Adamant sighed quietly. "Yes. I was hoping you wouldn't have to know about him, but; I think you had better meet him."
"May I suggest we get out of these clothes first?" said Dannielle. "I'm soaked and half-frozen, and this dress is ruined."
"She has a point," said Fisher. "I look like I've been skinny-dipping in an abattoir."
"I'm sure we can find you and your partner some fresh clothes," said Dannielle. "Come with me. Captain Fisher, and I'll see what I can dig out for you. James, you look after Captain Hawk."
Fisher and Dannielle disappeared up the stairs together. Hawk looked at Adamant. "All right, first a change of clothes, but then I want to meet Mortice. No more delays; is that clear?"
"Of course, Captain," said Adamant. "But; do try and make allowances for Mortice's temper. He's been dead for some five months now, and it hasn't done a thing for his disposition."
Hawk walked up to the full-length mirror, and studied himself for some time. It didn't help. He still looked like a poor relation down on his luck. He and Adamant were roughly the same height, but Adamant had a much larger frame. As a result, the clothes Adamant had lent Hawk hung around him like he'd shrunk in the wash overnight. It wasn't even a particularly fetching outfit. Grey tights, salmon-pink knickerbockers, and a frilly white shirt; whatever the current fashion was, Hawk was pretty damn sure this wasn't it. The frilly shirt in particular worried him. The last time he'd seen a shirt this frilly a barmaid had been wearing it. And no matter what Adamant said, he was damned if he was going to wear that bloody silly three-cornered hat.
He looked at himself in the mirror one last time, and sighed deeply. He'd worn worse, in his time. At least he still had his Guardsman's cloak. He picked it up off the bed and put it on, pulling the heavy cloak around him so that it hid the clothes beneath. Luckily all Guards' cloaks came with a built-in spell that kept them clean and immaculate no matter what indignities they were subjected to. It was part of the Guard's image, and along with the occasional healing spell, was one of the few good perks of the job.
He ought really to be rejoining the others, but it wouldn't do them any harm to wait a while. He had several things he wanted to think through, while he had the chance. He looked around Adamant's spare bedchamber. It was clean, tidy, and very comfortably appointed. The bed itself was a huge four-poster, with hanging curtains. Very elegant, and even more expensive. What was a champion of Reform doing, living like a king? All right; no one expected him to live like a pauper just to make a point, but this ostentatious display of wealth worried Hawk. According to Adamant, the house had been provided by Reform higher-ups. So where were they getting the money from? Who funded the Reform Cause? The Trade Guilds, obviously, and donations from the faithful. Wealthy patrons like Adamant. But that wouldn't be enough to pay for houses like this. Hawk frowned. This wasn't really any of his business. He was just here to protect Adamant from harm.
Not that he was doing such a great job so far. The blood-creatures had caught him off guard. If Mortice hadn't saved their hides with his sorcery, the election would have been over before it had even begun. More mysteries. Mortice had to be a sorcerer of some kind. And Adamant had to know that associating with a sorcerer was grounds for disqualification. So why was he willing to let Hawk and Fisher meet him? And what was that crack about him being dead for five months? What was he? A ghost? Hawk sighed. He'd only been on the case an hour and already he had more questions than he could shake a stick at. This was going to be just like the Blackstone case all over again, he could tell. He settled his axe comfortably on his right hip, and made his way out onto the landing and down the stairs.
The hall was sparkling clean, with no trace of blood or ice. Mortice again, presumably. Fisher was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in her Guard's cloak. One look at the thunderclouds in her face was enough to tell Hawk that she'd been no luckier in her choice of new clothes than he. He went down to join her, looked ostentatiously round to make sure they were alone, and then whispered "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."
Fisher snorted a quick laugh, and smiled in spite of herself. "You first."
Hawk opened his cloak with a flourish and stood posed in the traditional flasher's stance. Fisher shook her head. "Hawk, you look like a Charcoal Street ponce. And it's still not as bad as mine."
She opened her cloak, and Hawk had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Apparently they hadn't been able to find any of Dannielle's clothing that would fit Fisher, and had compromised by lending her men's clothing. Very old and very battered men's clothing. The shirt and trousers had probably started out white, but had degenerated over the years into an uneven grey. The cuffs were frayed, there were patches of different colors on the elbows and knees, and there were several important buttons missing.
"Apparently they originally belonged to the gardener," said Fisher through gritted teeth. "We can't go out looking like this, Hawk; people will laugh themselves to death."
"Then we'll just have to keep our cloaks shut and save what's underneath as a weapon of last resort," said Hawk solemnly.
"Ah, Captain Hawk," said Medley, poking his head out of the study door. "I thought I heard voices. Everything all right?"
"Fine," said Hawk. "Just fine."
Medley stepped out into the corridor, followed by Adamant and Dannielle. They were all in fresh clothes and looked very smart.
"If you're quite ready, could we please get a move on?" said Medley. "Mortice knows we're coming, and he hates to be kept waiting. The last time he got impatient, he called down a plague of frogs. It took us hours to get those nasty little creatures out of the house."
"If he's your friend," said Fisher dryly, "your enemies must really be something."
"They are," said Adamant. "If you'd care to follow me;"
He led them down the hall and through a series of corridors that opened eventually onto a simple stone-walled laundry room. There were tables and towels and a freshly scrubbed stone floor. Hawk looked expectantly around him, and wondered if he was supposed to make a comment of some sort. As he hesitated, Medley moved over to the middle of the floor and bent down. He took hold of a large steel ring set into the floor, and for the first time Hawk spotted the outlines of a trapdoor. Fisher looked at Adamant.
"You keep your sorcerer in the cellar?"
"He chose it," said Medley. "He finds the dark a comfort."
Hawk looked at Adamant. "You said Mortice was dead. Perhaps you'd care to explain that."
Adamant gestured for Medley to move away from the trapdoor, and he did. Adamant frowned unhappily. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, and he chose his words with care. "Mortice is my oldest friend. We've faced many troubles together. I trust him implicitly. He's a first-class sorcerer; one of the most powerful in the city. He died just over five months ago. I even went to his funeral."
"But if he's dead," said Fisher, "what have you got in your cellar?"
"A lich," said Medley. "A dead body, animated by a sorcerer's will. We don't know exactly what happened, but Mortice was defending us from a sorcerous attack when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The spell killed him, but somehow Mortice managed to trap his spirit within his dead body. In a sense he's both living and dead now. Unfortunately his body is still slowly decaying, despite everything he can do to prevent it. The pain and rot of corruption are always with him. It makes him rather; short-tempered."
"He's haunting his own body," said Adamant. "Trapped in a prison of decaying flesh, because he wouldn't leave me unprotected."
"His name was Masque, but he calls himself Mortice, these days," said Dannielle, a faint <em>moue</em> of distaste pulling at her mouth. "Igor Mortice. It's a joke. Sort of."