Daud grimaced and forced his head to turn back to Norcross, the collector still smiling calmly. Daud’s eyes flicked to the machine next to him.
“What are you planning?”
The machine consisted of four large steel cylinderswith curved caps topped with complex valves—tanks of some kind, sitting on a wheeled steel trolley, in the base of which a whale oil tank was installed to provide power. A multitude of rubber hoses connected the valves to each other, and to another device at the end of the trolley, closest to the angled steel table to which Daud was held. The device had a smaller tank, and a mechanism with a large off-center wheel, which slowly turned, and a bellows, expanding and contracting, like the machine was breathing. There were six bolted ports on the end, from which came six more rubber hoses—far thinner than the tank hoses, each one ending in a cap, from which protruded a long silver needle.
Three of these hoses were held against the side of the trolley with clips. The other three trailed off to Daud’s left. He turned his head to see where they went, and he felt the heat of anger rise within him as he saw, for the first time, that there was another steel table next to his, also occupied.
It was a woman, her skin covered in small, deep cuts. Her eyes were open, but she was clearly dead. The three other hoses from the machine trailed over her body, a needle deeply embedded in her neck, her left side, and the calf of her right leg. Daud recognized her as one of the three vagrants from Porterfell who had ambushed him and Norcross behind the Empire’s End.
Daud had seen all kinds of horror in his life—and had been responsible for a good deal of it himself. He had seen people tortured by the more vicious street gangs of Dunwall, back in the day. He had seen others torn apart by hounds for sport. He had encountered cannibals in the wilds of northern Tyvia, catching and eating travelers in the harsh tundra just to survive.
But this? This was something else entirely.
Norcross stepped over to the woman’s body and looked her up and down. “A remarkable process,” said the collector, “and one which, I am rather proud to say, is of my own devising.” He looked over at Daud. “As an admirer of the natural world, I had long sought a method of preserving specimens for my collection that was beyond mere taxidermy, which is effective, but results in exhibits that are somewhat… well, artificial. So I developed my own technique.”
He turned and walked over to the machine, gesturing to it like an academic giving a lecture. “The exact methodology is complex, and I won’t bore you with the precise details. But with this system, we can extract the water from any organic specimen, and replace it with a mineral solution. This solution—again, of my own invention, after many years of experimentation—then hardens, perfectly preserving the specimen in a manner that leaves them exactly as they were in life.”
Daud took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts amidst the terrible roar of the ancient music. He tensed his muscles, pulling just a little on his restraints, testing them rather than trying to free himself. The cuffs were heavy, but the metal was thin—they weren’t, he realized, designed to restrain a prisoner. They were merely designed to hold a body in place while Norcross used his process on them.
A human body. Daud closed his eyes, his efforts rewarded with a deep, rolling nausea. Norcross spoke of collecting specimens like he was a zoologist, hunting exotic animals to mount in his private museum. But the tables were designed for people.
Daud opened his eyes. “How many?”
Norcross frowned. “How many what? Really, you are a man of intelligence. I was expecting a little more interest.”
“How many people have you… collected?”
“Ah. Well, I must admit my catalogue is somewhat incomplete. But it would be close to a hundred.”
“And now you want to add me.”
Norcross clapped his hands. “Why, yes, of course! What better addition than the Knife of Dunwall himself! Daud, once the most wanted man in all the Isles! Not only a notorious criminal and assassin but a magician, marked by the Outsider himself, wielder of remarkable abilities gifted by the Void.”
Norcross stepped closer to Daud and pointed at his face with an elegant ringed finger. “You, my friend, will be the centerpiece of a whole new display. Yes! I can see the scene now!” He turned and swept a hand in the air, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “The dark streets of Dunwall! The year 1835! An assassin stalks the night, creeping up on his latest victim, knife held ready, the Mark of the Outsider already glowing on his flesh—”
“You’re moonstruck,” said Daud.
Norcross dropped his hand, his mouth twitching with annoyance. “I am a curator of history. The life and times of the entire Empire are represented in my collection.” He pointed at Daud again. “And that history includes you.”
That was when the lights went out, the preparation room plunged into darkness, lit only by the blue glow of the whale oil tank under the trolley.
The chamber was also silent. Instantly, Daud felt better—more awake, the fogginess in his head clearing. He craned his neck and saw that the automatic mannequin had stopped working. The music box was silent.
Norcross gestured angrily at a guard, waving his hand toward the speaking tube.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Find out what—”
He was interrupted by a shrill whistle—someone wastrying to contact them. The guard picked up the end of the speaking tube, pulling the stopper out before bellowing into it.
“Yes?” Then he pressed the tube to his ear.
Norcross joined
