"Simon R. Green - Haven 04 - Wolf in the Fold" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

Haven - 04 - Wolf in the Fold
Simon R. Green

Chapter One
A Head Start


When you are tired of life, come to Haven. And someone will kill you.

The city port of Haven was a bad place to be after dark. It wasn't much better during the day. If there
was a viler, more corrupt and crime-ridden city in the whole of the Low Kingdoms, its existence must
have been kept secret to avoid depressing the general populace. If Haven hadn't been settled squarely
on the main trade routes, and made itself such a vital part of the Low Kingdoms' economy, it would
undoubtedly have been forcibly evacuated and burnt to the ground long ago, like any other plague
spot. As it was, the city thrived and prospered, brimming with crime, intrigue, and general decadence.

It also made a lot of money from tourism.

Such a dangerous city needed dangerous men and women to keep it under something like control. So
from Devil's Hook to the Street of Gods, from the Docks to High Tory, the city Guard patrolled the
streets of Haven with cold steel always to hand, and did the best they could under impossible
conditions. Apart from the murderers, muggers, rapists, and everyday scum, they were also up against
organized crime, institutionalized brutality and rogue sorcerers; not to mention rampant corruption
within their own ranks. They did the best they could, and for the most part learned to be content with
little victories.

They should have been the best of the best: men and women with iron nerves, high morals, and
implacable wills. Unstoppable heroes, ready to take on any odds to overthrow injustice. But given the
low pay, appalling working conditions and high mortality rate, the Guard settled for what it could get.
Most were out-of-work mercenaries, marking time until the next war, but there was always a ripe
mixture of thugs, idealists, and drifters, all with their own reasons for joining a losing side. Revenge
was a common motive. Haven was a breeding ground for victims.

The Guard squadroom was a large, cheerless office at the rear of Guard Headquarters. It was
windowless, like the rest of the building. Windows made the place too vulnerable to assault. The
Headquarters made do with narrow archery slits and ever-burning oil lamps. The walls and ceilings
were covered with grime from the lamps and open fireplaces, but no one gave a damn. It fitted the
general mood of the place. Half the squadroom had been taken up by oaken filing cabinets, spilling
over from the cramped Records Division. At any hour of the day or night, it was a safe bet you'd find
somebody desperately searching for the one piece of paper that might help them crack a case. There
was a lot of useful information in the files. If you could find it. They hadn't been properly organized in
over seventeen years, when most of the original files were lost in a fire-bombing.

Rumor had it that if ever the files were successfully reorganized, there'd just be another fire-bombing.
So no one bothered.

And three times a day, regular as the most expensive clockwork, the squadroom filled with Guard
Captains waiting for the day's briefing before going out on their shift. It was now almost ten o'clock of
the evening, and twenty-eight men and women were waiting impatiently for the Guard Commander to
make his appearance and give them the bad news. They knew the news would be bad. It always was.