The agent motioned in the other direction with the head of his cane. “No, we can go out the back. I have transport waiting.” Then he turned and began to weave his way through the crowd.
Daud followed in his wake.
* * *
With the burly barman’s apparent permission, the agent led Daud out through the back of the pub, the pair emerging into one of the alleyways that crisscrossed between the main streets. The cobbles, already slick with fishy runoff, undulated up and down; together, this made for a treacherous path underfoot. The sunlight was fading fast, throwing the alley into a darkness illuminated only by a lit window high on the rear of theEmpire’s End. Daud couldn’t see anybody about, and the only sound was the dull roar of the crowd in the tavern.
“Follow me,” said the agent. He turned on his heel and strode off up the alley, away from the main street. Daud followed a few paces behind, keeping his senses alert to his surroundings. He frowned, a nagging thought bothering him. He looked over his shoulder. The trio of vagrants had not returned to their spot at the entrance to the pub.
Suddenly he came to a halt. Ahead, the alley was intersected by two others. Norcross’s agent walked through the intersection, then, apparently realizing Daud was not with him, stopped and turned around.
“Do you want to meet Norcross or not?” he asked.
That was when they appeared. Two of the vagrants—the younger man and woman—slid out of the alleyways on either side, a gun in each hand now trained on Daud and the agent.
The agent looked around, and his eyes widened as he looked past Daud, back down toward the main street.
Daud turned. The third of the vagrants was walking toward them, gun held aloft. He stopped and cocked back the hammer with his thumb.
“Coin for fish heads and blood, sirs?”
13
PORTERFELL, GRISTOL
25th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“There is little to be said of the notion of strength, because strength is meaningless if you have cunning on your side. Evasion and mystery are your greatest weapons, for one hundred men confused are as one hundred chickens with no heads. Attack when they are unprepared, appear when you are not expected, and if the enemy cannot fathom your tactic, then you have won before the first strike is ever made.”
—A BETTER WAY TO DIE
Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise, author unknown
Norcross’s agent gasped and the clay pipe slipped from his teeth and dropped to the cobbles, where it shattered. Daud turned back to the old vagrant—although he now knew he was anything but a beggar. He also wasn’t old; the gray in his beard was real enough, but his bearing was now considerably improved from the hobbling posture he had assumed in the pub.
Something wasn’t right. Daud glanced at the gun. “Interesting weapon for a simple mugging.”
The vagrant grinned. “That so?”
Daud pointed at the gun with a gloved hand. The vagrant took a step back, the pistol rising in his hand.
“It’s well maintained,” said Daud. “Recently cleaned and oiled. Replacement strike pin. Your gun is used frequently, but looked after. Almost like it was your job.”
The vagrant’s face twitched. Daud glanced over his shoulder at the two others. The young man had his firing piece aimed at Daud, while his companion stood to one side, her gun pointed at Norcross’s agent, but her eyes flicked periodically over toward the trio’s leader.
“I don’t know how much coin you collect for fish heads and blood,” said Daud, “but unless you know a black marketeer with some very good connections, you wouldn’t be able to get hold of weapons such as those, even if you could afford them.” Daud looked at the agent. “Associates of yours? Given a signal to lie in wait in a dark alley for you to lead your marks in, where they are robbed and murdered before Norcross even knows they’re in town?” Daud nodded. “Seems like a good setup.”
The agent’s jaw went up and down a few times before he found the breath to speak. “What in all the Isles are you talking about?”
Daud gestured back at the leader of the gang. “The guns. They’re government issue—military. Well beyond the means of the average backstreet cutthroat. Which means they are not just opportunistic criminals. They’re mercenaries and they have an employer. You, for instance.”
The leader snarled. “You know your problem?”
Daud glanced at the man. “Enlighten me.”
“You talk too much.”
“What is going on?” asked Norcross’s agent. “Identify yourselves. I demand it!”
The leader scowled and waved his gun at Daud. “You,we need.” Then he waved the gun at the agent. “Him, we don’t.” He flicked his wrist, indicating to his companions. “Throw his body into the harbor when you’re finished.”
The agent gasped again, and took a step forward before the young man caught him and pushed him back; the agent stumbled, his cane clacking on the cobbles as he fell against the alley wall behind the woman and slid down onto the street.
Daud hissed between his teeth and turned on the gang leader. He was getting close to his goal and he wasn’t going to let anybody get in the way.
“You’ve picked the wrong person to mess with,” said Daud. He flexed his hand—he didn’t want to use his powers, not again, but it seemed like the universe was conspiring against him, ever since he had stepped back into the rotten city of Dunwall.
Maybe it was the Outsider. Maybe that bastard was watching him, working against him, pushing the events of the world to prevent him from achieving his goal.
But Daud took comfort in that thought, because if it were somehow true, then it meant he was close. The Twin-bladed Knife was near. He knew it.
The two young bandits glanced at their leader, their pistols still aimed squarely at their targets, but their confidence was diminishing, as their quarry seemed immune to their threats.
“They told us to
