turned away to help himself to a drink from one of the wine decanters set out on the sideboard. Fisher breathed a silent sigh of relief, let go of Hawk’s arm, and took a long drink from her glass.
Alistair shook Hawk’s hand firmly, and kissed Fisher’s hand with old-fashioned style. He smiled at them both, an open, friendly smile that did much to dispel the cool atmosphere left by Marc’s comments. “Good of you to make such a long journey; it can’t have been easy, getting here from Lower Markham at this time of year.”
“We felt we ought to be here,” said Fisher. “Did you have far to come?”
“Quite a way. I’m another of those cousins the Family doesn’t like to admit to knowing. I was brought up here in the Tower, but the Family packed me off to the Red Marches when I was a young man. Got a parlour maid into trouble and couldn’t pay my gambling debts. Nothing too outrageous, but someone thought I needed to be made an example of, so off I went. Can’t say I regret it. I could have come back long ago, but never saw the point. Lovely area, the Red Marches. Marvelous scenery, good hunting, and always a chance for some action on the borders. That’s how I heard about Duncan’s death. Beastly bad luck, by all accounts. So, I decided it was time to come back and pay my respects to the new MacNeil. Good of you to put me up, Jamie. I couldn’t stick Haven. Place has gone to the dogs. Not at all how I remember it.”
Hawk studied the man unobtrusively while he spoke. Alistair MacNeil was tall and muscular, though obviously well into his fifties. His stomach was intimidatingly flat, his back poker straight, and if Alistair was carrying a few extra pounds anywhere, Hawk was damned if he could spot them. His clothes were undeniably old-fashioned but exquisitely cut, and Alistair wore them with unconscious style. His iron-grey hair was cropped close to his head, military fashion, but he had the same beaked nose and piercing eyes as the man in the portrait. Alistair caught Hawk glancing from him to the portrait over the fire, and chuckled dryly.
“There is a resemblance, isn’t there? You’re not the first to spot it. Doesn’t look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to keep him occupied.”
“Don’t glorify the man,” said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in his hand. “A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose. Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way.”
“They were hard times,” said Alistair coldly. “The Low Kingdoms faced threats on all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honour and glory, but there’s damn all glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There’s just the blood and the flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things.”
“If you say so,” said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at Jamie. “May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in Haven.”
“We’ll get to the will soon enough,” said Jamie evenly. “There are two more guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we’ll all feel better for a good meal before getting down to business.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Marc.
“You speak for yourself,” said Hawk.
The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn’t see any other reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative, had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man’s hand, and his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.
“My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for almost thirty years, haven’t you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play something for my guests; some tale of my father’s exploits, in his memory.”
Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into an uptempo ballad. He sang, three songs altogether, each of them highly romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil’s past. They were all cut from the same cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn’t seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much feeling, and Brennan’s voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down an octave when he couldn’t reach the right note.

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