The Return of Daud Read online

  He had no idea who they were. He had no interest in finding out. A more urgent issue was the remaining witches—the one with the bundle he hadn’t seen again, but the other, while injured, would now be even more dangerous as her anger took hold. From his high position, Daud watched as the witch darted around the room, then vanished altogether, while the strange pair paused, scanning the office.

  Daud let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Witches, here, in Karnaca? Linked to Delilah Copperspoon, or someone else? Covens and sorcery-cults had existed as long as the Outsider had been around, for thousands of years, their numbers rising and falling, but never fading completely. They were part of a disease spread by that black-eyed bastard.

  But they were a symptom of the sickness, and not the contagion itself. And they were also not his problem.

  The two newcomers weren’t either, although he wondered who they were. They weren’t witches, certainly. Nor were they Grand Guards. Members of the Eyeless? That seemed more likely; their attire was of the highest quality, and some of the gangs Daud knew certainly prided themselves in their appearance, in some instances crafting a mocking approximation of aristocratic fashion.

  But… no, these two were different. They almost seemed like they were aristocrats, apart from the fact that they were armed and they moved with stealth, now splitting up to cover both sides of the office, signaling to each other with hand gestures while they scanned the room.

  They were agents then. Of what, Daud could only begin to guess. Part of Corvo Attano’s retinue of spies? He was the Royal Spymaster as well as Royal Protector. Had he escaped the coup, like Emily? Perhaps these were his agents, investigating the strange occurrences in Karnaca and hunting down the culprits, including witches.

  Including the Eyeless? Did the agents have more information on the gang than the Grand Guard?

  Then Daud saw the injured witch appear behind the man and the woman, who seemed oblivious to her presence.

  No! Daud needed to question them, find out anything they might know about the Eyeless and their hideout.

  And that meant saving their lives.

  Daud stood, counting his own heartbeats until the witch was directly below him, and stepped off the ledge. He transversed without thinking, rematerializing directly on top of the witch. She screamed as he drove his blade into her neck and pulled it to one side, nearly decapitating her. Thick, viscous black blood poured out of the wound, coating his heavy leather gloves. Again, lines of fire streaked along her back and shoulders as the strange marks burned away. Daud grimaced as the stench of rotten, decaying vegetation assailed his senses. He sidestepped, swinging her body in front of him as he saw the two agents spin around and raise their guns.

  Multiple shots rang out and the witch’s body shuddered as the bullets hit. Ammunition spent, Daud dropped the smoking body and moved toward the agents, materializing close enough to grab their gun arms and yank them down. The man yelped in surprise and with his free hand reached for another pistol holstered on his right hip—only for that arm to be suddenly grabbed and pulled away by some unknown force. Daud dived to the other side, dragging the woman with him, as her companion was flung into the air, caught in the thorned tendrils of blood briar. Looking up, Daud saw a figure standing on the left-side stairs behind the desk—the third witch, the blood briars streaming out from her outstretched arms.

  The woman pushed Daud aside and stood, pulling two fresh pistols from inside her jacket. She strode forward, firing at the blood briar that held her companion as she moved, her expression one of icy determination. The tendril exploded, sending wet, rank plant material flying, but no sooner had the bullets torn the putrid flesh than it resealed itself, the shredded fibers re-weaving back into the main structure.

  The witch—the third one, with the bundle? No, this was another—vanished from the stairs and reappeared within striking distance of the woman, who was completely unaware of the danger. Daud pushed himself to his feet and transversed across the space, appearing behind the witch. Sensing his presence, she spun around fast, her claws already slicing the air.

  But he was faster. He ducked and, anticipating her next move, turned and moved just a few yards backward as the witch did the same. She disappeared in a puff of nothing and reappeared right in front of Daud, rematerializing around the blade he held out.

  The witch wailed, staring down at the knife she had impaled herself on. Daud pushed the blade home, lifting the witch off her feet and shoving her back until she hit one of the bookcases that lined the office walls.

  He stared into her eyes, his fingers wrapped tight around the knife’s grip, until they went dull. Then he stepped back, leaving her lifeless body skewered against the wood, the witch’s feet dangling inches from the floor. He staggered, exhausted, the Mark of the Outsider on fire on his hand, his muscles and mind robbed of energy.

  Oh, for a vial of Piero’s Spiritual Remedy.

  He heard a safety catch pull back, and he turned around. The woman’s twin silver guns were both pointed at his face.

  Daud spread his hands. He had no energy to escape, not anymore. He focused on his breathing, began calculating the odds and planning his next move. He couldn’t draw on the Mark of the Outsider for a while, but he could still fight.

  The woman’s face was a dark scowl. And then she reset the safety catch on both guns, and lowered them. She and Daud stared at each other for a moment, then the woman spoke.

  “Daud,” she said, “we’ve been looking for you.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  The woman turned, heading back to the man, who was now lying on the floor, pulling the dead, sticky mess of the blood briar off himself.

  “Because we know you’ve been looking for the Twin-bladed Knife. And we can help you find it.”

  Daud’s breath caught in his throat.

  “But first,” said the woman as she knelt by her companion and looked over her shoulder, “a little help, if you would be so kind?”

  25

  PROTECTORS’ LEAGUE SAFE HOUSE, AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA

  23rd Day, Month of Harvest, 1852

  “And I say to you, brothers, it is here that we make our stand as a righteous force against the growing darkness. It is here that we unite against the spirits of the unknown that would drag us screaming into the night, never to return to our homes, to our families! Together we will serve as a rod to those who would stray from the herd, to the foggy gray wastes of the Outsider. We will burn a bright fire with our virtuous actions so that others will not lose their way. And to those who choose to wander, beyond the walls of our homes, in far places, we will strike at them swiftly before they whisper to their neighbors, filling their hearts with strangeness and doubt.”

  —LITANY ON THE WHITE CLIFF

  Extract from the primary text of the Abbey of the Everyman

  Daud followed the strange couple as they led him across Karnaca, heading west through alleyways and backstreets that even he didn’t know existed. The pair did not appear to be natives of the city, or even of the country, but then Daud knew you didn’t need to be born in a place to learn its secrets. He had known Dunwall better than most of its inhabitants, after all.

  Their destination was a long, low building in the Aventa District, the structure perched on the edge of the mountainous slopes that rose up above the city. Quite what the box-like building was, Daud could only guess—while the area was residential, there were commercial properties here too, and the building to which he was led could have been the offices of a minor shipping company, their profits spent on one of the best views of the harbor before sliding into bankruptcy, because the block was clearly abandoned, like so much of this quarter of the city.

  Abandoned, but not disused. The pair of strangers stopped by the main entrance, the man’s chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath, his arms wrapped around his middle—he had been hurt by the blood briar, and only now was he allowing the pain to show. The woman, meanwhile, extracted a la
rge set of keys and began the lengthy process of unlocking the four steel bars that were placed across the main doors, each with its own, different mechanism. When she was done, she unlocked the door itself, and helped her partner inside. Daud followed.

  The interior was dark, the row of windows looking out to the harbor firmly shuttered. The woman helped the man to a nearby chair, then moved over to the wall and flipped a large lever to turn on the lights.

  Daud looked around, but there was nothing much to see. He was right about it being offices—the main door opened right into the middle of a kind of bullpen, with two rows of desks stretching down a central aisle, which led to a set of enclosed offices at the back. Each desk had a typewriter and a small set of shelves that were still laden with yellowing, decaying paperwork. The desk the male agent was sitting in front of was larger than the others, and as well as a typewriter, had an audiograph machine.

  The woman walked back down the aisle and crouched by her companion. He winced in pain again, but nodded at her before looking up at Daud.

  Daud said nothing. Not yet.

  Apparently satisfied, the woman stood and gave a small bow. “Mrs. Margot Devlin, at your service. The temporarily incapacitated gentleman is my husband, Mr. Miles Devlin.”

  “Delighted, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Devlin with a cough. He began feeling for something in the pockets of his jacket. He paused, winced, and caught his wife’s eye. “Despite the odds, I suspect I will live.”

  Mrs. Devlin’s mouth twitched into a smile. “How very convenient.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Devlin. “I believe there is some axiom or other that tells about how it is more difficult than you imagine to get rid of a problem.” As he spoke, he continued to gingerly search his pockets. He paused, frowning, then shook his head. “Well, needless to say, if I could remember what said axiom actually was, I would at this point insert it into the conversation and we would all laugh heartily, for together we have beaten the odds and live to fight another day, and so on, and so forth.” The man waved a hand in the air, then winced again in pain. A moment later his eyes lit up. “Aha!” He pulled a pouch out from an inside pocket and extracted a tightly rolled black cigarillo with his teeth. Mrs. Devlin lit her husband’s tobacco and the man took a deep drag, then handed it to his wife, who did the same.

  Daud watched the pair. “Time for you to answer my questions,” he said. “What do you know about the Eyeless and the Twin-bladed Knife?”

  Mr. Devlin sighed. “Oh, after all that effort, how positively charmless.”

  Mrs. Devlin put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Ignore Mr. Devlin. He’s always like this when he’s in pain.” She turned and stepped toward Daud. “We have much to discuss. But perhaps that can wait, until I have tended to my husband’s wounds. Suffice to say that we would like your consideration and your time. I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement, if you will hear us out.”

  Daud drew breath to speak again, then bit his tongue, willing himself to be patient. He needed to be cautious, and not let the obsession with his mission cloud his judgement.

  Mrs. Devlin gestured to the back of the room. “Please, this way,” she said, heading toward the offices on the other side of the room. Daud followed her as they went past a series of doors, then through another and down a long passage. It was darker here, the bulbs weaker, their faint orange glow struggling to illuminate the space. The corridor was lined with more doors, each with a square window; most of the doors were open and led to yet more offices, some of which were interconnected to form a rabbit warren typical of such buildings in the city.

  She stopped at one of the closed doors toward the end of the corridor. Here there were no windows, and in the hot, wet air, Daud could see condensation running down the wall paneling in rivulets.

  Mrs. Devlin opened the door and gestured inside. “If you would please wait in here. I must attend to my husband. I shan’t be long, and then we can talk.”

  Daud stepped into the room—another office, but far larger than the others, furnished in not insignificant luxury. There was a huge rug atop the carpet, the walls were lined with paintings, all of which showed different men in the same kind of pose, each standing beside a tall globe, the real version of which stood over on the other side of the room, next to a huge, elaborately carved desk. It was the office of the company director, perhaps, his illustrious predecessors looking down at the current incumbent as he pored over his ledgers.

  The door closed behind him, and there was a click. Daud didn’t bother reaching for the handle. Of course, he was locked in. It was more symbolic than practical—the strange Mrs. Devlin had seen what he was capable of. The room he was in now was just an office, not a prison cell. It would take more than a locked wooden door to hold him. The Devlins were just making a point that everything that would happen next would be on their terms.

  Fair enough, thought Daud. He would do the same.

  The room was lit by one fizzing light globe on the far wall, the only working survivor of a series that were spaced between the portraits. The light flickered annoyingly. With a frown, Daud went over and tapped it, then he walked to the desk. There was a table lamp there, and as he peered down into the shade he saw it was more or less intact. He fumbled around for the switch, but the lamp was a delicate thing, an antique with a stained-glass shade that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the drawing room of one of the city’s old mansions. Unable to activate the lamp, Daud pulled his glove off so he could feel for the switch. Once located, he turned it on. The desk lamp flared bright white, then went out with a pop, taking the wall lamp with it—but as the wall lamp went out, there was a blue flash that seemed to fill the room. Daud, temporarily blinded, screwed his eyes shut and cursed to himself. The entire building was rotting away—electrics included.

  And then he realized he wasn’t alone. He could sense it, the feeling of presence like a sudden pressure on his eardrums.

  She stepped out of the shadows and into the cone of light that came in through the window in the door. She was tall, dressed in a short red leather tunic with a wide round collar and heavy brown shoulder panels. Her pants were a dark brown that matched her skin, and were tucked into high boots. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but she was wearing a scowl Daud knew all too well.

  He stared at her, not sure whether to believe his own senses. There was a shard of some dark matter embedded where her right eye should have been, its center a glowing red. Her right arm was also strange—artificial, from the elbow down at least, a complex latticed framework of metal and wood and what looked almost like stone.

  Despite her changed appearance, despite the years that had kept them apart, Daud recognized her in an instant. He exhaled, suddenly—surprisingly—relieved, like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He shook his head in amazement.

  “Billie Lurk, as I live and breathe.”

  Billie moved toward her former mentor, a smile appearing across her stern features. As she got closer, Daud’s gaze was drawn to her artificial arm, and he saw it wasn’t a mechanical prosthesis, it was something else entirely, a collection of mineral shards, the pieces sliding around each other, magically, moving fluidly like no machine could.

  Then he looked up at her face, and saw that she wasn’t wearing an eyepiece, the glowing red ember was her eye, embedded in the socket, framed with dark metals.

  Daud shook his head in wonder. “What happened to you?”

  Billie’s smile vanished. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that now,” she said, “but I can tell you something else.”

  Daud frowned. “What?”

  “That you, Daud, are in great danger. The mission you’ve undertaken has consequences you can’t even imagine. So I’ve come back to try and fix things, before it’s too late.”

  26

  PROTECTORS’ LEAGUE SAFE HOUSE, AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA

  23rd Day, Month of Harvest, 1852

  “Well, it was pure luck, but I managed to get my
self passage to Morley aboard a decent ship. The Dreadful Wale, it’s called. Is that a mistake? Shouldn’t it be The Dreadful Whale, like the sea beast? I didn’t want to risk pointing something like that out to the captain, that Foster lady. She looks like the sort to dump a disagreeable passenger overboard without a second thought.”

  —GOODBYE KARNACA: A MUSICIAN’S FAREWELL

  Excerpt from a personal diary, author unknown

  Mr. Devlin sat on the edge of the desk, his naked torso glistening with sweat. He winced as his wife tightened the bandage around his ribs and took a swig from the bottle of old King Street brandy, which had been stowed in the hideout along with a basic field-dressing kit.

  “How’s that?” asked Mrs. Devlin, standing back to admire her handiwork.

  Mr. Devlin glanced down. “A work of art, my dear. It’s always been a thing of wonder that your exquisite eye for fashion sees into the medical arts as well.” He frowned. “Although I would have preferred something a little more… colorful.”

  Mrs. Devlin dumped the surgical shears onto the tray behind her, wiping her bloody hands with a cloth as her husband eased himself off the desk and reached for his shirt. Fortunately his wounds were limited to bruised ribs and a gash on his abdomen that had bled far more than it looked like it should have.

  As he gingerly buttoned himself up, he glanced at his wife. “Do you think he believed you?”

  Mrs. Devlin shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “That, my dearest Mrs. Devlin, depends very much upon your point of view,” said her husband, settling himself back into the chair.

  Mrs. Devlin started packing up the medical supplies. “He is driven to complete his quest for the artifact, and while we dangle the possibility of its easy recovery in front of his nose like a carrot leading a bloodox, he will be sufficiently distracted.”

  “That distraction, my dearest heart, will change into something rather more alarming if he begins to suspect we are lying to him.”