The Return of Daud Read online

  The perfect location for a debriefing, with three members of a secret group—including the barman himself, Sal—gathered in the small room to listen to the report given by a man clad in tattered, stinking clothes, his gray beard streaked with blood, one hand gingerly holding a damp cloth against his swelling nose.

  The leader of the trio who had attacked Daud and Norcross—Lowry, a loyal agent of more than ten years’ service—grimaced, and not just because of the pain of his injuries. Sal was seated at the table, his eyes narrow and filled with ice. Lowry watched the publican, his immediate superior, grind his teeth, the muscles working at the back of his jaw.

  Sal was not a person to disappoint. After a few more minutes of quiet seething, the anger almost wafting off him like steam, the publican stood and began to pace, shaking his head, running a hand through his thinning hair, before coming back around to Lowry and slamming both fists down on the table.

  “Three agents,” said Sal. “Three agents against a man who dismantled a clockwork soldier with his bare hands. Three agents against a man who carries the Outsider’s Mark, who wields powers unlike anyone else in the—”

  “Oh, how you provincials so love your histrionics.”

  Sal’s lips twisted into a snarl as he turned toward the interruption. The other two members of their secret circle stood by the window, the immaculately dressed couple sharing a thick cigar taken from behind the bar as they viewed the proceedings with almost palpable disdain. The husband-and-wife pair had been at the pub for two days now and it was two days too many. That they weren’t agents themselves wasn’t Sal’s concern. What was a concern was how they still thought they could boss him around.

  Sal hissed. Mr. and Mrs. Devlin weren’t worth the effort, not now—and besides, they had brought all the information they needed for the operation. An operation now in tatters because of Lowry’s failure. He turned back to face the man.

  “I certainly counted on the fact that you would follow your orders, not rely on… wait, what did you call it?”

  Lowry gulped, unsure of the correct response. He glanced at the Devlins, but they seemed more preoccupied with blowing smoke rings.

  “Ah… initiative,” said Lowry. “Sir.”

  Sal grinned. “Oh yes, initiative.” His smile vanished as he stepped closer to Lowry, close enough for their noses to almost touch. Lowry dropped his hand holding the cloth and leaned back to try and give himself some room.

  “There were only two of them—”

  Sal didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “We took an oath, Lowry. Remember that?”

  Lowry grimaced again. “To protect but not to serve whomsoever occupies the Imperial Throne at Dunwall,” he said. “To defend against the scourge both from within and without, to safeguard the legacy of the Throne in perpetuity, whatever may be.”

  “Whatever may be, Lowry, whatever that may be.” Sal prodded the man in the chest with his finger. “This is on you. The deaths of two agents is on you. And you know what? You’re going to have to tell Wyman yourself.”

  From the window came a quiet chuckle from the odd couple. Sal glanced over at them. By all the Isles, he really didn’t like them. They were strange. Creepy. Arrogant. Everything was beneath them. Even the failure of their mission.

  Then again, what did they care? They weren’t members of the League. They were freelancers—mercenaries. Why Wyman had decided to employ them rather than the quite capable agents of Morley, Sal didn’t rightly know.

  Then again, one of these quite capable agents—Lowry—had just shown himself to be lazy and overconfident, with terrible results. Of course, Sal knew the reason for Lowry’s slip, but that didn’t excuse him. Even as he regarded the agent, Sal could almost see the words forming on Lowry’s lips.

  “But, Sal, listen,” said Lowry, his voice nearly a whisper. “Magic isn’t real. It can’t be real.” His eyes were wide, like he was struggling to understand what he had seen in the alleyway—a quarry who had possessed remarkable, impossible abilities.

  Abilities that Lowry, until now, hadn’t thought were possible. Sal knew the man didn’t believe in magic, didn’t believe the briefing that the Devlins had given them, didn’t believe that the Knife of Dunwall was anything other than a legend, an exaggerated fantasy of years past. But those beliefs had gotten one agent killed, and the other carted off by that monster, Norcross.

  Sal shook his head and sat down at the table. Not for the first time, he wondered what the League was for, what the point of it—of any of it—was. Because the very thing the League supposedly existed to prevent had happened: the Duke of Serkonos had launched his coup, overthrowing the Empress—an empress the League was pledged to protect. The League had been blindsided, the coup seemingly arising from nowhere. And with the League’s head, Wyman, in Morley—and, Sal thought, as yet unaware of the calamity that had befallen their beloved Emily—it was left to Sal to follow Wyman’s last set of orders, issued before the coup had taken place.

  The League of Protectors’ purpose was to protect the Imperial Throne. Before the coup, there was only one obvious threat, one fueled by persistent rumors of his return: Daud. Daud was back, and he was a threat. One that had to be eliminated at all costs. But was Daud really a priority now? Shouldn’t the coup take precedence? But Sal knew better than to question orders, whatever his own uncertainties. If Daud was still alive, having disappeared fifteen years ago, then yes, perhaps he did represent a threat. On the other hand, the fact that he had murdered Emily’s mother, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, had perhaps made the matter a little more personal for Wyman.

  Sal sighed. Over by the window, the Devlins smoked. Mr. Devlin leaned in and whispered something into his wife’s ear, and she threw back her head and laughed. Perhaps Sal could understand why the Devlins had been brought in. He didn’t know where Wyman had unearthed them from, but they were good, there was no doubt about it. They had not only confirmed Daud’s survival, they had found him and tracked him across the Isles, their remarkable skills providing the League with solid, actionable intelligence.

  Intelligence the League had just squandered. They knew Daud would be coming to Porterfell to meet with Norcross—the collector who was known to pose as his own agent, meeting clients in the Empire’s End, where he could vet them anonymously.

  And like the intelligence that had told them that, just as the legends had said, Daud was more than just a killer—more than even a man. He possessed magical powers— witnessed by the Devlins first-hand—that would make him a formidable foe for an army, let alone a trio of agents, no matter how well-trained and equipped with small arms supplied—covertly—by the constabulary.

  Intelligence that Lowry had failed to act on, risking everything.

  Sal felt anger begin to boil inside him again. What had Lowry been thinking, sending in his own team like that? To confront Daud and Norcross without backup? There were agents all over Porterfell, just waiting for orders. Maybe it was Sal’s fault. He should have taken more direct command.

  Mrs. Devlin walked over and stood behind Sal, her long, elegant fingers trailing over his shoulder.

  “From the ashes of failure rises opportunity, my dear man. We can either sit here and argue until breakfast, or we can formulate our next course of action. You want Daud dead. At your word, Mr. Devlin and I are happy to oblige.” She took a long draw on the cigar, then walked back to the window and handed it to her husband with an elaborate swish of her arm.

  Lowry’s eyes flicked between the Devlins and Sal, now merely a spectator.

  “Very well,” Sal said. “What do you propose?”

  The Devlins exchanged a glance, then Mr. Devlin looked down his nose not at Sal, but at Lowry.

  “Norcross has Daud?”

  “He does,” said Lowry. “He’s taken him to his castle.”

  “Urgh!” Mrs. Devlin gave a theatrical shiver. “That ridiculous folly of his.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Devlin. “Ghastly.”

  “Absolutely ghastly, my dear. T
he sheer arrogance of that man.”

  Mr. Devlin made a face. “Sheer arrogance, my dear.”

  “If you’ve quite finished?” Sal frowned at the pair.

  Mrs. Devlin turned her smile on. “The solution is simple. The Norcross estate is heavily guarded, and the journey there interminable.”

  “I asked you what you were proposing to do,” said Sal.

  “Why, wait, of course,” said Mrs. Devlin. “Daud will either come back here or travel to Potterstead. These are the only two ports within easy distance of Morgengaard Castle. Get as many agents as you have here and in Potterstead and have the moorland roads watched. And even if we are wrong—and we are not—and he tries south for Dunwall, or perhaps even north to Poolwick, we shall still see him and we can adjust our plan. He will be back in our sights soon, don’t worry.”

  “And then what?” asked Sal.

  “Oh, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Devlin. “Have a little faith. Mr. Devlin and I have never failed a contract.” Her smile tightened.

  The publican sighed. The sooner he was back out on the streets, organizing the agents—out of this bloody room and away from the Devlins—the better.

  16

  THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL

  26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “Know this: in pain, there is truth. In pain, all barriers fall, all masks are cast asunder. In pain, we are naked, each of us. Our very being exposed, our very minds open for anyone to read. The ability of pain to equalize all men cannot be overstated.

  Pain, then, is a tool. But it is not an iron hammer or a steel saw. It is a fine brush, feather-light, to be wielded not by a laborer but by an artist.

  In war, we may be warriors, but we must be artists also.”

  —A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise, author unknown

  Norcross yawned, and pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was late. No, it was early. Replacing the watch, he arched his back. Not time to retire yet. Far from it.

  Things were just starting to get interesting.

  He leaned back against the stone wall and folded his arms as, in front of him, the blue-jacketed guard grabbed the prisoner’s blood-matted hair and yanked her head back. The female bandit from Porterfell was chained to the wall by both wrists, stripped to her underclothes to allow the interrogator access to her bare skin, which bled from the dozens of straight cuts. She hadn’t spoken—or screamed, for that matter—in quite a while, and as Norcross watched he wondered if the interrogator had gone a little too far. But a moment later, the woman opened her eyes and took in a great gulp of air.

  The interrogator turned to his boss, long razor in his free hand, the front of his blue coat splattered with dark stains. Norcross nodded, and the interrogator turned back to the prisoner, sizing her up as he prepared to make another cut. He was an artist, Norcross could see that. It was always enjoyable to watch someone who really loved their work, and this man really was a master. Norcross got the same thrill as when he watched a sculptor at work. And here, in a bare stone room under Morgengaard Castle, the interrogator was shaping his own work of art, not out of stone, but out of flesh.

  The interrogator cut with mathematical precision. The woman moaned, her head rolling against the stone. She was disappointingly quiet. But, still, that was to be expected. She wasn’t going to last much longer, despite the skills of the interrogator.

  Norcross scratched his chin. As much as he was enjoying the performance, perhaps it was time to actually ask some questions, even though it would mean interrupting proceedings.

  Such is life.

  The interrogator took a step back, looking down the edge of his razor as he planned his next cut, but Norcross held up a hand and, at the man’s quizzical expression, gave a slight shake of the head. The interrogator gave a small bow and moved back, cleaning his blade with a cloth.

  Norcross stepped up to the woman as she sagged in the chains, her feet dragging on the floor. He glanced down, taking care not to step in too much blood, then folded his arms and leaned over the woman. Her eyes were open and for a moment they settled on his, but her gaze was clouded, her pupils without focus.

  No matter. She didn’t have to see him.

  “Perhaps now you will be a little more cooperative,” said Norcross. “So we’ll try again. What is his name?”

  The woman stared at him. Her lips moved, her jaw worked, but nothing emerged from her throat but a croaky hiss.

  Norcross tutted. “Now, you can do better than that, surely? All I want to know is who he is. Well, actually, that’s not quite true. I also want to know why he is here and what your interest in him is, not to mention the small matter of who you are and who you work for, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can start with a name, and maybe move on from there, hmm?”

  “I…”

  Norcross turned to the interrogator. “She can speak, can’t she?”

  The interrogator shrugged. “For now, yes.”

  “Hmm,” said Norcross, turning back to the prisoner. “Let’s try that again, shall we? What. Is. His. Name?”

  “Daaa… Daaa…”

  Norcross laughed. “Oh, you really do need to try harder. You see, I know that this man is… special, let’s put it that way. He carries the Mark of the Outsider. Now, I suspect you know what that means as much as I do. We are not like the ignorant masses who so boldly deny the existence of magic even as they feverishly pray every night that the Abbey of the Everyman will deliver them from evil. You and I know that evil is real, and it walks among us, the symbol of heresy burned into its very flesh, don’t we?”

  Norcross snarled and grabbed the woman’s face, squeezing her cheeks between thumb and fingers. “So, let’s make a deal. You tell me his name, and I let Alonso here put you out of your misery. What do you say?”

  The woman’s lips moved. Norcross released his hold, and her head fell against her chest. Then he leaned in, turning his ear toward her mouth as she whispered.

  “Daaa… Daaa…”

  “Come along. Once more, with conviction, if you please.”

  “Daa… Daud. His… name… his name… is… Daud.”

  Norcross straightened up and clapped his hands. “Excellent! Now then…”

  The interrogator stepped forward, still cleaning his razor with the cloth. The man looked over the prisoner’s body, then pushed her head with his finger. The woman’s eyes were open, but they were glazed. The interrogator sighed, then flicked his razor across her cheek. Blood welled immediately, but there was no movement or sound from the prisoner.

  The interrogator stepped back and shook his head at Norcross. “Too late, I’m afraid. She didn’t last as long as I thought she would.”

  Norcross frowned, his hands laced in front of him. “A pity. We are cheated of our entertainment.” He paused and pursed his lips. “‘Daud’. Unusual name.”

  “There’s only one person I know who went by that name, sir.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  The interrogator folded his arms. “When I worked in Dunwall, for the City Watch. Oh, fifteen years ago now. No, maybe more. There was a gang, they used to dress up like whalers—you know, masks and everything. They weren’t like the other street gangs. They were mercenaries—assassins. If you had the coin, their services were yours.”

  “Interesting. This Daud was one of them?”

  “Oh, no, more than that, sir. Daud was their leader. We had a name for him—the Knife of Dunwall. Cold and ruthless, he was. A master of his craft, too. Must say, I admired that.”

  “But of course,” said Norcross. “There is much to admire in the work of others.” He gestured to the prisoner.

  The interrogator smiled and gave a bow. “I believe there is an account of Daud and the Whalers held in your library—among the Overseer field reports, from the cache of Abbey documents I brought with me.”

  “Ah, excellent.” Norcross clapped his hands. “The Knife of D
unwall, eh? I knew our friend had a story. The Dunwall City Watch was right to think him special.”

  “This Mark you mentioned?”

  Norcross lifted his left hand. “Branded on his flesh, the symbol of the Outsider, signifying a connection to the Void.”

  The interrogator nodded. “If your guest really is the Knife of Dunwall, he would make an excellent addition to the collection.”

  “What a wonderful suggestion.”

  The interrogator gestured to the body chained to the wall. “What about her?”

  Norcross reached forward and lifted the woman’s head by her hair. Norcross grimaced as he saw white foam begin to bubble on the woman’s lips. He let the head fall, then he stood back and carefully extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping his hands with meticulous care. Then he looked down, noticing he had her blood on his jacket.

  “Gah! I shall have to get changed.”

  “The girl, sir?”

  “Take her to the preparation room. Once she has been processed she can go up in gallery ten, with her erstwhile colleague. I’ll compose a display card for them in the morning.” Norcross gave the interrogator a small bow. “With full credit to the work of the artist, of course.”

  “Most kind, sir.”

  There was a knock on the torture chamber’s door, then it opened and a guard ran in.

  “Sir!”

  Norcross turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Your guest, sir. He has left his room.”

  “Impatient sort of fellow, isn’t he?”

  “Orders, sir? Do you want us to apprehend him?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I know exactly where he is going. I will meet him personally.”

  “Is that wise, sir?” asked the interrogator. “Daud is a dangerous man.”

  “I don’t think our guest is here for a fight, but your point is noted.” Norcross turned to the guard. “Have him followed, but at a distance. I want you ready to assist me, should I call for it.”

  “Sir.”

  “In the meantime, take another guard and go to the Whitecliff gallery.”