The Return of Daud Page 11

  Daud got the message and walked over, taking a circuitous route through the unmoving patrons. Before reaching the table he paused and glanced around, but nobody was looking. Nobody cared. Above the man was a portrait with a small brass nameplate attached to the bottom of the frame: Emperor Finlay Morgengaard I (1626—1651).

  Daud sat at the table opposite the man in the blue cloak, who didn’t acknowledge his presence. He just lifted his pipe and used it to gesture at the portrait.

  “Morgengaard the Elder,” he said. “A fine ruler, by all accounts.”

  “The just and noble lord who came to an early end.”

  “Sad to say.”

  “Sad to say,” repeated Daud. It had worked. He’d found the agent.

  The man turned to Daud. “Speaking of early.”

  “Thought I’d get a drink before getting down to business,” said Daud, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement. “Although the people in this place seem to prefer their tobacco.”

  The man nodded and put the pipe back between his teeth. “When a town smells as bad as this, you’d take up smoking too,” he said. “Have you been to Porterfell before?”

  “No,” said Daud. “It’s one of the few places I haven’t.”

  The man raised his monocle. He looked Daud up and down with it—lingering, Daud thought, on his gloved hands, which were placed on the table. Daud slipped them off into his lap and the monocle disappeared back into the cloak. “One day I think I would like to hear about your travels,” said the agent. “You have a story somewhere. I can… sense it.”

  Daud lifted an eyebrow. Then he leaned in, his voice low. “I’m not here to tell you stories. I’m not here for you at all.”

  The man frowned, apparently annoyed. Whoever this agent was, he seemed to want to play games. “I need to talk to Maximilian Norcross,” said Daud.

  The man turned his attention to his pipe, tilting it up so he could look in the bowl. Then the man wrinkled his nose. Still looking into his pipe, he spoke. “Mr. Norcross is a busy man.” He glanced up at Daud. “A very busy man.”

  Daud met the other man’s glare. “I’m looking for something,” he said. “Something specific. I believe Mr. Norcross can help me.”

  The man hummed and returned his attention to his pipe.

  Daud waited. He would wait all day if he had to. He had come this far. His mission was reaching a critical moment and he could feel it.

  “Unusual,” said the man, not looking up.

  “How so?”

  “Mr. Norcross doesn’t sell to just anybody. He trades in certain artifacts, the existence of which need to be, shall we say, kept away from certain official noses. As such, his business needs to be discreet. He only sells to invited tenders.” The man turned to Daud and looked him up and down again. “And you are not invited.”

  Daud wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him. But he resisted the urge.

  “I understood that Norcross and I have a mutual acquaintance in Dunwall. I’m here with their introduction. That should be plenty for him.”

  The other man smiled. “Ah yes, the lovely young Jack. A little out of her depth. Bad business, all that.” He waved with the pipe. “News travels fast. Some news travels faster than others.”

  “Do I get to meet Norcross or not?”

  The agent opened his mouth to speak, but then there was movement by their table as the mass of bodies in the pub rearranged themselves to accommodate a trio of newcomers.

  “Coin for heads, sirs? Coin for fish heads and blood, sirs?”

  Daud turned in his chair as the group reached their table. They were an older man with a long greasy gray beard, a younger man, clean-shaven, and a woman of about the same age, her face smeared with greenish muck. He recognized them at once—the vagrants who had watched him enter the Empire’s End. If their position outside the pub was a regular one, then they knew Daud was a newcomer—perhaps one worth trying their luck on.

  Daud frowned and glanced back at the agent, who waved his pipe.

  “Fish heads and blood are considered a delicacy by these… types, I believe,” he said. “The bosses around here know it. So, unlike the waste they toss into the street, they have the gall to actually charge these poor unfortunates for it.”

  The agent’s free hand dived back into his cloak, and he appeared to be struggling to extract a purse when the barman pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Hey, clear off, the lot of you! I’ll have no begging in here!”

  The trio ducked as the barman appeared ready to strike them, and the crowd parted to let them escape to the door. The barman looked at Daud and the agent, sniffed loudly, then turned away with a scowl.

  Norcross’s agent hadn’t seemed to notice; by the time he stopped fussing with his purse and looked up, the beggars and barman alike had gone. He gripped the end of his pipe between his teeth.

  “Oh, well, nevermi—”

  Daud grabbed the man’s pipe by the bowl and yanked it out of his mouth.

  The agent spluttered, his hand moving to his mouth. “Well, there’s really no need for that—”

  “Listen to me,” said Daud, leaning into the man’s face. The agent coughed and cleared his throat, his eyes wide. “I don’t care who you are, and I don’t care what you do, but I’m tired of playing games and I’ve spent a lot of time and effort getting here. I need to speak to Norcross. I was led to believe you could arrange this, but if you can’t, I need you to tell me, right now.”

  The agent held his hands up. “All right, all right!” The man glanced around the pub, smiling to the other patrons in case anyone had noticed the altercation. Daud was past caring now. “Your… insistence… is noted.”

  Daud ground his teeth. “I can do more than just insist,” he growled.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure of it.” The man paused. “Very well. You want to see Norcross?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Now?”

  Daud nodded, baring his teeth.

  The pipe-smoker cleared his throat, and reached over to the wall, where he had leaned a silver-topped walking cane. “Very well.”

  “Better,” said Daud. He stood and gestured toward the exit. “After you.”

  The agent motioned in the other direction with the head of his cane. “No, we can go out the back. I have transport waiting.” Then he turned and began to weave his way through the crowd.

  Daud followed in his wake.

  * * *

  With the burly barman’s apparent permission, the agent led Daud out through the back of the pub, the pair emerging into one of the alleyways that crisscrossed between the main streets. The cobbles, already slick with fishy runoff, undulated up and down; together, this made for a treacherous path underfoot. The sunlight was fading fast, throwing the alley into a darkness illuminated only by a lit window high on the rear of the Empire’s End. Daud couldn’t see anybody about, and the only sound was the dull roar of the crowd in the tavern.

  “Follow me,” said the agent. He turned on his heel and strode off up the alley, away from the main street. Daud followed a few paces behind, keeping his senses alert to his surroundings. He frowned, a nagging thought bothering him. He looked over his shoulder. The trio of vagrants had not returned to their spot at the entrance to the pub.

  Suddenly he came to a halt. Ahead, the alley was intersected by two others. Norcross’s agent walked through the intersection, then, apparently realizing Daud was not with him, stopped and turned around.

  “Do you want to meet Norcross or not?” he asked.

  That was when they appeared. Two of the vagrants—the younger man and woman—slid out of the alleyways on either side, a gun in each hand now trained on Daud and the agent.

  The agent looked around, and his eyes widened as he looked past Daud, back down toward the main street.

  Daud turned. The third of the vagrants was walking toward them, gun held aloft. He stopped and cocked back the hammer with his thumb.

  “Coin
for fish heads and blood, sirs?”

  13

  PORTERFELL, GRISTOL

  25th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “There is little to be said of the notion of strength, because strength is meaningless if you have cunning on your side. Evasion and mystery are your greatest weapons, for one hundred men confused are as one hundred chickens with no heads. Attack when they are unprepared, appear when you are not expected, and if the enemy cannot fathom your tactic, then you have won before the first strike is ever made.”

  —A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise, author unknown

  Norcross’s agent gasped and the clay pipe slipped from his teeth and dropped to the cobbles, where it shattered. Daud turned back to the old vagrant—although he now knew he was anything but a beggar. He also wasn’t old; the gray in his beard was real enough, but his bearing was now considerably improved from the hobbling posture he had assumed in the pub.

  Something wasn’t right. Daud glanced at the gun. “Interesting weapon for a simple mugging.”

  The vagrant grinned. “That so?”

  Daud pointed at the gun with a gloved hand. The vagrant took a step back, the pistol rising in his hand.

  “It’s well maintained,” said Daud. “Recently cleaned and oiled. Replacement strike pin. Your gun is used frequently, but looked after. Almost like it was your job.”

  The vagrant’s face twitched. Daud glanced over his shoulder at the two others. The young man had his firing piece aimed at Daud, while his companion stood to one side, her gun pointed at Norcross’s agent, but her eyes flicked periodically over toward the trio’s leader.

  “I don’t know how much coin you collect for fish heads and blood,” said Daud, “but unless you know a black marketeer with some very good connections, you wouldn’t be able to get hold of weapons such as those, even if you could afford them.” Daud looked at the agent. “Associates of yours? Given a signal to lie in wait in a dark alley for you to lead your marks in, where they are robbed and murdered before Norcross even knows they’re in town?” Daud nodded. “Seems like a good setup.”

  The agent’s jaw went up and down a few times before he found the breath to speak. “What in all the Isles are you talking about?”

  Daud gestured back at the leader of the gang. “The guns. They’re government issue—military. Well beyond the means of the average backstreet cutthroat. Which means they are not just opportunistic criminals. They’re mercenaries and they have an employer. You, for instance.”

  The leader snarled. “You know your problem?”

  Daud glanced at the man. “Enlighten me.”

  “You talk too much.”

  “What is going on?” asked Norcross’s agent. “Identify yourselves. I demand it!”

  The leader scowled and waved his gun at Daud. “You, we need.” Then he waved the gun at the agent. “Him, we don’t.” He flicked his wrist, indicating to his companions. “Throw his body into the harbor when you’re finished.”

  The agent gasped again, and took a step forward before the young man caught him and pushed him back; the agent stumbled, his cane clacking on the cobbles as he fell against the alley wall behind the woman and slid down onto the street.

  Daud hissed between his teeth and turned on the gang leader. He was getting close to his goal and he wasn’t going to let anybody get in the way.

  “You’ve picked the wrong person to mess with,” said Daud. He flexed his hand—he didn’t want to use his powers, not again, but it seemed like the universe was conspiring against him, ever since he had stepped back into the rotten city of Dunwall.

  Maybe it was the Outsider. Maybe that bastard was watching him, working against him, pushing the events of the world to prevent him from achieving his goal.

  But Daud took comfort in that thought, because if it were somehow true, then it meant he was close. The Twin-bladed Knife was near. He knew it.

  The two young bandits glanced at their leader, their pistols still aimed squarely at their targets, but their confidence was diminishing, as their quarry seemed immune to their threats.

  “They told us to bring you back for questioning,” said their leader, baring his teeth. “But they didn’t say in how many pieces.”

  The gun went up again, and as Daud watched, the man’s finger squeezed the trigger.

  It was now, or never.

  Daud gritted his teeth. The Mark of the Outsider flared, enveloping his whole hand in an inferno of pain.

  He transversed the gap between himself and the gang leader, appearing behind the man just as he fired. He had been aiming low, trying to cripple Daud rather than mortally wound him, and with the target suddenly gone, the bullet pinged off the cobbles with a bright orange spark and ricocheted up at a shallow angle. The young man cried out and jerked back, blood erupting from his side as the stray round caught him. His companion, to her credit, didn’t even flinch—trained well, thought Daud—but quickly sidestepped to get a clear shot and lifted her gun.

  She was fast, but not fast enough. Even before she could aim, Daud grabbed the leader around the neck with one arm, and, bracing his legs, he leaned back, lifting his opponent clean off the street while reaching around the other side and yanking the man’s gun arm down. The leader grunted with effort as he swung an elbow back, catching Daud in the side. Daud didn’t stumble, but the jab did make him shift his weight. Sensing this, the leader used it to his advantage, throwing his weight in reverse, causing Daud to lose his balance on the uneven street and topple backward.

  They were good. Well trained in close-quarters hand-to-hand combat. There was only one thing they hadn’t taken into consideration.

  Daud was better.

  He let himself fall backward; as gravity took over, the leader, still held tightly in front of him, was suddenly weightless. With the pressure relieved, Daud twisted, swinging them both around so the leader’s face crunched into the cobbles. There was an audible crack and the man cried out, rolling to one side. Daud rolled the other way and stood. He was free, but his back was now presented to the other two.

  There was a bang. Daud moved without thinking, his natural instincts guiding him as he pushed off the cobbles, the Mark of the Outsider allowing him to shift to the narrow window ledge of an overlooking building, then, with just enough purchase under the toe of his boot to spin himself around, Daud transversed back down to the alley. He rematerialized behind the young man, who was kneeling on the street with his hands clutching his wounded side. Daud slipped his arm under the young man, gripped the back of his neck and locked his shoulder. He swung the young man’s body in front of his and used him as a shield as his companion fired her gun three times before she even knew what was happening. The young man’s body shuddered as the bullets impacted. Daud felt hot blood spatter his beard and face and the body became a dead weight in his grip.

  He let the man drop, then moved again to the other side of the alley as the last gangster standing swung her gun, searching for her target. Behind her, Daud saw Norcross’s agent crouched against the alley wall, holding something small and shiny to his lips, his cheeks ballooning out as he blew into it. Daud couldn’t hear anything, and neither, apparently, could the gangster. She was now standing in the middle of the alley, her back to the agent, her gun aimed squarely at Daud. Of their leader, there was no sign—he had fled while Daud skirmished with the others.

  Daud braced himself, ready for another move across the Void, cursing the Outsider, silently screaming his rage.

  And not just rage at the Outsider—rage at himself. Because the more he used his powers, and the more he fought, a part of him was actually enjoying the action—the thrill of combat, the pleasant, unexpected feeling of nostalgia, the surprised satisfaction that he could still do it. The years of keeping to himself melted away as his muscle memory was rekindled, his skills as sharp as they ever were.

  But already he was tiring, his concentration slipping as his muscles began to sing out for res
t.

  The woman smirked and raised her gun.

  All he needed was a couple of seconds to recover, and—

  Then the woman’s expression vanished. Her eyes darted first to one side and then the other as a long, thin silver blade appeared at her neck, cutting the skin under her chin enough for a line of blood to appear, the liquid quickly running down her throat. She froze on the spot, her gun arm still raised.

  Keeping the blade in place, Norcross’s agent reached around from where he was positioned behind the woman and pushed her arm down. Then he grabbed her pistol, which she relinquished with only a small struggle.

  The agent met Daud’s eye, and he smiled.

  That was when the others appeared. Six men, three from either end of the alleyway. They were dressed alike, all wearing a uniform of some kind consisting of a long dark-blue coat—the same color as the agent’s cloak—with a high square collar, belted, and the matching trousers tucked into high black boots. They were armed with pistols with strangely short barrels, the stocks molded out of metal to form a hollow, weight-saving frame. As the newcomers reached the group, the barrels of their powerful-looking weapons were all aimed at the female gangster.

  Norcross’s agent lifted his blade away, sliding it back into its scabbard—the black cane. Then he gestured to the uniformed men. “Take her back to the house. We will join you presently.”

  One of the men, apparently in charge—although Daud could see no insignia that identified him as somehow senior to the others—gave the man a nod. “Sir,” he said. “Do you need an escort?”

  The agent looked at Daud. “I rather think I am in safe enough hands.” He walked over to the body of the young man and nudged it with his foot. “Take this one as well. There was a third, but he ran.”

  The officer nodded. “Do you want us to set up a search?”

  The agent shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. On the contrary, it couldn’t be better. Let him report to his superiors.” He gave Daud an odd look. “I will be fascinated to learn of their response.”