A map showing the headquarters' location burned briefly in their minds, and then it and the disembodied voice were gone. Hawk shook his head gingerly. "I wish he wouldn't use that bloody gong; it goes right through me."
"They could do without the sorcerer entirely, as far as I'm concerned," said Fisher feelingly. "I don't like the idea of magic-users having access to my mind."
"It's just part of the job, lass."
"What was wrong with the old system of runners with messages?"
Hawk grinned. "We got too good at avoiding them."
Fisher had to smile. They made their way unhurriedly through Cheape Side and on into the maze of interconnecting alleyways popularly referred to as The Shambles. It was one of the oldest parts of the city, constantly due for renovation but somehow always overlooked when the budget came round. It had a certain faded charm, if you could ignore the cripples and beggars who lined the filthy streets. The Shambles was no poorer than anywhere else in the Northside, but it was perhaps more open about it. Shadowy figures disappeared silently into inconspicuous doorways as Hawk and Fisher approached.
"Adamant," said Fisher thoughtfully. "I know that name."
"You ought to," said Hawk. "A rising young star of the Reform Cause, by all accounts. He's contesting the High Steppes district, against a hardline Conservative Councilor.
He might just take it. Councilor Hardcastle isn't what you'd call popular."
Fisher sniffed, unimpressed. "If Adamant's so important, how did he end up with us as his bodyguards?"
Hawk grunted unhappily. The last time he and Fisher had worked as bodyguards, everything had gone wrong. Councilor Blackstone had been murdered, despite their protection, and so had six other people. Important people. Hawk and Fisher had caught the killer eventually, but that hadn't been enough to save their reputation. They'd been in the doghouse with their superiors ever since. Not that Hawk or Fisher gave a damn. They blamed themselves more than their superiors ever could. They'd liked Blackstone.
"Well," said Fisher finally, "you've always said you wanted a chance to study an election close-up, to see how it worked. It looks like you've got your chance after all."
"Yeah," said Hawk. "Wait till you see Adamant in action, Isobel; he'll make a believer out of you."
"It'll all end in tears," said Fisher.
They were halfway down Lower Bridge Street, not far from the High Steppes boundary, when Hawk suddenly noticed how quiet it had become. It took him a while to realize, being lost in his thoughts of actually working with a Reform candidate, so the quiet hit him all the harder when it finally caught his attention. At first everything looked normal. The usual stalls lined the street, and the crowds bustled back and forth, like any other day. But the sound of the crowd barely rose above a murmur. The stall-holders stood quietly in their places, waiting patiently for customers to come to them, instead of following their usual practice of shouting and haranguing until the air itself echoed from the noise. The crowd made its way from stall to stall with bowed heads and downcast eyes. No one exclaimed at the prices, or browbeat the stall-holders, or tried to bargain for a lower price. And strangest and most unsettling of all, no one stopped to speak to anyone else. They just went from stall to stall, speaking only when they had to, in the lowest of voices, as though they were just going through the motions. Hawk slowed to a halt, and Fisher stopped beside him.
"Yeah," said Fisher. "I noticed it too. What the hell's going on here? I've been to livelier funerals."
Hawk grunted, his hand resting uneasily on the axe at his side. The more he studied the scene before him, the more unnerving it became. There were no street-corner orators, no broadsheet singers, and the few banners and posters in evidence flapped forlornly in the drifting breeze, ignored by the crowd. There should have been street-conjurers and knife grinders and itinerant tinkers, and all the other human flotsam and jetsam that street markets attract. But there was only the crowd, quiet and passive, moving unhurriedly between the stalls. Hawk looked up and down the narrow street, and all around him the empty windows stared back like so many blank idiot eyes.
"Something's happened here," said Fisher. "Something bad."
"It can't be that bad," said Hawk. "We'd have heard something. News travels fast in Haven; bad news fastest of all."
Fisher shrugged. "Something still feels wrong. Very wrong."
Hawk nodded slowly in agreement. They started down the street again, cloaks thrown back over their shoulders to leave their sword-arms free. The crowd made way before them, their heads averted so as not to meet the Guards' eyes. Their movements were slow and listless, and strangely synchronized, as though everyone on the street was moving in step with each other. The hackles began to stir on Hawk's neck. He glared about him, and then felt a sudden rush of relief as he spotted a familiar face.
Long Tom was a permanent fixture of Lower Bridge Street. Other stalls might come and go, but his was always there, selling the finest knives any man could wish for. He'd sell you anything from a kitchen knife to matched dueling daggers, but he specialized in military knives, in all their variations. Long Tom had lost both his legs in the army, and stomped around on a pair of sturdy wooden legs that added a good ten inches to his previous height. Hawk had gone to great pains to cultivate him. Long Tom always knew what was happening.
Hawk approached the stall with a friendly greeting on his lips, but the words died away unspoken as Long Tom raised his head to meet Hawk's gaze. For a moment Hawk thought a stranger had taken over the stall. The moment passed, and he quickly recognized the size and shape of the face before him, but still something was horribly wrong. Long Tom's eyes had always been a calm and peaceful blue; now they were dark and piercing His mouth was turned down in a bitter, unfamiliar smile. He even held himself differently, as though his weight and figure had changed drastically overnight. They were small differences, and a stranger might not have noticed them, but Hawk wasn't fooled. He nodded casually to Long Tom, and moved off without saying anything.
"What was that all about?" said Fisher.
"Didn't you notice anything different about him?" said Hawk, looking unobtrusively about.
Fisher frowned. "He looked a bit off, but so what? Maybe he's had a lousy day too."
"It's more than that," said Hawk. "Look around you. Look at their faces."
The two Guards moved slowly through the quiet crowd, and Fisher felt a strange sense of unreality steal over her as she saw what Hawk meant. Everywhere she looked she saw strange eyes in familiar faces. Everyone had the same dark, piercing eyes, the same bitter smile. They even moved to the same rhythm, as though listening to the same silent song. It was like a childhood nightmare, where everyday friends and faces become suddenly cold, menacing strangers. Hawk reached surreptitiously inside his shirt and grasped the bone amulet that hung on a silver cord round his neck. It was a simple charm; standard issue for Guards during an election. It detected the presence of magic, and could lead you to whoever was responsible. Its range was limited, but it was never wrong. Hawk closed his hand around the carved bone, and it vibrated fiercely like a struck gong. He swore silently and took his hand away. He knew now why all the crowd shared the same dark eyes.
"They're possessed," he said softly. "All of them."
"Oh, great," said Fisher. "You any good at exorcisms?"
"I was never any good at Latin."
"Terrific."
They'd kept their voices low, little more than murmurs, but already the crowd seemed to sense that something was wrong. Heads began to turn in the Guards' direction, and people began to drift towards them. Long Tom moved out from behind his stall, a knife in each hand. Hawk and Fisher began to back away, only to discover there were as many people behind them as in front. Fisher drew her sword, but Hawk put a hand on her arm.