The Return of Daud Page 21

  “But even if it reaches that point, my darling husband, we shall by then be making our exit from this dreadfully moist city.”

  Mr. Devlin winked at his wife. “You are a sly one, my dear.”

  “But of course, Mr. Devlin. Have you ever known me to be otherwise? Wyman has paid half of our agreed fee already. Ample funds.”

  “So we send in the troops then skip out before things get sticky?”

  “Precisely so. Either the men are successful and Daud is eliminated—and our contract is completed—or Daud kills them all. And, my dear husband, I have a distinct feeling the latter possibility is all the more likely. Hence a material change in our assignment—specifically, a pressing need to survive.”

  Mr. Devlin eased himself into a more comfortable position in the office chair. “Hence a small army of our own employ. Poor Wyman is going to be disappointed.”

  Mrs. Devlin barked a laugh. “I’m sure Empress Emily will find a way to console Wyman.”

  “Well, if you are sure…”

  “You know what your problem is, my darling heart?”

  “I have the strangest feeling, my very dearest, that you are about to elucidate the matter further.”

  “You know me so well, Mr. Devlin.”

  “Indeed I have that honor, Mrs. Devlin.”

  “You,” she said, pointing a finger at his face, “worry too much.”

  Mr. Devlin laughed, then pushed himself off the chair, his hand dragging the bottle of brandy off the desk with him. He swigged from it, then offered it to his wife. She looked at it and grimaced, practically recoiling in horror.

  “Without ice, in this humidity? You are an animal, Mr. Devlin.”

  Her husband shrugged and took another sip. “You know what they say, my dear.”

  “No, what do they say, my dear?”

  “When in Karnaca…” He swirled the liquid in the bottle, regarding its movement.

  Mrs. Devlin suppressed a shudder. “The sooner we are away from this frightful city, the better. I will need to soak in a bath of milk and honey for a week, my dear.”

  “I do so hope you will have a vacancy for a back scrubber.”

  She smiled and took a fresh cigarillo from the pouch on the desk. As she lit it, she said, “So, are you ready?”

  Mr. Devlin raised the half-empty bottle of King Street. “I believe I am.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Devlin. “Time to light the blue touch paper and retire ourselves to a safe distance.”

  With that, the pair left the office. The main doors opened onto a small intersection, a large boulevard crossing with a smaller street. Mrs. Devlin helped her husband limp through the door, then she gave a nod.

  The men loitering in the intersection peeled out of doorways and lifted themselves from stoops, twenty elite mercenaries, late of the Royal Morley Constabulary, dressed in civilian clothes, all here illegally—all employed by the Devlins themselves.

  The men filed into the building as Mr. and Mrs. Devlin made a hasty departure.

  27

  PROTECTORS’ LEAGUE SAFE HOUSE, AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA

  23rd Day, Month of Harvest, 1852

  “The greatest victories may be won with the smallest numbers.”

  —A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise, author unknown

  “I don’t understand,” said Daud. “Consequences? What are you talking about? And how do you know, anyway?”

  Billie held up a hand. “No questions. Not yet, anyway. First I have to get you out of danger. Then we can talk.”

  “Danger?”

  “That couple,” said Billie. “The Devlins. They didn’t track you across the Isles to help you. They tracked you to kill you.”

  Daud hissed between his teeth. “I’d like to see them try,” he said.

  “They’re not the ones you need to worry about.”

  Billie moved to the door. She placed her ear against it, listening.

  Daud joined her, watching her every move, watching the pulse in her neck as she strained to hear what was going on in the corridor.

  How many years had it been? Fifteen? She had been his protégé among the Whalers, his most promising student, and he had handled her training himself, watching her rise rapidly through the ranks of his mercenary band of killers. In Billie, Daud had seen his successor, seeing the potential that was so tightly wound within her right from that first night, when he had allowed her to follow him back to the Whalers’ hideout, offering her a choice—to die, or to join him. And even, years later, when she betrayed him to Delilah, he had spared her life, sending her into exile.

  As he had been, by Corvo Attano.

  Fifteen years. Daud had changed in that time. He had become someone else entirely, and deliberately. But even without that self-determined quest to escape his past, the years had softened him.

  Perhaps Billie would be no different. She was older, certainly. And, physically, had changed more than he had… Daud still didn’t know what her glowing red eye was, or her magical arm.

  Or how she had appeared in the empty room in the first place—

  “They’re here,” she said.

  Daud broke from his reverie as Billie turned from the door, motioning him to stand back.

  “Who’s here?”

  Billie stepped toward him. “Listen, and listen good. Once we’re out of this, I’ll explain everything, but right now, I need you to follow my lead.” She glanced back to the door. “I’ve seen this. If this is like last time, those two out there have run to save their own necks.”

  Daud frowned. “Like last time? What does that mean—”

  “No, Daud, you listen to me. Right now, there are people out there who think you are the biggest threat to the stability of the Empire and that you must be eliminated at any cost. Behind that door is a small army. They’re here to kill you in order to assure the safety of Emily… of the Empress.”

  Daud ran his fingers through his hair as he regarded Billie. She was more poised than before, changed, but she was still Billie. He knew she was telling the truth. Questions could wait—including the question of how she knew what was going on. In the meantime—

  Billie pointed to the other side of the room. “Stay here,” she said. “Let me handle this. I’ll get you when it’s safe.”

  “You might have been my best,” said Daud, “but I don’t need you to fight for me.”

  “No, this time you do. Trust me. I’ve seen it more times than I care to remember.”

  Daud was perplexed but… well, despite everything, despite their past—he had faith in her. He had no idea where she had come from—but clearly Billie knew what had to be done.

  She waited until Daud had backed away, then Billie nodded—perhaps more to herself than him—and opened the door, slipping out into the sickly yellow light beyond.

  * * *

  The corridor was empty and quiet, the only sound the soft creak of Billie’s boots on the decaying floorboards and the faint buzz of the weak light. They flickered, making the shadows dance down the passageway as she stalked toward the door at the end. The air was hot and heavy and smelled of mold and earth.

  She made it as far as the middle of the corridor when it happened. It was sooner than she remembered, but then every time she came back to save him—to save the world—things were different.

  They came out of the doors on both sides of the passageway. Six men in total; less than half of the mercenaries, Billie knew, but the passageway was tight and combat was going to be difficult. This was merely the first wave.

  They were armed with blackjacks, knives, and pistols, but in the close quarters of the narrow passage their primary tools were their fists, encased in heavy protective gloves, the knuckles studded with brass.

  That was the same every time, and for that fact, Billie was grateful. Because, as big as the men were, they were no match for her.

  As they moved in to crush her from all sides, Billie raised the odd ar
tifact that had replaced her right arm, and a weapon materialized in it, coalescing out of mineral shards and metallic slivers—a knife, the grip square and heavy, the two parallel blades straight and sharp and sparking with a light from another place, another time.

  The Twin-bladed Knife, but from days to come, from a time that had not yet transpired.

  Billie hefted the weapon and attacked—the best defense was, of course, to go on the offense. And she was ready for them—more ready than her opponents could ever be. Because she had fought this battle before. In fact, she had almost lost count of the number of times she had seen this fight, had fought this fight. Every time was a little different, but the elite team stuck to their training.

  This gave Billie the advantage. She knew this, and was determined not to waste the opportunity again.

  Despite her experience with this very fight, she couldn’t allow her concentration to falter. Each time she had come back, she had failed. Each time she had learned, she had remembered, but each time the fight had been different, and it had taken her far too long to realize that fact.

  Something was interfering with time, working against her, preventing her from completing her own mission to stop Daud. Because his quest to kill the Outsider was going to ruin everything.

  How and why things kept changing, she didn’t know—maybe she was doing it herself, her repeated re-visits to this single point in time pushing at the fabric of the world, causing it to crease and ripple. So while she learned about her attackers at each encounter, learning their moves, their tactics, their decisions, their instincts, each and every time she returned, something was off. And each and every time, that change, however small, led to failure.

  All she could do was fight, hoping that this time—this time!—she would succeed. That she would get Daud out, away from Karnaca, away from his quest, and that when she returned to her own time, the world would be fixed.

  The men swarmed around her, their combat dance expertly synchronized. Billie ducked and weaved, parrying blows, riposting with her own. In such close quarters, the fight was little more than a brawl, bodies crushing together between the paneled walls, Billie and the men bouncing off one another as they struggled.

  One man swung high; Billie ducked, spinning on her toes, slicing out with the Knife. Since the fall of the Outsider, the weapon was no longer capable of striking with the power of the Void, but it was still a masterwork of blacksmithing and a formidable blade when wielded by her expert hand. The parallel blades caught two attackers in the calf, the knife slicing through flesh and bone like it wasn’t there. They screamed and collapsed—not dead, but incapacitated. Billie stood and pushed through the gap now formed in the pack, then turned, ducking left and right as armored gloves ploughed through the air toward her face.

  Remembering what the man on the left would do next, Billie countered, almost too soon. He swung a fist, then swung his other arm, the blade of his dagger held tight against his forearm. Billie parried, the Twin-bladed Knife sliding off the dagger with a flash of sparks, causing her to lose her footing as her body lurched forward.

  Seeing a window of opportunity, one of the other men punched her in the gut. The air left her lungs in one explosive gasp, and Billie staggered, the fingers of her mystical arm suddenly grasping at air. She watched as the Twin-bladed Knife spun down the passageway, coming to rest by the door of the big office.

  No! It had happened again. No matter the differences, no matter how long or short this fight, this was the one thing that never failed to occur. And no matter how many times she came back, she seemed to be powerless to prevent it.

  Billie lunged forward, throwing herself toward the Knife, but she was immediately grabbed from behind, one arm around her middle, others taking hold of her by the shoulders. She thrashed against them, but it was no use. The four men left standing were joined by others, the elite force now packing the passageway as reinforcements poured out of the adjoining offices.

  The fight was over, the combatants standing, chests heaving, looking at Billie.

  Then, almost as one, they turned to face the other end of the corridor. After all, Billie was not their target.

  Daud was.

  One of the men, perhaps the leader, stepped forward, heading toward the closed office door.

  The door opened. Daud stepped out, rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles.

  The group froze. Billie could sense their hesitation—it wasn’t fear. These men were trained soldiers, the best Morley had to offer. They weren’t afraid, but they were cautious.

  The closest men charged. Billie watched as Daud bent down, scooping up the Twin-bladed Knife.

  She screamed his name. Screamed her warning, as she had time and time again, not to pick up the Knife.

  But it was too late. Always too late.

  Daud froze, his hand on the hilt, his jaw clenched. Billie saw his eyes narrow, the sweat break out in beads on his forehead.

  And then, as soon as the men were in range, Daud screamed in rage and flung himself forward, the Twin-bladed Knife flashing before him, three men cut to ribbons before they could even reach him.

  Billie slumped to the floor as she was released, her captors rushing to help the others as Daud churned through his opponents. Billie could only watch as Daud moved with impossible speed, his form blurring, stretching as he transversed from target to target, the knife cutting, slashing, thrusting. Soon the wood panels of the passageway were covered in blood as Daud got closer to Billie, men and body parts falling before him.

  There was something else about him. Billie, kneeling at the end of the passage, saw a blue light whenever she closed her human eye, the bright flashes almost rendering the scene in front of her in a series of still images, the raging monster that was her former mentor demolishing the men from Morley.

  It happened as it always happened. There was nothing she could do about it. Maybe you couldn’t change the past. And maybe it was time she realized that.

  As Billie dragged herself to her feet, the last man dropped, lifeless, to the floor. Daud moved again, crossing the remaining space between him and Billie in a second. He stood in front of her, his chest heaving, head bowed, his greased hair dropping across his forehead. In his right hand he held the Twin-bladed Knife, and Billie could see the Mark of the Outsider glowing on the skin of his left—glowing through the leather of his glove.

  She reached out for him.

  And then he fell, the Twin-bladed Knife clattering to the floorboards as his body hit the ground.

  28

  THE (FORMER) RESIDENCE OF KIRIN JINDOSH, UPPER AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA

  24th Day, Month of Harvest, 1852

  “It was late in the evening, and, may I say, a great many cigars and rum drinks had been shared among my fellow guests when our host, Mr. Jindosh, took us into his private study. Fortunate and few were we, to see the very spot where, as Mr. Humphries was apt to put, ‘the magic happens!’ Mr. Gallant, his senses perhaps dulled more than a little while his naturally temperamental nature had been stoked by Mr. Jindosh’s fine collection of liquors collected from every country in the Isles, provided at least some amusement. He cast a disparaging comment at our host, and was then himself cast on his not insubstantial behind when Mr. Jindosh activated a lever and Mr. Gallant found the portion of the room in which he was leering suddenly transformed into an altogether small accommodation, the very walls and floor of the place swinging into an entirely new form in a matter of mere moments.

  Mr. Jindosh may be an odd bird, but there is no doubting that peculiar house of his is a true labor of love.”

  —AN ACCOUNT OF AN EVENING WITH KIRIN JINDOSH

  Extract from an aristocrat’s private journal

  Daud woke up on a wide couch, the red leather heavily padded and studded with buttons. The room he was in was large but dark, the only light coming from the lantern on the long, low table beside him. He glanced around, trying to remember where he was, what had happened, but nothing came to him.


  Then, with a start, he remembered. The Twin-bladed Knife. Billie had it—somehow she had found it. And he had wielded it himself, and fought with it, and—

  Then he remembered something else. The nausea, great rolling waves of it, clouding his mind, making the world swim around him. He remembered the feel of the Knife in his hand, the deep cold that radiated from the metal, penetrating his flesh, making every bone in his arm ache with it.

  The artifact. The object of his search—of his obsession. It was Billie’s. Somehow, the Twin-bladed Knife was hers.

  Daud closed his eyes as the nausea returned. He took a breath, feeling his heart rate kick up as he both heard and felt a wheeze in his chest. He took another breath, slowly, and found it was shallower than he expected, despite the extra effort. He rubbed his chest with his hands, unsure of what was happening. His arms felt heavy.

  Something was different. Something had happened to him. He felt… tired.

  He felt sick.

  As he focused on his breathing, he finally took note of his surroundings. Where in all the Isles was he? The room was… strange. Wrecked, certainly, furniture overturned, tables and chairs and more couches on their sides, even the floor had been pulled up and—

  He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then paused, surprised at the effort it took. He stared around the room. No, it wasn’t wrecked, it was… well, he didn’t know what it was. Part of the floor over by the wall was pulled up, but it sat at an angle, like it was a long, wide trapdoor, propped up by the… were those hydraulic pistons, underneath?

  Daud looked down at the floor next to the couch. It was carpeted, the fabric covered in an ornate swirling pattern. The couch on which he lay was comfortable, extravagant. But over by the section of floor that was open, in the weak light he could see metal, and rivets, and toothed wheels running along the edge of the raised panel.

  “You need to rest.”

  Daud started. Billie moved around from the head of the couch, into his eye line. She stood with her hands on her hips, her red eye unblinking as she looked down at him. She shook her head.