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 parlor 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 honor 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.
Hawk's hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second,
Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively
to his arm. Hawk didn't care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this
definitely wasn't, and he had a particular loathing for this kind of smug,
cleaned-up hero worship. He usually tended to express this unhappiness by
throwing the offending minstrel through the nearest window. Fisher, feeling
strongly that this might not go down too well with Jamie MacNeil, clung firmly
to Hawk's sword arm with both hands.
Brennan finally ground to a halt in a series of crashing chords and bowed more
or less gracefully to his stunned audience. There was scattered applause,
possibly out of relief that the performance was over. Hawk was grinding his
teeth behind a fixed smile.
"Clap him, dammit," said Fisher, out of the corner of her mouth.
"Forget it," growled Hawk. "If we encourage him, he might do an encore. And I
swear if I hear one more hey-nonny-no out of him, I'm going to ram his fingers
up his nose till they stick out his ears."
Katrina got the minstrel a drink, and the two of them stood chatting together.
Jamie came back into the room and went over to join Hawk and Fisher. He checked
to make sure Brennan wasn't watching, and then shook his head ruefully.
"He's not very good, is he? Sorry to put you through that, but it's expected of
me that I have my own minstrel. Family tradition and all that. Robbie was my
father's minstrel, and I seem to have inherited him. He hasn't improved over the
years. Dad had cloth ears, but liked to sing, even though he couldn't carry a
tune in a bucket. Robbie suited him very well. Besides, when all is said and
done, he and Dad fought back to back on a dozen major campaigns, when they were
both a lot younger. Least I can do is give Robbie a safe berth at the end of his
days. I just wish I could convince him to retire…"
He looked round as the door opened yet again, and the butler Greaves ushered in
two more guests. Hawk looked too, and his stomach lurched as though one of his
feet had just slipped over the edge of a precipice. He knew one of the men in
the doorway, and worse still, that man knew Captain Hawk. Jamie moved quickly
over to greet the new arrivals, grinning broadly. Hawk struck his best
aristocratic pose, and smiled determinedly. It seemed he was about to find out
just how good his disguise really was.
Lord Arthur Sinclair smiled graciously at Jamie and strolled amiably forward
into the drawing room, wineglass in hand, blinking vaguely about him. He was
short, barely five foot tall, and sufficiently overweight so that he looked even
shorter. He had a round, guileless face and smiled a lot at nothing in
particular, but his uncertain blue eyes gave him a lost, confused look. He was
in his mid-thirties, with thinning yellow hair and the beginnings of a truly
impressive set of jowls. He was also a drunk.
He had no talents and no abilities, and thanks to his Family, little or no
self-esteem. He spent most of his time at parties, while the more conservative
members of High Society murmured darkly that he'd no doubt come to a bad end. To
the surprise of everyone, not least himself, he'd inherited all his Family's
wealth, and for want of anything better to do had spent the last few years
trying to drink himself to death. All in all, he was making a pretty good job of
it; the first and only time he'd made a success of anything. He dabbled
occasionally in politics, just for the fun of it, and had briefly been a member
of the infamous Hellfire Club. Which was where Hawk had met him, while working
on a case. Hawk tried not to feel too worried. Sinclair had been pretty drunk
when they met. But then, he usually was…
Fisher, meanwhile, had been keeping an eye on the other new arrival. Jamie had
introduced him to the room at large as David Brook, an old friend. Like most
people in Haven, Fisher had heard of the Brook Family; they had a long tradition
of high achievement in the army and the diplomatic corps. To excel in one or the
other was not unusual, but to excel in both was almost unheard of. Particularly
in Haven, where diplomacy was usually just another way of sneaking up on an
enemy when he wasn't looking. But, that was the Brooks for you; brave and
intelligent. A deadly combination.
David himself was a brisk, heavyset man of slightly less than average height,
well into his late twenties, and dressed impeccably if somewhat gaudily in the
very latest fashion. He clapped Jamie companionably on the shoulder, and strode
forward to shake hands with the bemused Hawk. He lingered acceptably over
Fisher's hand as he kissed it, and Fisher's smile widened approvingly, almost in
spite of herself. David Brook was devilishly handsome, in a dark, swarthy way.
And he knew it.
He excused himself with polished regret, and moved quickly over to join Holly.
She smiled shakily at him with open relief, and for the first time that morning,
some of the fear seemed to go out of her. She and David smiled and murmured
together with the ease of long affection, their heads so close as to be almost
touching. Lord Sinclair shook Hawk's hand and kissed Fisher's, smiling vaguely
all the while, and then wandered over to join David and Holly, blinking owlishly
as he waited to be noticed. They broke apart reluctantly, and Holly smiled at
Sinclair with the kind of resigned affection usually reserved for puppies that
are cute and lovable but only barely housebroken.
Jamie returned to top up Hawk's glass, and he nodded gratefully. Jamie noticed
Hawk's interest in Holly's admirers, and he raised an eyebrow. "Do you know
David or Arthur?"
"No," said Hawk quickly. "But I have heard of Lord Arthur. I understand he likes
his drink…"
Jamie snorted. "That's like saying a fish likes swimming. But you don't want to
believe everything you hear. Arthur's a decent enough sort, when you get to know
him. He and David have always been close. And Holly and David have been
practically engaged since they were ten. Childhood sweethearts, and all that.
And I'll say this for Arthur; he stuck by us when all our other so-called
friends ran for cover."
"He wouldn't be the first to find courage in a bottle," said Marc, appearing as
usual seemingly out of nowhere. "Probably too drunk and too foolish to be
scared."
"You think so?" said Jamie. His voice was polite, but his eyes were hard.
Marc sniffed. "I know his sort."
"No," said Jamie. "You don't know him at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
to consult with Greaves about breakfast."
He smiled at Hawk and Fisher, nodded briefly to Marc, and left. Hawk didn't
blame him. Marc's voice had the kind of insensitive arrogance that would have
had a saint's hands curling into fists. Fisher fixed Marc with a thoughtful
stare.
"You don't approve of Lord Arthur?"
"He's weak. I despise weakness. You have to be strong in this world or it'll
grind you under."
"We can't all be strong," said Fisher.
Marc smiled coldly. "You don't have to be. You're beautiful. There will always
be someone ready to be strong for you."
He turned away, ignoring Hawk's glare, and went to stare out the wide window at
the morning sunlight.
"Take it easy," said Fisher amusedly to Hawk. "We're supposed to be brother and
sister, remember?"
"So I'm a very protective brother. Watch yourself with that one, Isobel. I don't
"I don't trust any of them, but I take your point. Don't worry; I know how to
handle his sort."
Hawk looked at her quickly. "We're Quality now; if there's to be any rough
stuff, I'll take care of it. You concentrate on being demure and ladylike."
Fisher raised an eyebrow, and Hawk had to smile. "Or at least as close as you
can get."
Fisher gestured surreptitiously, and Hawk fell silent as Katrina Dorimant came
over to join them. She nodded briefly to Fisher and then unleashed the full
force of her smile on Hawk. It was a warm, intimate smile, suffused with
promise, backed up by dark and unsettlingly direct eyes. Hawk smiled
uncomfortably back, unconsciously standing a little taller and sucking in his
gut. If Isobel hadn't been there he might have just relaxed and enjoyed it, but
as it was… He glanced at Isobel and was relieved to find she was smiling,
apparently amused at his discomfort. Hawk decided he'd better play this very
carefully. On the one hand, he couldn't afford to antagonize his host's Aunt,
but on the other hand, if Isobel stopped finding this funny long enough to get
jealous… Hawk winced inwardly.
"I'm so glad you're here, Richard," said Katrina smoothly.
"Really?" said Hawk, his voice nowhere near as even as he would have liked.
"Oh yes," said Katrina. "I was starting to think I'd have to spend this weekend
all alone. I do so hate to be alone."
"There are other guests here," Fisher pointed out.
Katrina shrugged, without taking her eyes off Hawk. "Alistair's too old,
&
nbsp; Arthur's too fat, David only has eyes for Holly, and Marc gives me the creeps. I
don't like the way he looks at me. I'd begun to despair, until you arrived,
Richard."
"I understand you're… separated from your husband," said Hawk, out of a feeling
he ought to be contributing something to the conversation.
"That's right. My husband's Graham Dorimant, a sort of somebody in local
politics. We're going to be divorced as soon as I can get the goods on him."
Hawk felt a strong inclination to turn and beat his head against the nearest
wall. Was this case going to be nothing but one complication after another? Not
only did he have to worry about Arthur Sinclair recognizing him, but now the
woman who was making eyes at him turned out to be the estranged wife of someone
else who knew him. Hawk and Fisher had met Graham Dorimant on a previous case,
not all that long ago. If by some chance Graham had discussed that case with
Katrina… A sudden thought sobered Hawk like a rush of cold water. Hawk and
Fisher had made a great impression on Graham Dorimant. It could be that he'd
described the two Guards he'd met fully enough for Katrina to recognize them
even through their disguises. And if she had, what better way to distract them
than by making a play for Hawk? But that assumed she had a reason for
distracting them, which meant…
The door opened, and Greaves entered to announce that breakfast would be served
shortly in the dining room. As everyone present moved towards the door, Katrina
quickly latched onto Hawk's arm.
"It is good of you to escort me into breakfast, Richard. You will sit with me,
won't you?"
"I ought really to sit with my sister," said Hawk, knowing how feeble it sounded
even as he said it.
"Oh, don't mind me," said Fisher promptly. "You enjoy yourself, Richard."
Hawk gave her a hard look.
"Breakfast won't be much, I'm afraid," said Katrina chummily as they moved out
into the corridor. "Cook left two days ago, along with what was left of the
kitchen staff. But Greaves and Robbie Brennan have been managing between them
until the new staff arrive."
Hawk looked at her sharply. "I thought you couldn't get servants to stay here,
because of the sightings?"
Katrina laughed. "This is Haven, Richard. Money can buy anything here. They