"Something wrong here," said Hawk softly. "According to the amulet there's still no sign of any magic, but this house should be saturated with it. At the very least, there should be defensive spells all over the place. Industrial espionage is rife among magic-users. There's always someone trying to steal your secrets."
They made their way up the stairs, the steps occasionally creaking under their weight. The sounds seemed very loud on the quiet. The lamplight bobbed around them, unable to make much impression on the darkness. The landing at the top of the stairs led off onto a narrow hallway. There were three doors, all firmly closed. Hawk and Fisher stood together, listening, but there was only the quiet, and the sound of their own breathing. Hawk sniffed at the air.
"Can you smell something, Isobel?"
"Yeah… something. Can't tell what it is, or where it's coming from, though."
The nearest door suddenly flew open, slamming back against the passageway wall with a deafening crash. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly to stand on guard, weapons at the ready. At first Hawk thought the figure before them was some kind of beast, and it took him a moment to realize it was a man wrapped in furs. He was barely average height, but bulging with muscles, overdeveloped almost beyond reason. His furs were dark and greasy, covered with filth and dried blood. There was blood on his face and hands. He was grinning widely, his cheeks stretched near to distortion. Even so, Hawk had no trouble recognizing the face Dr. Jaeger had shown him in the pool of blood.
The killer was carrying something in his right hand, and Hawk darted a glance at it. It was a severed head, held by the hair. Hawk concentrated on the killer's face. The unnatural smile didn't falter and the eyes were fixed and wild. His bearing was savage and menacing, but he made no move to attack them. Drugs? Possession? Crazy? Hawk took a firm hold on his axe. He remembered what the killer had done to the body in Silver Street with his bare hands.
"We're Captains in the city Guard," he said evenly. "You're under arrest."
"You can't stop me," said the killer, his voice breathy and excited. "I'm the Dark Man."
He swung the severed head viciously at Hawk, and he stepped aside automatically. The head crashed into the wall and rebounded, leaving a bloody smudge behind it. Fisher stepped forward, her sword held out before her. The Dark Man slapped the blade aside with the flat of his hand and swung the severed head at her. She ducked, and the Dark Man darted back into the room he'd come from. Hawk and Fisher charged in after him, but the room was empty. Fisher swore briefly.
"How the hell did he manage that? He was only out of our sight for a second or two."
"Place is probably full of sliding panels and secret passageways," said Hawk. "He could be anywhere in the house by now."
"Or out of it."
"No, I don't think so. We've seen his face. He has to silence us, and he knows it. He'll be back. In the meantime, let's take a look round these rooms. Maybe we'll find a clue, or something to explain what's going on."
"Optimist," said Fisher.
The room they were in was a small, cosy bedchamber. The bedclothes had been pulled back, but the bed was empty. The bedclothes felt cold and faintly damp to the touch. There was a light covering of dust over all the furniture. Hawk and Fisher poked around for a few minutes, but there was nothing significant to be found. They went back out into the hallway, keeping their weapons at the ready.
The next room turned out to be some kind of laboratory.
There were glass instruments and tubing, earthenware bowls, and stacked phials of chemicals. The room looked neat and undisturbed, but once again there was a layer of dust over everything. At the back of the room there was a simple desk with two locked drawers. Fisher opened them. Inside there was nothing but a handful of papers, covered with complex equations that made no sense to either of them. Hawk put them back, and then paused and sniffed the air. The smell seemed somewhat stronger, and he had an uncomfortable suspicion he knew what it was.
The third and last room was a study. Small, compact, and tidy. Bookshelves covered one wall, packed with leatherbound volumes of varying sizes. There was a broad, functional desk, its top covered with scattered papers. The smell of death and decay was very strong. Posed limply in the chair by the desk was a dead man dressed in sorcerer's black. He'd been dead for some time. His head was bowed forward, his chin resting on his chest.
"Well, at least now we know what happened to the sorcerer Bode," said Fisher. "And why there's no magic in this place. His protective spells must have collapsed when he died."
"I don't think so," said Hawk. "Protective spells don't work like that."
"They couldn't have been very good spells. They didn't keep the killer out."
"Yes," said Hawk. "Interesting, that."
"So, how did he die?"
"Good question," said Hawk. "There's no obvious wound." He put the lamp down on the desk, gingerly took hold of the sorcerer's hair, and tilted the head back. When he saw Bode's face he almost let it drop forward again. The sorcerer had the same face as the Dark Man.
"That's not possible," said Fisher. "It can't be him. This man's been dead for days."
Hawk nodded, and let the head fall forward again. "So what did we just fight? A ghost?" He started to wipe his fingers on his cape, and then stopped as he realized what he'd just said. They looked at each other for a moment.
"This house is supposed to be haunted," said Fisher.
"Ghosts don't usually try to bash your brains out with a severed head," said Hawk firmly. "Not unless it's their own. And they're not usually built like weightlifters, either." He looked back at the body as a thought struck him. "Relax, Isobel. This definitely isn't the Dark Man. The build's all wrong. This guy's about as well-developed as a sparrow. I've seen more muscles on a Leech Street whore."
"The face is still the same, though," said Fisher. "Maybe they're brothers. Twins."
Hawk frowned. "Too obvious. Nothing's ever simple, where magic-users are concerned."
He leant forward, and steeling himself against the smell, he searched the body carefully for the cause of death. It didn't take him long. There was a narrow puncture wound just under the sternum. Someone had stabbed Bode through the heart. Hawk readjusted the sorcerer's clothing, stood back, and frowned thoughtfully. One thrust, right through the heart. Very professional. Or very lucky. But even so, how had the killer got close enough to do it? Even a low-level sorcerer like Bode should have had more than enough magic to deal with a common assassin. Even assuming the killer had somehow got past the house's magical defenses. Bode had to have had some defenses, or a rival sorcerer would have wiped him out by now. Sorcery was a very competitive business. Particularly in the Northside.
Maybe Bode knew his killer, and invited him in. That would explain a lot. Including why the sorcerer had died sitting quietly in his own study.
"Hawk," said Fisher suddenly, "I think you'd better take a look at this."
Hawk looked round. Fisher had been studying the papers on the desk and was flipping through half a dozen sheets, frowning intently. He moved over to join her.
"Most of this is routine," said Fisher. "Reports on experiments, memos to himself not to forget things, dates and addresses and stuff like that. But this is… something else."
Hawk listened intently as Fisher read the pages aloud. It seemed Bode had to travel a lot, to acquire certain ingredients for his experiments. Which meant leaving his house unguarded, apart from the few magical defenses he'd been able to put together. Bode was a better alchemist than sorcerer, and he knew his defenses wouldn't keep out any