Sal walked over to the Devlins as they sat at a corner table in the Empire’s End, underneath a portrait of Emperor Alexy Olaskir, two tankards of ale in front of them. Immaculate as ever, the husband and wife were clad in matching suits woven out of dense Morley wool cloth, the fabric patterned with an alarming red-and-green plaid. They looked entirely out of place, two aristocrats slumming it for their own pleasure. Sal gritted his teeth as he joined them, half-heartedly wiping the table with a cloth in case anyone was paying attention. The pub was as busy as always, the shifts of the fishing warehouses and markets around the establishment staggered, providing Sal with a steady stream of customers.
Mr. Devlin pointed at his tankard. “Don’t look so unhappy, landlord. I’d suggest you have a drink, but this ‘ale,’ as they call it, is not entirely to be recommended. I can see why your establishment leans more toward the smokable. Quite commendable, actually, given the outrageous olfactory assault of this horrid little town.”
Sal ignored them, as he had been ignoring them for days now. Then he turned as a woman entered the pub, glanced around, and headed straight for him. “Daud. He’s been sighted.”
Sal nodded. “Go on.”
“He’s got passage to Karnaca, aboard a whaling trawler, the Bear of Tamarak. It left Potterstead this morning.”
Mrs. Devlin raised one eyebrow. “A whaling trawler? How quaint. I didn’t think many were still running these days.”
Her husband blew a smoke ring. “I’ve heard tell that pods of the creatures have returned to the seas near Pandyssia. It would be a lengthy expedition, one final rollof the dice for the oil trade perhaps.” He nodded at the messenger. “But you say it is going to Karnaca?”
“To pick up more crew, yes.”
Mr. Devlin winked at Sal. “So our quarry scuttles back to his nest, eh?”
Sal considered the options. Karnaca was a long way away—what was Daud doing? Had he acquired the artifact from Norcross? Or did the search continue?
Mrs. Devlin glanced at the messenger, the distaste obvious on her face, then she looked at Sal. “I suggest we leave at once.”
Sal nodded. “If he’s on a whaler, the journey will be slow. Take a clipper to Bastillian. You’ll find plenty of transport there. You should reach Karnaca before him.”
“Oh, you’re not coming?”
“Wyman hired you, not me. I took an oath out of my love for the Empire. Which means I have a pub to run.”
Mr. Devlin smirked. “How quaint.”
Sal managed to control his annoyance. “Just find him,” he said. “And kill him.”
Mrs. Devlin raised her tankard. “To the death of the enemy!”
Sal returned to the comfort of the bar, happy at least that the unpleasant pair would be out from under his roof soon enough.
INTERLUDE
THE ROYAL CONSERVATORY, KARNACA
2nd Day, Month of Timber, 1841, Eleven Years before the Dunwall Coup
“It was suddenly obvious to me that at this rate of attrition we would not only fail to sufficiently research the continent, but we might soon lack enough crew to make the return voyage! Something had to be done to save the venture! And so I immediately declared myself Captain. On my orders the remaining crew kept to the relative safety of the beach for the duration of the week.”
—A REFLECTION ON MY JOURNEY TO THE PANDYSSIAN CONTINENT
Anton Sokolov, excerpt from the Introduction to the second edition, 1822
The two men lay on the couches while Sokolov fussed around the machinery between them.
Finally, thought Stilton. Sokolov’s lecture had been far too long but, perhaps sensing the restlessness of the audience, the natural philosopher had finally ended his talk and called for two volunteers.
The man on the couch farthest from Stilton was an older gentleman in a gray suit with long tails, the ends of which he now clutched with white-gloved hands as he lay back and stared into the high ceiling of the Royal Conservatory’s entrance hall. On the other couch was a much younger volunteer, a dandy of perhaps twenty, his evening attire a far more flamboyant affair of green-and-red velvets. This man was grinning, his attention torn between watching Sokolov at the machine and someone he clearly knew down in the front of the audience, whom he kept waving to.
Stilton’s head buzzed a little with the drink, and he swayed as he sat on the tall stool. As he looked at the young volunteer, admiring his handsome features—not to mention his elegant fashion sense—he smiled, feeling his heart kick up just a little. The way the man’s skin glowed with sweat in the spotlights made a chill run up Stilton’sspine. Ah, if only he were ten years younger. He took a swig of his drink. No, make it twenty years younger. A youth like that would see nothing but an overweight oaf with ruddy skin from too much drink.
Ah, but once upon a time.
The youthful volunteer waved again. Stilton frowned and slipped off the stool, somehow managing to stop it from tipping over as he did so, and peered around the edge of the wings, trying not to be seen by the audience but desperate to see who the young man’s friend was.
Ah, there. Second row, near the aisle. A young woman with dark skin and dark hair wound tightly on her head and held in place with a wide-brimmed bonnet—much to the clear inconvenience of the gentleman sitting behind her, who was leaning out into the aisle to see around her elaborate headgear.
Stilton settled back into the wings. Well, there you are. Another lost cause. He went to take a swig of his hipflask and was surprised to discover it was empty.
Out on the stage, Sokolov rose from the machine and nodded, apparently to himself, then turned to the audience.
“As I have already related, my investigations into the electro-potential properties of the Pandyssian minerals—” he paused, tugged at his beard, and laughed to himself “—let us
