Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) by Simon R. Green Page B
Authors: Simon R. Green
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from him to the portrait over the fire, and chuckled dryly.
“There is a resemblance, isn’t there? You’re not the first to spot it. Doesn’t look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to keep him occupied.”
“Don’t glorify the man,” said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in his hand. “A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose. Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way.”
“They were hard times,” said Alistair coldly. “The Low Kingdoms faced threats on all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honour and glory, but there’s damn all glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There’s just the blood and the flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things.”
“If you say so,” said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at Jamie. “May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in Haven.”
“We’ll get to the will soon enough,” said Jamie evenly. “There are two more guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we’ll all feel better for a good meal before getting down to business.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Marc.
“You speak for yourself,” said Hawk.
The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn’t see any other reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative, had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man’s hand, and his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.
“My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for almost thirty years, haven’t you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play something for my guests; some tale of my father’s exploits, in his memory.”
Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into an uptempo ballad. He sang, three songs altogether, each of them highly romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil’s past. They were all cut from the same cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn’t seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much feeling, and Brennan’s voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down an octave when he couldn’t reach the right note.
Hawk’s hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second, Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively to his arm. Hawk didn’t care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this definitely wasn’t, and he had a particular loathing
“There is a resemblance, isn’t there? You’re not the first to spot it. Doesn’t look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to keep him occupied.”
“Don’t glorify the man,” said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in his hand. “A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose. Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way.”
“They were hard times,” said Alistair coldly. “The Low Kingdoms faced threats on all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honour and glory, but there’s damn all glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There’s just the blood and the flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things.”
“If you say so,” said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at Jamie. “May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in Haven.”
“We’ll get to the will soon enough,” said Jamie evenly. “There are two more guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we’ll all feel better for a good meal before getting down to business.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Marc.
“You speak for yourself,” said Hawk.
The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn’t see any other reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative, had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man’s hand, and his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.
“My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for almost thirty years, haven’t you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play something for my guests; some tale of my father’s exploits, in his memory.”
Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into an uptempo ballad. He sang, three songs altogether, each of them highly romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil’s past. They were all cut from the same cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn’t seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much feeling, and Brennan’s voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down an octave when he couldn’t reach the right note.
Hawk’s hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second, Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively to his arm. Hawk didn’t care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this definitely wasn’t, and he had a particular loathing
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