Reluctantly he got to his feet. Rowan could wake up anytime now, and he'd better not be here when she did. He didn't want to upset her. He left the room quietly, and eased the door shut behind him. He made his way back down the stairs, frowning slightly as he tried to work out what he ought to do next. There was a hell of a lot of paperwork that needed seeing to, but then there always was. It could wait a little longer. He supposed he could take a walk down the Street, talk to people, get a feel of how the Street was reacting to Hawk and Fisher's arrival.
Or he could go to see Le Bel Inconnu.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn't go now. It was far too dangerous, with Hawk and Fisher out on the Street. They wouldn't understand. But he couldn't stay away either. It was already too long since his last visit. He glanced back up the stairs. Rowan would be all right. The protective wards around the house would make sure she wasn't disturbed. And if she wanted anything, she only had to call and Tomb would hear her, wherever he was. She knew that.
He hurried down the hall, took his cloak from the rack, and swung it round his shoulders. He pulled the hood forward, adjusting it so that its shadow covered his face. He could have used a disguise spell, but there were too many places on the Street where magic couldn't be relied on.
And this was too important to take unnecessary risks.
The sorcerer Tomb opened the door with a wave of his hand, and went out onto the Street of Gods.
Hawk and Fisher slogged up and down the Street of Gods, working their way through the list of names Tomb had given them. Hours passed, but the sun overhead didn't move. It was noon on the Street of Gods, and had been for several days. Robed acolytes hurried past them on unknown missions, heads bowed to show respect and humility, and to avoid having to see churches and temples more splendid than their own. The street preachers were still working themselves into hysterical rages and setting fire to each other, but no one was paying much attention except the tourists. Hawk and Fisher tramped grimly back and forth, getting what information they could from the Beings that Tomb had named as potentially helpful, and doing their best to ignore the wonders and terrors that thronged the Street.
The Night People were an old necromantic sect, not as well-supported as they had once been. Their High Priest met Hawk and Fisher in the Ossuary, the Cathedral of Bone. Intricate patterns of polished bones formed the floor and walls and ceilings of the Ossuary. Some were recognizably human. Others were so large and grotesque that Hawk preferred not to think about where they might have come from originally. The air smelt of musk and cinnamon, and strange lights flickered in far off windows. All the time they were there, Hawk had a strong feeling they were being watched, as though something awful and implacable lurked just out of sight, waiting patiently for him to drop his guard. He kept his hand near his axe.
The Night People were blind, their eyelids stitched together, but they all moved and spoke with an eerie certainty that bordered on the unnerving. Hawk did his best to ignore the uneasy prickling on the back of his neck, and asked to see the nameless Being the Night People worshipped. The High Priest shook his head slowly. Only the faithful might see God, and that sight was so glorious it burned out the eyes of all who saw. Hawk tried to press the matter further, but the High Priest would not be moved. He wouldn't even ask questions on the Guards' behalf. Neither would he allow them to question the faithful. No one knew anything that might help the Guards. No one knew anything about the God killings. No one knew anything about anything.
Hawk and Fisher went from church to temple to meetinghouse, and the message was always the same. The Hanged Man was polite but unhelpful. Sweet Corruption wasn't even polite. The Lord of the New Flesh refused even to see them.
And so it went the length of the Street, until finally they came to the Legion of the Primevil. The Legion's church was a tall building of spires and domes and crenellated towers. There were magnificent stained-glass windows, and flags and banners in a dozen different hues. Some other time Hawk might have been impressed, but as it was, all he could think of was his aching feet. It had been a long day.
The Legion priests, however, were frankly disturbing. Each and every one had a staring alien eye embedded somewhere in his flesh. It was large and crimson with a dark split pupil, and it blazed unblinkingly from forehead, chest, or hand. In a few cases it had displaced one of the priest's original eyes, and it bulged uncomfortably in the too-small socket, glaring balefully at the world. Legend had it that the Legion was the means whereby an ancient Being from another plane of existence was able to observe the world of men.
The High Priest seemed happy enough to talk to Hawk and Fisher, but could do little to help them. With three Beings murdered in a matter of weeks, gossip ran wild on the Street of Gods. But no one knew anything for sure. People were scared. So were some of the Beings. Everyone was looking for a villain; someone to blame and strike back at. No one had mentioned God War yet. but everyone was thinking about it.
Hawk and Fisher talked with the High Priest for some time, trying to avoid staring at the great crimson eye that glared unblinkingly from his forehead. Nothing much came of it until right at the end, when the High Priest suddenly leaned forward on his throne and fixed Hawk with his unnerving stare.
"Tell me, Captain. Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?"
"No," said Hawk cautiously. "Can't say that I have." He looked at Fisher, and she shook her head slightly.
The High Priest leaned back on his throne, his expression unreadable beneath the glowing third eye. "Ask Charles Buchan, Captain. He knows."
And that was all he would say. In a matter of minutes the two Guards were back on the Street again, not much wiser than when they'd started. It was still midday, and the air was uncomfortably warm. Hawk and Fisher decided simultaneously that what they really needed to help put things in perspective was a stiff drink. Or two. Accordingly, they made their way to the nearest temple dedicated to John Barleycorn, and ordered a ceremonial libation in tall glasses. They took their drinks and settled into a private booth at the back of the temple where the lights were comfortably dim. Hawk stretched out his legs with a luxurious sigh, and propped his aching feet on a nearby chair. Fisher took off one of her boots and massaged her toes. Some moments were just too precious to interrupt, but eventually they turned their attention to their drinks, and the matter at hand.
"All right," said Hawk. "Let's run through what we've got. Three Beings are dead. Since they are dead, I think it's safe to call them Beings rather than Gods. The Dread Lord died nine days ago. His body had been torn apart. The Sundered Man was stabbed to death six days ago. And the Carmadine Stalker apparently aged to death three days ago. Doesn't take a genius to spot the pattern, does it?"
"A murder every three days," said Fisher. "With another due sometime today, if the pattern continues."
"Right," said Hawk. "And there's nothing we can do to prevent it. We don't have enough information, and no one will talk to us."
Fisher smiled briefly. "Why should the Street of Gods be any different from the rest of Haven?"
Hawk sniffed. "Anywhere else, I could persuade someone to talk to us. But the mystic was right; strong-arm tactics aren't going to work here. If I start shoving my axe in a Being's face, I'll probably end up snapping at flies on a lily pad. Intimidation is very definitely out. That just leaves diplomacy."