—PORTS OF CALL
Excerpt from a guide to port cities across the Empire of the Isles
“Three agents? Three? Against Daud? Were you out of your mind?”
In the early hours the Empire’s End was closed, its patrons long-since turfed out into the smelly street. But the pub was not empty. The back room was a handy meeting spot: private and quiet, particularly when the tavern itself was closed.
The perfect location for a debriefing, with three members of a secret group—including the barman himself, Sal—gathered in the small room to listen to the report given by a man clad in tattered, stinking clothes, his gray beard streaked with blood, one hand gingerly holding a damp cloth against his swelling nose.
The leader of the trio who had attacked Daud and Norcross—Lowry, a loyal agent of more than ten years’ service—grimaced, and not just because of the pain of his injuries. Sal was seated at the table, his eyes narrow and filled with ice. Lowry watched the publican, his immediate superior, grind his teeth, the muscles working at the back of his jaw.
Sal was not a person to disappoint. After a few more minutes of quiet seething, the anger almost wafting off him like steam, the publican stood and began to pace, shaking his head, running a hand through his thinning hair, before coming back around to Lowry and slamming both fists down on the table.
“Three agents,” said Sal. “Three agents against a man who dismantled a clockwork soldier with his bare hands. Three agents against a man who carries the Outsider’s Mark, who wields powers unlike anyone else in the—”
“Oh, how you provincials so love your histrionics.”
Sal’s lips twisted into a snarl as he turned toward the interruption. The other two members of their secret circle stood by the window, the immaculately dressed couplesharing a thick cigar taken from behind the bar as they viewed the proceedings with almost palpable disdain. The husband-and-wife pair had been at the pub for two days now and it was two days too many. That they weren’t agents themselves wasn’t Sal’s concern. What was a concern was how they still thought they could boss him around.
Sal hissed. Mr. and Mrs. Devlin weren’t worth the effort, not now—and besides, they had brought all the information they needed for the operation. An operation now in tatters because of Lowry’s failure. He turned back to face the man.
“I certainly counted on the fact that you would follow your orders, not rely on… wait, what did you call it?”
Lowry gulped, unsure of the correct response. He glanced at the Devlins, but they seemed more preoccupied with blowing smoke rings.
“Ah… initiative,” said Lowry. “Sir.”
Sal grinned. “Oh yes, initiative.” His smile vanished as he stepped closer to Lowry, close enough for their noses to almost touch. Lowry dropped his hand holding the cloth and leaned back to try and give himself some room.
“There were only two of them—”
Sal didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “We took an oath, Lowry. Remember that?”
Lowry grimaced again. “To protect but not to serve whomsoever occupies the Imperial Throne at Dunwall,” he said. “To defend against the scourge both from within and without, to safeguard the legacy of the Throne in perpetuity, whatever may be.”
“Whatever may be, Lowry, whatever that may be.” Sal prodded the man in the chest with his finger. “This is on you. The deaths of two agents is on you. And you know what? You’re going to have to tell Wyman yourself.”
From the window came a quiet chuckle from theodd couple. Sal glanced over at them. By all the Isles, he really didn’t like them. They were strange. Creepy. Arrogant. Everything was beneath them. Even the failure of their mission.
Then again, what did they care? They weren’t members of the League. They were freelancers—mercenaries. Why Wyman had decided to employ them rather than the quite capable agents of Morley, Sal didn’t rightly know.
Then again, one of these quite capable agents—Lowry—had just shown himself to be lazy and overconfident, with terrible results. Of course, Sal knew the reason for Lowry’s slip, but that didn’t excuse him. Even as he regarded the agent, Sal could almost see the words forming on Lowry’s lips.
“But, Sal, listen,” said Lowry, his voice nearly a whisper. “Magic isn’t real. It can’t be real.” His eyes were wide, like he was struggling to understand what he had seen in the alleyway—a quarry who had possessed remarkable, impossible abilities.
Abilities that Lowry, until now, hadn’t thought were possible. Sal knew the man didn’t believe in magic, didn’t believe the briefing that the Devlins had given them, didn’t believe that the Knife of Dunwall was anything other than a legend, an exaggerated fantasy of years past. But those beliefs had gotten one agent killed, and the other carted off by that monster, Norcross.
Sal shook his head and sat down at the table. Not for the first time, he wondered what the League was for, what the point of it—of any of it—was. Because the very thing the League supposedly existed to prevent had happened: the Duke of Serkonos had launched his coup, overthrowing the Empress—an empress the League was pledged to protect. The League had been blindsided, the coup seemingly arising from nowhere. And with theLeague’s head, Wyman, in Morley—and, Sal thought, as yet unaware of the calamity that had befallen their beloved Emily—it was left to Sal to follow Wyman’s last set of orders, issued before the coup had taken place.
The League of Protectors’ purpose was to protect the Imperial Throne. Before the coup, there was only one obvious threat, one fueled by persistent rumors of his return: Daud. Daud was back, and he was a threat. One that had to be eliminated at all costs. But was Daud really a priority now? Shouldn’t the coup take precedence? But Sal knew better than to question orders, whatever his own uncertainties. If Daud was still alive, having disappeared fifteen years ago, then yes, perhaps he did
