Roxanne looked thoughtfully at Hardcastle's back, and then at the sorcerer Wulf. There was a lesson here worth remembering. If she ever fell out with Hardcastle, she'd better make sure the sorcerer was dead first. She looked back at the crowd. They were silent and shocked, sullen now. Their holiday mood had been ruined. Hardcastle raised his voice to get their attention, and began to speak again.
And once more his marvelous oratory worked its magic.
In a matter of moments, the crowd was won over again, and soon they were stamping and cheering and shouting his name, just as they had before. They seemed to have forgotten all about the dead man in their midst. Hardcastle filled their hearts and minds with good cheer, and sent them out into the streets to campaign on his behalf. The crowd filed out of the hall, laughing and chattering animatedly among themselves. Soon the hall was empty, apart from the stewards and the mercenaries. Hardcastle looked down at the body lying alone in the middle of the floor.
"Have someone clean up the mess," he said coldly, and then turned and left the gallery, followed by Wulf and Jillian. Roxanne looked at the torn and blood-soaked body down below.
Hardcastle strode into his study and poured himself a large drink. The speech had gone down well, and that little bastard Steele had got what was coming to him. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all. He was just lowering himself into his favorite chair when the commotion began. Someone was shouting in the corridor, and there was the sound of running feet and general panic. Hardcastle rose quickly from his chair, and his gaze went immediately to the family long-sword hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It had been a good few years since he'd last drawn that in anger, but he'd had a strong feeling he'd need the blade sooner or later during his campaign. And with Wulfs war on Adamant's house finally beginning to warm up, it was only to be expected that Adamant would resort in kind. Hardcastle snorted angrily as he put down his glass and pulled the long-sword from its sheath. So much for Adamant's puerile insistence on playing by the rules. There was only one rule in politics, and that was to win.
It felt good to have a sword in his hands again. He'd spent too long in smoke-filled rooms, arguing with fools for money and support that should have been his by right. The commotion in the hall was growing louder. Hardcastle nodded grimly. Let them come. Let them all come. He'd show them he was a force to be reckoned with. He shot a quick glance at Jillian, who was standing uncertainly by the door, one hand raised to her mouth. Useless damned mouse of a wife. He'd tried to knock some backbone into her, and little good it had done him. He gestured curtly for her to get away from the door, and she fled to the nearest chair and stood behind it. The sorcerer Wulf stayed by the door, making hurried gestures with his hands and muttering under his breath.
"Well?" said Hardcastle impatiently. "What's out there? Are we under attack?"
"Not by magic, Cameron. My wards are still holding. The attack must be on the physical plane. Mercenaries, perhaps." He stopped suddenly, and sniffed at the air. "Can you smell smoke?"
They looked at each other as the same thought struck them both at the same time. They didn't need to say her name. Hardcastle hurried out into the hall, sword in hand, followed by Wulf. Roxanne had her back to the wall and her sword at the ready as she faced off against two of Hardcastle's mercenaries. She was grinning broadly. The mercenaries looked scared but determined. A little further down the hall, a huge wall tapestry was going up in flames. Several servants were trying to put it out with pans of water.
Hardcastle's face purpled dangerously. "Roxanne! What's the meaning of this?"
"Just having a little fun," said Roxanne easily. "I was doing all right till these two spoilsports interfered. I'll be with you in a minute, as soon as I've dealt with them."
"Roxanne," said Wulf quickly, before Hardcastle could say something unwise, "please put away your sword. These men belong to your employer, Councilor Hardcastle. They are under his protection."
Roxanne sniffed ungraciously, and sheathed her sword. The mercenaries put away their swords, looking more than a little relieved. Wulf gestured for them to leave, and they did so quickly, before he could change his mind. Wulf looked at Roxanne reproachfully.
"When you signed the contract to work for Councilor Hardcastle, there was a specific clause stating that you wouldn't start any fires except those we asked you to."
Roxanne shrugged. "You know I can't read."
"I read it aloud to you."
"It was an ugly tapestry anyway."
"That's as may be. But as long as you work for the Councilor you will abide by your contract. Or are you saying your word is worthless?"
Roxanne glared at him. Wulf's stomach lurched, but he stood his ground. He knew any number of spells that would stop her in her tracks, but he had a sneaking suspicion she'd still survive long enough to kill him, no matter what he did to her. Confronting her this early was a definite risk, but it had to be done. Either her word was binding or it wasn't. And if it wasn't, then she was too dangerous a weapon to be used. He'd have to let her go, and hope he could kill her safely from a distance.
Roxanne scowled suddenly, and leaned against the wall with her arms folded. "All right, no more fires. You people have no sense of fun."
"Of course not," said Wulf. "We're in politics."
"If you've quite finished," said Hardcastle acidly, "perhaps you'd care to accompany me back to my study. I'm expecting some very important guests, and I want both of you present. If you can spare the time."
"Of course," said Roxanne cheerfully. "You're the boss."
Hardcastle gave her a hard look, and then led the way back to his study. The DeWitt brothers were already there, waiting for him. Hardcastle silently promised his butler a slow and painful death for not warning him, and then smiled courteously at the DeWitts and walked forward to shake hands with them. At the last moment he realized he was still holding his sword, and handed it quickly to Wulf to replace on the wall. At least Jillian had had the sense to get the DeWitts a glass of wine. Perhaps the situation could still be saved.
Marcus and David DeWitt were both in their late forties, and on first impression looked much the same: tall, slender, elegant, and arrogant. Dark hair and eyes made their faces appear pale and washed out, giving their impassive features the look of a mummer's mask. There was a quiet, understated menace in their unwavering self-possession, as though nothing in the world would dare disturb them. They'd left their swords at the front door, along with their bodyguards, as a sign of trust, but Hardcastle wasn't fool enough to believe them unarmed. The DeWitts had many enemies and took no chances. Even with a supposed ally.
Between them, Marcus and David DeWitt ran a third of the docks in Haven, on the age-old principle of the minimum investment for the maximum gain. Their docks were notorious for being the worst maintained and the most dangerous work areas in Haven. If the DeWitts gave a damn, they hid it remarkably well. Life was cheap in Haven, and labor even cheaper. And the DeWitts' charges were attractively low, so they never wanted for traffic. But now the dock strike was crippling them, despite the zombie scab labor. The dead men were cheap enough to run and never got tired, but they weren't very bright and needed constant supervision. They were also easy targets for dock-worker guerrilla units armed with salt and fire.