The Return of Daud Page 6

  The barman remained silent. Daud dropped his hands.

  “Of course, you’d know all about that, southerner.”

  Daud turned at the voice. It was female and came from one of the booths by the window, where two men were sitting, built out of the same slabs of solid muscle as the rest of their Sixways brethren.

  Dwarfed behind them, tucked into the corner of the booth, was a woman. She was dressed the same as the others —tailored jacket with the lapels shorn off, white shirt with high, round collar—but unlike the other women, her red hair was not in a topknot, but was cut short and slicked back with tonic, like the barman’s. Daud placed her at perhaps twenty, twenty-five years old.

  The same age as the Empress, he thought, remembering Emily’s flight across the rooftops. That felt like days ago, even though it had only been a few hours.

  Behind him, Daud heard a gentle thunk on the bar top. He turned, and found another square tumbler had joined the first. He and the barman looked at each other before the barman turned and, yanking the towel from his shoulder, began cleaning the bar under the mirror.

  The woman laughed. “Are you going to stand there looking like you’re ready to pull the City Watch apart with your bare hands, or are you going to join me for a drink?”

  Daud licked his lips, his gaze darting around the room once more. Everyone—except the barman—was still watching him. He grabbed the bottle and the two glasses and walked over to the booth. He stood by the table, his eyes on hers, ignoring the two thugs with her.

  The woman nodded, and the men stood and walked away, leaving the leather booth seats hissing in their wake. Daud put the bottle and glasses down and slid into the booth across from the woman. They looked at each other for a moment, a faint smile playing over the woman’s lips. Daud reached for the bottle, removed the stopper, and poured two glasses of Karnaca’s finest. He pushed one toward the woman before raising his own and draining it in a single gulp. He felt the liquid coat his mouth and throat, filling his senses with fire and notes of coffee and vanilla. When he filled his glass for the second time he did not drink. Instead, he nodded at his companion.

  “Eat ’Em Up Jack, I presume?”

  Ignoring the glass in front of her, the young woman lifted the liquor bottle and took a long swig, her eyes on Daud’s. She put the bottle down, but left her hand on it.

  “You presume correctly.”

  Daud lifted his refilled glass and raised it to her, then drained it again in one.

  “Enjoy your drink,” said Jack. “It’s on the house.”

  Daud nodded his thanks.

  “Because when you’re finished,” Jack continued, “you’re going to have to come up with a very good reason why I should let you walk out of here alive.”

  6

  THE SUICIDE HALL, WYRMWOOD DISTRICT, DUNWALL

  18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “What will we do with the drunken whaler?

  What will we do with the drunken whaler?

  What will we do with the drunken whaler?

  Early in the morning?

  Feed him to the hungry rats for dinner?

  Slice his throat with a rusty cleaver?

  Shoot him through the heart with a loaded pistol?

  Early in the morning.”

  —HARPOONER SONGS

  Excerpt from a book of sea shantys sung by sailors

  “I’ m not here for a fight, Jack,” said Daud.

  Jack lifted the bottle again. Daud watched her drink, this tiny, pale, red-headed woman. Was she really Eat ’Em Up Jack? Daud thought back, dredging up old memories of his time in Dunwall. As far as he could remember, the leader of the Sixways Gang had always been Eat ’Em Up Jack—stretching back to before this young woman was born. The name, then, must be a title, one handed down across the years from leader to leader.

  If there was one thing that was good for business, it was continuity. And for Wyrmwood Way and the Sixways Gang, everything was about business.

  The young gang leader and the exiled assassin regarded each other across the booth table for a while, the bottle of Serkonan rum half gone. Daud kept his expression set as Jack regarded him with a tilted head.

  Daud ran a gloved hand over his beard. He liked the sensation. It helped him think.

  Finally she spoke. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Daud pursed his lips. “About what?”

  “I don’t want just one good reason why I shouldn’t exsanguinate you on the doorstep.”

  “Oh?”

  Daud’s gloved hand found the bottle. Jack leaned forward across the table and draped her own hand over Daud’s. She had long, delicate fingers, the nails trimmed short. For fighting, Daud thought. He looked into her eyes, and she gently pulled the bottle away from him.

  “No,” said Jack. “I think I’m going to need at least four good reasons.”

  Daud chuckled, the low, gravelly sound rising from somewhere deep in his chest. Oh, why does this have to get complicated?

  “Is that so?”

  “Make it five,” she said.

  Daud sat back and sighed. “I said I wasn’t here for a fight. And I can only give you one reason not to kill me, but you’ll like it.”

  At that, he reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a small leather pouch, then tipped out a single circular ingot of pinkish-white metal onto the table. It was about the same size as a coin of ten, but twice as thick—it was ninety-eight percent pure platinum, and a small part of the cache he had taken years to accumulate, the money hidden in safe houses scattered across the Empire. In terms of theoretical value, it made Daud a rich man. Practically speaking, it was a difficult form of currency to cash—but useful in situations like this.

  Jack’s eyes flicked to the ingot, then back to Daud. She picked it up, weighed it in her hand, then turned it over. A semicircle and a pitchfork were stamped on the back.

  Jack let the ingot drop back onto the table. “Stealing from the Overseers?”

  Daud shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “It does if they want it back.”

  “Then melt it. I don’t care. I’m here for business.” Leaving the ingot where it was, he pulled the drawstring of the pouch tight, then pushed it across the table toward Jack. “That’s more than enough payment for your services.”

  Jack cocked her head again. “You want something moved?”

  “Actually, no. I’m looking for something. An artifact.” Daud glanced at Jack and saw her forehead crease in confusion.

  “That’s not how we work,” she said. “You want to spend your stolen money on bonecharms, go right ahead. The storekeepers of Wyrmwood Way will be more than happy to assist.”

  “All I want,” said Daud, “is information. There was an artifact in Dunwall recently. It was brought in to the city, but then taken out again. I need to know where it went.”

  Jack didn’t speak.

  “It’s a knife. Bronze, twin blades. Could be big or small, I don’t know. Might look ordinary. Might look like nothing you’ve seen before. It was brought to the city maybe eight—”

  That was when Jack laughed, and the laughter spread across the room. Daud turned in his seat, and saw the members of her gang joining in with their leader.

  Daud turned back around and nudged the ingot and the pouch toward Jack. “Nine ingots. Consider this a down payment. Name your price.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, my friend from the south. The Sixways operates a very particular kind of business. Our services have been employed by the good people of Dunwall for a long, long time—services that are not discussed outside of this room.” She sat back against the booth, the leather creaking under her. “Now, a stranger comes in, with Overseer money, and says he’s looking for something he thinks we moved for someone else? I’m sure there is a quicker way to die, but I haven’t heard of it myself.”

  Daud turned to the window. “Do you know what’s going on out there, beyond the walls of your little empire?”

&nbs
p; Jack shrugged. “Word is there was a coup at the Tower. The Duke of Serkonos has dug up a skeleton from the Kaldwin family closet, apparently. Good for him.”

  Daud looked at her. “You really think you’re that untouchable?”

  “They won’t come here.”

  He curled his hand into a fist and resisted the urge to slam it down on the table between them. “Listen to me, Jack. You may think you’re safe in here with your own private army, but they will come for you. Believe me, they will come.” He jerked a thumb at the window. “You think the Duke of Serkonos doesn’t know about Wyrmwood Way and the Sixways Gang? Maybe you’re too young to realize, but a coup like this takes planning. Months of it. He’s got it all laid out. Marching his men into Dunwall Tower is just the start. And it wouldn’t have been possible in the first place without collaborators working on the inside.” Daud leaned forward across the table. “They will be here by nightfall. On that you have my word. And they won’t be scared by the Sixways Gang.” Daud leaned back. “It’s happened before. The Overseers have come in, time and time again, to burn the place out, to clear it of vermin—and that includes the Sixways. You may think that the Wyrmwood is special, and it is, but it’s also a part of Dunwall. And whoever sits on the throne in the Tower owns this city—and they own you.”

  Jack frowned. She slowly reached for the bottle, took a swig, and put it back down. “Is that some kind of a threat?” she asked finally.

  Daud spread his hands. “I’m not threatening you. I’m warning you. I’m not the only one running out of time here. I came for information. Information I need. Once I have it, I’ll be gone. And I suggest you go too. At least for a time, until things settle. I’m just trying to help you, so maybe you’ll consider helping me.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked over Daud’s shoulder, and from behind him came the unmistakable sound of roughly two dozen gangsters with short tempers and a desire for violence standing quickly, followed almost as fast by a sequence of clicks that was almost musical.

  Daud glanced over his shoulder. Everyone in the Suicide Hall was now standing and each had a pistol cocked and aimed right at him. The barman watched from the back, the only person in the place other than Daud and Jack not holding a weapon.

  “You, my southern friend, are better off dead,” said Jack.

  Daud turned back around. “If you don’t listen to me, you’re all dead. Trust me.”

  Jack shook her head, picked up the bottle and settled back into the corner of the booth, cradling the rum against her chest. The glass clinked against whatever she had in her top pocket.

  Daud had expected—or perhaps hoped—that his conversation with the notorious leader of the Sixways Gang would go better than this. The platinum ingots were a portable fortune, more than enough to pay for information. But of course, they could just kill him and take the money anyway. He had hoped his warning about their approaching trouble with the Duke would motivate Jack to be a little more cooperative, but she clearly thought the Sixways were untouchable.

  She was too young. She wouldn’t remember the days of the Rat Plague, the Regency, the terror the gangs of Dunwall—the Whalers included—brought to the streets. The Battle of Mandragora Street was probably just a bedtime story for her, told by whoever held the title of Eat ’Em Up Jack before her.

  He looked at Jack. “I need to find the artifact—the Twin-bladed Knife. The Sixways Gang run the biggest smuggling operation in the Empire, and I know for a fact that there is nothing heretical or arcane that moves into or out of the city that Eat ’Em Up Jack doesn’t personally know about. I’ve given you money. I’ve given you advice. That’s payment enough. I’m not asking for details, I just need a name or a place, and then I’ll leave you in peace. I don’t work for the Overseers. I have nothing to do with the coup. Whether you take my advice and get out, or whether you begin preparations for war, that’s not my concern, but I hope my warning to you has some value—value enough to strike a deal.”

  Jack’s tongue ran circles around the inside of her cheek. Then she nodded to one of her lieutenants.

  “Take him outside.” She looked at Daud. “Time to have some sport.”

  7

  THE SIXWAYS, WYRMWOOD DISTRICT, DUNWALL

  18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “A mystical woman, Delilah she’s called,

  Claimed rights to the throne, and the Duke she enthralled,

  Some called it magic and some called it fate,

  Did she do it for love, did she do it for hate?

  Now I’m just a poor singer, recounting this tale,

  If I sing it wrongly I’m dead as a whale,

  The Duke rules us now, and we know him, we do,

  So let’s raise a glass to our Duke and the coup!

  A coup, a coup! What is it to you?

  A feast or a famine, a nail or a screw?

  A Duke from the south, a vile witches brew

  A coup, a coup! What is it to you?”

  —THE COUP

  Fragment of a popular song, composer unknown

  Daud was led out through the main doors of the Suicide Hall and down the steps. Out on the intersection, the members of the Sixways Gang who had been stationed around the surrounding buildings had moved out into the road, assembling into one large mob. Daud saw pistols, knives, and blackjacks.

  They were ready.

  Daud rolled his neck. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go, but maybe he could survive this. It would be difficult. But not impossible.

  At least that’s what he told himself. Once again, he found himself in a figurative corner, where the only escape route possible was the one granted to him by a supernatural being he wanted to kill.

  The Outsider.

  Daud closed his eyes, drawing on decades of experience to focus himself.

  Behind him, the door of the Suicide Hall swung on its hinges and he heard the bar empty, the heavy footsteps of Jack’s personal bodyguard thumping down the stairs. Jack stood at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips as she surveyed her territory, stepping aside only briefly to let the barman past as he came out and thudded down the steps. He may have been older than Daud, but he was built like an ox.

  No match for Daud, of course, not with the Mark of the Outsider at his beck and call. He was just grateful that nobody seemed to know who he was, otherwise Jack—if she had any sense—would have had him shot through the back of the head inside the bar.

  Daud spread his hands as he addressed the gang’s leader. “I came for information. Tried to pay you, and even gave you my advice. Now I’m going to slaughter most of you and take what I want from whoever’s still breathing.”

  Jack ignored him while the barman smiled. In the daylight, Daud saw that nearly half of his teeth were gold.

  “Perhaps Jack gave you the wrong impression,” said the barman, his booming baritone echoing loudly around the buildings that crowded the Sixways. “And perhaps that impression was that your head was going to remain attached to your body.”

  Behind him, at the top of the stairs, Jack laughed.

  The barman took a step forward. He shook his hands out from his sides, flexing his fingers, the hard muscles rippling underneath his tight shirt. He pointed at Daud.

  “You are better off dead.” He lifted both arms and began to walk in a circle, encouraging the others to join in. Soon enough, everyone had picked up the chant.

  “Better off dead! Better off dead!”

  Daud waited until the barman had his back to him. Then he concentrated, the Mark of the Outsider burning on the back of his hand, the pain hot and sharp and clean.

  And then he moved.

  Jack called out as Daud materialized behind the barman. Before the big man could turn in surprise, he’d planted his boot in the small of the barman’s back. His body was as thick as an oak tree and felt just as immobile, but the Mark of the Outsider gave Daud more than just stealth and subterfuge.

  It also gave him strength.

  The barman toppled forw
ard, tried to regain his footing, but was unable to balance himself. He crashed to the cobbles, chest-first, but reacted quickly, pushing himself back up and swinging his arm out. Daud ducked and kicked again, this time connecting with the man’s knee. There was a crunch. The barman fell down onto his backside and tried to get up, but his leg was bending in the wrong direction. Crying out in pain, he shuffled backward along the cobbles, clearing room for his companions to get to work.

  Daud sensed, rather than heard, the movement behind him. He spun around to see that the Sixways Gang had now formed a semicircle around him. Some of them were grinning; they were enjoying this. Those at the front had put their pistols away, and were now swinging blackjacks and blades. Guns were too easy. They wanted this fight to last as long as possible.

  Daud inhaled through his nostrils, the air suddenly cool and electric. The back of his throat tingled and the back of his hand burned and he could feel his heart pump in his chest as the first flush of adrenaline faded.

  He had to admit: it felt good. Maybe this was what he had missed. Maybe it had been wrong to steer away from violence for so many years after his exile. Who was he trying to fool? He was Daud, the Knife of Dunwall. He was a killer, an assassin. Even without the Mark, he was a sublime fighter, his skills unparalleled in all the Isles. Age had done nothing to weaken him. And with the gift the Outsider had bestowed upon him, the power he was able to draw from the Void, he was invincible.

  Perhaps in reaction to his thoughts, Daud’s left hand lit in exquisite pain, the Mark of the Outsider burning white hot. The agony was so excruciating he wanted nothing more than to tear his hand off with his teeth if he had to.

  And then, no sooner had the pain flared into terrible being, it faded, leaving nothing but a dull ache. His entire left arm suddenly felt like a lead weight.

  Daud wondered if the Outsider was watching him. Wondered if the Outsider knew what he was thinking, if the Outsider was playing with him.

  He wondered if he would ever be free of that parasite. In front of him, some of the Sixways Gang danced on the balls of their feet, others rolled their necks, flexed their shoulders.