He lifted his hand, the Mark burning.
“The Mark of the Outsider would make a fine addition to my collection,” said Norcross. “As would the infamous Knife of Dunwall himself.”
It was now, or never.
Daud lunged for the plinth.
And then he froze, his hand inches from the weapon’s grip. Every muscle in his body seized as the tower chamber was filled with a harsh, metallic roaring sound, an awful cacophony that Daud could feel pushing all conscious thought from his mind.
He dropped to his knees. He leaned over, his forehead touching the black plinth on which the artifact sat, his curled knuckles pressed hard into his temples as the ancient music soared.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Daud tried to turn his head, but only managed to move his neck a little. He saw the trailing edge of a long green robe and matching green slippers as Norcross stood next to him.
Daud fought to draw breath. He tried to scream but only managed a croak. With a colossal effort he looked up.
The Twin-bladed Knife was there. Within reach. He lifted his hand. It felt like it was made of lead and his head full of cotton wool. He pushed his arm forward. It was like moving through whale oil.
He yelled, louder this time. His throat was on fire, spit flew from his open mouth, but he couldn’t hear himself. All he could hear was the terrible music.
He fell back, the room spinning. The last two things he saw were the guard with the Overseer’s music box strapped to his chest, the barrel-like mechanism on the front of the thing turning as the guard cranked the handle.
And Norcross, in his green robe, laughing, staring down at him with the folio clutched to his chest.
And then everything went black and Daud sank into a blissful and infinite silence.
18
THE PREPARATION ROOM, THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL
26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“Maximilian Norcross is a strange one. A self-made man, there is no record of his arrival in Gristol, although he has at various times claimed to have been born in no fewer than a dozen different cities from Wei-Ghon to Tyvia to Serkonos. Our investigations suggest that he may, in fact, be a native of Morley or northern Gristol, and that certainly Maximilian Norcross is a new identity, one adopted relatively recently.
Whatever his true past is, we have yet to ascertain. It is possible that he is hiding something. It is just as likely he is a supreme fantasist. His collection, by all accounts, is certainly fantastical. How he acquired it—and his wealth—remains the subject of ongoing investigations, in cooperation with our brothers in Wynnedown. However, we have evidence to suggest that he is in possession of a great number of heretical artifacts, although as yet no first-hand reports that his collection actually contains any. Indeed, it is unclear whether Norcross is interested in witchcraft or magic,and so far there is no evidence to suggest he is a student of such black arts, but I end this report with a recommendation that this man be watched carefully.”
—REPORT ON THE ACTIVITIES OF MAXIMILIAN NORCROSS
Excerpt from an Overseer’s covert field report
Daud awoke in a small, brightly lit stone room. The air was damp and smelled sharply of chemicals. He was lying at an angle on a table; when he tried to move, he found he couldn’t, and as his senses finally came back he looked down and saw the metal cuffs that secured his ankles and wrists.
He growled, pulling on the restraints, but this just made him feel dizzy. He slumped back against the table and closed his eyes, waiting for the ringing in his head to subside.
When it didn’t, he forced his head up again, the room rolling slowly in his vision as he tried to focus on the source of the sound.
It was the Overseer’s music box, strapped to the front of, not one of Norcross’s guards, but a wooden mannequin, similar to the ones modelling the collection of arms and armor in the main galleries. Only thing about this one that was different was its right arm. It was metal, and moved smoothly on oiled joints as it turned the music box handle. Fighting against the nauseating effects of the ancient music, Daud looked down, and saw a fat cable running out of the back of the mannequin and down into a port in the wall. The mannequin was automatic, the mechanical arm electric.
Daud lowered his head back to the table. The ancient music—he’d forgotten what it was like. Had it alwaysbeen this bad? The music not only prevented him from drawing on the power of the Mark of the Outsider, it also drained his energy, both physical and mental, and dulled his senses, leaving his head throbbing.
“Relax, Daud, relax,” said a voice. “You must forgive the noise, but I’m afraid I had to take out a little insurance. You are quite a remarkable specimen and I really don’t want you trying to escape. If I understand it correctly, so long as this terrible racket persists, you are quite incapable of anything at all, so just lie back and don’t wear yourself out trying. The process you are about to undergo will be taxing enough, even as it kills you. I would recommend you conserve your strength. It will make your death less… traumatic, shall we say.”
Daud opened his eyes and he managed a hard-won lungful of the acrid air.
Norcross moved in front of him, his arms folded across his green silk robe. Behind, Daud now saw there was a blue-coated guard watching while another fussed with a large machine. The room itself had walls of smooth white stone, like the rest of Morgengaard Castle, but there were stainless-steel panels at intervals, on which hung equipment on racks—saws, scalpels, clamps, forceps. Surgical equipment, and lots of it. Hanging on a hook on
