events.
“I need your help.”
Jago sat back, wincing as his injured shoulder made contact with the chair. “Jesus, you’ve got a bloody nerve. What’s it been? Three months without a word, and then you swan back in without so much as a heads-up to tell me you need a favour? Is that any way to treat your friends?”
“I just saved your life,” Hawkwood pointed out.
“Aye, well there is that, I suppose,” Jago conceded with a wry grin. “So, how was France? Heard you had a spot of bother.”
Hawkwood stared at him. “How in the hell …?”
Jago’s grin widened. “Went to see Magistrate Read, didn’t I?”
“And he told you?”
“Well, not in so many words. Would’ve been easier gettin’ blood from a stone. But seeing as I’ve helped you and him out now and again in the pursuit of your official duties, he did let slip you were abroad on the king’s business.”
“In France?”
Jago shook his head. “Guessed that bit, seeing as you speak Frog like a native and the last time I was involved you were hanging around with our privateer pal, Lasseur. Thought there might be a connection.”
Jago studied Hawkwood’s face. “Though, seeing as they ain’t declared peace and you’ve a couple more scars on your noggin, I’m guessing things might not have gone according to plan.”
Hawkwood looked back at him.
“Well?” Jago asked.
“Maybe later.”
“Which is a polite way of sayin’ I should mind my own business. All right, so how long have you been home?”
“Not long.”
“And what? This the first time you thought to drop by?”
“No. I tried to reach you a week back, but I was told you were away sorting out some business.”
Partially mollified by Hawkwood’s response, Jago eased himself into a more comfortable position and made a face. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”
Hawkwood waited.
“A spot of bother with one of my suppliers. Had to make a visit to the coast to sort it out.”
“And did you?”
“Sort it?” Jago smiled grimly. “Oh, aye.”
Hawkwood bit back a smile of his own. In Jago’s language, “a spot of bother” could cover a multitude of sins, most of which, Hawkwood knew, stemmed from activities that were, if not strictly illegal then certainly open to interpretation when based upon the authorities’ understanding of the term. As for the remainder; they were entirely unlawful.
In the years since the two of them had returned from the Peninsula, Nathaniel Jago had made a point of steering his own unconventional career path. His experiences as a sergeant in the British Army had served him well, providing him with an understanding of both discipline and the need for organization, two factors which had proved essential in expediting his rise through the London underworld, a fraternity not known for its tolerance of transgressors, as had just been illustrated.
As a peace officer, Hawkwood had never sought to influence or curb his former sergeant’s more dubious pursuits. He owed him too much. Jago had guarded his back and saved his life more times than he could remember. That truth alone outweighed any consideration he might have for curtailing the man’s efforts to make a livelihood, even if that did tend to border on the questionable. Besides, it helped having someone on the other side of the fence to keep him abreast of what was happening in the murkier realms of the country’s sprawling capital. Providing, that is, they didn’t encroach upon a certain former army sergeant’s sphere of operations.
Not having met Del, Ned or Jasper before, Hawkwood assumed they were part of Jago’s inner circle. In the normal scheme of things, therefore, it was unlikely their paths would have crossed. Jago referring to him as Officer would have res-onated, though, so it said much for Jago’s status that none of them had raised an objection or even registered shock at his presence. That said, it was equally possible that their equanimity was due to the fact that he was alone and on their turf and at their mercy, should they decide to turn belligerent. For any law officer, the Rookery was, to all intents and purposes, foreign ground. There might as well have been a sign at the entrance to the street proclaiming Abandon hope, all ye who enter here; despite the authority his Runner’s warrant gave him, Hawkwood knew it held as much sway here as on the far side of the moon. But while he was here, he remained under Jago’s protection. Had that not been the case, his safety would not have been assured.
Unless Micah came to his aid.
Hawkwood didn’t know a lot about Jago’s lieutenant, other than the former sergeant trusted him with his life. He’d been a soldier, Jago had once let that slip, but as to where and when he’d served, Jago didn’t know, or else he knew but had decided that was Micah’s own business and therefore exempt from discussion, unless Micah chose to make it so.
He was younger than Hawkwood, probably by a decade, and, from what Hawkwood did know of him, a man of few words. There had been two occasions when, in company with Jago, Micah had stood at Hawkwood’s shoulder and both times he’d shown himself to be resourceful, calm in a crisis, and good with weapons; characteristics which had been even more evident this evening. What more was required from a right-hand man?
Jago’s voice broke into Hawkwood’s thoughts.
“All right, so what’s this all about?”
A shadow appeared at the table and Jago paused. It was Jasper, bearing the drinks, which coincided with Ned and Del’s return from their downstairs delivery.
“Good lad,” Del said, reaching for a glass. “All that totin’, I’m bloody parched.”
They might have been a couple of draymen dropping off casks of ale, Hawkwood mused, rather than drinking pals who’d just deposited three dead bodies on to a cart loaded with barrels of human waste.
Glancing around, it occurred to him that anyone walking into the room afresh wouldn’t have the slightest notion that anything untoward had taken place, save, perhaps, for noticing a few more dark stains on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Though, even as he pondered on the matter, these were being wiped away with wet rags and a fresh layer of sawdust applied.
It was uncanny, Hawkwood thought, how men and women, when surrounded by the most appalling squalor, swiftly become immune to the worst excesses of human nature. Here, where only the strongest survived, in a welter of gunfire, three men had died in as many seconds and yet, even before their bodies had been removed, the world, such as it was, had returned to normal, or as normal as it could be in a place like this.
He wondered what that said about his own actions. He was a peace officer, supposedly on the side of justice, and yet in the blink of an eye he’d knifed one man to death and shot the head off another. But then the Shaughnessys and their cohort had been prepared to murder in cold blood. Hawkwood had been a witness to that and he had acted without any thought as to the consequences. So had killing now
