But he had no choice. It was now, or never.
Wyrmwood Way was different—separate—from the rest of Dunwall for another reason that was unrelated to its architecture or history: its gangs—or, specifically, one gang. The most dangerous, most cutthroat, most violent gang in all of Dunwall’s history. They weren’t generally mentioned in the same breath as the other, more well-known groups that stalked Dunwall’s underbelly—the Hatters, the Dead Eels, the Bottle Street Gang, and, more recently, the Roaring Boys—because their activity was confined within the boundaries of the Wyrmwood district. Most of the citizens of Dunwall, although they would have heard of Wyrmwood Way—may even have ventured into the mouth of it, hunting for rare antiquities or unusual trinkets, blissfully unaware of the darker kinds of markets that operated in the area—had never even heard of the gang.
They called themselves the Sixways Gang. They were led by a man called Eat ’Em Up Jack. Their base of operations was a tavern called the Suicide Hall.
Daud had come to see them because there was one very particular type of business the Sixways controlled within their Wyrmwood empire: smuggling. Art treasures, stolen property, kidnapped people, heretical artifacts—or just plain old coin—if you needed to get it out of Dunwall without anyone knowing about it, you employed the services of the Sixways Gang.
If anyone knew what had happened to the Twin-bladedKnife, it was going to be Eat ’Em Up Jack. And Daud was going to ask him in person.
He only hoped he wouldn’t have to kill them all to get out alive.
* * *
Daud made it down to street level and headed directly for Wyrmwood Way. He was alone for a few dozen yards, and then he wasn’t. A few more paces, and he turned and saw that he was being followed openly, by two people—a man and a woman, both wearing immaculately tailored suits of the kind favored by bankers and accountants. But these were not business people. The man’s neck was thick and muscular, and he wore a heavy moustache with upturned waxed ends, while his companion’s long hair was wound into a tight bun on the top of her head, and her round-collared shirt did little to hide the tattoos on her neck. Their jackets had had the lapels roughly cut away, leaving a jagged, almost torn edge with white threads trailing against the dark fabric.
It was clear these were lookouts for the Sixways, stationed at the start of Wyrmwood Way, not so much to guard the approaches but to see that whatever was going on in Dunwall did not interfere with operations here in their own territory. Word of the coup must have reached them.
Soon the two lookouts were joined by another two men, and another couple, peeling casually out of doorways to follow the stranger walking so boldly into their domain.
Daud took this as a good sign, because it meant that the Sixways were still in operation—and that there was a chance he could get the information he had come here for. And just in time, too, he thought, as he passed the burned-out skeleton of a building on his right. The Overseers periodically came into Wyrmwood Way andset fire to buildings in somewhat half-hearted attempts to halt the trade in heretical and arcane goods. That they never managed to do much damage was largely due to the fierce street fighting they had faced when, on one historic occasion, they had penetrated right to the heart of the Sixways territory and faced an army of gangsters who left dozens of Overseers dead and drove the rest out. Since the Battle of Mandragora Street—as the event had become known—the Overseers never had much interest in devoting the time and manpower that would be needed to truly flush the Sixways from the district.
As Daud continued his journey, followed now by six lookouts, he wondered how long that impasse would last now. If there was a regime change at the Tower—if Duke Luca Abele of Serkonos had installed himself as ruler—then he doubted Wyrmwood Way would remain untouched for much longer.
Which is why there was no time to waste. He had to get in, get the information, find out who had taken the Twin-bladed Knife and where.
He marched onward, head up and hood pulled back enough so his face wasn’t hidden. Further down Wyrmwood Way, there were more lookouts of various ages and builds, a more or less even mix of men and women, all clad in their suits, jacket lapels shorn away, men with round hats and moustaches elegant and waxed, the women with their hair in topknots. They stood in doorways and against walls. They sat on steps and leaned against rails. And it wasn’t just at street level. Daud glanced up and saw more leaning out of open windows or looking down from behind closed ones.
They all watched Daud as he walked down the street, his escort now twenty paces behind him. He ignored it all and kept walking in a straight line with his eyes fixedahead, his expression firm. He hoped that his manner suggested he was here quite deliberately, not for a fight, but for business.
The road was quite long and fairly straight, the quarter mile thoroughfare terminating at a large intersection, right in the heart of the district, where five other streets converged—two major arteries, Wyrmwood Way and Mandragora Street, and three smaller roadways—the area forming a fairly large, open circular space surrounded by tall buildings. The center of the intersection was clear, but around the edges were more gangsters—perhaps fifty, all dressed in the uniform of the Sixways Gang. Daud stopped, unable to hide the hesitation in his step. The gang was on alert, no question about it. Because unlike his escort of six, and the others who had watched him, the gangsters here made no attempt to conceal their weaponry. Each had two pistols stuffed into their belts, and from each right hand dangled a leather blackjack, the way their bulbous ends swung in
