“Close the gateway! Close it, or I swear I’ll throw you through that opening and let those things have you!”
Nightingale lifted his hands and chanted something, the words lost in the tumult of the blizzard and the creatures’ incessant howling. For a long, heart-stopping moment nothing happened, and then the split in the air snapped together and was gone, and the blizzard collapsed. The sudden silence was shocking, and everyone just stood where they were, numbly watching the last of the snow drift lazily on the air before falling to the floor. The corridor seemed a little less cold, but their breath still steamed on the air before them. Nightingale lurched away from Hawk, and headed down the corridor at a shaky run. Hawk caught up with him before he’d gone a dozen paces, and clubbed him from behind with the butt of his axe. Nightingale fell limply into the thick snow on the floor, and lay still. Hawk leaned over him and hit him again, just to be sure. Then he dragged him back to the others. Ap Owen shook his head unhappily.
“They won’t let us put him on trial, you know. He’d be an embarrassment to both sides, and probably prevent any future Talks. And besides, diplomatic immunity’s too important a concept in troubled times like these. They’ll never allow it to be waived, no matter what the crime.”
“You mean he’s going to get away with it?” said Fisher, scowling dangerously.
Ap Owen shrugged. “Like I said; he’s an embarrassment. His own people will probably take away his position and privileges and send him into internal exile, but that’s about it.”
“Right,” said Hawk. “Technically, for what he tried to do, he should be executed, but there’s no way that will happen. Aristocrats don’t believe in passing death sentences on their own kind if they can avoid it. It might give the peasants ideas.” He looked down at Nightingale’s unconscious body, his face set and cold. “So many people dead, because of him. All the people who might have died. And I almost raised my axe against Isobel.... If I killed him now, no one would say anything. They’d probably even thank me for getting rid of such an embarrassment.”
“You can’t just kill him in cold blood!” protested ap Owen.
“No,” said Hawk finally. “I can’t. Even after all these years in Haven, I still know what’s right and what’s wrong. I only kill when I have to. I know my duty.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Mistique cheerfully. “You found the drug before it hit the streets, exposed the traitor in the Guard, and with Nightingale removed from the Talks, they might actually start agreeing on things. You’ve saved the city and possibly averted a war. What more do you want?”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.
“Overtime,” said Hawk firmly.
10
Loose Ends
As prisons went, it wasn’t too bad. Certainly Lord Nightingale had spent longer periods under far worse conditions during his travels. He’d known some country inns that boasted accommodations so primitive even a leper would have turned up what was left of his nose at them. His present circumstances were surprisingly pleasant, and, all things considered, the Outremer Embassy in Haven had gone out of its way to treat him with every courtesy. He was confined in one of the Embassy’s guest rooms, with every comfort the staff could provide, until such time as he could be escorted back to Outremer. And given the current appalling weather conditions, that could be quite some time.
Nightingale didn’t mind. The longer the better, as far as he was concerned. He was already filling his time writing carefully worded letters to certain people of standing and influence back in Outremer. There were quite a few who shared his feelings about the coming war, people who could be trusted to see that his cause was presented to the King in its most positive light. He’d have to spend some time in internal exile, of course; that was only to be expected. But once the war began, as it inevitably would, and his associates became men of power at Court, he would undoubtably be summoned again, and his present little setback would be nothing more than an unfortunate memory. In the meantime, his current captors were being very careful to treat him with the utmost respect, for fear of alienating the wrong people. You could always rely on diplomats to appreciate the political realities; particularly when their own careers might be at risk.
So, for the moment, Nightingale bided his time and was the perfect prisoner, never once complaining or making any fuss, and the time passed pleasantly enough. There were books to read and letters to write, and a steady stream of visitors from among the Embassy staff, just stopping by for a chat, and dropping not especially subtle hints of encouragement and support, in the hope of being remembered in the future. True, his door was always locked, and there was an armed guard in the corridor outside his room, but given the current circumstances, Nightingale found that rather reassuring. If word of what he’d intended were to get out in Haven, the populace would quite probably attempt to storm the building and drag him out to hang him from the nearest lamppost. You couldn’t expect the rabble to understand the importance of concepts like diplomatic immunity.
There was a sudden knocking at the door, and Nightingale jumped in spite of himself. He cleared his throat carefully, and called for his visitor to enter. A key turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung open to reveal Major de Tournay, carrying a bottle of wine. Nightingale was somewhat surprised to see the Major, but kept all trace of it from his face. De Tournay had taken the news of Nightingale’s treachery surprisingly calmly, given that his life had been one of those threatened, but even so he was one of the last people Nightingale had expected to drop by for a chat. Still, recent events had done much to turn up unexpected allies.
“Come in, my dear Major,” he said warmly. “Is that wine for me? How splendid.” He studied the bottle’s label, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. “I’m obliged to you, de Tournay. The Ambassador means well, but his cellar is shockingly depleted.”
“I need to talk to you, my lord,” said de Tournay bluntly. He looked vaguely round the room, as though embarrassed to be there and unsure how to proceed. Nightingale waved for him to sit down on a chair opposite, and the Major did so, sitting stiffly and almost at attention. “We need to discuss the present situation, my lord. There are matters which need to be ... clarified.”
“Of course, Major. But first, let us sample this excellent wine you’ve brought me.”
De Tournay nodded, and watched woodenly as Nightingale removed the cork, sniffed it, and poured them both a generous glass. They toasted each other politely, but though de Tournay drank deeply, his attention remained fixed on Nightingale rather than the wine.
“Before we begin, Major,” said Nightingale, leaning elegantly back in his chair, “perhaps you would oblige me by bringing me up to date on what is happening with Captains Hawk and Fisher. I must confess I half expect every knock at my door to be them, come to drag me off in chains to face Haven justice, or worse still, administer it themselves.”
“You needn’t worry about them,” said de Tournay. “They had their chance to kill you, and chose not to. They understand the realities of the situation. And since they’ve been cleared of all charges, they’re not foolish enough to risk their necks again by harassing you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Nightingale drank his wine unhurriedly, ignoring de Tournay’s impatience to get to the point of his visit. Nightingale smiled. It was very good wine. “Now then, Major, what exactly did you want to see me about?”
“Are there really plans to use this super-chacal drug as a weapon in a war against Haven?”
“Of course. I feel sure it will be very effective. The few test results we’ve seen have been very promising.”
“It’s a dishonourable way to fight a war,” said de Tournay flatly.
Nightingale laughed, honestly amused. “There’s nothing honourable about war, Major. It’s nothing but slaughter and destruction on a grand scale, and the more efficiently it’s pursued, the better. The drug is just another weapon, that’s all.”
“But your way leaves no room for heroes or triumphs. Only the spectacle of mad animals, tearing each other to pieces.”
Nightingale poured himself another glass of wine, and topped up de Tournay’s. “I take it you’re one of those people who doesn’t want this war, de Tournay. Allow me to remind you that a war is vital if your career is to advance at all. There’s no other way for you to gain rank or position so quickly. Or are you content to be a Major all your life?”
“I have ambitions. But I’d prefer to obtain my advances cleanly and honourably.”
“Oh don’t worry, Major. There will be plenty of honest slaughter for you and your troops to get involved in. The drug will be used mainly against the civilian population, as a means of destroying morale. You should be grateful, Major. The drug will make your job a great deal easier. Leave policy to the politicians, de Tournay. It’s not your province to worry about such things.”
De Tournay shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.” He rose abruptly to his feet, gulped down the last of his wine, and put down the empty glass with unnecessary force. “I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer, my lord. Business to attend to. Enjoy your wine.” He bowed formally and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Nightingale listened to the key turning in the lock, and shrugged. Poor, innocent Major de Tournay. A good judge of wine, though. He raised his glass in a sardonic toast to the closed door.
De Tournay walked unhurriedly down the corridor, and nodded to the bored guard standing at the far end. “The Lord Nightingale doesn’t wish to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. See to it, would you?”
The guard nodded, and then smiled his thanks at the Major’s generous tip. De Tournay made his way through the bustling corridors of the Embassy and out into the packed streets, paying no attention to anyone he passed, lost in his own thoughts. The wine should be taking effect soon. There was a certain ironic justice in Nightingale’s falling prey to the very drug he’d championed so highly. It hadn’t been too difficult to obtain a small supply of the super-chacal from Guard Headquarters, though procuring an antidote he could take in advance had proved rather expensive. But he’d known he’d have to drink the wine too, so Nightingale wouldn’t be suspicious. The drug should be raging through Nightingale’s system by now. Left alone, locked in his room, Lord Nightingale would tear himself apart, victim of his own murderous intentions. Which only went to prove there was some justice in the world. You just had to help it along now and again.
De Tournay smiled briefly, and walked off into the city, disappearing into the milling crowds.
Hawk and Fisher stood together outside Guard Headquarters, watching the crowds. They’d been officially cleared of all outstanding charges, officially yelled at for getting themselves into such a mess in the first place by going off on their own, officially congratulated for exposing the traitors Bums and Nightingale, and very officially refused any extra overtime payments. At which point Hawk and Fisher had decided it was time to leave, before things got even more complicated. Hawk thought briefly about apologising to Commander Glen for hitting him, but one look at Glen’s simmering glare was enough to convince him it might not be the best time to bring the matter up.
He smiled regretfully, and looked about him. The streets were packed with people trudging determinedly through the snow and slush, none of them paying Hawk and Fisher any attention at all. Hawk grinned. He liked it that way. After everything they’d been through, it made a pleasant change.
“I still can’t believe how quickly everyone believed you were crazy and I was a traitor,” said Fisher. “When you consider everything we’ve done for this city ...”
“Yeah, well,” said Hawk. “That’s Haven for you. And it has to be said, our reputations didn’t help. Half of Haven thinks we’re crazy anyway for being so honest, and thinking we can change things, and the other half is scared stiff we’re going to kill them on sight.”
“We need our reputations; we couldn’t get any work done without them. It’s still no reason to turn on us like that. You know, Hawk, the more I think about it, the more I think Haven is such a worthless cesspool it’s not worth saving. It’s crooked and corrupt and so steeped in sin we might have done the Low Kingdoms a favour by just staying out of things and letting Morgan dump his drugs onto the streets.”
“Now don’t be like that, Isobel. Most people in Haven are just like anyone else in any other city—good people struggling to make ends meet, keep their heads above water, and hold their families together. They’re too busy working all the hours God sends to think about making trouble. That’s why we do this job; because they’re worth protecting from the scum out there who try to steal what little those people have. Most people here are all right.”
“Yeah?” growled Fisher. “Name two.”
She broke off as a woman wrapped in tattered furs waded through the thick slush to get to them. She was hauling along by one hand a little girl of about five or six, so buried under mismatched furs as to be little more than a bundle on legs. The mother lurched to a halt before Hawk and Fisher and stopped for a moment to get her breath. The little girl looked up at Hawk, smiled shyly, and then hid her face behind her mother’s leg. The mother nodded to Fisher, and smiled broadly at Hawk.