Winner Takes All, Page 3

  The first man cut viciously at Hawk's throat with his sword. Hawk ducked under the blow, and slammed his axe into the man's gut. The force of the blow threw the man back against the banisters. Hawk jerked his axe free, and blood and entrails fell out of the hideous wound it left. The possessed man ignored the wound and swung his sword again. Hawk parried the blow and brought his axe across in a quick vicious arc that sank deep into the man's throat, nearly tearing his head from his shoulders. He fell backwards, still trying to swing his sword, and Hawk pushed quickly past him to face the other three men, who were already advancing down the stairs towards him.

  There was a flurry of steel on steel, and blood flew on the air. For all their unnatural stubbornness, the hollow men weren't very good fighters. Hawk parried most of the blows, and his axe cut and tore at them without mercy. But still they pressed forward, blood streaming from hideous wounds, unfeeling and unstoppable. Even the broken figure on the stairs behind him tried to grab at his ankles to pull him down. Hawk swung his axe with both hands, already bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. The sheer force of his attack opened up a space for a moment, and he threw himself forward. He burst through the hollow men, and ran up the stairs onto the landing. He paused for a moment to get his bearings. Above the sound of his own harsh breathing he could hear the hollow men coming after him. Light showed round the edges of a closed door at the end of the hallway. Hawk ran towards it, the hollow men close behind.

  He hit the door without slowing, and it burst open. Strange lights blazed and flared within the room, and Hawk flinched as the sudden glare hurt his eye. A crudely drawn pentagram covered the bare wooden floor, the blue chalk lines flaring with a fierce, brilliant light. Inside the pentagram sat a tall spindly man wrapped in a shabby grey cloak. He looked round, startled at Hawk's sudden entrance, and in his face Hawk saw the familiar dark eyes and a mouth turned down in a bitter smile. Hawk moved purposefully forward. The amulet round his neck burned fiercely hot.

  The sorcerer gestured with one hand, and the lines of the pentagram blazed suddenly brighter. Hawk slammed into a wall he couldn't see, and staggered backwards, off balance. An arm curled round his throat from behind and cut off his air. Hawk bent sharply forward at the waist, and threw the hollow man over his shoulder. He crashed into the invisible barrier and slid to the ground, momentarily stunned. Hawk heard more footsteps outside on the landing. He swore briefly, and beat at the barrier with his fist, to no avail. He cut at it with his axe, and the great steel blade passed through, unaffected. Hawk grinned savagely. Cold iron. The oldest defense against magic, and still the best. He lifted his axe, and threw it at the sorcerer.

  The axe cut through the barrier as though it wasn't there. The sorcerer threw himself frantically to one side, and the axe just missed him, but one of his hands inadvertently crossed one of the lines of his pentagram. The brilliant blue light snapped out in a moment. There was the sound of falling bodies in the doorway behind Hawk, and the hollow man at his feet stopped struggling to rise. He lay still, in a widening pool of his own blood. The sorcerer scrambled to his feet. Hawk drew a knife from his boot and started forward. The sorcerer turned and ran towards a full-length mirror propped against the far wall.

  Hawk felt a sudden prickling of unease, and ran after him. The sorcerer threw himself at the mirror and vanished into it. Hawk skidded to a halt, and stood before the mirror, staring, at his own scowling reflection. He reached out a hand and hesitantly touched the mirror with his fingertips. The glass was cold and unyielding to his touch. He turned away and recovered his axe, and then smashed the mirror to pieces. Just to be sure.

  Out in the alley. Fisher was sitting on one of the barrels, polishing her sword. There was blood on her face and on her clothes, some of it hers. She looked up tiredly as Hawk emerged from the house, but still managed a small smile for him. There were bodies scattered the length of the alley. Hawk sighed, and looked away.

  "Seventeen," said Fisher. "I counted them."

  "What happened to the others?"

  "They snapped out of it when you killed the sorcerer, and made a break for it." She saw the look on his face, and frowned. "Not dead?"

  "Unfortunately, no. He got away."

  Fisher looked down the alley. "Then, this was all for nothing."

  "Come on, lass; it's not that bad." He sat down on the barrel beside her, and she leaned wearily against him. He put an arm round her shoulders. "All right, he got away. But once we've spread the word, he won't be able to try this scam again for years."

  "What was the point of it, anyway?"

  "Simple enough. He possesses a whole bunch of people, as many as he can control. A first-class sorcerer could easily manage a thousand or more, as long as they didn't have to do much. When polling starts, they all troop off and vote for whoever was paying the sorcerer. Afterwards, the sorcerer would kill them all, so they couldn't talk out of turn. The mastermind is elected, becomes a Councilor, and there's no one left to say it was anything but fair and aboveboard. Don't take this so badly, Isobel. We may have killed a few people here today, but we've saved a hell of a sight more."

  "Yeah," said Fisher. "Sure."

  "Come on," said Hawk. "We've just got time for a quick healing spell before we have to meet Adamant."

  They got to their feet and started down the alley. The flies were already settling on the bodies.

  Chapter Two

  A GATHERING OF FORCES

  High Steppes wasn't the worst area in Haven. That dubious honor went to the Devil's Hook; a square mile of festering slums and alleyways bordering on the docks. The Hook was held together by abject poverty on the one hand, and greed and exploitation on the other. Some said it was the place plague rats went to die, because they felt at home there. Those who lived in the High Steppes thought about the Hook a lot. It comforted them to know there was at least one place in Haven where the people were worse off than themselves.

  There was a time when the High Steppes had been a fairly respectable area, but that was a long time ago. The only reminders of that time were a few weathered statues, a public baths closed down for health reasons, and some of the fancier street names. The old family mansions had long since been converted into separate rooms and apartments, and the long, terraced streets were falling apart from a general lack of care and repair. Predators walked the streets day and night, in all their many guises. A few minor merchant houses had moved into the fringes, attracted by the relatively cheap property prices, but so far their efforts to improve the area had met with little success. As with so many other things in Haven, there were too many vested interests who liked things they way they were. Politically, the Steppes had always been neutral. Not to mention disinterested. The Conservatives won the elections because they paid out the most in bribes, and because it was dangerous to vote against them.

  James Adamant might just be the one to change all that.

  He'd been born into a minor aristocratic line, and seen it collapse as a child when the money ran out. The Adamants eventually made it all back through trade, only to find themselves snubbed by the Quality, because they'd lowered themselves to become merchants. Adamant's father died young. Some said as the result of a weak heart; some said through shame. All of this, plus first-hand experience of what it was really like to be poor, had given James Adamant a series of insights not common to those of his standing. On coming of age he discovered politics and, more particularly, Reform. They'd done well by each other.

  Now he was standing for the High Steppes Seat: his first election as a candidate. He had no intention of losing.

  James Adamant was a tall, powerful man in his late twenties. He dressed well, but not flamboyantly, and favoured sober colors. His dark hair was long enough to be fashionable but short enough that it didn't get in his eyes. Most of the time it looked as though it could use a good combing, even after it had just had one. He had strong patrician features, and a wide easy smile that made him a lot of friends. You had to know him some time before you
could see past the smile to recognize the cool, steady gaze and the stubborn chin. He was a romantic and an idealist, despite being a politician, but deep within him he kept a carefully cultivated streak of ruthlessness. It had stood him well in the past, and no doubt would do so again in the future. Adamant valued his dreams too much to risk losing them through weakness or compromise.

  His political Advisor, Stefan Medley, was his opposite in practically every way there was. Medley was average height and weight, with bland, forgettable features saved by bright red hair and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. He burned with nervous energy from morning till night, and even standing still he looked as though he were about to leap on an enemy and rip his throat out. He was several years older than Adamant, and had seen a great deal more of political life. Perhaps too much. He'd spent all his adult life in politics, for one master or another. He'd never stood as a candidate, and never wanted to. He was strictly a backstage man. He worked in politics because he was good at it; no other reason. He had no Cause, no dreams, and no illusions. He'd fought elections on both sides of the political fence, and as a result was respected by both sides and trusted by neither.

  And then he met Adamant, and discovered he believed in the man, even if he didn't believe in his Cause. They became friends, and eventually allies, each finding in the other what they lacked in themselves. Working together, they'd proved unstoppable. Which was why Reform had given them the toughest Seat to fight. Adamant trusted Medley, in spite of his past. Medley trusted Adamant because of it. Everyone needs something to believe in. Particularly if they don't believe in themselves.

  Adamant sat at his desk in his study, and Medley sat opposite him, perched on the edge of a straight-back chair. The study was a large, comfortable room with well-polished furniture and well-padded chairs. Superbly crafted portraits and tapestries added a touch of color to the dark-paneled walls. Thick rugs covered the floor, from a variety of beasts, few of them from the Low Kingdoms. There were wine and brandy decanters on the sideboard, and a selection of cold food on silver platters. Adamant liked his comforts. Probably because he'd had to do without so many as a child. He looked at the bank draft before him—the latest of a long line—sighed quietly, and signed it. He didn't like paying out money for bribes.

  He shuffled the money orders together and handed them to Medley, who tucked them into his wallet without looking at them.

  "Anything else you need, Stefan?" said Adamant, stretching slowly. "If not, I'm going to take a break. I've done nothing but deal with paperwork all morning."

  "I think we've covered everything," said Medley. "You really should develop a more positive attitude to paperwork, James. It's attention to details that wins elections."

  "Perhaps. But I'll still feel better when we're out on the streets campaigning. You do your best work with paper; I do my best with people. And besides, all the time I'm sitting here I can't escape the feeling that Hardcastle is hard at work setting up traps and pitfalls for us to fall into."

  "I've told you before, James; let me worry about things like that. You're fully protected; Mortice and I have seen to that."

  Adamant nodded thoughtfully, not really listening. "How long have we got before my people start arriving?"

  "About an hour."

  "Perhaps I should polish my speech some more."

  "You leave that speech alone. It doesn't need polishing. We've already rewritten it within an inch of its life, and rehearsed the damn thing till it's coming out of our ears. Just say the words, wave your arms around in the right places, and flash the big smile every second line. The speech will do the rest for you. It's a good speech, James; one of our best. It'll do the job."

  Adamant laced his fingers together, and stared at them pensively for a long moment before turning his gaze to Medley. "I'm still concerned about the amount of money we're spending on bribes and… gratuities, Stefan. I can't believe it's really necessary. Hardcastle is an animal and a thug, and everyone knows it. No one in their right mind would vote for him."

  "It's not that simple, James. Hardcastle's always been very good at maintaining the status quo, and that's what Conservatism is all about. They're very pleased with him. And most Conservatives will vote the way their superiors tell them to, no matter whose name is on the ticket. Hardcastle's also very strong on law and order, and violently opposed to the Trade Guilds, both of which have made him a lot of friends in the merchant classes. And there are always those who prefer the devil they know to the devil they don't. That still leaves a hell of a lot of people unaccounted for, but if we're going to persuade them to vote for us, we've got to be able to operate freely. Which means greasing the right palms."

  "But seven and a half thousand ducats! I could raise a small army for not much more."

  "You might have to, if I didn't approach the right people. There are sorcerers to be paid off, so they won't interfere. There are Guard officers to sweeten, to ensure we get the protection we're entitled to. Then there's donations to the Street of Gods, to the Trade Guilds; do I really need to go on? I know what I'm doing, James. You worry about the ideals, and leave the politics to me."

  Adamant fixed him with a steady gaze. "If something's being done in my name I want to know about it. All about it. For example, hiring mercenaries for protection. Apparently we have thirty-seven men working for us. Is that really the best we can do? At the last election, Hardcastle had over four hundred mercenaries working for him."

  "Yeah, well; mercenaries are rather scarce on the ground this year. It seems there's a major war shaping up in the Northern countries. And wars pay better than politicians. Most of those who stayed behind had long-term contracts with the Conservatives. We were lucky to get thirty-seven men."

  Adamant gave Medley a hard look. "I have a strong feeling I already know the answer to this—but why weren't these thirty-seven men already signed up?"

  Medley shrugged unhappily. "Nobody else would take them…"

  Adamant sighed, and pushed his chair back from the desk. "That's wonderful. Just wonderful. What else can go wrong?"

  Medley tugged at his collar. "Is it me, or is it getting warm in here?"

  Adamant started to reply, and then stopped as his Advisor suddenly stared right past him. Adamant spun round, and found that the great study window was completely steamed over, the glass panes running with condensation. As he watched, the lines of condensation traced a ragged face in the steam, with staring eyes and a crooked smile. A thick, choking voice eased through their minds like a worm through wet mud.

  I know your names, and they have been written in blood on cooling flesh. I will break your bones and drink your blood, and I will see the life run out of you.

  The voice fell silent. The eye patches slowly widened, destroying the face, and the air was suddenly cool again.

  Adamant turned his back on it. "Nasty," he said curtly. "I thought Mortise’s wards were supposed to protect us from things like that?"

  "It was just an illusion," said Medley quickly. "Very low power. Probably sneaked in round the edges. Believe me, nothing dangerous can get to us here. They're just trying to shake us up."

  "And doing a bloody good job of it, from the looks on your faces," said Dannielle Adamant, sweeping into the study. Adamant got to his feet and greeted his wife warmly. Medley nodded politely, and looked away. Adamant took his wife's hands in his.

  "Hello, Danny; I didn't expect you back for ages."

  "I had to give up on the shops, dear. The streets are simply impossible, even with those nice men you provided to make a way for me. Oh, by the way; one of them is sulking, just because he dropped a few parcels and I was rude to him. I didn't know bodyguards were so sensitive. Anyway, the crowds got too much to bear, so I came home early. The Steppes must be bursting at the seams. I've never seen so many people out in daylight before."

  "I know you don't like the area," said Adamant. "But it's politically necessary for us to live in the area I intend to represent."

  "Oh,
I quite understand, dear. Really."

  She sank into the most comfortable chair, and nodded pleasantly to Medley. Away from Adamant, they didn't really get on. It was hardly surprising, considering the only thing they had in common was James Adamant.

  Dannielle came from a long-established Society family, and until she met Adamant, she'd never even thought about politics. She voted Conservative because Daddy always had. Adamant had opened her eyes to a great many injustices, but like Medley she was more interested in the man than his politics. Still, her strong competitive streak made her just as enthusiastic a campaigner as her husband. Even though most of her family were no longer talking to her.

  Dannielle was just twenty-one years old, with a neat figure, a straight back, and a long neck that made her look taller. She was dressed in the very latest fashion and wore it with style, though she had strong reservations about the bustle. She looked very lovely in ankle-length midnight-blue, and she knew it. She particularly liked the way it set off her powdered white shoulders and short curly black hair.

  Her face was well-known throughout Haven, having been immortalized by several major portrait painters. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and dark eyes you could drown in. When she smiled, you knew it was for you, and you alone. James Adamant thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he wasn't alone in that. The younger aristocracy had marked Dannielle as their own from the moment she entered High Society. After she married Adamant several young blades from among the Quality declared a vendetta against him for stealing her away from them. They tended to be rather quiet about it after Adamant killed three of them in duels.

  "So," said Dannielle, smiling brightly, "how are things going, darling? Are you and Stefan finished talking business?"