Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) by Simon R. Green Page A

Hawk had no trouble at all seeing him as a man who would do bloody crimes in the heat of passion.
    Everyone jumped slightly as the door behind them swung suddenly open and the butler Greaves entered. He stepped to one side, and formally announced the arrival of Marc and Alistair MacNeil. The two men entered together, though with enough space between them to suggest they were neither comfortable nor happy in each other’s company. They both bowed briefly to Jamie MacNeil.
    Marc was tall and slender, with a broad, bland face and a cool, unhappy smile. He looked to be in his late twenties, if you ignored his prematurely thinning hair, and he wore the latest fashion poorly, as though indifferent to the effect it was supposed to achieve. He looked like the kind of man who attaches himself to groups at parties, in the hope someone will talk to him. His handshake was harsh and perfunctory, and his lips lingered almost obnoxiously over Fisher’s hand. Jamie introduced him as another distant cousin, from Upper Markham.
    “That makes him almost a neighbour of yours,” said Jamie, smiling happily at Hawk and Fisher. “I’m sure you’ll have lots in common to talk about.”
    “Oh good,” said Hawk.
    Marc sniffed. “I rather doubt it. No one worth knowing ever came out of Lower Markham.”
    There was an icy silence. Hawk’s hand fell to his belt, before remembering he didn’t have his axe anymore. Fisher quickly dropped a restraining hand on his arm. Marc smiled stiffly, almost as though daring Hawk to take offense at such an obvious truth.
    “That’s enough!” said Jamie sharply. “There will be no duels in the Tower while I’m the MacNeil. Now apologize, Marc.”
    “Of course,” said Marc. “I’m sorry.”
    His tone made the apology sound like another insult. Hawk’s scowl deepened. Fisher tightened her grip on his arm. Hawk bowed stiffly, and turned his back on Marc to greet Alistair MacNeil. Marc sniffed again, and turned away to help himself to a drink from one of the wine decanters set out on the sideboard. Fisher breathed a silent sigh of relief, let go of Hawk’s arm, and took a long drink from her glass.
    Alistair shook Hawk’s hand firmly, and kissed Fisher’s hand with old-fashioned style. He smiled at them both, an open, friendly smile that did much to dispel the cool atmosphere left by Marc’s comments. “Good of you to make such a long journey; it can’t have been easy, getting here from Lower Markham at this time of year.”
    “We felt we ought to be here,” said Fisher. “Did you have far to come?”
    “Quite a way. I’m another of those cousins the Family doesn’t like to admit to knowing. I was brought up here in the Tower, but the Family packed me off to the Red Marches when I was a young man. Got a parlour maid into trouble and couldn’t pay my gambling debts. Nothing too outrageous, but someone thought I needed to be made an example of, so off I went. Can’t say I regret it. I could have come back long ago, but never saw the point. Lovely area, the Red Marches. Marvelous scenery, good hunting, and always a chance for some action on the borders. That’s how I heard about Duncan’s death. Beastly bad luck, by all accounts. So, I decided it was time to come back and pay my respects to the new MacNeil. Good of you to put me up, Jamie. I couldn’t stick Haven. Place has gone to the dogs. Not at all how I remember it.”
    Hawk studied the man unobtrusively while he spoke. Alistair MacNeil was tall and muscular, though obviously well into his fifties. His stomach was intimidatingly flat, his back poker straight, and if Alistair was carrying a few extra pounds anywhere, Hawk was damned if he could spot them. His clothes were undeniably old-fashioned but exquisitely cut, and Alistair wore them with unconscious style. His iron-grey hair was cropped close to his head, military fashion, but he had the same beaked nose and piercing eyes as the man in the portrait. Alistair caught Hawk glancing