A Conservative-backed Council would support the De-Witts against the Dock-workers Guild, even if it came down to open violence and intimidation. Reform would back the Guild. So the DeWitts were making the rounds before the election, buying themselves Councillors. Unfortunately for them, they needed Hardcastle more then he needed them. So if they wanted his support, they were going to have to pay through the nose for it.
Wulf leaned back in his chair and quietly studied the DeWitt brothers. They were an unpleasant pair, by all accounts, but he'd worked with worse in his time. Like Hardcastle, for example. A brute and a bully and not nearly as clever as he thought he was. Wulf had done a great many unpleasant things himself, down the years; his style of magic demanded it. But he did them in a businesslike way, because they were necessary. Hardcastle did unpleasant things because he enjoyed it. He was one of those people who can only prove how important they are by showing how unimportant everyone else is. Wulf frowned slightly. Such men are dangerous;to themselves, and those around them.
But for the moment, he was a man with power, a rising star; a man on the way up. Wulf could go far, riding the coattails of such a man. And when Hardcastle's star began to wane, Wulf would move on. He had ambitions of his own. Hardcastle was just a means to an end.
"Twenty thousand ducats," said Marcus DeWitt in his cold, flat voice. He took a folded bank draft from his coat pocket and laid it carefully on the table before him. "I trust that will be sufficient?"
"For the moment," said Hardcastle. He gestured easily to Wulf, who leaned forward and picked up the bank draft.
"James Adamant has a hell of a lot of followers out on the streets," said David DeWitt, opening a small silver snuff box and taking out a pinch of white powder. He sniffed delicately, and then signed slowly as the dust hit his system. He smiled, and looked steadily at Hardcastle. "Just how do you intend to deal with this very popular Reformer, sir Hardcastle?"
"The traditional way," said Hardcastle. "Money, and force of arms. The carrot and the stick. It never fails, providing it's applied properly. My people are already out on the streets."
"Adamant has money," said Marcus. "He also has Hawk and Fisher."
"They're not infallible," said Hardcastle. "They couldn't keep Blackstone from being killed."
"They caught his killer," said David DeWitt. "And made sure he didn't live to stand trial."
"There's no need to worry," said Wulf. "We have our own wild card. Gentlemen, may I present the legendary Roxanne."
She smiled at the DeWitt brothers, and they both flinched a little.
"Ah, yes," said Marcus. "I thought I smelt something burning as we came in."
"I always thought she'd be taller," said David. "Taller, and covered with fresh blood."
Wulf smiled. "She's everything the legends say she is, and more."
Marcus DeWitt frowned. "Does Adamant know she's working for you?"
"No," said Hardcastle. "Not yet. We're saving that for a surprise."
The sorcerer known as the Grey Veil huddled in a corner of the deserted church, shivering with the cold. He'd been there for several hours, gathering together what was left of his magic. He couldn't believe how fast everything had fallen apart. One moment he had been a force to be reckoned with, a sorcerer with hundreds of lesser minds under his command; and then suddenly his control was broken by an interfering Guard, and he'd had to run for his life like a thief in the night. His slaves were free again, and he was a wanted man with a price on his head.
It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Enter the election as a candidate, and then possess enough people to raise an army of voters. Once on the Council, all kinds of powerful men would have been vulnerable to his possession. A simple plan; so simple it seemed foolproof. He should have known something would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Veil hugged his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had no idea how the Guards had found him out. It didn't really matter. He'd staked everything he had on one roll of the dice and had nothing left with which to start again. He'd be lucky to get out of Haven alive.
He pulled his thin cloak tightly about him. He should have known it would come to this. All his life everything he'd turned his hand to had failed him. He'd been born into a debt-ridden family, which, as time went on, only slid further and further into poverty. He was put to work as soon as he was able, at the age of seven. He spent his childhood in the sweatshops of the Devil's Hook, and in his adolescence moved restlessly from one lousy job to another, searching always for the one lucky break that would change his life. Whatever money he made went on plans and schemes and desperate gambles, but none of them ever came to anything. Even the girl he loved went to another man.
And then he met the old man, who found in Veil a gift for magic. He worked himself to exhaustion to pay for the old man's lessons in sorcery, and when that wasn't enough he stole what he needed from his friends. When he was powerful enough he killed the old man, and took his grimoires and objects of power. He became the Grey Veil, and swore an oath on his own blood that whatever happened, whatever he had to do, he would never be poor again.
Veil smiled bitterly. He should have known better. A loser was still a loser, no matter what fancy new name he took. He breathed heavily on his hands, trying to coax some warmth into his numb fingers. It was very cold in the Temple of the Abomination.
There were many abandoned churches on the Street of Gods. A Being's power would wane, or its followers prove fickle, or perhaps simply the fashion would change, and overnight a church whose walls had once rung to the sound of hymns of adoration and the dropping of coins into offertory bowls would find itself suddenly deserted and abandoned. Eventually another congregation would take over the building, worshipping another god, and business would go on as usual. But some abandoned churches were left strictly alone, for fear of what might linger in the silence.
The Temple of the Abomination had stood empty and alone for centuries; a simple, square stone building on the lower end of the Street of Gods. It wasn't very large, and from the outside it looked more like a downmarket mausoleum than a church. It had no windows, and only the one door. It wasn't locked or bolted. The Temple of the Abomination had a bad reputation, even for the Street of Gods. People who went in tended not to come out again. Veil didn't give a damn. He needed a place to hide where no one else would think to look. Nothing else mattered.
It slowly occurred to him that the church didn't seem as dark as it had been. When he'd first crept inside the church, he'd pulled the door shut behind him, closing out the light. The pitch darkness had been a comfort to him then, an endless night that would hide him from prying eyes. But now he could clearly make out the interior of the church, such as it was. There wasn't much to see, just plain stone walls and a broken stone altar set roughly in the centre of the room. Veil frowned. Where the hell was the light coming from?
Curiosity finally stirred him from his hiding place in the corner, and he rose slowly to his feet. He moved forward, wincing as his stiff joints creaked protestingly. The small sounds seemed very loud on the quiet. Outside on the Street of Gods the clamor of a hundred priests filled the air from dawn to dusk, augmented by the hymns and howls of the faithful, but not a whisper of that turmoil passed through the thick stone walls.