The Return of Daud Page 14
“Whitecliff gallery, sir?”
Norcross nodded. “There is something I need you to bring with you.”
17
THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL
26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“The earliest stories tell of a gang-killer without mercy, moving among the shop keepers and City Watch officers of Dunwall like a reaper through wheat. Then a period of silence followed; years we now believe he spent traveling the Isles, studying anatomy and the occult in the great halls of learning and in hidden basements frequented by fellow dabblers in the forbidden arts. Daud is even purported to have spent a winter in the Academy of Natural Philosophy itself. And for a time, before a schism developed, he counted the Brigmore Witches among his allies. All the while, he honed his craft, and it is during this time that we believe he began to consort with the Outsider.”
—RUMORS AND SIGHTINGS: DAUD
Excerpt from an Overseer’s covert field report
Daud moved through the galleries in silence, and while the entire building was well lit, he found plenty of places to hide—behind cabinets, around corners, behind doors. He made good progress, easily avoiding the blue-coated guards as he made his way back to the roped-off staircase that led up to the main tower.
That had to be the place, it had to be. Norcross had called it his “private” collection. He had a reputation for collecting and trading in the arcane and heretical. Daud had seen no such objects on his tour of the galleries. And while he hadn’t explored the entire castle, all signs pointed to the tower as being where the collector locked away his special treasures.
He stepped over the low velvet rope, and crept up the stairs. The steps themselves were stone and thickly carpeted, but as they began to spiral, his forward vision became obscured. Taking no chances, Daud kept to the edge of the staircase, pausing every few steps to listen for any movement before continuing.
So far, so good. This part of the castle seemed to be empty.
The stairs continued up without interruption, the floors only counted by narrow windows that Daud passed on his left—four, five, six, seven, each offering a view of nothing but deep blackness beyond, the desolate moorland lost in the night.
On the eighth turn of the spiral, Daud came out onto a landing. In front of him was an arched double door of shiny black wood, two great silver rings for handles. Daud moved to the door, listening for any signs of life beyond.
The tower was silent.
And the doors unlocked.
Daud stepped through.
The vaulted chamber beyond was large and circular, occupying the entire top level of the castle’s tall tower. The room was well lit—like all the other galleries in Morgengaard Castle—by numerous electric globes hanging from golden chains. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the curved wall of the chamber and stretched from floor to ceiling. And behind the glass—bonecharms and runes and other carvings of ivory and metal, their surfaces crawling with arcane inscriptions. Daud could feel the Mark of the Outsider pulse softly on the back of his hand as he approached the heretical, powerful objects. He couldn’t begin to count the number of artifacts—there were hundreds of charms and runes, each one immaculate, as though they had just been fashioned from fresh whale bone.
He had guessed right. He was in the right place.
But what captured Daud’s attention, what made his breath catch in his throat and his head buzz with excitement, was the object directly ahead, on the other side of the room. There, standing clear of the curved cabinets behind, were two plinths of glossy black stone. On each was an artifact resting on a glass stand, itself an elaborate work of art that would not have looked out of place elsewhere in Norcross’s collection. On the left-hand plinth was a mirror, or at least a part of one; the jagged shard roughly square and about the size of a large dinner plate. It looked like it was made of glass, but the surface was dark, as if smoked. Sitting at an angle in its frame, Daud could only see the reflection of the light globes and the vaulted ceiling above the chamber’s arched doorway.
On the other plinth was a weapon. It was a bronze knife with two parallel blades, each long enough to be more like a short sword than a dagger. The weapon was plain and unadorned, and while its surface was dull and unpolished, the metal of the blades seemed to flash as Daud blinked, reflecting a light that wasn’t in the room but which seemed to be moving, like firelight, like the light of an inferno, trapped in the metal and echoing down the millennia. Daud was drawn in by the light, the blades almost pulling him physically toward them, like the artifact had a gravity all of its own. As he got closer, he heard whispering, far away at the edge of sound—music, or a song, perhaps. A cold feeling began to swim up his arm, radiating from the Mark of the Outsider.
The Twin-bladed Knife. It was real, and it was here.
He took another step toward it, his hand reaching out for the weapon, almost moving of its own accord.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
Daud stopped, rocking on his heels. Then he turned to look over his shoulder. Behind him, Maximilian Norcross was walking through the arched doorway, dressed in a long robe of green silk, a loose-bound folio of papers in one hand.
Norcross joined Daud at the plinth and looked down at the Knife. “It’s almost like you know it, isn’t it? As if it once belonged to you, a relic from another life.”
The blades flashed.
The Knife had power. Purpose. Daud could sense it.
Norcross bent down, his nose an inch from the Knife. “The condition is most remarkable,” he said. “This is easily the most ancient artifact in my entire collection, and yet it looks like it was forged today. Quite a fascinating mystery.” He stood tall. “Legend tells that this is the very knife that was used, four thousand years ago, by a cult to sacrifice what they called the ‘perfect victim,’ giving the life of a street urchin to the power of the Void.”
Norcross turned to Daud. “A young man,” he continued, “who was reborn as the Outsider.”
Daud met the collector’s gaze and held it. The Knife was within reach. He didn’t have time to play games, not now.
He let out a breath. “The Outsider is a legend. A story for dark nights and naughty children.”
Norcross lifted a finger. “Says the man who appears rather desperate to acquire the Knife. Please, I expected better of you. You are talking to the man who owns the greatest collection of heretical artifacts in the entire Empire. You know, as well as I do, that the Outsider is no myth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Norcross cleared his throat and opened the folio of papers. He began to read, tracing the lines with a finger.
“‘New reports emerged of a dusky-skinned assassin, paid by the elite to eliminate their rivals in Dunwall and in the other major cities across the Isles. Those who saw him and lived numbered in the handful, but all of them reported something strange.’”
“What is that?” Daud took a step toward Norcross, reaching out for the folio, but Norcross moved out of the way and began to stroll along the curve of the cabinets as he continued.
“I like this bit—listen. ‘He appeared and vanished like smoke. From a nearby rooftop, he gestured and a noble woman stumbled from her balcony, falling to her doom on the cobblestones below.’”
“I’m not here to listen to bog-spirit tales.”
Norcross still had his nose in the folio. As Daud spoke, he held up his finger again.
“‘Most recently, as this new threat of plague has risen in Dunwall, Daud has been seen leading a gang of men in dark leather, dressed as factory whalers in their vapor masks. They seem loyal beyond comprehension for one so unworthy, leading me to wonder if some of his magic is dedicated to lulling their minds, enslaving them.’” Norcross snapped the folio shut and pressed it against his chest. “So ends the report of a covert operative from the Abbey of the Everyman.” Norcross cocked his head. “And he was talking about you, wasn’t he? Daud, the Knife o
f Dunwall, leader of the Whalers. At one time the most hunted man in the whole Empire. I have an entire gallery of wanted posters collected from nearly every city in the Isles. Of course, that was a long time ago, and I must admit I didn’t recognize you. I like the beard. Suits you.”
Daud shook his head and spread his hands. “All I want is the Knife. I was telling the truth when I said I was a buyer—name your price.”
“And what happens after that?”
“Nothing happens.”
“Nothing? You’re seriously trying to tell me that you’ll take the Knife and leave and nothing will happen?”
Daud shrugged. “You’ll be richer. I’ll be gone. Never to be heard or seen again.”
“And what if the Knife is not for sale?”
“I’m not looking for trouble. Either we reach an agreement or we don’t. Either way, I’m leaving with the Knife.” Daud pointed at the folio. “If you know so much about me, then you’ll know what I’m capable of.”
Norcross bowed to Daud. “I don’t doubt it.” Then he reached inside the fold of his green robe and extracted the monocle again. He held it to his eye, and pointed toward Daud’s clenched fist. “Tell me, the Mark of the Outsider—does it hurt?”
Daud glanced down at his hand, flexing the fingers underneath the leather. “You can see the Mark?”
“Oh, yes,” said Norcross. He lifted the monocle to the lights above, and turned the ivory stem between his fingers. “Another artifact of the arcane and magical. The lens is a ground crystal from the Pandyssian continent. It is possessed of certain properties that are quite remarkable.” He gestured to the cabinets and their contents. “Useful for seeing whether a bonecharm or rune is the real thing or a fake. And, it seems, for seeing the Mark of the Outsider, no matter how you try to hide it.”
Daud frowned at Norcross. His eyes darted from the collector, to the Twin-bladed Knife, and back.
“Ah, yes,” said Norcross. “The Knife. The pride of my collection. You really want it, don’t you?” He stopped his pacing and tapped his chin with a finger. “But what for, I wonder? Something to do with the Outsider.” Norcross began to pace again, his eyes scanning the floor as he thought, ignoring Daud. “He’s an interesting… phenomenon, shall we say? For the last four thousand years, every child in the world has been scared by their mother by tales of this strange being. Belief in him comes and goes, waxes and wanes over the centuries, but never completely fades. Cults rise, shrines are built, superstitions flare. The Abbey of the Everyman call him out as their divine enemy, the Overseers tasked with driving belief in him back into the darkness.”
Daud looked at the Knife. He could hear it—feel it, like it was… singing to him. Music, from beyond time, from beyond the Void.
“Of course,” said Norcross, “there are other stories, other legends, about the Outsider. Some say that, far from being a distant observer, he takes a keen interest in the affairs of the world, and that as ages creep ever onward, he reaches toward us, choosing people, putting his Mark on them, and using them to act out his will.”
Daud almost didn’t hear him, so loud was the song in his head. The blades of the Knife flashed orange and red.
He lifted his hand, the Mark burning.
“The Mark of the Outsider would make a fine addition to my collection,” said Norcross. “As would the infamous Knife of Dunwall himself.”
It was now, or never.
Daud lunged for the plinth.
And then he froze, his hand inches from the weapon’s grip. Every muscle in his body seized as the tower chamber was filled with a harsh, metallic roaring sound, an awful cacophony that Daud could feel pushing all conscious thought from his mind.
He dropped to his knees. He leaned over, his forehead touching the black plinth on which the artifact sat, his curled knuckles pressed hard into his temples as the ancient music soared.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Daud tried to turn his head, but only managed to move his neck a little. He saw the trailing edge of a long green robe and matching green slippers as Norcross stood next to him.
Daud fought to draw breath. He tried to scream but only managed a croak. With a colossal effort he looked up.
The Twin-bladed Knife was there. Within reach. He lifted his hand. It felt like it was made of lead and his head full of cotton wool. He pushed his arm forward. It was like moving through whale oil.
He yelled, louder this time. His throat was on fire, spit flew from his open mouth, but he couldn’t hear himself. All he could hear was the terrible music.
He fell back, the room spinning. The last two things he saw were the guard with the Overseer’s music box strapped to his chest, the barrel-like mechanism on the front of the thing turning as the guard cranked the handle.
And Norcross, in his green robe, laughing, staring down at him with the folio clutched to his chest.
And then everything went black and Daud sank into a blissful and infinite silence.
18
THE PREPARATION ROOM, THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL
26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“Maximilian Norcross is a strange one. A self-made man, there is no record of his arrival in Gristol, although he has at various times claimed to have been born in no fewer than a dozen different cities from Wei-Ghon to Tyvia to Serkonos. Our investigations suggest that he may, in fact, be a native of Morley or northern Gristol, and that certainly Maximilian Norcross is a new identity, one adopted relatively recently.
Whatever his true past is, we have yet to ascertain. It is possible that he is hiding something. It is just as likely he is a supreme fantasist. His collection, by all accounts, is certainly fantastical. How he acquired it—and his wealth—remains the subject of ongoing investigations, in cooperation with our brothers in Wynnedown. However, we have evidence to suggest that he is in possession of a great number of heretical artifacts, although as yet no first-hand reports that his collection actually contains any. Indeed, it is unclear whether Norcross is interested in witchcraft or magic, and so far there is no evidence to suggest he is a student of such black arts, but I end this report with a recommendation that this man be watched carefully.”
—REPORT ON THE ACTIVITIES OF MAXIMILIAN NORCROSS
Excerpt from an Overseer’s covert field report
Daud awoke in a small, brightly lit stone room. The air was damp and smelled sharply of chemicals. He was lying at an angle on a table; when he tried to move, he found he couldn’t, and as his senses finally came back he looked down and saw the metal cuffs that secured his ankles and wrists.
He growled, pulling on the restraints, but this just made him feel dizzy. He slumped back against the table and closed his eyes, waiting for the ringing in his head to subside.
When it didn’t, he forced his head up again, the room rolling slowly in his vision as he tried to focus on the source of the sound.
It was the Overseer’s music box, strapped to the front of, not one of Norcross’s guards, but a wooden mannequin, similar to the ones modelling the collection of arms and armor in the main galleries. Only thing about this one that was different was its right arm. It was metal, and moved smoothly on oiled joints as it turned the music box handle. Fighting against the nauseating effects of the ancient music, Daud looked down, and saw a fat cable running out of the back of the mannequin and down into a port in the wall. The mannequin was automatic, the mechanical arm electric.
Daud lowered his head back to the table. The ancient music—he’d forgotten what it was like. Had it always been this bad? The music not only prevented him from drawing on the power of the Mark of the Outsider, it also drained his energy, both physical and mental, and dulled his senses, leaving his head throbbing.
“Relax, Daud, relax,” said a voice. “You must forgive the noise, but I’m afraid I had to take out a little insurance. You are quite a remarkable specimen and I really don’t want you trying to escape. If I understand it correctly, so long as this t
errible racket persists, you are quite incapable of anything at all, so just lie back and don’t wear yourself out trying. The process you are about to undergo will be taxing enough, even as it kills you. I would recommend you conserve your strength. It will make your death less… traumatic, shall we say.”
Daud opened his eyes and he managed a hard-won lungful of the acrid air.
Norcross moved in front of him, his arms folded across his green silk robe. Behind, Daud now saw there was a blue-coated guard watching while another fussed with a large machine. The room itself had walls of smooth white stone, like the rest of Morgengaard Castle, but there were stainless-steel panels at intervals, on which hung equipment on racks—saws, scalpels, clamps, forceps. Surgical equipment, and lots of it. Hanging on a hook on the wall beside the automatic mannequin was also an old-fashioned speaking tube with a contoured mouthpiece of brass, the kind of device you might find on an old whaling ship for the captain to shout down orders to the engine room.
Daud grimaced and forced his head to turn back to Norcross, the collector still smiling calmly. Daud’s eyes flicked to the machine next to him.
“What are you planning?”
The machine consisted of four large steel cylinders with curved caps topped with complex valves—tanks of some kind, sitting on a wheeled steel trolley, in the base of which a whale oil tank was installed to provide power. A multitude of rubber hoses connected the valves to each other, and to another device at the end of the trolley, closest to the angled steel table to which Daud was held. The device had a smaller tank, and a mechanism with a large off-center wheel, which slowly turned, and a bellows, expanding and contracting, like the machine was breathing. There were six bolted ports on the end, from which came six more rubber hoses—far thinner than the tank hoses, each one ending in a cap, from which protruded a long silver needle.
Three of these hoses were held against the side of the trolley with clips. The other three trailed off to Daud’s left. He turned his head to see where they went, and he felt the heat of anger rise within him as he saw, for the first time, that there was another steel table next to his, also occupied.