* * *
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 wreckof 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 ablack 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
