Norcross scratched his chin. As much as he was enjoying the performance, perhaps it was time to actually ask some questions, even though it would mean interrupting proceedings.
Such is life.
The interrogator took a step back, looking down the edge of his razor as he planned his next cut, but Norcross held up a hand and, at the man’s quizzical expression, gavea slight shake of the head. The interrogator gave a small bow and moved back, cleaning his blade with a cloth.
Norcross stepped up to the woman as she sagged in the chains, her feet dragging on the floor. He glanced down, taking care not to step in too much blood, then folded his arms and leaned over the woman. Her eyes were open and for a moment they settled on his, but her gaze was clouded, her pupils without focus.
No matter. She didn’t have to see him.
“Perhaps now you will be a little more cooperative,” said Norcross. “So we’ll try again. What is his name?”
The woman stared at him. Her lips moved, her jaw worked, but nothing emerged from her throat but a croaky hiss.
Norcross tutted. “Now, you can do better than that, surely? All I want to know is who he is. Well, actually, that’s not quite true. I also want to know why he is here and what your interest in him is, not to mention the small matter of who you are and who you work for, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can start with a name, and maybe move on from there, hmm?”
“I…”
Norcross turned to the interrogator. “She can speak, can’t she?”
The interrogator shrugged. “For now, yes.”
“Hmm,” said Norcross, turning back to the prisoner. “Let’s try that again, shall we? What. Is. His. Name?”
“Daaa… Daaa…”
Norcross laughed. “Oh, you really do need to try harder. You see, I know that this man is… special, let’s put it that way. He carries the Mark of the Outsider. Now, I suspect you know what that means as much as I do. We are not like the ignorant masses who so boldly deny the existence of magic even as they feverishly pray everynight that the Abbey of the Everyman will deliver them from evil. You and I know that evil is real, and it walks among us, the symbol of heresy burned into its very flesh, don’t we?”
Norcross snarled and grabbed the woman’s face, squeezing her cheeks between thumb and fingers. “So, let’s make a deal. You tell me his name, and I let Alonso here put you out of your misery. What do you say?”
The woman’s lips moved. Norcross released his hold, and her head fell against her chest. Then he leaned in, turning his ear toward her mouth as she whispered.
“Daaa… Daaa…”
“Come along. Once more, with conviction, if you please.”
“Daa… Daud. His… name… his name… is… Daud.”
Norcross straightened up and clapped his hands. “Excellent! Now then…”
The interrogator stepped forward, still cleaning his razor with the cloth. The man looked over the prisoner’s body, then pushed her head with his finger. The woman’s eyes were open, but they were glazed. The interrogator sighed, then flicked his razor across her cheek. Blood welled immediately, but there was no movement or sound from the prisoner.
The interrogator stepped back and shook his head at Norcross. “Too late, I’m afraid. She didn’t last as long as I thought she would.”
Norcross frowned, his hands laced in front of him. “A pity. We are cheated of our entertainment.” He paused and pursed his lips. “‘Daud’. Unusual name.”
“There’s only one person I know who went by that name, sir.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
The interrogator folded his arms. “When I worked inDunwall, for the City Watch. Oh, fifteen years ago now. No, maybe more. There was a gang, they used to dress up like whalers—you know, masks and everything. They weren’t like the other street gangs. They were mercenaries—assassins. If you had the coin, their services were yours.”
“Interesting. This Daud was one of them?”
“Oh, no, more than that, sir. Daud was their leader. We had a name for him—the Knife of Dunwall. Cold and ruthless, he was. A master of his craft, too. Must say, I admired that.”
“But of course,” said Norcross. “There is much to admire in the work of others.” He gestured to the prisoner.
The interrogator smiled and gave a bow. “I believe there is an account of Daud and the Whalers held in your library—among the Overseer field reports, from the cache of Abbey documents I brought with me.”
“Ah, excellent.” Norcross clapped his hands. “The Knife of Dunwall, eh? I knew our friend had a story. The Dunwall City Watch was right to think him special.”
“This Mark you mentioned?”
Norcross lifted his left hand. “Branded on his flesh, the symbol of the Outsider, signifying a connection to the Void.”
The interrogator nodded. “If your guest really is the Knife of Dunwall, he would make an excellent addition to the collection.”
“What a wonderful suggestion.”
The interrogator gestured to the body chained to the wall. “What about her?”
Norcross reached forward and lifted the woman’s head by her hair. Norcross grimaced as he saw white foam begin to bubble on the woman’s lips. He let the head fall, then he stood back and carefully extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping his hands with meticulouscare. Then he looked down, noticing he had her blood on his jacket.
“Gah! I shall have to get changed.”
“The girl, sir?”
“Take her to the preparation room. Once she has been processed she can go up in gallery ten, with her erstwhile colleague. I’ll compose a display card for them in the morning.” Norcross gave the interrogator a small bow. “With full credit to the work of the artist, of course.”
“Most kind, sir.”
There was a knock on the torture chamber’s door, then it opened and a guard ran in.
“Sir!”
Norcross turned to him. “Yes?”
“Your guest, sir. He has left his room.”
“Impatient sort of fellow, isn’t he?”
“Orders, sir? Do you want us to apprehend him?”
“No, that won’t
