The Return of Daud Page 9

  Daud understood Jack was now on a mission of her own. She had had the heart cut out of her criminal empire, and as they moved from waypoint to waypoint, Daud knew she was spreading the word, telling her agents not just of the massacre in Wyrmwood Way, but of her plans to rebuild. She was telling everyone to be ready.

  They spent the next day in the deep green gloom of an ancient wood. They ate together in silence. Jack slept and Daud kept watch. Their conversation may have been non-existent, but they had at least come to some kind of unspoken agreement.

  At twilight, they resumed their journey, and after a few more hours of walking they emerged from the woodland and found themselves on a high bluff overlooking the sea. There, below them, was the coastal village of Young Lucy’s Grave. It was cradled by steep cliffs on three sides, the fourth open to a narrow harbor, home to a tiny fishing fleet that faced the crashing waves, the vicious tide funneled between two sheer faces of black rock.

  “We’re here,” said Jack. Daud looked down at the village and nodded. Jack watched him a moment, her eyes catching the flash of lightning in the sky. Then the thunder rolled, and as Jack headed off, leading Daud to the narrow, precarious cliff path, the heavy Gristol sky opened, and the rain began.

  * * *

  Young Lucy’s Grave was so named for the ancient shipwreck that still remained visible out in the harbor. Beyond the cliffs, the rising skeleton of the huge whaling ship conveniently marked the location of dangerous rocks lurking just beneath the water. As they walked the cliff path, the rain pelting down, Daud found his eyes drawn to the wreck. He hadn’t been here before, but, like most people who had spent any time in southern Gristol, the story of Young Lucy was known to him, while the village was largely overlooked—a tiny fishing community, living in happy isolation, difficult to access and protected by the cliffs, sustained by the bounty of the ocean.

  And, Daud realized, the perfect cover for the Sixways smuggling route. Because from Young Lucy’s Grave you could get a small fishing vessel out into open water, and—out of sight of the major shipping lanes around Dunwall—that vessel could be met by a larger boat. From there, the secret cargo could be transferred.

  This was the route the Twin-bladed Knife had taken. Eat ’Em Up Jack was leading him to it.

  It was another hour before they reached the village. The settlement was densely packed, consisting of perhaps a hundred buildings that followed the cliff face, with steep, narrow streets leading down to the fishing harbor, streets that were treacherous in the downpour. The village was quiet and dark, the inhabitants asleep, and the sea beyond the cliffs rolled and roared. The waters of the harbor were somewhat calmer but not by much, the black silhouettes of the fishing fleet dancing with the currents in what little moonlight penetrated the breaks in the rainclouds.

  On the edge of the harbor stood a two-story building, the upper level a good deal larger than the ground floor, with large, shuttered windows looking out to sea. Jack headed straight for the structure, knocking once on the main door. A second later it opened and Jack stepped into the darkness beyond. Daud followed, water streaming off the point of his hood.

  He closed the door behind him and followed Jack’s shape—and the sound of another pair of feet ahead of her—up the stairs to the upper level. There was another door here; once through and closed, light flared, white and bright, dazzling after so many hours traveling in darkness. Daud squinted, and pushed his hood back.

  They were standing in what was clearly the harbormaster’s office. On the back wall was a large nautical chart of the harbor, extending out well beyond the wreck of Young Lucy. Underneath the chart was a desk that dominated the room, its surface covered with more charts and other papers, which faced the large picture window that overlooked the harbor itself. The other two walls were lined with shelves, onto which were crammed shipping ledgers and logbooks and other documentation. A large brass telescope on a tripod stood in the far corner, the harbormaster himself standing beside it, Jack to his left. The harbormaster was a large man dressed in a heavy blue coat, the buttons straining against his impressive girth. He wore a blue knitted hat on his head, and a scowl on his face. In his hand he held a pistol, which he aimed directly at Daud.

  “Do I kill him?”

  Jack shook her head. “No, he needs a route out.”

  The harbormaster frowned. The gun didn’t move. “Destination?”

  “Porterfell.”

  “Just him?”

  “Just him. I’m staying here. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Daud lifted an eyebrow. Jack met his gaze. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. And Malcolm here will make your travel arrangements.”

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes, then he made his pistol safe and lowered it. He moved back around to his desk, all the while looking at Daud.

  Then Malcolm turned to Jack. “Strange things happening in the city, so I’ve heard.”

  Daud and Jack exchanged a look, then Jack nodded. “I need to tell you what happened,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do to get the Sixways up and running again.”

  As Jack and her agent talked, Daud moved to the window. He looked out into the early dawn, the rain lashing the window, the sea crashing against the cliffs around the village.

  Porterfell. Daud knew the name—another fishing settlement, west along the coast from Dunwall, about halfway between the capital and Potterstead.

  So, the Twin-bladed Knife was still in Gristol? Good.

  It seemed the next phase of his mission was about to begin.

  11

  THE CLIFFTOP OVERLOOKING YOUNG LUCY’S GRAVE, GRISTOL

  20th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “It is nothing more than a story, but then, so much of what we know of the powers of those who proclaim knowledge of witchcraft comes from such stories, sometimes no more than whispers or rumors. That we must rely on such unreliable sources of information is unfortunate, but learn what we can, when we can.

  It is claimed that those touched by the Void employ servants, under some form of mesmeric influence, living for the singular purpose of serving their terrible mistress or master.

  Further, it is said by those who have borne witness that the connection between sorcerer and servant is comparable to familial love, although to say this is to pervert the very concepts of family or community.”

  —ON THE WITCH’S MOST DEVOTED SERVANT

  Excerpt from a secret report to High Overseer Yul Khulan, by Overseer Harrison

  The wind battered the hilltop, the raining coming down in sheets, soaking the hunched figure that knelt by a black boulder. Out at sea, huge waves crashed around the wrecked shell of the Young Lucy, while closer to the village, the waters of the harbor rose and fell in dangerous swells.

  The man ignored the rain. He ignored the cold. He ignored it all. He knelt on the ground, sinking into the mud, and watched the village through his spyglass, focusing on the upper level of the harbormaster’s tower. The village was dark; the harbormaster’s abode was not, yellow light pouring out from the window facing the harbor—facing away from the cliff.

  The man couldn’t see what was going on inside, but no matter. He had seen enough. The journey from Dunwall to here had been nothing—he had been following Daud for months, tracking him ever since word had reached his mistress that the former assassin was hiding in Wei-Ghon.

  But now time was pressing—and preparations were almost complete. After so long planning, the day was fast approaching.

  The spy couldn’t lose Daud now, not when the culmination of his mistress’s plan was so near at hand.

  It was time to make his report—perhaps his final one.

  Collapsing the spyglass, the man turned and hobbled away from the edge of the cliff, out of sight of any potential onlookers. It would be dark for hours yet and if anything the storm was getting worse, but there was no need to take any risks. The village—save for the harbormaster’s tower—appeared to be shuttered up for the night, but there was always a chance
someone was watching. His mistress called him paranoid, but the man preferred to think of himself as prepared. But, more importantly, he could not risk being seen now. Although he didn’t place any particular value on his own life, he knew that if he was seen, and perhaps chased, there was no way he would be able to escape a village warden, not in these less than ideal conditions.

  So no, he couldn’t risk it. Sliding in the mud, soaked to the skin, his long black hair a heavy, matted weight against his back, he skidded back toward the woods. He felt no discomfort at the weather. All he could feel was the pain, the constant, unending agony that only one person in all the Isles could alleviate.

  His mistress—his love. And she was waiting, hundreds of miles away, patiently waiting for his report.

  At the edge of the woods, the ground was cratered and scattered with large boulders. The man nearly fell behind one, then pulled himself up and sat with his back against it. Wiping the sodden hair from his face, he reached inside his cloak and pulled out a brass framework, a cat’s cradle of struts and panels and hinges, the basket-like object unfolding in his hands. The main part of the device consisted of four triangular brass panels, each finely pierced with geometric shapes and symbols that had their own particular meaning. Once hinged into place, the panels formed a tetrahedron, with a gap at the apex, underneath which was a three-fingered claw formed by folded-out silver prongs.

  From another pocket the man pulled a dark gemstone about the size of a plum, the surface cut into a perfect polyhedron. Buffeted by the wind and rain, the man shuffled into a cross-legged position and balanced the assembled device across his knees. He took the gemstone in both hands, and carefully slotted it into the gap at the top of the device, the crystal locking in place between the claw and the three points of the brass panels.

  The man exhaled.

  Assembling the thing was the easy part. Using it was another task altogether, because communicating with his mistress over such a distance required power, and lots of it. And the only place it drew from was his own mind.

  One day, his service to his mistress would kill him—he knew that, and accepted the fact. But he didn’t care. If it was this last report that did it, then so be it. If he died then it would be in glorious service to his mistress, the mistress who loved him and whom he loved, the mistress who understood his pain, and who promised to alleviate it.

  Even if she was the cause of it in the first place.

  He stared into the depths of the dark gemstone. He gritted his teeth and began hyperventilating, in anticipation of the agony to come.

  “My lady,” he said, raising his voice against the storm thrashing around him. “My lady, he is here. He is come. It is as you said. He follows the path. He follows your will.”

  The man paused and took a deep breath. He could feel it begin, at first a soft sensation across his eyes, then slowly encircling his whole head. After a few seconds, the pressure was vise-like, his skull feeling as if it would be crushed as his life force was drained to power the communicator.

  “My lady! Can you hear me, my lady? Can you see me? Please, speak to me, speak to me.”

  The wind picked up and lightning flashed, and when the thunder rolled the man couldn’t hear it. He was lost in the crystal, his eyes wide and fixed on its myriad depths.

  He felt the chill first, the deep ache like his bones were made of ice carved from a Tyvian glacier. From within the crystal, a blue light sparked into being, then brightened, growing and bouncing against the inside planes of the gem, until the crystal was nothing but a glowing ball of cold, blue fire.

  And then he felt the pain as the pressure around his head suddenly transformed into a searing, jagged agony, bisecting his skull and then traveling down his entire body. He was rooted to the spot, every muscle in his body rigid, caught in a terrible, bone-crushing spasm. Foam flecked his lips as his frozen chest heaved for breath. Lightning flashed again, and a small part of the man’s mind that remained free and his own wished the lightning would strike and put an end to his misery.

  Seconds. Minutes. Maybe hours passed. All he could do was stare at the gemstone, watch with unmoving, unblinking eyes as his calloused hands gripped the edges of the communicator, the sharp edges of the frame cutting into his flesh, his blood running freely down his wrists, mixing with the rain.

  Just before his eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out, he heard her voice. Her glorious, beautiful voice, carried impossibly from Karnaca, where she waited. Her words were a song, her tone a melody. At once he could feel her love and warmth, filling his mind.

  She was his mistress, his everything.

  She was the witch, and he the familiar.

  “I can see you,” she said. “You have done well. All will be prepared. He will be led home. As it has been foreseen, so it shall be.”

  The man felt warm and peaceful. He felt like he was floating, as though he were not in his body but rising above it, and looking down on his huddled, ruined form. He was waterlogged and blood-soaked, the communicator cradled in his arms, his cloak billowing in the wind.

  “Now sleep,” she said. “You have served me well and your work will not be forgotten. Sleep, then return to me, to Karnaca, to the Royal Conservatory, where the final preparations shall be made.”

  Lightning flashed. The gemstone flared with a deep blue light.

  “Sleep, sleep.”

  He did.

  The gemstone faded.

  INTERLUDE

  THE ROYAL CONSERVATORY, KARNACA

  2nd Day, Month of Timber, 1841, Eleven Years before the Dunwall Coup

  “I had no doubt that Pandyssia was rich in resources. But a place must be understood if we ever hope to exploit its myriad treasures. These were my thoughts as I agreed to join the ill-fated expedition. And so it was, on the third day of the Month of Earth, under calm gray skies, the great sea vessel Antonia Aquillo set sail with captain, crew, researchers, and myself, (thirty-eight of us in total) for what would be the most terrifying and spiritually draining experience of my life.”

  —A REFLECTION ON MY JOURNEY TO THE PANDYSSIAN CONTINENT

  Anton Sokolov, excerpt from the Introduction to the second edition, 1822

  “Your Grace, my lords and ladies, fellow philosophers, gentlemen—I bid you welcome! You are gathered here tonight at the very nexus of history, the point on which the fulcrum of progress will pivot, as the Empire of the Isles searches that far-distant horizon we call the future! For tonight, we lucky few are privileged to see a glimpse of the new and wonderful age that stretches out before us!”

  There was a ripple of laughter from the audience, and only the smallest smattering of applause. Standing center stage in the makeshift auditorium that, for one night only, occupied most of the entrance hall of Karnaca’s Royal Conservatory, Aramis Stilton kept the smile plastered to his face, but he took a breath and held it for a moment.

  Idiots. What’s so bloody funny? You’re not supposed to laugh. Honestly, this entire evening is wasted on you.

  Then he clapped his hands and joined the audience with a chuckle of his own, but as he stepped closer to the edge of the stage he pursed his lips and gave a slight nod to his stage assistant, Toberman, who was standing in the wings, awaiting his instructions.

  Good lad. Young, but keen. Works hard. Mines were no place for him. Shows initiative. Glad to have him on board.

  At Stilton’s signal, Toberman touched the brim of his flat cap and ducked away. A moment later, as Stilton cast his gaze across the audience, the temporary stage lights dimmed suddenly, leaving him illuminated only by the bright white glare of the footlight directly in front of him. For better, eerie effect, Stilton leaned forward over the light—he knew just what it would look like, as he’d had young Toberman stand in the exact same spot earlier that afternoon while he moved around the hall, checking the view from every conceivable angle.

  Someone in the audience gasped. Stilton’s smile returned.

  Now, that’s more like it.


  “My lords and ladies,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “What you are about to see demonstrated before your very eyes this evening pushes at the boundaries of our knowledge. The topic upon which our distinguished guest is about to lecture has until now only been whispered within the hallowed confines of the Academy of Natural Philosophy in the fair Imperial capital of Dunwall.”

  Stilton peered out at the crowd, moving his hands to cast a shade—just for a moment—over his face so he could see through the glare of the footlights. It was another hot night in Karnaca, and the audience, squeezed into their finery, were sweating in the close and humid air of the Royal Conservatory, the fans most of the ladies were fluttering sounding like the gentle hum of bees at work.

  Ticket sales had been good—very good—and the place was packed. More importantly, the invitations to the very highest levels of Serkonan society had been accepted with pleasure; Stilton allowed his gaze to linger over the silhouette of the Duke, Theodanis Abele, seated in a raised, walled-off area at stage left, next to his son, Luca. The pair were flanked by four officers of the Grand Serkonan Guard.

  Stilton felt a swelling of pride within him. Securing this evening’s star attraction was something of a coup, certainly dispelling the whispers around Karnaca that Stilton, the wealthy businessman known mostly for his mining fortune, was indulging in childish fantasies as only the absurdly wealthy could. Some believed he was investing in the Royal Conservatory not out of any love for art or culture, but merely to have his name engraved at the top of the list of institute benefactors.

  I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.

  Stilton gave a bow toward the shadow of Theodanis.