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Curiosity, that horrid driver of cattle, pushed him well past all reason, common sense, and direct orders from the Vice Overseer. He had to see if there's more, there had to be more- the flooded areas of Dunwall were a damn goldmine. A run-down ruin, a meeting place for all who have much to hide from the likes of him. He couldn't take five sodden steps through its muck without running into heretical artefacts.
Vice Overseer Hume's field team had trudged through what was once the Rudshore Financial District last week and brought back scrolls, journals, and scraps of paper filled with blasphemy. Things that looked like prayers to him, or rituals, and strange little poems he couldn't quite decipher. Littered with references to the black-eyed Outsider, the realm of leviathans, carved bones that breathe in tandem with the Void. A mention of something called a "transversal" that he cross-checked with an encyclopedia and found only a vague reference to synthetic geometry. Whatever documents he managed to pull from the lot, he devoured and then reread again and again, looking for patterns late into the night, trying to make sense of that which rebukes it. Only once he shut off the light did he realise that the Sun was already inching over the horizon.
When he came to seek more, his request was denied with an unusual intensity. Apparently the documents were suddenly off-limits, as was the area they were confiscated from. The Master Archivist assured him that there was nothing of note in the flooded areas, and politely inquired whether Martin had any of the documents in his possession, and if he did to please return them for archiving post-haste, only for the sake of completeness, of course, unimportant as they were. But Martin knew that fucker well, had met him back when the man was just starting at the archives and would lose his nerve at the sight of a card catalogue. He was more than a little offended that someone he'd known for so long would think this novice cover-up would work on him. It only took applying a modicum of pressure to find out that Hume had found something there, something big- the indicator of organisation, more than those loose groups of heretics they could easily snuff out- and was desperately trying to put a lid on the operation before word got out. A pathetic excuse for security. And regardless of what it was that made Hume decide to cut his best strategist off, it was a massive mistake that Martin would make sure he comes to regret.
The archivist gave him one final warning to leave it alone, that not even he knew the full extent of it, that pushing the Vice Overseer would reflect badly on them both.
So. It wasn't the first time Martin had to take matters into his own hands.
Though he had plenty of excuses prepared, the gilded stitching on his sleeves and the mask were more than enough to allow him to pass through checkpoints unquestioned. The City Watch knew the Overseers were taking to the streets in droves, and they wordlessly parted ways and shut off arc pylons for him. Deep down, the watchmen feared them, and he intended to use that to its full advantage. The guard at the last checkpoint just before the sealed area wished him luck before opening the gate, and that was that.
The quarter leading up to the gate was kept in a state somewhat resembling current normalcy, but once he made it past the border, all pretences dropped. The stench was unbearable at first, even through his mask. This was where the price that the rest of Dunwall took for granted to keep their streets clean was paid: the entrance to Rudshore, littered with shrouded corpses stacked in rotting piles. At some point he thought he saw movement from one of the heaps out of the corner of his eye, something heaving itself up beneath blood-soaked fabric, and he quickened his pace.
The main street stretched far ahead of him- he knew where he was, just about. Most signs had been ripped out by the posts when the dam broke and most of the buildings were in ruins, but he could recognise the ghost of its outline. He took his mask off, afraid of the glare that might alert onlookers hiding in the shadows. The sightlines were awfully long, the dark navy of his uniform did little to help him blend in, and potential inhabitants of the District would certainly spot the reflection off of Holger's golden grimace before Martin could ever see them. He clipped it to his belt and tried his best to take shallow breaths.
He'd been to Rudshore every once in a while, in the times before- mostly to preach to the bankers about restless hands and, on one joyous occasion, to help a Senior Overseer officiate a lavish wedding. His brothers in the Abbey fought with everything but their fists to be assigned to the Financial District. Those who got lucky would get to hold sermons before extravagant parties for hosts who wished to appear pious or pass around ritual cups at the nuptials of noble couples. The wealthy inhabitants, ruddy from alcohol, would pat them on the back and talk about how much they respected the Seven Strictures and the High Overseer, slip banknotes into their uniform pockets or open palms hidden under tables while asking for one more blessing. On themselves, their estate, their family- as if they needed one more reassurance from the Cosmos. Martin never cared much for that part of it, and so was mostly passed over in favour of those more eager to go. But while he didn't quite seek Rudshore out, he could still vividly remember what it was like when he was there. Everything glimmered at that wedding- the bride's dress, the wreaths and sashes, the fluted glasses filled with sparkling liquid, the very air around them. He remembered the overpowering smell of perfume, the amused gazes exchanged between dinner guests when he started talking about sordid gains and vain pursuits. And he remembered, too, the temptation to lift a purse from its belt or pick a pocket or confiscate an expensive bottle of wine. How hard he tried to stop his gaze from wandering.
He looked around. Rusting iron fences, crumbling façades, carcasses of houses stripped to the bone of their valuables.
It grieved Martin to think about it.
The boots of his uniform were tall enough to keep his feet dry as he made his way through what was left of the streets, steps slow and heavy, sinking into mud and waste. The houses here were barricaded off and would require too much effort to enter, while most likely not hiding anything he'd find useful. Heretics liked to come and go quickly; they had no use for heavy doors and nailed boards. He had to venture further in or he'd be returning to the Abbey empty-handed.
Passing by a decapitated statue of the Empress, he saw a demolished structure up ahead, but with just enough cover- bricks still holding onto beams, edges of wooden flooring still intact, open and hidden at the same time. Several other houses nearby seemed to be in a similar state of promising decay. The closer he got to them, the deeper the water grew, and more dreadfully infested- this is where the hagfish came to gorge on the corpses of those the great city of Dunwall chewed up and spat out. When he took another step his foot plunged into an uneven patch of mud that gave way under his weight, nearly toppling him over, and he stumbled to keep his balance until he found himself thigh-deep in murky water. The cold started seeping in through the fabric of his trousers. A deep sigh escaped him. One more misfortune, he thought, and he would start questioning his decision to come here. He waded the floodwater with his arms raised at his sides, to keep his balance and to not tempt anything into biting- he imagined the teeth of those horrid creatures latching onto the exposed skin of his wrist between his glove and the edge of his sleeve and shuddered.
Water poured off him when he finally stepped into the not-house, dripping onto dusty, cracked floorboards. His search could begin. Martin knew not to overstay his welcome, certainly not here, but he needed more. He'd planned to spend a quarter hour scouting the area, maybe less, grabbing whatever Void-touched item or incriminating document he laid eyes on first and then making his leave before trouble could catch up with him. Just enough to sate his curiosity. If he was lucky, maybe he'd run into a journal or a map or a stack of papers, something else to occupy him into the late hours of the night. Something to give him a glimpse of what Hume had found, something to defiantly pore over in secret.
Instead, he found a note taped to the only somewhat clean part of crumbling brickwork:
DO NOT WASTE RESOURCES ON TRESPASSERS.
Clean, quick kills.
-Daud
Slanted, messy handwriting, rapid strokes, and a rather liberal use of underlines (three beneath NOT, two more beneath Clean). The paper was warping from the moisture, but he could still clearly see how hard the point of the pen must have been pressed against its surface in frustration.
He felt excitement strumming beneath his skin. Just five more minutes of exploring, just five more, and he could be leaving this rotten swamp with a greater bounty than he'd ever hoped for. Information pertaining to Daud and his thugs would be invaluable. Oh, and if he were to capture Daud- or even just one of his men, to be brought in for questioning. Surely they couldn't be that well-trained or even particularly clever, surely they'd crumble after half an hour in the interrogation chair. But oh, if he were to capture Daud himself, bring the witch in to be burned, he'd be next in line for an immediate promotion to Senior Overseer. The sooner he forced his way into the Ascending Circle, the better. If he pulled a couple more strings and got Hume to step down, perhaps with a relocation to Whitecliff, he could make it to Vice Overseer in record time. Daud's head was worth more than hundreds of confessions, than thousands of sermons. Even the best interrogator in the Abbey couldn't compete with the man who brought the Knife of Dunwall to his knees. And if Daud falls, his merry gang of heretics goes down with him.
He wondered if they'd let him keep Daud's ashes in his office, in honour of the man's sacrifice for Martin's ambition. Or, if what they say is true and the Mark of the Outsider truly doesn't burn nor tear nor dissolve, perhaps he could have it framed.
The note was a good sign, more than good. Hopefully the first in a long line of breadcrumbs left for him by clueless heretics. Another former room lay further ahead. He stood at the edge of the wrecked flooring, eyes flitting over the ruins. Splinters of wood sticking out, a few partially smashed pieces of furniture, a layer of grime. The structure once had multiple floors, but the ceiling must have caved in, leaving only elongated walls and a view of the dull sky.
There were certain truths the Abbey did not teach- could not teach, because one had to experience them to know them. For all their talk of recognising the signs of the Outsider, there was one Martin felt impossible to explain to the new initiates, though he knew it with burning certainty. Heresy was not a presence but an absence- so often the absence of that which is pure and edifying, of order and good. If an Overseer truly wanted to recognise it, that is what he would need to look for. And an absence was exactly what he found: the absence of the dust and rot that covered everything else, an uncharacteristic fleck of white in his peripheral vision. A folded up piece of paper resting in a corner, untouched by decay, perhaps carelessly dropped from a pocket or a bag. Must have been recently. Martin tried to keep quiet, boots squelching with each step, moving slowly until he was close enough to crouch down and grab it.
It seemed to be some sort of timetable, hours of the day and coded zones, filled with indecipherable acronyms. A reminder scrawled on the bottom: Ask Daud for key!!!
He folded it back up and pocketed it. This was a sure sign of more organised heretical activity than they were used to- the kind that required a coordinated attack to fully stamp out. The kind that left traces. If he searched a little more, walked a little further, he would certainly find a rune or a charm, an abandoned ritual or sigil, perhaps even a real shrine. There was a cabinet next to him that still had a few functioning drawers, drawers one could easily hide blasphemous knick-knacks in, and he started opening them one by one. Nothing. But surely he'd have greater luck in the other nearby ruin. He stood still for a moment, contemplating how he might better structure his search next time. Divide the district, perhaps.
A sudden noise, mere inches behind him, a sensation akin to wind- he spun around, instinctively reaching for his sabre, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The smell of metal hung in the air, strangely dull, stale gunpowder. It absorbed everything else- no more stagnant water, rot, damp mortar. An absence. He noticed far too late.
A distant splash. Panic mounting.
The air in front of him warped and for a moment it looked like the universe was being ripped apart, stitch by meticulous stitch. It coalesced into a swift burgundy blur that slammed into him until he collided with the wall.
Pressed against the bricks by the other man's forearm, pushing against his collarbone painfully, so close to his neck, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder. Martin tried to steel his expression, but he couldn't stop his eyes from widening a fraction. That scar across his face- the furrowed brow, the sharp jawline, just like in the posters- it was Daud, it had to be Daud. The Knife himself, come to wet his blade. He realised with horror that his belt felt lighter, sheath and holster empty- somehow, Daud had disposed of his sword and pistol without him noticing. Witchcraft. And when he finally dared to glance down, he saw crosshatched metal pointing straight at his abdomen. If he moved, if he tried anything, he'd probably spend the next few hours bleeding out in agony and begging the heretic to slit his throat instead.
"Looks like you got yourself caught, preacher. Now what?"
His voice was low, gravelly- just the kind he'd imagine a dangerous man to have, mocking and cocksure- and it sent shivers down his spine. Martin's lips, which had always served him well, were quicker than his mind this time and words started spilling out before he could fully think them through.
"I seem to have gotten so terribly lost, sir. I didn't mean to intrude," he said, letting fear colour his expression, and suddenly the pressure eased up. Daud stopped pushing against him, letting his arm hover between them, and Martin could breathe again. There was still a blade dangerously close to his stomach, Daud was still positioned well to strike, but Martin was no longer being crushed into the wall and his life was presumably no longer quite as endangered. He thanked the Cosmos and the spirits and all the High Overseers for his quick wit and decided to keep pushing. With a few more asinine excuses, he might be able to get away safely. "You wouldn't know the way out of here? I must have fallen asleep while my brothers were on patrol-"
Before he managed to get the words out fully, the back of Daud's hand collided with his cheek hard and sent his head spinning. He stumbled. Surprise registered first- didn't think he'd actually- and was almost instantly replaced by stinging pain. Dry skin cracked on impact, he could taste copper on his lips. Then pinprick tears blurred his vision and he tried to blink them away at least somewhat surreptitiously, a stunned frown on his face. Fuck, that man was strong. And not nearly as gullible as Martin had hoped. He ran his tongue over the inside of his teeth, grateful to feel them all in place despite the dull ache settling over his jaw. A shiny smear of blood and spit was left on the back of his glove after he wiped his mouth.
When Daud crowded him, knocked the air out of his lungs, his head must have struck the wall and now it was beginning to throb. The slap certainly didn't make him feel any better. Martin was slowly starting to contend with the reality that he might actually die here. What separated Daud's blade from his flesh was the fabric of his uniform and the assassin's seemingly dwindling restraint. If Martin kept running his mouth, it would only grow thinner. The possibility that Daud would bury his sword deep into his guts and then throw his body into the floodwater for the hagfish to devour felt uncomfortably within reach. It wasn't the first time Martin had death breathing down his neck, not by a long shot, but it was the first time he could stare it in the eye, could hear its laboured panting as it held him down.
A moment of stillness. They looked at each other, breathing in tandem, eyes wild. The rise and fall of Daud's shoulders, settling slowly. Too wrought up to move. Martin felt his face flush, heart hammering in his chest, pounding up to his carotid artery. Fluttering, irregular pulse. He wondered if Daud's beat at the same relentless pace.
And then Daud's sword was at his throat. Not the point- even Martin, who was an average swordsman at best, knew how empty of a threat that was- but the edge, right in the middle, angled just so. A better man might have encouraged his surrender, pointed the tip of the blade at him and waited for him to gracefully admit defeat with some sort of honour. But Daud was a merciless cutthroat- he had no honour to give, Martin thought, no man who degraded himself with black magic did. He could only ever be looking to kill. Tilting his head a fraction- barely anything, no room against the wall- did little to help. He pulled back and Daud's sword followed, as if drawn to his flesh. Steady motions. He could feel the edge of the blade slowly, slowly pressing into his skin until it broke. A shallow cut, not an inch wide, an accident to be blamed on his own shaky movement. Ridiculously, Martin had the realisation that his ashes wouldn't be stored in an ornate urn next to those of John Clavering or Tynan Wallace. There would be no golden plaque with his name on it, singing praises of his accomplishments and mourning his demise. There wouldn't be any ashes at all. His body would be torn apart by the rats of Rudshore and none of his brothers at the Abbey would ever know. Maybe Daud would come back, perhaps in a few days, after the creatures have stripped his carcass of flesh, to carve his bones into charms. Martin trembled. Pictured Daud with a whittling knife in his deft hands, working away.
"Don't play games with me, Overseer." From Daud's mouth, the word sounded like an insult. "Last chance."
For what, Martin didn't know. Didn't need to. He could see his future branching off before him, like running water slipping down mountain ridges, and he desperately sought an exit, a path that didn't cut short. If he ran, Daud's heretical tricks would easily catch up with him. If he fought back, he'd be killed instantly. He had nothing even resembling a weapon, save for the mask still attached to his belt. Worse than useless. And he refused to beg- partly out of dignity, yes, but mostly because he thought it would only anger the assassin further. There was nothing to explain, even if he could. Truth was meaningless at knifepoint. He got himself caught, he did, and now... He watched helplessly as all paths slowly collided in his mind's eye, all pointing to one final destination. Martin was set to reach it far sooner than he had ever anticipated.
He pressed his tongue on his split lip without thinking, as if to check if the blood had dried yet. Took a shaky breath, steeling himself. Tried not to swallow, lest the movement of his throat deepen the cut.
He'd lived his whole life a liar, that much was true, and he'd made up his mind long ago that he wouldn't die like one.
"I was hoping you'd be stupider," he forced out, surprised by how weak his voice sounded. "Could you let me have one last smoke before you kill me? Or does the Knife of Dunwall not believe in common courtesy?"
Daud laughed. The fury that was there moments ago disappeared- he laughed, almost surprised at first, then lazy and low in his throat. The jagged scar came alive, dancing around his smile. It was the kind of thing Martin would find attractive if he weren't about to be murdered. At least a good few inches separated the sword from his neck now- a great improvement. With bitter amusement, he thought about his fantasies of bringing Daud to justice, capturing him, overpowering him. Watching him strapped to the interrogation chair, spilling secrets. Reaping the accolades. Overseer apprehends Knife of Dunwall, receives promotion and the city's eternal gratitude. Looks like he wouldn't get to decorate his office quite like he'd hoped.
Daud stepped back, sheathed his sword in a swift motion, then fixed him with a warning gaze, as if Martin needed to be told to stay put. "You've got guts," he said, reaching into a pouch on the side of his belt. "I can respect that. Most of your kind would be... reciting prayers right about now."
Let it never be said that the Knife didn't take good care of his victims. He pulled out a thin metal case with vaguely filigreed engravings and flipped it open in a swift one-handed motion, retrieving two cigarettes. One he handed to Martin, the other he put between his own lips. A matchbox was pulled out of the pouch next, flimsy and with battered edges. Daud struck a match and lit his own cigarette first, letting out a puff a smoke, then offered the match up, presumably expecting Martin to take it. Instead, he leaned forward until he could touch the flame with the tip of the cigarette. Lids half-closed, he followed the line of the match down to Daud's fingers, hands, up his arms. The gloves concealing them were long, made of decent dark leather, and though he didn't think it truly there, Martin imagined seeing a splatter of his own blood on the knuckles. He lifted his gaze slowly. Breathed in deep until the ember caught. He kept his eyes on Daud, gauging his reaction, listening intently for a tell- a hitch in his breathing, a shift in his posture.
Martin leaned his back against the wall, tilted his head away from the other man, and breathed out. Breathed in. Daud watched him for a moment, entirely unreadable, then mimicked his actions, leaned on the wall next to him. But his little jab was still on Martin's mind. Lips around the filter, he made a noise of acknowledgement. "Yeah, well," he exhaled slowly, "If I thought prayers would help, I'd be praying. Unfortunately, I'm not stupid either."
Daud's crooked smile. So self-aware. The sticky, drying blood caking over Martin's lip stuck to the paper every time he took a drag. At the tail end of every breath, he felt the edges of a headache building. The smoke burned his throat raw.
"I would kill for a decent Morley whiskey right now," he said. Another display of honesty. Daud had extracted more truth from him in minutes than the Abbey did in twenty years. "The swill they produce here doesn't come close."
Daud let out an amused huff. "Tell me about it." Then a quiet afterthought: "Good whiskey, Morley." It was bizarrely companionable, all of it- lending cigarettes, leaning on the wall shoulder to shoulder, muted, meaningless conversation. Two immigrants bonding over the shortcomings of Gristol. Something like closeness. From a distance, they must have looked like two old friends reuniting unexpectedly. Martin didn't know what to do with it.
Now that he didn't have adrenaline pumping through his veins and slimming his thoughts down to the most crucial, he could take a moment to really look at the other man. Daud held the cigarette low between his fingers and took deep, satisfied breaths- Martin could picture him smoking one of those fat Serkonan cigars. Imagined him in the corner of some dark bar, eyes closed. He let his gaze flit back and forth, observing. The side without the scar was facing him, though 'without' wasn't quite right- there were several scars, only less prominent. The remnants of a gash on his forehead, traces of little nicks from old knife fights. He wondered if his nose had ever been broken. Couldn't quite tell what colour his eyes were. He watched Daud inhale, the way his shoulders rose, the place where his leather-clad fingers touched his lips. Smoke curling around them. He wanted to drink it all in, squeeze life from consciousness as a sponge, awareness buzzing like a wire. How much time he'd have left, he wondered.
He inspected the cigarette. The little red speck from where it touched his lips. "Are those Karnaca Lights?" In response, Daud gave him an exasperated look, one that could only mean: what the fuck do you think? Good, good, at least he caught onto the joke. "Well, anything's better than that shit we had in the military. Product of the Caulkenny Tobacco Factory." Martin laughed, shook his head. Remembered the acrid taste. He felt the inexplicable need to talk- something akin to a confession, to unburden his heavy soul before it faded into the Cosmos. He pushed it down.
Silence settled over them, and that was the most dangerous part. In silence his errant mind wandered, prying into those discredited branching paths and trying to sneak its way around them. The wild, thrashing animal at the base of humanity that drove him to survival seemed to believe against all sense that there could still be a way out, and his thoughts raced to find it despite himself. Against his will, plans began to form.
This whole thing wouldn't have happened if it weren't for Hume's dreadful oversight, and so he would have to suffer for it first. Martin thought of dozens of ways to get back at him, to make him pay dearly for deciding he apparently wasn't worthy of taking part. Thought, too, of the obstacles in his way to ascension, of toppling them one by one. Of the power that would be in abundance, all for him to take, if he forced Campbell out of the equation. And of the man next to him. How terrifying of a pair they would make, how marvellous of an ally Daud would be- a rabid wolfhound to sic on his enemies, a weapon to point in any direction he liked and watch it get razed to the ground. He imagined whispering the name of a target in Daud's ear and having their severed head on his desk by the next day. Fragments of sentences appeared in his mind, things he could say to convince the other man of his usefulness.
"There's no use lying to me," Daud said, apropos of nothing. "I'm sure you've figured that out by now." He seemed somewhat contemplative, gaze fixed towards the sky as he breathed out cigarette smoke. Grey clouds above, grey clouds below. "What's your name, preacher?"
There was that same practised ease with which, a lifetime ago, he could rattle off his rank and platoon number and commanding officer: "Warfare Overseer Teague Martin, working for Vice Overseer Leonard Hume, Dunwall Abbey."
"Dunwall Abbey, Dunwall Abbey," Daud muttered under his breath, as if he didn't know where it was. Martin was starting to feel like he was being fucked with. "You'll give me the location of your quarters, too."
Martin arched an eyebrow. He couldn't fathom why he needed to know- to dump his corpse there, make an example of him? To have his men ransack his room for valuables, knowing it would be empty? No, not if he played this right, not as long as Daud didn't know there was a game afoot in the first place.
"I'm a little too old to have suitors sneaking in and out through my window. A gentleman would have proposed dinner first, you know." It was a cheap dig, he knew, but he still revelled in the reaction.
Daud looked stunned, briefly. "Balls of fucking steel," he huffed, shaking his head. He spoke with the cigarette still between his lips. "I should kill you just for that."
Entirely unimpressed, Martin shrugged. He was well past the point of being shaken by threats on his life. But an unusual stubbornness overtook him, and he devised one last scheme- he made up a room number, one that sounded close enough to how the Abbey categorises available spaces, but was off by a digit. Leading Daud astray felt like a small victory. If his plan failed and he died by the other man's blade after all, he hoped his spirit would be tethered and conscious enough to witness Daud getting lost trying to comprehend the Abbey's labelling system, searching the halls and cursing his name.
Daud just hummed, seemingly satisfied with having forced out a response. He turned to him, as if to ask something else. Martin looked at the taut line of the other man's jugular, then at the silvery scar around his eye, wondering how he got it. No question came.
That little cigarette ember was rapidly reaching the tips of Martin's fingers- he'd have to snuff it out soon. He was terrified that if he didn't speak up now, Daud would decide their smoke break was over and unceremoniously cut his throat. He could tell by the look on his face- pupils blown, brows furrowed- that he was out for blood.
He would have to carefully coax his own life out of Daud's hands.
"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" He made an effort to sound casual, conversational.
Daud frowned, displeasure tugging at the corner of his lips. "I have no reason to care."
"A lone Overseer, no hound and no patrol partner, in the sealed-off district. All the way in your little..." he made a sweeping gesture, "territory. Isn't it strange?"
Perhaps Daud needed a moment to process this, perhaps he hadn't realised how unusual it was. More likely, if the annoyance in his tone was anything to go by, he found this line of inquiry entirely unnecessary. "Why is anyone here?" He turned away, probably looking at the ruins around them. "To hide, usually. If they come willingly."
"Yet I wasn't hiding."
"No," Daud conceded, brought the cigarette up to his lips, "You weren't. If you were, you're horrible at it." Martin found himself transfixed by the tip, the way it ignited when Daud breathed in. Like fanning the embers to start a fire, the same oscillating rhythm of glowing and fading.
"I'm a... collector," he offered, "Of heretical items."
That got him a smirk from Daud. "We're not recruiting."
"I'm not here to join you," Martin said, trying to sound firm in the face of the other man's misplaced amusement. He had to push before he let the control slip. "You have something I want, that much is clear. I wouldn't be here otherwise." Daud merely tilted his head in response. "But I believe I have something you want, too."
The expression on Daud's face was only a touch shy of overt ridicule. Martin almost felt offended. He left his place by the wall, came to stand in front of Daud. In his space.
"I have plans for the Abbey that I am very close to achieving. It won't take long now." The fire of ambition had always burned bright within him, always pushing him forward. There was nothing in this world except the next goal to aim for, nothing but him clawing desperately to reach it. He took another drag of the cigarette, felt uncomfortable heat on his lips. Let out a languid, slow exhale. Leaned in. "Wouldn't it be nice," he laid a hand on Daud's bicep, slowly inched it upwards to his shoulder, "to have a High Overseer who's sympathetic to your cause, a couple of years down the line?" Martin watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed under that awfully high collar. They looked at each other, sharing breath. A row of rapid heartbeats passed.
Then Daud's expression twisted. "Fucking viper," he spat out, shrugging Martin off with a rapid, twitchy movement of his arm. "Don't think I don't know the likes of you. Lie the moment you open your mouth."
"That's fair," he said, because it was. Daud couldn't have known how many layers of deceit he'd managed to strip off him. He stepped back. "Within the year, if you help me give the Abbey a push. Maybe less. I already-"
Daud cut him off, clearly having found his footing again. "You seem to think Campbell isn't already sympathetic to my cause."
A backhanded mockery. There's nothing you could possibly give me, he must have wanted to say, not knowing he had given Martin everything. Oh, there it was- yes- the right moment to twist the knife, to press on the bruise. To slowly put in motion what had been brewing in his mind.
Martin feigned a defeated sigh. "Well," he flicked the cigarette away, ground it beneath his boot, "I wouldn't call his latest orders to Hume sympathetic by any means, but you're right." He could practically hear the gears turning, watching Daud blink. He raised his hands placatively. "No, you're right. I shouldn't have assumed you didn't know already."
Closer, closer. Like holding meat to a feral wolfhound.
Daud sneered, teeth bared. "Didn't know what?"
Like soothing a beast before leading it to slaughter.
"Surely he warned you? For you and your men to get away in time?"
Daud grabbed him, pushing against his cheekbones, forcing Martin to face him. A wild fury flickered behind his eyes. His other hand found its way to the flesh between Martin's shoulder and neck, pressing against the metal clip of his suspenders, and dug hard until he let out a whine. He knew it would leave a mark. Martin let himself be shoved, forcefully stumbling backwards, all the way to the other side of the little room. Against the wall again, Daud's face a few inches from his, feeling his shaky breathing on his skin.
He anticipated that hand would make a grab for his windpipe next. "I have weak lungs," he said preemptively, contemplating immediately how to expand the lie- a bout of miraculously survived childhood pneumonia, decades spent in dusty mines, a frail constitution. Anything. Daud's gloved fingers only dug into his jaw harder.
"By the Void, you will speak or I will crush your skull. Everything you know."
"Easy, murderer," an almost-whisper between trembling inhales, "Don't make an enemy of me just yet."
That must have done something, for Daud's grip on him slackened. He didn't let go nor make to move, but it was as if those words had drained him of his strength. A few more breaths exchanged in silence. Daud's hands were still on him, laid on his face, on the base of his neck, but with no force behind them. Martin's head was pounding. He realised, all at once, that he was deathly exhausted. Sore. Perhaps it would be easiest to let his knees cave, slump against the wall, let himself collapse. Make Daud have to bend down if he really wanted to kill him so badly. Another long moment of nothing passed. Staring each other down.
Daud swiped a thumb over Martin's lips, a gentle brush that made him shiver for a split second, but then pressed with far too much force, pushing the wound against his teeth, the jolt of pain causing him to jerk his head away. And then he let go, took a quick, almost almost apologetic step back, expression entirely blank. Martin felt the throb of his pulse in his swollen lower lip, the chill that replaced the shared heat of proximity. He resisted the urge to ask what in Void's name that was supposed to mean and stood still for a moment, looking at the other man, trying to compose himself.
"Hume's been digging around in your area." He sounded far more shaken than he would have liked. Had to remind himself that he was in control here, that he led and Daud could only follow. Imagined a dance only he knew the steps to, dragging Daud along. "He sent extraction teams, went looking for heretical items. I'm guessing he was hoping he'd stumble upon some runes to bring back and burn, you know as well as I do this place is full of them. But I've been told he found something," he let his voice drop conspiratorially, "much better. Better for him, I mean. Not for you." He watched something akin to recognition play on Daud's face. Then added: "Of course, Campbell gave him the go-ahead."
If Hume hadn't actually stumbled upon Daud and his men yet, then Martin would tell him. Point him to the street where the assassin descended upon him, show him the strange timetable and extract every last drop of information from it. The Vice Overseer would certainly have to reconsider his stance on Martin's involvement, what with how incredibly useful his input would turn out to be. He could see himself in the office, getting to advise Hume's closest circle, to choose which men to send on a mission only he knows is doomed. Perhaps he could convince Daud to show them some mercy- or he could ask him not to. How many people got to have their problems taken care of by the Knife without a single coin exchanging hands? He was certain he'd be the only one. And when those pious hunters of heretics descend upon Rudshore, Daud would know he was telling the truth. Would come to trust him implicitly. How would he repay him, Martin wondered, for having saved his life, not knowing he was the one putting it in danger?
Holding all the strings on both sides. He got a private sort of delight out of the thought.
The best deals, he reckoned, were made under the appearance of camaraderie- between drinks, over shared secrets. He took a step forward, closing the distance Daud had cautiously put between them. He chose his next words carefully.
"I can guarantee your safety." Martin was almost certain that statement would be cause for protest, so he kept talking before Daud could object. "Hume will need my help to coordinate. No one else at the Abbey has studied strategy as extensively as I have." Though this was one thing he was almost certain of- no other Overseer had the amount of experience he did with organising attacks- he knew just as much that it no longer mattered whether Daud truly believed it. He had him. "I can guide them away from you. Or, if you'd prefer," he let his eyes wander downwards, following the line where Daud's shirt would open if it weren't for all those buttons, "Right into your hands."
A suspiciously brief consideration, then: "You'd sell out your brothers that easily? Doesn't inspire much confidence. I'm sure you won't mind having to prove your loyalty."
Martin imagined what that might entail- probably stealing the Abbey's elixir or revealing patrol rotations. Some inconsequential little extortion. As if that had ever bothered him.
"If you help me ascend." He wanted explicit confirmation. Not that Daud's word meant much- Outsider knows his own meant even less- but it would have put him at ease.
Of course Daud had other plans. "How about we start with me not killing you immediately and see where it goes from there," he deadpanned.
Martin realised he was beginning to smile despite himself. Quickly forced the edges of his lips down and cursed the assassin inwardly for being mildly amusing despite the circumstances.
"I'll be in touch." Daud made to leave, but paused at the edge of the wrecked flooring, turned to look at him over his shoulder. He cut an intimidating figure, Martin thought, with his tall, broad frame and steady blade-hand. And that scar, winding around the side of his face. Another on his neck, peeking over his oddly high shirt collar. Martin wondered how far down it went. "I'd hate for this to be more trouble than it's worth, so. One wrong step and you get this blade rammed straight through your throat. Is that clear, Overseer Teague Martin?"
Martin swallowed thickly and decided to say as little as possible before Daud changed his mind. "Crystal clear," he mumbled, reluctant to move his mouth. The blood had dried, but the wound still stung every time he spoke. A fitting punishment, he supposed, to restrict his lying tongue. Really, Daud had unwittingly done the Abbey a service. The echoes of lies... The thought pulled a smirk on his lips before he could stop it and he felt the wound reopen slowly, a sickly, uncomfortable separation.
Martin never did hear the Outsider in the echoes of his lies. All he could hear now was Daud's voice, asking for one more reason not to gut him where he's standing.
And Daud was still looking at him, still in the same spot, probably about to use one of his heretical tricks to vanish into thin air the same way he'd appeared. Instead, he remained. An odd expression came over him, one that Martin didn't quite know what to make of, and he shoved a hand into the pocket of his coat, pulling out... something. He threw it in Martin's general direction with an unnecessary amount of force. When it hit him in the chest (he barely felt the impact) and started slowly gliding towards the floor, Martin realised it was a handkerchief.
And then his gaze was drawn downwards, to Daud's clenched left fist and the sudden glow of the Mark, visible even through the leather of his gloves. He watched in fascinated silence. It was like looking through an ornate window into the heart of a flame, a strange, shifting burn following the intricate shape, within and without. It left an unholy trail of smoke. There was a gust of wind, then nothing.
Daud was gone. Wrapped in flickering shadows first, then gone, the space knitting itself back together in his absence. Martin was suddenly aware of the cold, the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric sticking to his legs, the pain. He knelt down and picked up the handkerchief, already soiled from the damp, muddy ground. He gingerly dabbed his lip on the only clean corner and watched it come out stained red. Looking at the now-empty space ahead of him, a glint in the distance caught his eye- his sword, left in a puddle. His pistol half buried in the mud nearby. He'd have to get on his hands and knees and dig around the muck to fish them out.
"Very funny," he muttered. Hoped the bastard was still close enough to hear it.
It would be a long walk to the Abbey, with plenty of time to think. Plenty of explaining to do once he arrives, too. And as soon as he does, he decided he'd schedule an urgent meeting with the Vice Overseer.