Dishonored E-Book

Adam Christopher

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dishonored
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 367

Beschreibung

The official new novel set in the world of Dishonored 2, the award-winning video game.As Empress Emily Kaldwin flees Dunwall after the coup by Delilah Copperspoon and Duke Luca Abele of Serkonos, a lone figure watches, the Mark of the Outsider burning on his hand.Daud—legendary assassin—has returned to Dunwall, a city in turmoil. He is seeking a mythical weapon, said to have the power to kill the Outsider, and will go to any lengths to find it. But there are those who are watching his every move. Travelling the Isles to complete his mission, Daud will soon discover that old enemies have been waiting for him, and new enemies are easy to make…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Part One: The Knife of Dunwall

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Interlude

Part Two: The Collector

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Interlude

Part Three: The Homecoming

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Epilogue

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Available from Titan Books

Dishonored: The Corroded Man

by Adam Christopher

Available from Titan Comics

Dishonored: The Wyrmwood Deceit

by Gordon Rennie, Andrea Olimpieri, and Marcelo Maiolo

Dishonored: The Peeress and the Price

by Michael Moreci and Andrea Olimpieri

ADAM CHRISTOPHER

TITAN BOOKS

DISHONORED: THE RETURN OF DAUD

Print edition ISBN: 9781783293056

E-book edition ISBN: 9781783293087

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Editorial Consultants:

Harvey Smith

Paris Nourmohammadi

Special thanks to Harvey Smith, Hazel Monforton,

Brittany Quinn, and everyone at Arkane Studios.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 Bethesda Softworks LLC. Dishonored, Arkane, ZeniMax, Bethesda, Bethesda Softworks and related logos are registered trademarks or trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

PROLOGUE

THE VOID

4,000 years ago

“It is a common story: A person has stopped breathing, pinned under carriage wheels or some other tragic happenstance, and is thought to be dead. But when the weight is removed—they make a quick recovery! But nonetheless, for a moment or two, this person was lost to us, lost to the world itself.

And what did they experience while in this temporary death? Darkness? Nothingness? No, indeed not! They tell us, as so many before have, that they were in a particular place, and can describe it vividly. And who among us does not know this place?

Have we not all seen it in our dreams? This place we share, in the farthest reaches of our minds. The realm where nothing makes sense, where one is at once both lost and at home. The Void.”

—WHISPERS FROM THE VOID, by Barnoli Mulani Treatise on the Physical Existence of that Foreign Realm [Excerpt]

The place is made of nothing but stone and ash, and is filled with nothing but the cold dark, and it smells of nothing but rust and corrosion, and it tastes of nothing but the sharp and sour tang of fear.

The boy stares up into the sky—although that’s not what it is. There is no sky, just a blank curve of curling gray smoke, heavy and foreboding, that stretches from here to the end of the world. This and the two curling arms of shattered stone, twisting like the twin trunks of a petrified tree over the head of the stone slab on which he lies, are all the boy can see. The hands that grip the sides of his head are as solid as the altar beneath him and just as cold, and when he tries to turn his head, the hands just press harder, the fingertips squeezing his temples until he thinks his skull will cave in.

So the boy stares up into infinite nothing above, the notsky that stretches above this forsaken place, this nowhere.

The Void.

The altar beneath him is cold, the stone so ancient it is more like metal, like it was carved out of a single lump of black iron, like the iron found in the hearts of fallen stars, the cold of it spreading through his flesh, soaking his very bones with a chill so deep it feels like he is lying on ice.

He tries to move his arms, but they are tied. His legs are also bound by rope, so tight and so rough that with every movement of his body the fibers carve into his skin, the burning pain as unbearable as the cold of the altar. He flexes his fingers, but there is nothing to hold, nothing to grip. The many golden rings that adorn each digit click hard against the stone.

But he did fight at first, struggling with all his strength as the cultists, their faces hidden in the deep folds of their lead-colored cloaks, carried him up the shallow stones and placed him on the altar. It was no use. There were so many of them, so many hands holding him, and while the boy was strong and while he writhed and screamed and screamed they held him with iron grips. He fought again as they tied him down on the slab, but all this did was exhaust what little energy he had left.

With their victim secured, the cultists had moved away. The boy had looked up, watching the congregation as they gathered on either side of the stone steps, their heads bowed, hands hidden in long, drooping sleeves. The boy began to scream again, his chest heaving as he drew in deep lungfuls of icy metallic air, but the men just watched in silence. When the boy was spent, his head fell back against the altar and two hands grabbed at him, pushing his skull down.

Now the boy blinks. If time passes here then he cannot count it, his mind fogged by the sickly sweet potions they made him drink and the colored sour smokes they made him breathe before bringing him to this awful nowhere. With the fight gone, his energy leeched by the desperate cold, the boy’s head begins to spin, so it feels like the Void itself is orbiting around him.

He tries to remember his name. It is no use. He tries to remember his age—he is young, he knows that, even if he has lost count of the years of his life. Is he fifteen? Twenty? Maybe more. He doesn’t remember, and the more he tries, the more he forgets.

Now he sees there is a man looming over him, standing at the head of the altar. The man turns and now the boy cannot see him, but he can hear him—the rustle of his cloak, the pad of his feet.

And then another sound, the shrik of metal on metal. The man returns, a black shadow filling his vision. The shadow moves and something flashes in the boy’s vision, something held by the man high above his head. It is bright and bronze. The sudden blaze of unexpected color terrifies the boy.

It is a knife with two long, parallel blades that shine, reflecting a light that seems to be from elsewhere. A light that is bright and white and then orange and red, as though the knife is being turned slowly in front of a great fire even as it is held perfectly still by the cloaked man.

The others gathered around the altar and down the steps remain silent, their cowled heads turned up toward the sacrifice.

The man with the Twin-bladed Knife murmurs something but the boy cannot hear it, his head now filled with the sound of a keening wind. The fear that fills him suddenly expands, and he feels like he has been dropped down a deep, dark well. His stomach rolls, his throat is filled with bitter bile, and he finds the strength to pull at the ropes again, one last time, as though it would make any difference at all.

It does not. The ropes hold firm, as do the hands that grasp his head, forcing his chin up, his face now tilted back so he can see the face of the man holding the knife.

The face of his executioner.

There is a flash like lightning, although it is accompanied by no thunder, and when the boy blinks the tears from his eyes the flashing continues, and the boy doesn’t know if it is the Void or his mind or the impossible light shining from the knife.

The boy screams.

The blade sweeps to the side, held high in the air, and the man murmurs again.

The blade sweeps across, low, opening the boy’s neck. His scream is cut short, replaced by a whistling gurgle. His limbs twitch, his fingernails scraping the hard surface of the altar, as it quickly becomes slick with blood.

And then the boy is still. He stares at the nothingness above him as his life slips away.

He dies.

And something terrible is born.

CHAPEL OF THE SISTERS OF THE ORACULAR ORDER, BALETON, GRISTOL

14th Day, Month of Songs, 1851

“Much has been said about the blind Sisters of the Oracular Order. In truth, their eyes function just as well as yours or mine. However, they do endeavor to become blind to distractions and frivolities. They will, if necessity bids them, walk among us, wearing richly hued blindfolds or otherwise covering their eyes. In this way they remain ‘at all times ready to see things clearly’.”

—ON THE ORACULAR ORDER

Douglas Hardwick, Historian

The Cloister of Prophecy was a large, circular chamber situated in the very center of the Chapel of the Sisters of the Oracular Order, the hub from which the seven wings of the chapel proper radiated. The bright white stone from which it was built had been expertly shaped to form a mathematically perfect room, and the high vaulted ceiling gave the illusion that the Cloister was somehow open to the air.

Arranged around a central dais were six rectangular slabs of black marble, each curved to match the arc of the Cloister wall. In front of five of the slabs five Sisters knelt on black cushions, their high-collared, silver-and-white tunics immaculate. Although their eyes were hidden behind red ceremonial blindfolds, the thin veils were merely a traditional, symbolic part of their uniform, rather than serving the purpose for which they were, perhaps historically, designed. As such, each Sister was able to focus their attention, unimpeded, on the member of their order who knelt on a red cushion on the central dais.

By the sixth slab knelt a Sister unlike the others, dressed in a long black-and-red tunic. This was the High Oracle herself, Pelagia Themis, and for her to be attending the Ceremony of Prophecy in person was a rare event indeed. But she was here for a specific purpose—the Sisters had been in position for hours now, the Ceremony well underway and proceeding exactly as the High Oracle had planned.

Which was… badly.

Sister Kara frowned as she knelt on the central red cushion. She swayed on her knees, her lips moving soundlessly, as though she was reading something inside her head.

“Sister Kara.”

She jerked back at the interruption, nearly sliding off her cushion, and turned toward the voice of the High Oracle. Then she adjusted herself on the cushion, her knees burning in agony after so many hours trying—and failing—to read the Prophecy.

“Yes, High Oracle?”

“The gift of the Prophecy of the Sisters of the Oracular Order is a precious one, Kara,” said Pelagia. “We bear the Prophecy not just as a power, but as a responsibility, a gift that cannot be wasted. Much rides on the information we report to our brother, the High Overseer.”

Sister Kara bowed her head. “Yes, High Oracle.”

Pelagia nodded, then glanced to her left. “Ready again, Sister Beatris?”

Beatris lifted herself off her cushion and leaned over the device on the floor next to her; a small, compact contraption of metal and wood, a long copper listening horn, pointed toward the dais and Sister Kara—an audiograph recorder. She tore the last section of punch card out of the slot on the side, then pulled a fresh section carefully out from the roll inside the machine and aligned the edge with the recording pins. Satisfied, she sat back down on the cushion, her hand hovering over the audiograph controls.

“Recording ready, High Oracle.”

Pelagia turned back to the dais. “Now, we’ll try again, Sister Kara. And we will keep trying until the complete prophecy is read.”

Kara’s blindfolded face tilted toward the floor in front of her. “I’m sorry, High Oracle. The prophecy is… difficult.”

Pelagia pursed her lips. What Kara said was perfectly true—the Ritual of Prophecy was difficult, a skill that required years of practice and a lifetime of dedication. Not only that, Sister Kara was a novice, having joined the Chapel at Baleton only a year before. To be part of the Ritual for one so inexperienced was unheard of, but that was exactly why Pelagia was using her.

What she hadn’t told Kara—or any of the others, for that matter—was the real reason for her visit. Because she wasn’t here to personally supervise a novice attempting her first prophecy. No. She was here to gather more evidence, data she hoped would confirm a theory—one that had occupied virtually all her thoughts these last few weeks.

The Prophecies were being… well, interfered with. That was the only way she could describe it. Somehow, what the Sisters were seeing was not coming to pass—Pelagia had spent several months reviewing the prophecies sent to the High Overseer in Dunwall, even going back and listening to the original audiographs to ensure there had been no errors in their transcription, or manipulation of their content.

But the facts spoke for themselves. Something was wrong—something that would have profound repercussions not just for the Oracular Order but for the Empire itself, if the root cause could not be identified and eliminated. The prophecies of the Sisterhood were used for a multitude of purposes and helped to steer great decisions of state. They could be used to declare war and peace alike, to aid in negotiations between the nation-states of the Empire of the Isles, down to planning crop rotations, fighting natural disasters and even predicting the weather. The fate of the world—the course of history itself—pivoted on the reports they fed to the High Overseer of the Abbey of the Everyman, Yul Khulan, who in turn reviewed the prophecies and disseminated the important information they contained to the relevant parties across the Isles.

The Sisters of the Oracular Order were the most powerful group in the whole Empire.

And interference in their work could not be tolerated.

Which was why the High Oracle herself was here, in Baleton. The Chapel in the small city on the western coast of Gristol had never hosted the Order’s leader in its entire history. And that was why she had chosen Kara, the young novice, to read the Prophecy. Her lack of experience and training would, Pelagia hoped, reveal more about the mechanism of the interference, the novice’s unshielded, naked mind more open to see and read what the other Sisters—trained, experienced, disciplined—had long since learned to disregard, to tune out.

So went Pelagia’s theory, anyway.

“Yes,” she said. “The Ritual of the Prophecy is difficult. But, Sister Kara, did you expect anything else?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, High Oracle.”

Pelagia sighed. Around the circle, the five other Sisters knelt in silence, their own bodies, Pelagia had no doubt, screaming for a rest. But the five other Sisters were among the most senior of the Baleton Chapel. They were used to the discomfort. They were warriors and athletes as much as they were prophets, their bodies trained as much as their minds. Discomfort was a central part of their lives.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sister,” said Pelagia. “But if you wish to truly embrace our Order, if you wish to give yourself to it, wholly, then you must learn the Ritual of Prophecy. You must learn to reach out with your mind, dream about the Void, to see through it in order to read what the future will be. Remember, we are here to help. The seven Sisters are all part of the ritual, together. So concentrate, and reach out to us, draw on our strength to fuel your own.” Pelagia paused. “I am the High Oracle. I am here as your guide. Draw on my strength and read the future.”

Sister Kara bowed her head, then lifted it toward the ceiling. “Yes, High Oracle. I am ready.”

“Good,” said Pelagia. “Then we begin again. Sister Beatris, resume the recording.”

Beatris nodded and depressed the activation lever on the audiograph recorder. The machine whirred into life, the gentle clicking of the recording pins sounding like distant rainfall as it bounced around the circular walls of the chamber, the punch card slowly crawling out of the slot on the side of the device.

On the dais, Kara lifted herself up, then settled back on her haunches, resting her hands on her thighs. She rolled her neck and closed her eyes behind the red veil.

“The High Oracle guides you, Sister,” whispered Pelagia. “You have nothing to fear. Let the future show itself.”

The Sisters remained silent. The audiograph recorder chattered. Kara began to sway slightly as she drew short, sharp breaths between clenched teeth.

“Relax, Sister, relax,” said Pelagia. “Open your mind and let the Ritual of the Prophecy steer you toward the light. Relax, relax, relax.”

Kara rolled her neck again, then curled her fingers into fists. She stretched her neck back, her veiled eyes screwed shut, her face twisting into a grimace.

The audiograph recorder whirred, and the Sisters—and their High Oracle—waited for Kara’s vision of the future.

* * *

Day passed into night, and the Cloister of Prophecy grew dark. As the seven Sisters knelt in position, another member of the order slipped in and lit the four old-fashioned whale-tallow lamps that stood at the compass points in the circular room then retreated, leaving the others to their work.

The High Oracle and her Sisters waited. They would have no rest, no food, no water, until the Ritual of Prophecy was complete.

Another hour.

And then Sister Kara gasped, taking a huge, gulping breath as though surfacing from a deep, cold pool of water.

On the High Oracle’s left, Sister Hathena jumped, startled. She glanced at the High Oracle, her eyes wide and afraid behind the see-through veil.

Yes, thought Pelagia. She can sense it too.

Interference.

The High Oracle watched Sister Kara, the young novice rising and falling, rising and falling on her knees. Pelagia felt Sister Hathena’s veiled eyes on her, and suspected that any fear she had sensed earlier was now gone. In its place, she thought she could feel a growing anger as Hathena realized Pelagia’s plan.

Yes, she knew she had broken all protocol and tradition by selecting Kara to read the prophecy. And yes, she also knew there were reasons why such traditions existed. The Ritual of Prophecy was not just difficult; it was potentially dangerous for the untrained. Without such training—years of it—the naked mind could wander far into the labyrinth of the Void, following visions and songs that came not from the depths of the future, but from the depths of the prophet’s own subconscious.

Without such training, a mind could get lost forever.

Pelagia knew it was a risk. So did the others. But what the others didn’t know was that the risk was worth it. The future of the Order was at stake. And Pelagia Themis was the High Oracle, and the High Oracle’s word was the law.

She pushed the guilt away, ignored Sister Hathena’s stare, and focused on the disciplines of the Oracular Order, reciting the Seven Strictures to herself to clear her senses. Then, her emotions back under control, Pelagia lifted her chin and spoke, the first sounds recorded on Sister Beatris’s audiograph in many, many hours.

“Tell us, Sister,” said Pelagia quietly. “Tell us, child. Tell us what you see. Let the Prophecy speak through you. Let the future become clear in the eye of your mind.”

Kara opened her eyes. Pelagia could see the girl’s eyes through her red veil—they were glazed, unfocused. Kara had done it, finally.

Kara shuddered. “I see… I see…”

Kara gasped. Two other Sisters in the circle jumped, but Pelagia ignored them. Hathena hadn’t taken her eyes off the High Oracle.

“Tell us, Sister,” said Pelagia. “Divine the prophecy and let it be known to us all.”

“I see…”

“Speak, Kara, speak.”

Kara gasped again, rising up on her knees. Now Sister Beatris exchanged a glance with Sister Hathena, Beatris’s thumb hovering over the audiograph lever. Pelagia didn’t take her eyes from the dais, but she waved at the Sister.

“Let the recording continue, Beatris. We are close. We are very close.”

“Oracle,” said Hathena, turning on her cushion. “Oracle, this is not right. We must stop.”

Pelagia hissed, ignoring her. She rose up onto her knees to address the novice on the dais.

“Kara, speak! Tell us what you read, Sister.”

Kara gasped a third time, then dropped onto her cushion, her legs folded awkwardly under her. She turned her head, twisting it sideways like a hound listening for its master’s voice. Pelagia watched as the muscles at the back of Kara’s jaw bunched as the young novice ground her teeth. Kara began to pound her fists into her legs, blood trickling from between her clenched fingers as her nails dug deep into her palms.

“Focus, Kara. Focus!”

Hathena shook her head and stood up, clearly unconcerned with breaking protocol. “High Oracle—Pelagia—stop this! Stop this. Now.”

Pelagia stood. “Kara, hear me—”

That was when Kara screamed. Then she stood, and…

And she laughed.

“I see it!” Kara lifted her arms up, her face split by a wide grin. “I can see it!”

By now the other four Sisters, until then as still and as silent as the black marble slabs behind them, became restless, first looking at each other, then at the High Oracle, then back at their Sister on the dais.

“Tell us, Sister!” said Pelagia. “Read the prophecy.”

“I…” Kara lowered her arms and bent her head again. She leaned forward, craning her back, twisting her neck around. “I see… I see…”

“Tell us.”

“I see shadows,” Kara said, her voice now a harsh, sibilant whisper. “Many shadows, blue and dark. I see light, blue and bright. I see… there is a path, a way forward, but it is blocked. There is a curtain. A veil. A veil of blue. The veil… it moves. I can see… hands? I can see hands. There are many hands. They move behind the veil. Pushing. Clawing. Pulling at the veil, reaching out, reaching out…”

“Yes, Kara,” said Pelagia. “Reaching out. Reaching for you! Go to them, Kara. Go to them!”

“Oracle!” Hathena broke the circle, walking over to Pelagia and looking down at her. “Pelagia, there is heresy at work. I felt it! Stop this, before Kara is lost.”

Pelagia paid no heed. On the dais, Kara twisted on her cushion, rising and falling, her breathing becoming faster, shallower. She clenched and unclenched her hands, smearing the white of her tunic with blood.

“I see a veil… I see a veil… I see a veil. The hands that reach… The hands that reach…”

A thin line of blood spilled from Kara’s nose. She didn’t appear to notice as the blood ran down, around her mouth, staining her top teeth.

Hathena spun around. Before Pelagia could stop her, the Sister had stepped up onto the dais in front of Kara. The novice didn’t seem to notice she was there, she just kept bobbing and weaving.

“I see a veil… I see a veil. The many hands!”

Hathena knelt down so she was on the same level as Kara and grabbed the novice’s wrists. She pulled Kara’s hands toward her, but Kara fought against her, the two women locked together in what looked to be an equal struggle. Finally Hathena let go and fell back down the dais steps, landing in front of Beatris, knocking the horn of the audiograph recorder. She pushed herself up on her hands.

“Kara, listen to me! Find the path and come back to us! There is no prophecy. Come back and rejoin your Sisters.”

“The many hands… The many hands… The blue light that is blue…”

Hathena stood and, tearing the red veil from her face, she turned, looking around the circle.

“What’s the matter with you all? Will nobody help me?”

The others exchanged glances but didn’t move. Hathena moved back to the High Oracle, standing directly in front of her.

“High Oracle, please. Stop this!”

Pelagia looked over Hathena’s shoulder at Sister Kara writhing on the dais, whispering heresies as blood continued to run from her nose—and now her mouth, her ears, even her eyes.

She had found out what she wanted. Her fears were confirmed. And now the Ritual of Prophecy was killing Kara.

Pelagia’s hand dropped to her belt, her fingers playing over the pommel of the ceremonial mace carried by all of the Sisters of the Oracular Order.

Hathena glanced down, then backed away, shaking her head. “No. Pelagia, no, you can’t—”

The High Oracle stepped forward, lifting her mace from her belt. With her other hand she pointed at Beatris. “Enough! Stop the recording.”

Beatris operated the recording lever. The machine stopped with a heavy clunk.

Hathena opened her mouth to speak, but Pelagia pushed past her, her shove sending the Sister careening to the floor. The High Oracle mounted the dais. The mace in her hand felt suddenly very, very heavy.

Kara didn’t even know she was there. She had calmed, and was now kneeling, her head upturned, her lips moving, although she didn’t speak.

The other Sisters stood. Hathena was shouting, but Pelagia blotted the sound out, reciting the Seven Strictures inside her head, over and over and over again.

The prophecy was being interfered with. Someone had found a way, somehow, to influence the visions, to despoil the power of the Sisters of the Oracular Order.

It had to be some kind of witchcraft. There was no other explanation.

Heresy.

Then the High Oracle swung her arm back, raising the mace. Behind her, the others in the circle called out—Hathena included. She pushed herself up from the floor and dived toward Pelagia, grabbing the High Oracle’s arm, yanking it back with enough force to send both of them falling to the floor. Pelagia’s mace clattered away across the stones; she struggled to rise, but Hathena was faster, shoving the High Oracle away as she scrambled back to where Kara had collapsed onto the embroidered cushion, her curled body wracked with sobs.

Pelagia stood and pulled the veil off her face. “Hathena, you dare to interfere!”

Hathena wrapped her arms around Kara. She regarded Pelagia over the top of Kara’s shaking head. “You were going too far, High Oracle.”

Pelagia paused, the silence in the Cloister of Prophecy disturbed only by Kara’s weeping. As Pelagia stepped up onto the dais and looked down at the novice, Hathena pulled her even closer.

Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Then Pelagia turned and pointed at Beatris. “Destroy the audiograph recording, immediately. Burn it!”

Beatris, shaking, began pulling the punch card reel from the machine. The High Oracle turned back to Hathena, the two women looking at each other as time seemed to stretch out to eternity.

Then Pelagia said, “We had to know, Sister.”

Hathena stared at her. “There had to be another way.”

“The future of the Sisters of the Oracular Order hangs in the balance,” said Pelagia. “We cannot allow the Ritual of Prophecy to be interfered with.” She looked at the other Sisters, cowering from their leader. “There is heresy at work,” she said. “And we must work to fight it.”

She turned back to Hathena, then took a deep breath. “But I must thank you, Sister. Perhaps I allowed myself to be overcome. Look after Kara. You may suspend your duties until she has recovered. I must meditate on my actions and consider a better way forward.”

Hathena held her gaze for a moment, then she nodded. Pelagia turned and marched out of the chamber without another word.

After she was gone, Hathena glanced over to the corner of the Cloister of Prophecy, where the High Oracle’s mace lay. As Kara’s weeping began to subside, Hathena shifted her position, only now uncurling her fingers from the grip of her own mace on her belt.

PART ONE

THE KNIFE OF DUNWALL

1

GREAVES AUXILIARY WHALE SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, SLAUGHTERHOUSE ROW, DUNWALL

18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

“He’d looked into Jessamine Kaldwin’s eyes at the moment her life slipped away. And in that moment a thought occurred to him: he’d made a mistake. He’d been misled. That kind of thinking was useless. She was just as dead, whether he regretted it or not. But he’d seen his true face reflected in her eyes; seen himself for what he really was. Not a renowned assassin, not some great shaper of history. Just another playing piece in an unknowable game.”

—THE KNIFE OF DUNWALL

Excerpt from a penny novel, Chapter 3

He knelt on the hard, wet floor of the ruined slaughterhouse, glanced around at the neatly ordered piles of rubble, and sighed. He pushed the top of his deep hood back a little and tugged absentmindedly on the bottom of his jerkin, wet from the night rain. He pulled at his beard with a gloved hand.

Daud considered his situation, and he sighed.

So, this was it. Weeks—months—of traveling, of crisscrossing the Empire. Months of following rumors and whispers, of listening to stories with no endings, of seeking out strange cults, chasing leads that led nowhere. Months of searching, scrambling for what little information there was, grasping at the threads, pulling them gently, as though they would break in his grasp. This was it: a pile of rubble in the cavernous, burned-out shell of a whale oil factory in an unsavory quarter of the wettest bloody city in all the Isles.

It was the right place; he was just far too late. The stories were true—something had happened in the factory. Something vital to his mission. But whatever calamity had reduced the Greaves Auxiliary Slaughterhouse 5 to a broken shell, it had happened months ago.

All that time and effort wasted. The factory had been important, but now it was a dead end.

Daud stood, planted his hands on his hips, and tilted his head as he regarded the nearest rubble pile, as though viewing it from a different angle would somehow make any kind of difference at all.

No. It was not a wasted effort. This was not a dead end. He told himself that, over and over. Yes, he was visiting the scene months after the event, but even he couldn’t bend time that far. That was out of his control.

What was in his control was what he did now. He was here, he had made it. So now he could search for clues. Yes, the trail was cold—but he would find something.

He had to.

And true enough, the broken mix of ironwork, brick, and blocks of stone was interesting. Altogether, it occupied half of what was left of the factory floor, on the street side of the building’s shell, the half that was still mostly intact. On the other side, the river side, the entire side of the building was missing, the gaping maw open to the elements, with fingers of surviving superstructure reaching up into the dark sky and out over the dark river. Most of that side must have collapsed into the water, and while Daud could see the river was mostly clear, there was foamy wash close to the riverbank as the Wrenhaven tumbled over a fair amount of building wreckage lurking just below the surface. The river was a vital working waterway for Dunwall and clearly a great deal of effort had been made to dredge it. The recovered material had first been piled back into the factory, and then the real work had begun.

Whatever had happened, it had been big—big enough to investigate, big enough for officials to spend time moving, sorting, and cataloguing the rubble, which was neatly arranged, by material and by size, each piece daubed with a number in white paint that shone luminously in the night, reflecting back what little moonlight there was with surprising brightness.

An explosion was the official story. On the last leg of his journey, traveling east from Potterstead after landing back in Gristol, Daud had poured over every newspaper report he had managed to collect since he had linked rumor to fact, identifying the event in Dunwall as the pivot point on which his mission would succeed or fail.

The official story was straightforward enough, although it had taken some time to piece together something that felt closer to the whole picture from the myriad of different reports, each one sensationalized or editorialized depending on the newspaper, the personal whims of the journalist in question, and their targeted reading audience. But what he had managed to learn was this:

On the fifteenth day of the Month of Darkness, 1851—a full eight months ago now—there had been an industrial accident at the Greaves Auxiliary Slaughterhouse 5, situated on the banks of the Wrenhaven River, at the far eastern corner of Slaughterhouse Row. Although the specific reason had never been disclosed, there had been an explosion, big enough to not only destroy most of the factory itself, but damage several other buildings in the district, forcing the authorities to put up a cordon—for the public’s own safety—manned by the City Watch, effectively sealing off an area of several blocks, with the ruined factory at the center.

A cordon that today, eight months later, was still in place.

Daud found that interesting. He had easily avoided the lazy patrols of the City Watch and slipped into the restricted zone to find no damage at all to any of the other buildings in the block. Which meant the barriers had nothing to do with public safety. The authorities didn’t want people seeing what they were doing.

But that was it. Nothing further was reported, save for an editorial a day later on the dangers of whale oil. The Dunwall Courier reminded readers that the extraction and refining process was difficult and not without risk. It concluded by noting that the Empress of the Isles herself, Emily Kaldwin, had called in representatives of the Greaves Lightning Oil Company to Dunwall to provide her with a full report on the incident.

He hadn’t believed it when he had first read it and, bringing it to mind again, he still didn’t. He knew two things. Firstly, that this was no whale oil explosion—the substance was unstable, true, but even a storage tank rupture couldn’t cause this much damage. And secondly, an official investigation into a simple industrial accident didn’t take eight months, no matter how inefficient Dunwall bureaucracy was.

He was in the right place. It had been here.

He straightened up and looked around, noting the newer struts and props that had been installed to support the remaining three walls of the factory, the largest segments of which still rose to a prodigious height. The ruin was being preserved, at least for the moment, until the official work was finished.

This was fine. In fact, this was better than fine. Because it had been eight months, and they were still going through the rubble, which meant they hadn’t found it. Not yet.

He still had a chance. The trail was perhaps not as cold as he had thought.

But was the factory itself a dead end? He turned and walked slowly along the rows of rubble, scanning the pieces and their numbers, willing some clue, some piece of evidence that had somehow escaped the notice of the official investigator to leap up at him. As he walked he lifted the edge of his hood a little more, then glanced up to the open sky. It had finally stopped raining, but the factory floor was now swimming in two inches of water. There were City Watch patrols out in the streets of the restricted zone, and he moved carefully, not making a sound. Not that it was difficult for him. Silence, stealth and secrecy had been his bread and butter once. And now, after all this time, it had been easy to fall back into the old ways.

Perhaps a little too easy.

He stopped and exhaled slowly, controlling his breathing and the growing feeling of doubt that was blossoming in his belly.

He was too late. It wasn’t here. Maybe it never had been. Maybe the stories were just that.

That was when he heard it—a splash, boots slopping through water, someone clumsily entering the factory, thinking they were alone.

Daud immediately crouched into a combat stance, years of training and a lifetime of experience guiding him almost without conscious thought. Still hidden in the dark he darted away from the rubble, toward a long rectangular depression cut into the factory floor to his right—a whale oil overflow tank, choked with debris and filled with water. But there was still enough space to crouch low and observe the intruder unseen.

The light from a hooded lantern caught the wall on the other side of the factory, then swept around as the newcomer moved forward, out of the shadows near the street entrance and into a shaft of moonlight streaming in through the broken wall. The intruder wasn’t a guard of the City Watch, out on his patrol. The man belonged to another kind of order altogether—an order infinitely more capable and dangerous.

The intruder wore black breeches underneath a long charcoal-gray tunic, belted at the waist and harnessed with narrower leather straps over the shoulders, the wide cuffs embellished with bold gold motifs woven into the cloth. His face was hidden behind a golden mask, the features molded into a scowling, twisted visage of anger, the forehead engraved with a symbol, a horizontal pitchfork passing through a large capital C.

An Overseer, a member of the militarized faction of the Abbey of the Everyman. Brutal zealots, deployed only for very particular reasons, situations where black magic and witchcraft—heresies—were suspected.

Now, that was interesting. An Overseer in the ruined factory. No wonder the authorities wanted to keep people away. Which meant…

The stories were true. It had been here. And they were still looking for it.

The Twin-bladed Knife was real.

And he was getting closer.

The Overseer strode across the factory floor, passing his lantern beam over the rubble, over the walls, making no attempt at stealth.

Of course, it was no wonder the City Watch patrols had been so clearly disinterested in their duties that Daud had been able to practically walk straight past them. The City Watch and the Abbey of the Everyman had an uneasy, suspicious relationship—or at least they had, when he had last been in Dunwall. If the Overseers were here, then the Abbey was in charge. The City Watch would resent their authority and would resent being assigned to simple guard duty while the Overseers gave the orders.

He hadn’t seen any other Overseers on his way in, but then again, he hadn’t exactly dawdled outside. With the cordon in place, his primary goal had been to get into the factory quickly. It had been sheer luck that he hadn’t run into them.

And it was sheer luck that one had come in now, alone.

The Overseer turned, facing away from the debris-filled whale oil tank.

Now was his chance. Time to truly test himself, to see how much of the old ways he really did remember.

Time for the Knife of Dunwall to come out of hiding.

Daud raised himself up, fists clenched. He exhaled slowly, focusing his mind, drawing on a tether to somewhere else. A tether he’d grown increasingly reluctant to use. But Daud was nothing if not practical—if you had a tool, it was stupid not to use it. An opportunity like this wouldn’t present itself again, of that he was sure.

As the Overseer moved away, Daud dashed forward, boots silent in the two inches of water on the factory floor. He reached out with his left hand, the Mark of the Outsider engraved into the back of it burning fiercely under his glove as he drew on the power that had been granted to him so many, many years ago.

The Overseer had no idea what was coming as Daud leapt through the Void, transversing the fifty yards that separated them in a blink of an eye before grabbing the Overseer around the neck with a forearm and pulling backward, dragging him off balance. The Overseer grunted and dropped his lantern, his feet kicking in the water as Daud reached out again, transversing the pair of them up onto the top of one of the makeshift props that held up the wall opposite, then again, up over the crumbling wall of the factory and onto the moonlit rooftops of Dunwall, dragging the now unconscious Overseer with him.

It was time to get some answers.

2

A (VERY) HIGH ROOFTOP, TOWER DISTRICT, DUNWALL

18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

“The last Overseer, no doubt consumed with terror at seeing his brothers fall so easily, sank to his knees and begged for mercy. Daud spoke a single word that made my entrails squirm in my belly upon hearing it. The Overseer shrieked like a madman until his mask split in two, as though struck by some hammer and chisel, and a stream of blood gushed forth from the crack, bathing Daud’s boots.

I closed my eyes at that point, too overwhelmed to witness any further atrocity. I could only hope that if that foul heretic discovered me next, my life would end swiftly. But when I opened my eyes, Daud was nowhere to be seen. That was the last I ever saw of the Knife of Dunwall.”

—THE KNIFE OF DUNWALL, A SURVIVOR’S TALE

From a street pamphlet containing a sensationalized sighting of the assassin Daud

Daud leaned back against the damp old brick of the gargantuan chimney, and watched as the sun rose over the city of Dunwall. The sky was clearing, but enough thick clouds lingered to turn the sky brilliant banded shades of yellow, orange, red, even purple, and in the growing morning heat the rain of the night was evaporating from the ocean of slate that made up the collected rooftops of the city, creating a thin mist that smelled of clean stone. From this altitude, standing on the high metal gantry that orbited the chimney at nearly its summit, the view was nothing short of spectacular. Stretched out all around, Dunwall glittered, as though the entire city had been scattered with diamonds.

It was beautiful. Daud allowed himself a small smile as he finally admitted that fact. He’d been away so long that he’d forgotten the true splendor of the Empire’s capital, the largest, densest city in all the Isles. His memory, he realized, had been selective, his subconscious choosing to remind him only of the stench, of the rot and decay, of the violence and pain and death between narrow alleys of crumbling stone.