Sal sighed. Over by the window, the Devlins smoked. Mr. Devlin leaned in and whispered something into his wife’s ear, and she threw back her head and laughed. Perhaps Sal could understand why the Devlins had been brought in. He didn’t know where Wyman had unearthed them from, but they were good, there was no doubt about it. They had not only confirmed Daud’s survival, they had found him and tracked him across the Isles, their remarkable skills providing the League with solid, actionable intelligence.
Intelligence the League had just squandered. They knew Daud would be coming to Porterfell to meet with Norcross—the collector who was known to pose as his own agent, meeting clients in the Empire’s End, where he could vet them anonymously.
And like the intelligence that had told them that, just as the legends had said, Daud was more than just a killer—more than even a man. He possessed magical powers—witnessed by the Devlins first-hand—that would make him a formidable foe for an army, let alone a trio of agents, no matter how well-trained and equipped with small arms supplied—covertly—by the constabulary.
Intelligence that Lowry had failed to act on, risking everything.
Sal felt anger begin to boil inside him again. What had Lowry been thinking, sending in his own team like that? To confront Daud and Norcross without backup? There were agents all over Porterfell, just waiting for orders. Maybe it was Sal’s fault. He should have taken more direct command.
Mrs. Devlin walked over and stood behind Sal, her long, elegant fingers trailing over his shoulder.
“From the ashes of failure rises opportunity, my dear man. We can either sit here and argue until breakfast, or we can formulate our next course of action. You want Daud dead. At your word, Mr. Devlin and I are happy to oblige.” She took a long draw on the cigar, then walked back to the window and handed it to her husband with an elaborate swish of her arm.
Lowry’s eyes flicked between the Devlins and Sal, now merely a spectator.
“Very well,” Sal said. “What do you propose?”
The Devlins exchanged a glance, then Mr. Devlin looked down his nose not at Sal, but at Lowry.
“Norcross has Daud?”
“He does,” said Lowry. “He’s taken him to his castle.”
“Urgh!” Mrs. Devlin gave a theatrical shiver. “That ridiculous folly of his.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Devlin. “Ghastly.”
“Absolutely ghastly, my dear. The sheer arrogance of that man.”
Mr. Devlin made a face. “Sheer arrogance, my dear.”
“If you’ve quite finished?” Sal frowned at the pair.
Mrs. Devlin turned her smile on. “The solution is simple. The Norcross estate is heavily guarded, and the journey there interminable.”
“I asked you what you were proposing to do,” said Sal.
“Why, wait, of course,” said Mrs. Devlin. “Daud will either come back here or travel to Potterstead. These are the only two ports within easy distance of Morgengaard Castle. Get as many agents as you have here and in Potterstead and have the moorland roads watched. And even if we are wrong—and we are not—and he tries south for Dunwall, or perhaps even north to Poolwick, we shall still see him and we can adjust our plan. He will be back in our sights soon, don’t worry.”
“And then what?” asked Sal.
“Oh, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Devlin. “Have a little faith. Mr. Devlin and I have never failed a contract.” Her smile tightened.
The publican sighed. The sooner he was back out on the streets, organizing the agents—out of this bloody room and away from the Devlins—the better.
16
THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL
26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“Know this: in pain, there is truth. In pain, all barriers fall, all masks are cast asunder. In pain, we are naked, each of us. Our very being exposed, our very minds open for anyone to read. The ability of pain to equalize all men cannot be overstated.
Pain, then, is a tool. But it is not an iron hammer or a steel saw. It is a fine brush, feather-light, to be wielded not by a laborer but by an artist.
In war, we may be warriors, but we must be artists also.”
—A BETTER WAY TO DIE
Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise, author unknown
Norcross yawned, and pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was late. No, it was early. Replacing the watch, he arched his back. Not time to retire yet. Far from it.
Things were just starting to get interesting.
He leaned back against the stone wall and folded hisarms as, in front of him, the blue-jacketed guard grabbed the prisoner’s blood-matted hair and yanked her head back. The female bandit from Porterfell was chained to the wall by both wrists, stripped to her underclothes to allow the interrogator access to her bare skin, which bled from the dozens of straight cuts. She hadn’t spoken—or screamed, for that matter—in quite a while, and as Norcross watched he wondered if the interrogator had gone a little too far. But a moment later, the woman opened her eyes and took in a great gulp of air.
The interrogator turned to his boss, long razor in his free hand, the front of his blue coat splattered with dark stains. Norcross nodded, and the interrogator turned back to the prisoner, sizing her up as he prepared to make another cut. He was an artist, Norcross could see that. It was always enjoyable to watch someone who really loved their work, and this man really was a master. Norcross got the same thrill as when he watched a sculptor at work. And here, in a bare stone room under Morgengaard Castle, the interrogator was shaping his own work of art, not out of stone, but out of flesh.
The interrogator cut with mathematical precision. The woman moaned, her head rolling against the stone. She was disappointingly quiet. But, still, that was to be expected. She wasn’t going
