Hawk scowled at the sorcerer. "I'm not feeling too fond of flesh-sculptors right
now. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned illusion spell?"
Dubois sighed impatiently. "Tower MacNeil, like most Quality households, has
security spells to show up such things. The Families take their security very
seriously. The shapechange won't register because the spell will have finished
its work long before you get there. After you return, with your mission
successfully completed, we'll give you your own faces back."
"And if we don't succeed?" said Hawk.
Dubois smiled coldly. "You screw up in Tower MacNeil, Hawk, and you won't be
coming back. Now, stop holding things up, and let the sorcerer get to work on
you. We're running out of time."
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and then sat down on the chairs Wulfgang
indicated. The sorcerer smiled reassuringly and ran his hands through a series
of practiced gestures, muttering under his breath as he did so. A gradual
feeling of pressure filled the room, and Hawk's skin crawled as static moved in
his hair. The pressure peaked uncomfortably, and then vanished as the sorcerer
made a final, decisive gesture. Hawk waited a moment, and then looked down at
his hands. They still looked the same to him. He looked across at Fisher, and
she looked the same too. He looked back at the sorcerer Wulfgang, who was
staring dumbfounded at the two Guards.
"Why isn't anything happening?" demanded Dubois.
"I don't know!" snapped Wulfgang. "I can't understand it; the spell just seemed
to slide off them." A sudden thought struck him, and he glared at Hawk. "Are you
still carrying your suppressor stone?"
"No, he isn't," said Dubois. "And don't ask what happened to it. That's
confidential."
Wulfgang frowned thoughtfully. "There's nothing wrong with the spell, they're
not shielded, so what… ? Wait a minute. Have you two ever been exposed to Wild
Magic?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" said Dubois.
"There's a big difference between the High Magic that most sorcerers use, and
the much rarer Wild Magic," said Wulfgang patiently. "High Magic manipulates
aspects of the real world; Wild Magic changes reality itself. So if your people
have been exposed to Wild Magic…"
"We have," said Hawk. "We were up North when the Blue Moon rose."
Dubois and Wulfgang stared at the two Guards almost respectfully. "You were
there, during the long night?" said Dubois.
"We were there," said Fisher. "And no, we don't want to talk about it."
"That's why my spell won't work on them," said Wulfgang. "If they were exposed
to the Blue Moon's influence, it'll take more than a simple shapechange spell to
affect them. I'm sorry, Commander. There's nothing I can do."
Dubois sighed. "I might have known you two were going to be trouble. All right.
Thank you, Wulfgang. That will be all. The wardrobe mistress should have arrived
by now; perhaps you'd be good enough to ask her to step in here on your way out.
And Wulfgang, remember: This meeting never took place. You were never here."
"Of course," said the sorcerer. He bowed politely to Hawk and Fisher, and waited
patiently for Dubois to unlock the door so he could leave. Dubois locked the
door again after he'd gone.
"While we're waiting," said Hawk, "there's a few things I'd like to get clear.
In particular, why Fenris chose Tower MacNeil as his hiding place. Surely among
so many Quality he'd be bound to give himself away sooner or later."
Dubois pursed his lips. "We have reason to believe Fenris may be of the
Quality," he said carefully. "So he'd have no problem passing himself off as a
distant MacNeil cousin."
"Why the hell would one of the Quality want to act as a spy?" said Hawk. "Most
spies work strictly for cash, or occasionally political gain. If there's one
thing the Quality aren't short of, it's money, and most of them don't give a
damn about politics. So what happened to turn Fenris into an agent for a foreign
power?"
"If we knew that, we'd know who he was," said Dubois.
"Can you at least tell us something about the information he's stolen?" said
Fisher. "That might help when it comes to identifying him."
"I can't tell you anything," said Dubois flatly. "That's being handled on a
damned important to have got everyone running round in circles like this. You
wouldn't believe the pressure that's been coming down from Above. Let me put it
this way: Under no circumstances is the spy Fenris to be allowed to escape from
Tower MacNeil. If he tries, you're to stop him, whatever it takes."
"You mean kill him?" said Fisher.
"Whatever it takes," said Dubois.
Hawk smiled sourly. "In other words, it's up to us whether or not we kill a
member of the Quality. But if anything goes wrong afterwards, everyone will
swear blind we were never given any such order. Right?"
"Got it in one," said Dubois. "You have a natural gift for politics, Hawk."
They sat in silence for a while, each thinking their own separate thoughts.
There was a knock at the door. Dubois went over and quietly asked who it was. On
getting a satisfactory answer, he unlocked the door. But he still stood well
back as it opened, one hand resting on his sword till he saw the newcomer was
alone. The wardrobe mistress bustled in, in a hurry as usual. Mistress Melanie
was tall and scrawny, with a sharp-boned face and a wild frizz of dark curly
hair barely restrained by a leather headband. She was one of those people who
had so much nervous energy she made everyone else feel tired just looking at
her.
"Are they ready?" she said sharply to Dubois, not even bothering to look at Hawk
and Fisher.
Dubois nodded briskly. "The shapechange didn't take.
We'll have to rely on standard disguise techniques. Do what you can with them."
Mistress Melanie made a short tutting sound and glared at the two Guards. "As if
we weren't already running behind schedule. All right. Follow me and don't
dawdle."
And with that, she disappeared back out the door while her words were still
ringing on the air. Hawk and Fisher hurried after her.
A short footrace later, they ended up in the wardrobe department. Hawk had never
been there before and looked around with interest. Hundreds of costumes hung in
neat rows on wire hangers—everything from the latest Quality fashions to a
filthy ragpicker's outfit. A great deal of the Guard's work had to be done
undercover; inevitable in a city like Haven, where no one shared confidences
unless they had to and absolutely no one spoke to the authorities. Unless there
was money in it. Half the Guard's annual budget went to information-gathering, a
fact which never failed to infuriate the more penny-pinching members of the
Council.
Mistress Melanie sat Hawk and Fisher down in front of the makeup mirrors and
studied them thoughtfully. "Yes," she said finally, drawing out the word till it
sounded more like no, "The scars are going to be a problem, but a good coat of
makeup should cover them. No one'll be able to
tell, even at close quarters, but
don't let anyone kiss you."
"I hadn't planned on it," said Hawk.
Mistress Melanie sniffed. "We're going to have to do something about that eye,
of course. A patch is out of the question." She looked hard at Hawk's single eye
for a moment, then opened a small lacquered box and rummaged around inside it,
finally producing a single glass eye. "Try this."
"No," said Hawk flatly. "Forget it. I hate the damned things."
"I can assure you, you'll find it a perfect match," said Mistress Melanie
frostily.
"I said no!"
"Be reasonable, Hawk," said Fisher. "You can't wear your patch. Any member of
the Quality who suffered that kind of injury would have it put right at once
with a shape-change spell. And since you can't do that, you'll have to use the
glass eye. It won't be for long."
Hawk growled something indistinct, and accepted the glass eye with bad grace. He
scowled at it for a moment, then took off his patch, put it to one side, and
gingerly eased the glass eye into the empty socket. He blinked experimentally a
few times, and then glared into the mirror. "Hate wearing a glass eye," he
growled. "Makes my face ache."
Fisher looked over his shoulder into the mirror. "She's right, Hawk; they're a
perfect match. No one will be able to tell it isn't real."
Hawk sniffed loudly, unimpressed. Mistress Melanie produced a set of clothes for
each of them, and thrust them unceremoniously into Hawk and Fisher's arms. "Try
these for size. They're based on the statistics in your official records, but
I've had to make some allowances. From the look of you, you've both put on some
weight since then. Come on, get a move on; I've got to know if I have to make
more alterations, and we've still got your makeup to do."
Hawk looked at her and raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Mistress Melanie's mouth
twitched. "I'll wait outside while you change. Call me if you have any
problems."
She left, closing the door firmly behind her. Hawk took his first good look at
his new clothes, and his heart sank. The latest male fashion for the Quality
still consisted of tightly cut trousers, a padded jerkin with a chin-high
collar, and knee-length leather boots. Plus some rather utilitarian long
underwear. The jerkin and trousers were both navy blue with gold thread trim.
The military look was in this Season. He looked across at Fisher, and smiled as
he saw she was even less enchanted with her new clothes. There was a long
flowing gown of lilac blue with frothy lace trim, a great deal of frilly
underwear, a formidable-looking corset, and a pair of fashionable shoes that
looked hideously uncomfortable. Fisher picked up the corset with a thumb and
forefinger and held it out at arm's length, studying it dubiously.
"Look on the bright side," said Hawk. "At least there isn't a bustle."
"Do we really have to do this, Hawk?" said Fisher.
"Well, we could fight our way out of here, and make a run for it."
"Don't tempt me." Fisher sighed heavily, and began stripping off her furs. "The
things I do in the line of duty…"
It took them the best part of half an hour to climb into their new clothes.
There were endless buttons and hooks and eyes, and they all had to be done up in
just the right order. Hawk could only just get into the trousers. Even with
Mistress Melanie's allowances for his somewhat expanded waistline, it was a very
tight fit. Fisher had even more trouble with the corset. Hawk ended up having to
put a knee in the middle of her back while he pulled the cords tight. Fisher's
language became increasingly awful, until finally she was forced to give up from
lack of breath. Finally, the ordeal was over, and they stood together before a
full-length mirror, judging the effect.
Despite everything, Hawk had to admit they looked the part. Before them in the
mirror stood a gentleman and young lady of the Quality, dressed impeccably in
the latest finery. Hawk looked splendid and striking, though the scars on his
face still gave him a sinister air, and Fisher looked absolutely stunning. The
corset had given her a magnificent hourglass figure, and the long gown made her
look even taller. She winked at Hawk coquettishly over her paper fan, and they
both laughed.
"Been a long time since we looked this good," said Hawk finally.
"A long time," said Fisher.
Mistress Melanie knocked loudly, and swept in without waiting for an answer. She
looked them both up and down, and nodded curtly. "You'll do. Now let's see what
we can achieve with a little makeup."
Another half hour passed before the wardrobe mistress allowed Hawk and Fisher to
look into a mirror again, and what they saw kept them silent for a long moment.
Their skin was now fashionably pale instead of their usual tan. Fisher's face
had been expertly made up with rouge and eye shadow, taking the edge off the
harsh lines, and softening the aggressive chin. Her long blond hair had been
piled up on top of her head in a complicated design. Hawk's face had changed
completely; with the patch gone and the scars hidden under makeup he looked ten
years younger, and somehow more at peace with himself and the world. Fisher
looked at him and smiled tenderly.
"I often wondered what you looked like, before the scars."
"Well?" said Hawk awkwardly. "What do you think?"
"I think you look very handsome, my love. But then, I always did."
Hawk leant forward to kiss her, and Mistress Melanie yelled at him. "No touching
till the makeup's set! I don't want to have to fix her face all over again!"
Hawk and Fisher shared a wry smile. There was a loud knocking at the door.
"Are you two decent?" called Commander Dubois from outside.
"Near as we ever get," said Hawk loudly, and nodded for Mistress Melanie to let
the Commander in. Hawk and Fisher struck carefully aristocratic poses and stared
haughtily at Dubois as he came in. He walked slowly over to them, and looked
from one to the other and back again.
"I'm… impressed," he said finally. "You might just bring this off after all. I
wish we had time to give you a full briefing on how to behave, all the little
tricks of etiquette and the like, but we're way behind schedule as it is."
"Don't worry," said Hawk. "We know which fork to use, and which way to pass the
port. We've been around."
"Right," said Fisher. "You'd be surprised."
"Yeah, well," said Dubois. "We've worked out a rough background for you. You're
going to be remote country cousins of the MacNeils; a brother and sister from
the wilds of Lower Markham. That's way out on the Eastern border, so no one
should be able to trip you up on local details. Make up anything you like; they
won't know the difference. But keep it simple. You don't want to end up
contradicting each other. Also, they'll expect a certain amount of gaucherie and
unfamiliarity with the latest styles, so that should help excuse any foul-ups
you do make. Now then, you're going to have to get used to your new names.
Captain Fisher can use her given name of Isobel. That's quite a fashionable name
at the moment. But we don't seem to have a given n
ame on the files for you,
Captain Hawk."
"There isn't one. I'm just Hawk."
"You only have the one name?"
"I've had others. But I'm just Hawk now."
"Be that as it may," said Dubois, in the tone of someone determined not to ask
questions he's sure he wouldn't like the answers to. "As far as you're
concerned, from now on you're Richard MacNeil. Got it?"
"Richard…" said Hawk. "Yeah, I can live with that."
"I'm so pleased," said Dubois. "One last thing: Leave your axe here. We'll
supply you with a standard dueling sword. And Captain Fisher will have to go
unarmed, of course. No young lady of the Quality would wear a sword. It simply
isn't done."
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.
"No axe."
"No sword."
"Tight trousers."
"And a bloody corset."
They looked hard at Dubois. "We want a bonus," said Hawk flatly.
"In cash," said Fisher.
"In our hands, before we go."
"I can arrange that," said Dubois.
Hawk looked at Fisher. "They must really be desperate."
"Maybe we should hit them for overtime while we're at it," said Fisher.
"Don't push your luck," said Dubois.
Chapter Three
Ghosts And Memories
Haven was an old city, but the dark and brooding cliffs that overlooked it were
older still. Huge and forbidding, they rose out of the restless sea like grim,
watchful guardians, protecting Haven on three sides from the raging storms that
swept in off the sea. The waves pounded endlessly at the jagged spurs of rock,
throwing spray high into the wind even on the calmest of days. Tower MacNeil
stood firm and unyielding on an outcropping of dark basalt that jutted from the
cliff face like a clenched fist against the encroaching sea.
The Tower was tall and elegant, built entirely from the local white stone, with
its distinctive pearly sheen. Its lines were clean and functional, the wide
glass windows its only concession to comfort and luxury. It stood five stories
tall, surmounted by open crenellated battlements. Down the centuries, Tower
MacNeil had defied both time and the elements, as well as countless enemy
attacks. Often scarred, and as often restored, it had never once fallen to its
adversaries. Brilliant engineering and subtle sorceries maintained the Tower, as
it maintained and protected the Family who dwelt within.