The Return of Daud Read online

The officer began directing his men. Two of them kept a firm hold on the female prisoner, while two others picked up the body of the young man before they all headed down the alleyway.

  Daud watched them, confused. Then he shook his head and stepped up to the agent.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but you said you would take me to meet Norcross. Whatever this little show was all about, I intend to hold you to that promise.”

  The agent adjusted his hat, which had managed to stay in place throughout the fight. Then he lifted his monocle again from beneath his cloak and looked at Daud through it. His magnified eye dropped to Daud’s left hand, his gaze holding there for a few seconds.

  Then he turned away, dropping the monocle on its chain.

  “Follow me.”

  Daud reached forward and grabbed the man’s shoulder. He pulled him around and then twisted his fingers in the man’s cloak below the neck, pulling his face up to his.

  “Take me to Maximilian Norcross, now.”

  The agent just laughed, then coughed as Daud’s grip threatened to choke him.

  “But my dear fellow,” he said, “I am Maximilian Norcross. Now, do you want to do business, or not?”

  14

  THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL

  25th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “Known for its rolling green hills and foggy meadows, Gristol is the largest of the Isles and is home to half the population of the known world. While most are simple people living in rural areas where sheep, blood oxen and gazelle are raised for their hides and meat, there are also five major cities spread out across the nation.”

  —THE ISLE OF GRISTOL

  Excerpt from a volume on the geography and culture of Gristol

  They traveled by electric road coach; Daud had heard of such vehicles, but had never seen one, let alone traveled in one. The austere, angular vehicle was a cross between a horse-drawn coach and a rail carriage, with large, wide wheels and high suspension, making it look suited to rough terrain.

  Norcross hadn’t specified their destination, but he’d told his men to take the female captive ahead of them to “the house,” so Daud assumed they were going to the collector’s residence. But, to Daud’s surprise, the journey took the best part of three hours, the coach first piloted through the narrow and winding streets of Porterfell before setting off along the rutted track that passed for an open country road in rural Gristol as they began to wind their way up into the shallow rise of the hills that bordered the town. As they traveled, Daud’s gaze remained fixed on the view outside the window to his left, because if he could at least pick out some landmarks, he might have a fair idea of which direction they were going in—and how he might get back to Porterfell alone, if he had to. He abandoned that plan as soon as they left the town, the rough—if regular—purr as the coach’s wide tires glided over Porterfell’s cobbled streets replaced by an altogether louder rattle as the vehicle’s suspension began to compensate for the rough country terrain. At the summit of a hill, Daud could see nothing but moonlit moorland, the flat, virtually featureless landscape stretching to the horizon, covered in almost uniform scrubby vegetation. After several miles of travel along the even, straight road, the landscape began to change again, the moorland now rising and falling as the coach began to weave up and down a series of valleys that grew increasingly steep the farther they went.

  Norcross sat facing Daud, his back to the direction of travel. He didn’t speak for the whole journey, and Daud, in no mood for conversation, made no attempt to break the silence. Occasionally Norcross yawned and twice as they rumbled along the road, Norcross took his monocle out and stared at Daud through it, lips pursed, his magnified eye moving up and down.

  Daud ignored him.

  Eventually Norcross leaned forward, looked out the window again, and sat back with a nod. “Nearly there,” he said.

  Daud leaned forward to get a better look outside, but by now the moon had set and the moorland view was reduced to nothing but a foggy gray halo stretching a few yards from the coach’s side lamps.

  Then they began to crisscross up another valley hillside, doing nearly a complete loop. Norcross pointed out the window. Daud once again turned for a look, and this time there was something to see.

  Norcross’s residence wasn’t just a house, it was a castle, planted against the steep side of the valley. The edifice consisted of one fat, round high tower, capped with battlements, which loomed over the box-like bulk of the main structure, the castellated walls interrupted at intervals by small towers with pointed turrets. As the coach negotiated the curve of the road, Daud could see that same road continued until it crossed a bridge spanning the gap at the narrowest point of the valley, leading directly to the main castle gates, complete with portcullis and drawbridge.

  The entire building was lit from within, every window a beacon shining from the sole sign of civilization in who knew how many miles of open countryside.

  Norcross sat back in his seat, his hands folded on his lap. “Impressed?”

  Daud tore his gaze from the view. “A house is a house.”

  Norcross barked a laugh and leaned forward, slapping Daud on the knee. “Not just any house, my friend,” he said. “This is Morgengaard Castle!”

  Daud glanced back at the view. “That supposed to mean something?”

  “Mean something? Mean something?” Norcross slumped back in his seat. “Oh, I forget, you’re from the south, aren’t you?” Norcross’s nose crinkled in distaste. “Karnaca, perhaps? Serkonos, certainly. Well, I suppose the history of the Empire of the Isles was not a particular strong point of your… education.”

  Daud said nothing. Norcross frowned, clearly annoyed by the apparent lack of interest and cleared his throat before continuing.

  “Yes, well. Morgengaard Castle, I would have you know, is the historical seat of power of the old kings of Gristol, before the unification of the empire after the War of the Four Crowns,” said Norcross. “At the conclusion of that conflict, the last king of Gristol, Finlay Morgengaard the Sixth, had himself crowned as the first Emperor of the Isles and became Finlay Morgengaard the First. That was in the year 1626.”

  Daud grunted and looked out the window as Norcross twittered on about the Morgengaard dynasty, how the first emperor made Dunwall his capital and established a parliament there the same year he was crowned, abandoning his ancestral home. Norcross seemed to know his history, and as Daud listened he wondered how much of that history the Outsider had a hand in.

  The electric coach had reached the bridge linking the road to the castle. Leaning forward, Daud looked up at the large building and frowned.

  “Looks almost new.”

  Norcross grinned. “Remarkable, isn’t it? It was a ruin when I found it, much farther north, in point of fact, past even Poolwick, near a place called Gracht. I don’t suppose you have heard of that, either?”

  “I don’t suppose I have.”

  Norcross’s grin vanished. “Well, I found it. It took years of research, of course. When old Finlay left for Dunwall he let his ancestral pile fall into ruin, and it was soon forgotten. Do you know, there aren’t many interested in Gristol’s pre-imperial period? It’s almost as though the world didn’t exist before the War of the Four Crowns. It’s a travesty.” Norcross sighed and sank back into his seat.

  “So what, you built a replica here?”

  Norcross laughed. “You misunderstand. This is Morgengaard Castle. I found it, verified it, claimed it, and moved it. Brick by brick, stone by stone, the most important historic building in Gristol’s history was relocated, right here. Rebuilt, reconstructed, repaired. Oh, and modernized, of course. The home of my personal collection. Ten years of work, but well worth it, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Daud wasn’t quite sure what it was he had agreed to, except to accompany a very strange man back to his house. He wondered if he’d even met the real collector yet—oh, he didn’t doubt that the man sitting opposite
him in the coach was Maximilian Norcross, but everything leading up to this point had been strange. The way he had played the part of his own agent in the pub in Porterfell, the way he had pretended to be a cowardly citizen being attacked in the alleyway before becoming the seasoned aristocratic soldier, wielding his swordstick with skill, and summoning guards from some kind of private army. And now, Norcross the historian, the public benefactor, the savior of Gristol’s forgotten past.

  An eccentric collector? A businessman entertaining a potentially profitable client?

  Or was he something else?

  Daud didn’t know if he was worrying too much, or not enough. He decided on the former. All that mattered was the mission. And if Norcross had the Twin-bladed Knife inside his private kingdom, then all he had to do was take it.

  Which meant he had to start making a plan. As the coach drove through the castle’s arched gatehouse and into the inner courtyard, Daud began by making a tally of Norcross’s men. There had been six of them in the alleyway in Porterfell, plus the two driving their electric carriage.

  Eight.

  Eight was easy.

  The coach stopped, the sudden absence of the electric motor’s whine after two hours of travel leaving a dull ringing in Daud’s ears. A moment later, the door to the coach’s passenger compartment was opened from the outside. Norcross gestured to him.

  “Please, after you.”

  Daud stepped down into the courtyard and looked around. Norcross’s castle was indeed huge, the high walls now enclosing them on all sides, and he could see more uniformed men moving within. Of course, a place this size, Norcross would have a large staff, although not all of them would be armed guards like the men in the long blue coats. Glancing around, Daud saw several people inside, but only one dressed like the coach attendants who stood waiting for their master’s instruction.

  Nine.

  Parked ahead of them was another coach, the passenger compartment open, the engine cover steaming in the night air—the carriage that had brought Norcross’s six bodyguards, and the female bandit, as well as the body of her companion. Daud wasn’t sure what Norcross was going to do with her, and he wasn’t going to ask. It was none of his business.

  As Daud stood in the courtyard, he felt the Mark of the Outsider flare. He hissed between his teeth, and lifted his hand, flexing his fingers. The burning sensation faded.

  Then he looked up, and saw Norcross was looking at him through his monocle again.

  Norcross nodded, then dropped the eyepiece.

  “Follow me. I have a lot to show you.”

  * * *

  The interior of the castle was as impressive as the exterior, but clearly little of it was original to the time of Finlay Morgengaard. Instead, Daud found himself in a modern mansion, the double-wide corridors lit with gently humming electric lighting, the floors laid with plush red carpet, making their footfalls silent as Norcross led Daud on a tour of his collection.

  And it was, Daud had to admit, impressive. Morgengaard Castle was huge, and Norcross had managed to fill just about every available space with objects, art, and treasure. The collector led Daud through five long galleries of arms and armor, explaining how his collection included artifacts from every part of the Empire. As they walked, Daud looked over strange, twisted spears and highly decorated shields from far-flung islands, articulated suits of armor from Morley and Gristol, heavy, all-weather gear fit for the tundra of Tyvia, lightweight boiled-leather armor from Karnaca. The armory galleries were arranged chronologically, and as they approached the end, Daud was surprised to see modern equipment on display, with complete uniforms from each of the main military units of the Isles from every country in the Empire on display—the Dunwall City Watch, the Grand Serkonan Guard, the Wynnedown Constabulary. There were even Overseer uniforms, complete with silver, gold, and black masks and, Daud noted, among the guns, swords, daggers and batons, a chest-mounted music box. Next to the Overseer cabinets was a full-length, life-size portrait of someone Daud recognized instantly, without needing to read the accompanying plaque: Thaddeus Campbell, the High Overseer who led the Abbey of the Everyman at the time of the Rat Plague. Seeing his stern features awoke memories that Daud would rather had stayed asleep.

  Next came galleries of art, sculpture, gems, and meticulously catalogued cabinets of minerals and rocks. Most impressive were two huge halls with high, vaulted ceilings, from which hung the gigantic, complete skeletons of a whole pod of whales. Daud couldn’t even begin to guess the value of Norcross’s collection, but he doubted whether all the institutions in all of Gristol—no, in all of the Empire itself—could compete with the grandeur and sheer scale of the castle’s contents.

  Norcross chatted away as they walked, apparently happy to continue his commentary even though Daud gave no indication he was listening. What Daud was actually doing was trying to map their progress in his head, while counting the guards. After an hour he was surprised that his tally had only reached eighteen. Of course, the castle itself was its own protection—Norcross had spent ten years and who knew how much money relocating and rebuilding it to his own particular specifications, and located as it was in the moorland valley miles away from the nearest settlement, it presented a formidable challenge to any would-be thief.

  Another half hour, another five rooms of treasure, and Daud’s tally reached twenty-one. It was a lot, but he didn’t think they would give him any particular trouble, especially considering how spread out they were. One thing bothered him, however. The collection was impressive—spectacular, even. But so far, everything he saw was… not ordinary, certainly, but… normal. Nothing arcane. Nothing heretical.

  Daud told himself to be patient. He was close. Norcross was a strange man, clearly proud of his life’s work. He was showing off his collection to a prospective buyer—someone he didn’t know, and didn’t trust. It made sense to be cautious before introducing the darker side of his collection.

  At least, that’s what Daud told himself.

  Then they came to another double-wide corridor, this one ending in a broad staircase that swept up and then began to spiral. There was, bizarrely, a red velvet rope strung from bannister to wall. Daud glanced around, judging them to be at the base of the castle’s main tower.

  Norcross looked over his shoulder at his guest. “Given the manner of our introduction, I am to understand that you are a collector of the unusual,” he said.

  Daud nodded. “I’m looking for an artifact. A knife, bronze with twinned blades. I believe it was in Dunwall, and that it came into your possession recently. If this is the case, I hope we can come to some arrangement.”

  The collector gave a small, if non-committal, nod. “My, my, you are well informed.” He gestured to the stairwell, then tapped his nose with a finger. “This is my, ah, private collection, shall we say.”

  Daud had been right. The heretical artifacts that Norcross was apparently famous for collecting were indeed held separately—in the tower.

  Norcross reached down and unhooked one end of the rope from the silver loop in the wall when another blue-coated guard—twenty-two—appeared from a connecting door. Norcross paused as the guard whispered something into his ear, before retreating to a polite distance. The collector replaced the silver hook of the rope back in its loop.

  “Something wrong?” asked Daud.

  Norcross spun on his heel, his index finger wagging in the air. “Why would anything be wrong?”

  Daud gestured to the stairs. “Shall we get to business? I’ve come a long way for this, and I would hate to leave disappointed.”

  Norcross pursed his lips. “Indeed,” he said, “but if you will excuse me, there is a certain matter that requires my attention.” He turned and looked at an ornate grandfather clock which stood against the far wall. He jumped and clutched his chest, as though the object had given him a fright.

  “Oh, my! The time, it flies!” He turned back to Daud. “We can continue in the morning. You will want to rest. I will have cha
mbers prepared for you.”

  He turned and snapped his fingers at the guard. The guard nodded, and headed back down the corridor the two men had just traveled. He stopped at the midway point, and turned around.

  “If you would be so good as to follow me, sir.”

  The collector waved his fingers at Daud, almost as though he was shooing him away.

  Daud took another look at the stairs, then nodded at his host. “I will be waiting,” he said.

  “Oh, indeed, indeed.”

  Daud followed the guard away from the stairs—the stairs that led to Norcross’s private collection of heretical artifacts.

  Heretical artifacts that had to include the Twin-bladed Knife.

  15

  THE EMPIRE’S END PUBLIC HOUSE, PORTERFELL, GRISTOL

  26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “Porterfell, Gristol: A pleasant town founded on fishing, for which the traveler will require two items. First, a map to navigate the labyrinthine streets by; and second, a bandanna of sufficient size to cover the entire nose and mouth, as the reliance on the bounty of the sea is, unfortunately, associated with a rather distinctive and somewhat robust odor. The more adventurous may wish to visit the Empire’s End public house in the heart of the industrial center, where the emphasis is, unusually yet rather appropriately, on a fine selection of local and important tobacco products as well as the regular libations, both enjoyed freely by local workers to help alleviate the constant aroma of their employment. The main bar also houses a collection of royal portraiture; local legend tells that some of the paintings are original works worth a small fortune.”

  —PORTS OF CALL

  Excerpt from a guide to port cities across the Empire of the Isles

  “Three agents? Three? Against Daud? Were you out of your mind?”

  In the early hours the Empire’s End was closed, its patrons long-since turfed out into the smelly street. But the pub was not empty. The back room was a handy meeting spot: private and quiet, particularly when the tavern itself was closed.