The blades flashed.
The Knife had power. Purpose. Daud could sense it.
Norcross bent down, his nose an inch from the Knife. “The condition is most remarkable,” he said. “This is easily the most ancient artifact in my entire collection, and yet it looks like it was forged today. Quite a fascinating mystery.” He stood tall. “Legend tells that this is the very knife that was used, four thousand years ago, by a cult to sacrifice what they called the ‘perfect victim,’ giving the life of a street urchin to the power of the Void.”
Norcross turned to Daud. “A young man,” he continued, “who was reborn as the Outsider.”
Daud met the collector’s gaze and held it. The Knife was within reach. He didn’t have time to play games, not now.
He let out a breath. “The Outsider is a legend. A storyfor dark nights and naughty children.”
Norcross lifted a finger. “Says the man who appears rather desperate to acquire the Knife. Please, I expected better of you. You are talking to the man who owns the greatest collection of heretical artifacts in the entire Empire. You know, as well as I do, that the Outsider is no myth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Norcross cleared his throat and opened the folio of papers. He began to read, tracing the lines with a finger.
“‘New reports emerged of a dusky-skinned assassin, paid by the elite to eliminate their rivals in Dunwall and in the other major cities across the Isles. Those who saw him and lived numbered in the handful, but all of them reported something strange.’”
“What is that?” Daud took a step toward Norcross, reaching out for the folio, but Norcross moved out of the way and began to stroll along the curve of the cabinets as he continued.
“I like this bit—listen. ‘He appeared and vanished like smoke. From a nearby rooftop, he gestured and a noble woman stumbled from her balcony, falling to her doom on the cobblestones below.’”
“I’m not here to listen to bog-spirit tales.”
Norcross still had his nose in the folio. As Daud spoke, he held up his finger again.
“‘Most recently, as this new threat of plague has risen in Dunwall, Daud has been seen leading a gang of men in dark leather, dressed as factory whalers in their vapor masks. They seem loyal beyond comprehension for one so unworthy, leading me to wonder if some of his magic is dedicated to lulling their minds, enslaving them.’” Norcross snapped the folio shut and pressed it against his chest. “So ends the report of a covert operative fromthe Abbey of the Everyman.” Norcross cocked his head. “And he was talking about you, wasn’t he? Daud, the Knife of Dunwall, leader of the Whalers. At one time the most hunted man in the whole Empire. I have an entire gallery of wanted posters collected from nearly every city in the Isles. Of course, that was a long time ago, and I must admit I didn’t recognize you. I like the beard. Suits you.”
Daud shook his head and spread his hands. “All I want is the Knife. I was telling the truth when I said I was a buyer—name your price.”
“And what happens after that?”
“Nothing happens.”
“Nothing? You’re seriously trying to tell me that you’ll take the Knife and leave and nothing will happen?”
Daud shrugged. “You’ll be richer. I’ll be gone. Never to be heard or seen again.”
“And what if the Knife is not for sale?”
“I’m not looking for trouble. Either we reach an agreement or we don’t. Either way, I’m leaving with the Knife.” Daud pointed at the folio. “If you know so much about me, then you’ll know what I’m capable of.”
Norcross bowed to Daud. “I don’t doubt it.” Then he reached inside the fold of his green robe and extracted the monocle again. He held it to his eye, and pointed toward Daud’s clenched fist. “Tell me, the Mark of the Outsider—does it hurt?”
Daud glanced down at his hand, flexing the fingers underneath the leather. “You can see the Mark?”
“Oh, yes,” said Norcross. He lifted the monocle to the lights above, and turned the ivory stem between his fingers. “Another artifact of the arcane and magical. The lens is a ground crystal from the Pandyssian continent. It is possessed of certain properties that are quite remarkable.” He gestured to the cabinets and their contents. “Useful forseeing whether a bonecharm or rune is the real thing or a fake. And, it seems, for seeing the Mark of the Outsider, no matter how you try to hide it.”
Daud frowned at Norcross. His eyes darted from the collector, to the Twin-bladed Knife, and back.
“Ah, yes,” said Norcross. “The Knife. The pride of my collection. You really want it, don’t you?” He stopped his pacing and tapped his chin with a finger. “But what for, I wonder? Something to do with the Outsider.” Norcross began to pace again, his eyes scanning the floor as he thought, ignoring Daud. “He’s an interesting… phenomenon, shall we say? For the last four thousand years, every child in the world has been scared by their mother by tales of this strange being. Belief in him comes and goes, waxes and wanes over the centuries, but never completely fades. Cults rise, shrines are built, superstitions flare. The Abbey of the Everyman call him out as their divine enemy, the Overseers tasked with driving belief in him back into the darkness.”
Daud looked at the Knife. He could hear it—feel it, like it was… singing to him. Music, from beyond time, from beyond the Void.
“Of course,” said Norcross, “there are other stories, other legends, about the Outsider. Some say that, far from being a distant observer, he takes a keen interest in the affairs of the world, and that as ages creep ever onward, he reaches toward us, choosing people, putting his Mark on them, and using them to act out his will.”
Daud almost didn’t hear him, so loud was the song
