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Chapter Text

Daud’s always been a man with too much on his mind.

Comes with the lifestyle; comes with taking in every mudlark and miserable urchin off the street. And when the thoughts start to overflow, too much and too daunting, he finds it best to speak them aloud.

He knows his men probably listen to the records; they’re all spies, after all. Let them, if they wish. He’s far past feeling shame over things like that.

Daud flicks the audiograph switch down, and the recording begins.

“We’re on borrowed time. Stolen time, really, if I’m being honest with myself. But I’ll get to that.

“I need to be honest with myself; need to stay in reality, however bleak. What with the overseer surge, and Lurk, and the Empress, and Hiram Burrows, and the dwindling safety of our home and my people with every passing day that we stay here.

“I’m not a fool. The events listed before may argue contrary to this–“ He scoffs, derisive, “–but I’m not. I know Hume and his retinue, now floating dead and swollen in the waters somewhere below, won’t be the last to come here.

“The High Overseer himself has our location; scratched in ink on paper like an execution warrant in that little black book of his. And he’s the Regent’s closest ally. Hiram may be a rat and a coward, but he has always been careful. Has always kept leverage. Has always known just what and where and who to squeeze to get what he wants.

“‘Do the job,’ he said, ‘consider it your last for me. Remove the Empress, and you and your men can walk away, free.’

“My men, always my men.

“I hadn’t refused him. Hadn’t even considered refusing him... The coin was too good, Burrows’ promise too tempting. He was getting in too close with Campbell. I wanted distance, for my people’s sake. All it would take was one last job.

“An Empress has to be murdered so my men can survive. Most of them were just kids when I found them, scared and desperate. So now Jessamine Kaldwin’s daughter gets to be scared and desperate instead, while I can keep this family I’ve forged through years of blood and steel for just a heartbeat longer.

“Not a choice at all, really. I’ve done terrible things to protect them. I’ll do terrible things again, if I have to.”

(He doesn’t want to. He wants to take them all in his arms and flee, like a hound with its tail tucked and quaking between its legs, pride be damned.)

“I’ve lost too many, this past month. Hume’s men cut down four. Pickford, Scott, Kieron, Pavel. They died defending this place that we may soon have to abandon, because of my fear, my failure. Akila lost an arm; mauled too deep by the hounds to be saved. And Tynan will never hear again, thanks to that fucking music. Eardrums burst beyond repair.”

He pauses, sighing heavily through his nose.

“It’s only the Lord Protector’s escape from Coldridge that’s keeping eyes away from Rudshore.

“That’s why it’s stolen time. Corvo Attano wasn’t part of the deal. He wasn’t even supposed to be there that day. He wasn’t meant to take the fall, be in Coldridge, be involved in any of it like this.

”But he’s been Burrows’ and Campbell’s priority for six months, trying to get that confession. And now Corvo’s no longer contained, they’re trying to remove the one loose end that they have. Capture or kill, the posters say. They’re worried. More than worried.

“No doubt Burrows will come to us again, eventually; try to con me into hunting Corvo myself. He’ll be disappointed.”

Daud pauses again to shake a cigarette from his pack; snaps his lighter open, and savours the burn in his throat as he takes a slow drag.

“No more jobs for you now, our most esteemed Lord Regent. I never should have allied with you. All those years as the Royal Spymaster’s shadow, getting your information, gutting your enemies, making your dark deals in all the places you couldn’t stomach setting your polished shoes in.”

He flicks ash onto the floor, turns and stalks towards the audiograph to lean close, bitter and angry as he ever is when Burrows comes into the conversation.

“I hope someone reaches you at last, and gets your fucking blood all over them.”

He ends the recording just as one of the doors barrels open, and Daud almost launches the nearest book.

“Sir–”

“Knock, Fisher.” He hopes he looks more annoyed than startled. She’s lucky he didn’t go for his pistol, an entrance like that.

“Sorry Master Daud, Sir, but I–”

“Take a breath, before you pass out.” That’s the last thing he needs. Daud glances her over. She’d red-cheeked and panting. She ran here, fast. “Is it urgent?”

The question seems to knock her of kilter. “Uhh.”

“Is anyone dead or dying, Fisher?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “There ain’t no immediate danger, Sir, if that’s the question.”

Well. That’s about as good as news gets, in this cesspool of a city.

Nerves settled, Daud indulges himself in a few moments of quiet amusement as Fisher fidgets under his attention. The younger novices are always jittery around him at first; always obedient, always respectful. They get bolder though, as time goes on. They adapt, once they realise Daud isn’t nearly as sour as he looks, and they won’t be run through with a sword just for glancing in his direction. They’ll start to ask inane questions like Jenkins does, and back-talk him as much as Ardan does, and needle him as often as Galia does, and take years off his life with their antics. Daud’s seen it with all of them, time and time again.

(Except Thomas. Still polite and dutiful as he ever was.)

Daud beckons the girl forward. “Spit it out, then. What is it?”

“We just seen that mister Lord Protector sneakin’ ‘round all the overseers.”

Daud snorts, and puts out his cigarette on the desk’s surface, scorching the wood. “Don’t give me that ox shit, Fisher.”

“It ain’t ox shit, Sir! Me, Rapha and Javi just saw him comin’ from the Office through the Back Yard!”

Daud narrows his eyes, tries to discern any deception. He finds none, Fisher’s painfully easy to read. Nothing to hide, that girl. “Hm.”

She mistakes his scrutiny for doubt, “I swear on it, Sir! He musta come from Clavering! Can’t picture ‘im swimmin’ all the way there, though, but there was a guy with this little boat hangin’ ’round too.”

“And what was he doing, precisely?”

“Uhh, the boatman or the–”

“The Lord Protector, Fisher.”

Fisher shrugs, “I dunno, Sir. We just spotted a fella all dressed in black lookin’ suspicious. Us three almost stuck ‘im full ‘a bolts ‘fore we realised who it was! Rapha said not to kill ‘im though ‘cause you said we shouldn’t go near ‘im if we ever seen ‘im, and to come get you instead,” she sucks in a breath, “but then she shouted me back an’ said to go ‘round the long way so I didn’t ‘ave to go near the Office, and then to come tell you, Sir, so I been runnin’ like a dog all over the all the Districts.”

That’s when Cleon appears in his office as well. He doesn’t knock either, and he has, evidently, also been running if the sweat dripping off his ears is any clue.

“Ardan broke Killi’s nose again.”

Most insightful, Cleon, thank you, Daud withers, running a hand over his face as he absorbs all this information.

“Ouch,” Fisher adds, oh-so helpfully.

(Though, actually, Daud’s seen Ardan’s right-hook crack an Overseer mask. So, yes. Ouch.)

Well, one of these reports is much more a priority than the other.

“Holger, you said?” Fisher nods vehemently. Daud stands and rounds the desk, “With me, then,” he says to the girl. Adds to Cleon, “Run and make sure Kent’s in the infirmary. If he’s not, find him and tell him to fix Killian’s damn nose.”

They take the route around the statue of the Empress, down to the makeshift walkways alongside the floodwater, following it to the north exit, and then they’re traversing the familiar rooftops leading to the other side of the city.

Fisher keeps good pace with him, considering this is her second trip that morning. The perks of youth. Though by the time they reach their lookout point in the Back Yard, she’s clearly flagging; leaning on her knees, breath hissing through her teeth. She shoots Daud a grin as he ruffles her hair in lieu of telling her ‘good job’ aloud.

(Daud isn’t sentimental among his men, not in obvious ways. A word of praise or encouragement here and there, an elixir shoved into gloved fingers, a hand squeezing a shoulder in passing.)

“Daud!”

Rapha’s perched on the old factory tower above them, Javier at her side, and she gestures for him to come. Daud jerks his head towards a remedy from the equipment cache they’ve set there, permission for Fisher to help herself, before traversing up to meet them.

“Raph, Javi. What was he doing,” Daud cuts straight to the point, all eyes scanning the commotion below.

“Still don’t know exactly, Sir, though we’ve done some scouting. The Office has gone to shit fast, whatever happened.”

Daud makes a noise of agreement. He’d seen as much on his way here; overseers running about like headless rats, lockdown alarm blaring, the Watch trying and ever failing to get things under control. “But it was quiet when you caught sight of him?”

“Not a peep, Sir, nothing. Strode out of there like he owned the place. Far as we saw, the overseers don’t know he was ever here.”

“Wouldn’t have even seen him ourselves,” Javier adds, “if Raph hadn’t been looking the right way, right time.”

Rapha hums, “Thought I was seeing things, at first. We didn’t catch him leaving, though. Sorry ‘bout that.” She runs a gloved hand through her hair, embarrassed; Rapha’s one of the best eyes in Rudshore. “Guy just seemed to disappear somewhere by those buildings at the waterfront.”

Daud jostles her shoulder with his. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

He’s a little disgruntled, but not surprised. He knows the Royal Protector’s long gone by now, didn’t come here expecting to see the man for himself; it’s a city’s length from Rudshore to the Distillery District, and a whole early morning’s passed since Rapha first sent Fisher running.

But Daud needs to know what’s going on. As tempted as he is to ignore these damned mysteries when they keep cropping up, he wont; knows he can’t.

(And Daud’s decision was made the day the Lord Protector slipped out of Coldridge. For the sake of his people, if nothing else, he needs an ear to the ground where Corvo is concerned.)

So.

“You three, get back to the Chamber, you’re dismissed.” They’ve been on watch most of the night, and Daud doesn’t like the thought of them lingering any longer while the cultists are this twitchy. And Javier’s been trying to stifle yawns since Daud arrived. “Let Thomas know to take point while I’m gone.”

Rapha salutes, “You got it, boss.”

Javier stands, relieved, and rolls his shoulders in preparation for the long run back.

Fisher wipes some remedy from her chin. “Where you goin’, Sir?”

“To find out what the void happened last night.”

A lot happened last night. But nobody actually saw a damned thing.

Daud spends the remainder of the morning and the entire afternoon staking out Holger Square, gleaning whatever useful information he can wherever he can get it. It’s painfully slow-going because the whole place is in an uproar.

He supposes the most important revelation that day is Thaddeus Campbell is now a branded heretic. The irony is lost on no one, and since he’s on his own Daud allows himself a good, quiet laugh when he learns that tidbit of information.

No one saw it happen, though. Apparently Campbell was just discovered by some random, low-ranking overseer who went in to clean the interrogation room. They had found the man slumped in the interrogation chair, with the side of his face branded black and blue as the Void. Then they’d panicked and sounded the main alarm, which in turn triggered an Office-wide lockdown.

The alarm blares obnoxiously the entire time Daud’s there.

(A foolish part of him hopes he’ll catch word of Campbell’s black book, maybe find it himself so he can burn the damned thing and know that no trace of the words Rudshore and Whalers are left on any official paper.

But no, of course it’s gone. Corvo will have taken it, surely, for whatever reasons he has.)

The Watch Captain, Curnow, who had apparently gone missing after his scheduled meeting with Campbell last night, is found at last. Daud has the pleasure of watching that one play out. A couple of guards have to fish the man out of a trash bin, Curnow woozy with sleep toxin and incredibly confused.

An empty bottle of Tyvian red with a suspicious smell and two shattered glasses are discovered in the meeting room not long after. Daud hunkers down below the window ledge and puts the pieces together himself, while the guards and overseers inside squabble over possible explanations.

From what little Daud knows of Geoff Curnow, he’s never been corruptible like most of the Watch. So Campbell, being the vicious snake he is, must have planned to remove him, poison him, most likely on Burrows’ orders.

Corvo must have intervened. Stuffed the Captain somewhere safe, and then branded Campbell, unseen by all.

But it’s not even that that’s the baffling part. It’s all very impressive, yes, and must have taken insurmountable skill to pull off in a single evening. But Daud’s done similar, seemingly unfeasible things himself, and none of what happened last night is entirely outside the realm of possibility, so that’s not what catches Daud’s attention.

What catches his attention is the fact that every overseer and Watch guard who was on duty is missing something, and they’re all extremely pissed off about it. A coin or ammo pouch, a plague elixir. One man’s missing a grenade. A grenade.

Corvo, apparently, pilfered the entire population of Holger Square last night. And now that he’s looking for them, Daud begins to discover more and more snide little instances like that.

The music boxes stored in the Back Yard have bolts lodged between the cogs, rendering them useless.

Apart from the one that’s triggered the lockdown, every alarm in the building has been rewired and just won’t work.

Someone unlocked all the kennels and the keys cannot be found, so the cultists hounds are left running wild around the Office.

(Daud can’t discern any possible reason for Corvo letting the beasts loose, other than to be an inconvenience. A distraction, perhaps? But Daud doubts that Corvo would really need one, if he’d been able to make it that far unnoticed anyway.)

Daud leaves the Office, curiosity spurring him towards Clavering. Fisher said that’s where Corvo must have come from; the most direct route into Holger Square from the river, if that’s how he travelled there. She also said there’d been a boat, so Daud works on the premise that he did.

He reaches the Boulevard, and finds it barely any quieter than Holger. The Watch are everywhere.

Doctor Galvani’s lab has been broken into, Daud discovers, as has his safe. No one has any leads, not the maids or the guards who were patrolling there.

Daud moves to the old Whiskey Distillery.

The Bottle Street gang’s bootleg elixir still has been infected with a mild bout of plague. Again, no one knows when it happened or saw who could have done it.

Apart from Griff.

The old man’s not a common contact of theirs. But in Daud’s book, anyone willing to sell decent black market goods is worth the hassle of exchanging some coin with.

He hands over thirty, and Griff talks.

“Oh yeah, assassin, I saw him. Helped me outta a tight spot last night. Slackjaw’s boys shut me in that storeroom, just over the way,” he nods down the street, to an open doorway and some broken boards splintered on the ground. “Didn’t pay up in time, y’know, the usual. That’s all settled now, though. The guy wanted some of that sleep toxin, and handed over enough coin for me to pay off my debt and then some.”

“You spoke to him?”

“A little. Quiet fella, didn’t say much. Dealt with those Bottle Street thugs quickly enough though, Outsider’s eyes! I barely saw it happen. Chucked ‘em in there with the garbage,” Griff chuckles, pointing towards the trash bin at the end of the alley. “They were snoring away the rest of the night.”

Daud leaves even more bemused than when he arrived.

The only other word he actually hears of Corvo himself – and it’s not even directly about him, Daud’s only making presumptions based on all he’s heard that afternoon – comes from the old woman across the street.

She’s throwing empty brine cans over her balcony, muttering to herself. “Such a helpful young man, such beautiful brown eyes, yes, yes, so obliging! I do hope he liked his gifts. Now those nasty men won’t be bothering me anymore, if they know what’s good for them.”

Daud permits himself one more detour, just to the Wall of Light. The watchtower stationed on the bridge isn’t working; someone’s removed the whale oil tank and hidden it somewhere. No one can find it.

Daud gives in and heads home, agonisingly tired and with his temples throbbing thanks to the whine of that fucking lockdown alarm. Someone finally shuts it down by the time he passes Kaldwin’s Bridge, but he swears he can still hear the damn thing. The persistent echo gnaws at him even as he reaches Rudshore’s old rail station.

Galia and Killian are standing watch, both shuffling restlessly. They relax immediately when they see him; Killian shooting him a salute, Galia a cheerful wave.

The men are always set on edge when he leaves the District for too long. Daud wants to drill it into them that they’re in good hands; Thomas is serious as the plague when it come to his duties on watch. Daud would trust no one better to keep an eye on Rudshore in his stead.

(He thought that about Billie, once. Not long ago at all. Daud vaguely wonders when the pain of it will finally start to ease, not dig in further and twist like a knife whenever he thinks of Billie’s smirks and smart remarks.)

“Sir,” Galia greets him with a smile, “you’re back.”

“Your skill of observation astounds, as ever.” Daud smirks a little when Killian wrinkles his nose and winces at the movement. “How’s the nose?”

“Fucked.” The man’s pinching it gingerly between two fingers. “I can’t sniff without wanting to die from the pain.”

“A little dramatic. You know better than to rile Ardan up.”

“I didn’t do anything to deserve this! Ardan’s such a shit.”

“You’re both shits.” Daud moves inside the station, basking for a moment in the cool breeze that hits him from the familiar floodwaters of Central Rudshore. “How’s it been?”

“Pretty quiet. Nothing to report, other than this choffer getting his face broken again,” Galia grins. “Honestly, Killi, just stop calling his mother a hagfish, Stars rest her soul, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Killian shoves her, but doesn’t argue. “So what’s the word at Holger, then, Sir? Rapha said the overseers are all wetting themselves about the Royal Protector.”

Ever the wordsmith, is their Killian. “No. The cultists don’t know Corvo was there.” Daud hesitates, and then makes the decision. “Round up the men. Send them all to my office. I don’t want to repeat myself, so I might as well brief you mudlarks all at once.”

And brief them he does. He shares most of what he’s learned; Campbell, Curnow, the Office in disarray, Corvo now a larger player on the Lord Regent’s board. And once they’re all on the same page, Daud orders everyone on pain of death to stay out of Corvo’s way, should they happen to see him in the city. He may not have killed anyone, but Daud’s not taking any chances.

He shares his stranger discoveries later on, outside the Chamber under the murky, darkening sky. Passing a cigarette around with the closest in his retinue, Daud recounts his trip from Holger Square to the Distillery District.

Thomas listens intently, puzzled as the Void and frowning all the while, but he doesn’t comment.

Rinaldo looks somewhat entertained, and extremely confused, and Rulfio’s eyebrows get closer and closer to his hairline as Daud’s story goes on.

Galia keeps interrupting him, “Why rob that weirdo Galvani?” and “Nevermind seeing him, I’m surprised no one heard him! He musta been jangling more than a Tyvian whore, with all those trinkets he stole.”

Ardan finds it all hilarious, the thick bastard. He laughs so violently he almost falls off the walkway into the water. That’s when Daud decides to call it a day, and orders them to piss off.

The moon’s high above the District when Daud leans against his desk at last, weary and itching for another cigarette at the tail end of such an odd day. His thoughts are still racing.

He glances at the audiograph player; flicks the switch with the intention to start going over his thoughts aloud, but then finds he has absolutely nothing more to say.

He flicks the switch back up. And goes the fuck to bed.

Chapter Text

They have the decency to look ashamed. Daud will give them that much credit.

“Nico.” He addresses the Whaler he knows will be the most concise with his story. Tries to come up with an appropriate question. Shakes his head when he comes up short. “What the fuck happened.”

What happened is this.

Morgan and Custis Pendleton, the Regent’s strongest parliamentary support, are missing. The Golden Cat is swarmed with guards. The Madame’s most valuable items are gone without a trace.

And Corvo Attano managed to pickpocket every man Daud had stationed on Clavering Boulevard without disturbing a hair on their idiot heads.

“And you saw none of it?”

Domenico, Misha, Yuri and Leonid, the mudlarks, say nothing, and that’s answer enough.

Daud dismisses them, narrowly resists the urge to beat his head against the nearest hard surface, and moves once again for the Distillery District.

Because, clearly, no one else can get a damn job done, so he’ll have to do it himself.

(Daud’s not actually angry– He cuts that ox shit off, because no, he is angry. Those four should have seen something. But he’s also frustrated that they weren’t more vigilant, and confused as to why Corvo left them alive, which is an unforgivable line of thought to have, but not an unreasonable one considering that Corvo is obviously clever enough to commit a jailbreak and get to Campbell and those Pendletons without raising any alarms, and therefore he’s clever enough to know who Daud’s men are and who they work for and remember what they did at the Tower, and Daud is so indescribably relieved that Nico and the others are alive, and that’s what’s all culminated together inside him into an ugly batch of emotion.

So yes, Daud supposes he is fucking angry.)

He makes it to Clavering in record time, running on exasperation and adrenaline. The Cat’s in worse shape than he expected.

Madame Prudence is furiously screeching at any guard within range. Her girls are all huddled together by the main entrance, whispering with uneasy eyes skirting the buildings, clearly not sure what they’re looking out for but keeping an eye anyway. Any patrons remaining are scattered around the gardens, being interrogated by a Watch guard or smoking their nerves away on fancy cigars or trying to bribe someone into letting them leave the area without being questioned.

Daud waits with a patience he certainly doesn’t have today, and manages to catch Betty when she’s smoking alone at the waterfront.

She assumes he had something to do with it at first, but when she clocks that Daud is just as deep in the dark, she takes pity on him and answers all his questions. Not that it unveils much.

“No, no alarms were set off at all. We didn’t even know anything was wrong until Custis’ guard started yelling, saying he couldn’t find him. Then it turned out Morgan was gone too. And that little girl. She must have slipped out during all the chaos.”

(She probably did, but Daud doubts she did it on her own. If only he could see Burrows’ face when the prick hears he’s lost his most important piece on the board.)

“Prudence has been doing this,” Betty motions with an elegant hand to the still-screeching Madame, “since the Watch got called. At first she blamed us for taking all her stuff, can you believe that? But it was just gone. It’s like we’ve got a ghost or something.”

Daud grunts, no wiser than he was before this conversation began. But he hands over a generous amount of coin, for her time.

She grins and bats him on arm. “You’re a doll, y’know that. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Looks like business will be slow for a while.”

“Yeah,” Betty sighs. Then she drops a hip and crosses her arms, suddenly thoughtful. “But, you know, whoever it was who did all this, I think they might’ve saved my job.”

Daud frowns. “How so?”

“You know Bunting? Art dealer, weird guy. He’s one of my regulars; pretty dull, has some odd but mostly harmless requests. Well, before all this commotion, I was supposed to meet him in the Silver Room for his usual treatment – I’ll spare you the details – and I was running real late because this Watch guard was getting a little too friendly with some of the girls, and they’re not paying clients, y’know, so I stepped in and told ‘em to mind themselves.”

She takes a breath to blow a strand of hair from her face, “Anyway, when I finally get there, Bunting’s pissed. And I mean, pissed. Keeps calling me a…” Betty peers around, makes sure no one’s within earshot, and leans in to whisper, “bitch. Which is really rude and not client etiquette at all. He kept going on about some business with a safe code or something. From what I can guess, someone else, maybe one of the other girls, I dunno, was there before me and managed to needle something out of him. He kept threatening to get me fired, but then those hideous twins went missing and it was just kind of brushed over. Think everyone’s forgotten about it, so. Phew.”

Well then. Daud has his next port of call, at least.

Galvani’s was broken into again, he learns when he reaches the Boulevard. The doctor himself is at his front door, cursing at any passing Watch guard that looks in his direction; something about Bottle Street and an audiograph recording and a vault behind a bookcase.

Daud doesn’t need to guess who’s responsible for whatever that’s about.

Bunting’s apartment is in ruins, the air inside damp and thick with mould. The man’s spent what little coin he has left at The Cat, Daud would wager.

Still, Daud would have expected some valuables to remain. But there’s nothing. Not even a painting. And no sign of anyone from Bottle Street, who Daud knows, from Misha’s ever-punctual reports, have been staking out the apartment for the last few months, trying to get into that safe.

(Daud approaches one of the empty portrait frames when he decides something’s off about it; runs a finger down the edge. Someone’s sliced out whatever artwork was mounted here, not unsuccessfully, but they were clearly no expert thief. There are still some thin, jagged remains of paper peeking from behind the fixture. It’s like whoever took it just… took it simply because it was there to take.)

When he treads upstairs, there’s a myriad more empty golden frames. The art dealer’s safe stands seemingly untouched, the combination set to an innocent zero, zero, zero. Daud, however, can hear loud snores coming from inside.

He closes his fist, Mark flaring, vision flashing, and everything becomes blue and murky. Except for the – he counts quickly – yes, eight bright silhouettes draped over any and every surface inside. No coin. No valuables. Just whatever Bottle Street members had the poor fortune of being stationed here when Corvo Attano decided to visit.

The sight is so ridiculous, the situation so petty, that Daud actually starts to laugh.

(It’s the longest and hardest he’s laughed in months, years. He has to slump against one of the dank, peeling walls and wait for the spell to pass.)

When Daud finally regains some grip on his sanity, he traverses to the Distillery, because he thinks he’s figured it all out, but he wants to be sure.

It’s a tedious hour of waiting and listening – he paces over loose slats on a shaded rooftop in the Distillery’s courtyard; he Pulls objects from below now and again, an empty bottle or coin pouch, to fling them up and into his hand to keep the restlessness at bay – before the full story comes to fruition.

Daud returns to Rudshore in slightly higher spirits than he left it.

“Corvo somehow enlisted Slackjaw’s help in the disappearance of those brothers. Exchanged information first, something that happened at Galvani’s, for a less conspicuous way into The Cat. Then exchanged the art dealer’s safe combination for Bottle Street’s aid in removing Morgan and Custis Pendleton from the picture.

”Slackjaw doesn’t know it yet, hasn’t sent more men to check Bunting’s apartment, but the safe’s been cleaned out, likely not long after the Pendletons were dealt with; put on a ship bound for one of their own silver mines, according to the gang members.

“Bottle Street’s not having a good week. Slackjaw will know he’s been double crossed before long. Not that it matters. Corvo’s already got what he wanted from him.” Daud shakes his head, feeling a smile nudge the corner of his mouth. “Corvo offers his help with whatever Bottle Street’s been hunting for at Galvani’s and Bunting’s, and then robs both places blind. I’ll bet they still don’t know it was Corvo, too, who poisoned their elixir still. Sly bastard.”

The audiograph chitters on, and Daud’s halfway through his second cigarette since he returned. He thinks vaguely that this is the most absurd thing he’s ever recorded.

“Now Hiram’s lost Emily Kaldwin and his support within the Abbey and Parliament. And still, no one’s caught a glimpse of the Royal Protector, not even my own men. He’s killed no one,” yet, a voice in Daud’s head helpfully supplies, “but he got too close to Nico’s group today.”

As he says that aloud, Daud makes his decision. It’s risky, but its time they stepped up their game. And Daud can’t deny, he’s intrigued. There are too many unanswered questions here.

Is the black-eyed bastard speaking to Corvo now? It would explain his escape from Coldridge, the ease at which he seems to move through the city.

Is Corvo alone or does he have allies? Rapha, Javier and Fisher saw a small riverboat beneath the Back Yard on that night, and Daud doesn’t believe in coincidences, so he’s got the men keeping watch for that, too.

Or is Corvo merely on his own side, working to his own ends?

(Have Daud and his people crossed Corvo’s mind? Has he devised a clever plan for them, too, when the time comes? Corvo is clearly working his way up the Lord Regent’s ranks. Is Daud among those on his list? Is Corvo saving all his savagery, all his bloody revenge for Rudshore, for the murderer of his Empress?

Does he have any way of knowing that Daud is no longer bowing to Hiram Burrows? That he would rather carve out his own heart and bleed at Corvo’s feet than offer his sword to the Lord Regent again?)

Nothing is certain, other than the fact that Doctor Galvani needs to invest in better locks and Corvo thieves like a man possessed. Daud needs more information than that.

“I think it’s time we kept better tabs on the former Royal Protector.”

Chapter Text

Corvo Attano is a bastard, and he can fall in the river and drown for all Daud cares.

He had predicted the Regent’s Mistress would be next. Since Corvo’s chewing his way through Hiram Burrows’ army one by one, removing any financial support would have been the next logical step.

But if Daud’s starting to grasp anything, it’s that Corvo is neither predictable or logical.

If he was, he would simply kill everyone in his path and be done with it. That’s the route Daud would have taken, in the past.

(Nevermind that Daud’s hands shake at the thought of killing someone again after the Empress; after cutting down Hume’s men in his rage and fear for losing any more of his people.)

The Mistress is an enigma. No one knows who she is, not even Daud. It was the one secret of Burrows’ he could never quite ferret out. But there are clues to go on. She must be noble, because there’s frankly obscene amounts of coin funding Hiram’s every paranoid whim. Hiram also wouldn’t look someone of lower rank in the eye, let alone take them to bed. And the Regent’s carriage, discreetly marked, has been spotted in the Estate District more than once since the Empress’ fall.

So assuming it would be the Mistress next on Corvo’s hit list, Daud’s had his best scouts assigned from one curve of the Serpentine to the other.

(His orders are that when someone sees Corvo, they stay on him. Daud’s made it abundantly clear that they’re not to engage him, but to follow, quietly and cautiously, and find out where he returns to once he’s finished in the city. Knowing where he’s made his base would be a start, at least.)

But it’s not the Mistress.

It’s Sokolov.

Corvo goes after Anton Fucking Sokolov, because he’s a bastard. He steals the man, along with every shiny trinket within reach, from inside Sokolov’s own house on Kaldwin’s Bridge.

And of course no one fucking sees him do it. Because no one was fucking stationed at Kaldwin’s Bridge.

‘Attention Dunwall citizens,’ the loudspeakers blare across the city, ‘Anyone with information leading to the location and return of the Royal Physician, Anton Sokolov, is required to speak to the City Watch at once.’

Daud, in a foul mood, calls his scouts back.

(He’ll order them to return there in a few days. Corvo might go after Burrows’ Mistress, he might not. How the void should Daud know at this point.)

One by one, his men provide their uneventful reports as swiftly as possible. None of them dare to linger in the office when Daud is practically baring his teeth.

Well, almost none of them.

“Don’t fret there, boss. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes.”

Galia’s easy cheer is not appreciated today. Daud scowls at the woman until she has the sense to leave.

Daud transverses upstairs, prowls and paces along the floorboards for a few minutes with no real goal in mind; frustrated and irritated and cursing the former Royal Protector under his breath, “To the void with him, why can’t the man just do as he’s supposed to do,” and then stalks back down the stairway to prowl and pace in the office instead.

The problem, in Daud’s opinion, is that no one knows all that much about Corvo. Even before the Empress, before Coldridge, before Burrows’ iron grip on city, Daud knew about as much as anybody else.

He knows Corvo’s Serkonan.

He knows he won the Blade Verbena at just sixteen.

He knows he was gifted to Euhorn Kaldwin shortly afterwards.

He knows that Jessamine Kaldwin was his lover, if the rumours are to be believed. And that Emily Kaldwin may well be his daughter.

He knows the man can sword fight like a demon when he needs to.

He knows Corvo’s moving against Hiram Burrows, to whatever end.

He knows he’s pickpocketed half the guards in Dunwall.

That’s it.

Daud doesn’t know his motives, not clearly. Doesn’t know who he is, what or who he fights for now. Is it revenge? Is he coming for Daud’s head? Is it all justice for his Empress? For Emily? Daud doesn’t know, and he won’t know until he manages to locate the man and learn more.

(Once he learns more, has a clearer view of it all, he can decide when and where to take his people away. Because, and the time is drawing closer day by day, when Rudshore is no longer a safe haven for them, they’ll have to move quickly. And they’ll look to Daud, always to Daud.

He’d take them far from Dunwall, he thinks, if he could. Hop a ship, leave Gristol and the plague behind. Lizzy wouldn’t take much convincing, with the right amount of coin. The Undine’s large enough to fit them all.)

Daud sinks down at the desk. All he needs now is the black-eyed bastard to show up and laugh in his face, and he might actually just throw himself off the Chamber.

The Outsider doesn’t appear.

Tynan does.

Transverses into his office through the broken roof, which all the men are absolutely forbidden to do on the very real threat of death. Daud’s reflexes are honed to a fine point, and he fully expects he’d kill whoever dared to drop down on him from nowhere like that.

It’s close. Finger itching on his wristbow, Daud’s on his feet and half a second from shooting the woman before recognition hits. He grants Tynan the most venomous expression he can muster, mouthing the word ‘door’ very clearly, knowing she won’t hear shit if he starts chastising her like he wants to.

Tynan puts her hands up, placating and apologetic, and then scrabbles through her jacket pocket to pull out the pen and wad of paper she’s carried since the surge.

(She doesn’t speak aloud anymore; wrote to Daud in confidence that she’s worried she’ll be too loud or the words won’t form properly. They all know basic hand signals for fieldwork, but no one in Rudshore knows how to sign. No one had reason to, until the cultists dragged Tynan too close to that damned music box.)

Daud’s annoyance wanes slightly as he watches Tynan scribble. It must be important, if she’s willing to risk her neck like that. But she wasn’t among those he’d sent to watch the Estate District, so why–

She holds up the paper.

Saw that riverboat Fisher mentioned

Tailed it

Found Corvo

Tynan can give him as many heart attacks as she wants, if she brings him news like that.

Daud gets all the information he can then and there – the Old Port District, Corvo’s been on their damn doorstep the whole time – and then scratches a note of his own for Tynan to pass along to Thomas, because Daud’s going, of course.

Who knows when Corvo will slip away again, there’s no time to be wasting.

He closes his fist, tugging at the Bond for Rapha and Dimitri; his best eyes by far.

(He never summons them without warning, has always stood against doing so. They’re not dogs, at his beck and call. There are exceptions; in an emergency, or the heat of a fight. But, most of the time, he at least gets their attention first.)

“You wouldn’t prefer more to accompany us, Sir?” Dimitri asks, cocking his head between himself and Rapha. “Extra support might be prudent.”

“You two are all I need.” A larger group is always easier to spot, and on the chance that Corvo’s mercy isn’t infinite, Daud won’t be bringing anyone else anywhere near the man while he’s on home turf.

(Especially if that little girl is there. Corvo would probably presume they were gunning for a second Empress.)

Daud shrugs off his coat, as well; too recognisable.

He gives Tynan’s shoulder a firm squeeze, hoping that conveys how fucking brilliant she is, and takes the gateward tunnel beneath the Chamber.

They move through Rudshore Gate on instinct, knowing the gaps between the rooftops and the distances to leap by heart. Daud could run across Rudshore blindfolded and his steps wouldn’t falter.

He glances over Tynan’s report again as he goes; a brief account of what she’d seen and which faces she recognised when she’d shadowed the boat to the old Hound Pits pub.

Corvo

Boatman, unknown

Admiral Farley Havelock

Trevor Pendleton

Man in workshop, unknown – could be Sokolov, didn’t get a good look

Two civilians, unknown

—    No security

—    Open streets, no great lookout spots

—    Someone shouting from the old hound cages – prisoner?

Only saw C for a second. Darted off somewhere east over the blockades.

Not much, but enough to work with as Daud and his scouts reach the streets.

An apprehension he hasn’t felt since Brigmore creeps up on him; he doesn’t know this area well enough. Tynan was right, there aren’t any obvious lookout spots, the streets are too exposed. And if Corvo, who apparently moves like a spectre and could appear unannounced at any moment, is laying low here, then they have little time to fumble out in the open.

Decades of experience slinking in the shadows doesn’t fail him, however. He keeps Rapha at the entrance, with orders to watch the streets. Dimitri he sends to an old sewer tunnel, running into the river; voices and discussions may carry down from inside the pub.

“Sorry,” Daud adds gruffly, when Dimitri’s shoulders slump at the prospect of squatting near sewer water.

They all avoid the east blockades like the plague.

Daud himself finds an overlook above the abandoned hound cages that will put him out of sight, so long as he keeps his movement to a minimum. It’s further away from the pub itself than he would like, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He crouches and watches, knees stiff and shoulders protesting, waiting for any sign of Corvo. He uses the time to take quick stock of the situation here.

Corvo isn’t working alone. A conspiracy, from the looks of it.

The Admiral and Lord Pendleton make an appearance in the yard not long after Daud settles, as well as an overseer he doesn’t recognise.

(The sight of his robes raises Daud’s hackles. But the man’s on his own, no Abbey brothers with hounds or boxes, so Daud tries to shrug off the tension. Rapha and Dimitri are careful, he reminds himself, that’s why he brought them.)

The man reported tinkering in the workshop is Piero Joplin. Daud’s seen him before, publicly debasing Sokolov’s inventions.

The recently abducted Royal Physician is nowhere in sight. Though, after the Admiral pokes his head inside the cages, and rough, angry bellows echo across the yard, Daud can guess who Tynan’s mysterious prisoner is.

There are four civilians overall; two servants, Lord Pendleton’s lackey, and Watch Captain Curnow’s niece.

Daud doesn’t see Emily Kaldwin. Doesn’t think he really wants to.

He ignores the urge to risk shuffling into a better position, as voices drift up from below.

Two figures in the courtyard; one of the servants sweeping near the wall, and Pendleton’s man exiting the old brewery with a wine bottle cradled in one arm.

“Is that for Lord Pendleton? It’s eight in the morning.”

“Mind your business, girl,” the man bites. “What my Lord chooses to do with his time is no concern of yours. You’re a mere servant, you don’t ask questions. Know your place.”

“Yes, Wallace. Sorry.”

The man turns up his nose, and waves her away without the courtesy of a word. The servant – red hair tucked under a hat, plain clothes – hangs her head and scurries inside.

Daud’s not alone in observing the exchange, he notices. There’s another at the edge of the yard; an older man, grey trailing around his jaw. He’s leaning against an overturned riverboat, watching Wallace with disapproval heavy on his face.

“You shouldn’t speak to her in such a way, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Wallace halts again, and shoots him a withering look. “I do mind. You should know your place, too, boatman.”

“We’re all working to the same goal here, all in this together. A little respect here and there won’t do anybody no harm.”

“Such touching words, Mr Beechworth, my heart bleeds, really.” Wallace scoffs, “You think all this,” he gestures to the pub, the courtyard, “working for the same cause, warrants a lowly serving girl my respect? Don’t make me laugh. Last I knew, your job is just to steer the boat. Why don’t you focus on that.”

The boatman’s gaze travels upwards, and Daud feels himself tense, still as the dead, as Corvo shows himself at last.

He materialises atop the workshop, a charged flash of blue light.

(Marked, then. Daud almost wishes he could still be surprised by these things.)

Then he blinks again above the pub, again to the neighbouring roof; fast, erratic, flitting between spaces like some errant bird. Corvo skirts down to the small rooftop of the brewery, then vaults over the railings at the edge, catching himself on the dusty ground directly in front of Wallace.

It wrenches a startled squawk from the man, and the wine bottle slips from his arm. He gropes to catch it, juggling for a moment, before clutching it safely against his chest.

He hisses out a breath, scowling, “Outsider’s eyes, Corvo!”

Unaffected, Corvo straightens up, all long legs and trim waist and dark hair falling messily from its bind.

(Tall, Daud’s mind helpfully supplies. As though that’s relevant information in any way. Absurd.)

“Honestly, Corvo, you cannot just fall from the sky without warning like that. This is a vintage label, I could have dropped it! His Lordship would not have been happy.”

“Outsider forbid,” Corvo says, dead-faced.

Wallace glowers and pushes past him.

Corvo watches the man’s retreating back for a moment, before, “Wallace.”

The manservant’s shoulders draw up impatiently, but he turns back to grant Corvo another glare.

Corvo meets him in just three steps; reaches to fold the uneven lapels of Wallace’s coat down. “Can’t have you looking so out of sorts for His Lordship, can we.” His hands smooth down the man’s shoulders, just once, and then release him.

Wallace sneers an incomprehensible reply, trudging to the main entrance of the pub and disappearing inside.

Corvo strides across the yard to the boatman, who’s chuckling under his breath as Corvo comes to lean beside him. Corvo’s expression is still impassive, icy and aloof,  but there’s a glint in his eyes, something roguish and spirited.

(Brown eyes. Not dead eyes, not like at the Tower. Not like the first and last time Daud saw him, as Burrows’ men dragged him away. Something loosens, just slightly, in Daud’s chest, at the knowledge that this man didn’t die in Coldridge; is here, now, in the dull morning light, alive and being smiled at by a friend.)

“Outsider’s eyes, Corvo, you do know how to rile the man.”

“He asks for it. Miserable fucker.”

(So Lord Attano curses.)

“Corvo–”

“I know you’re too nice to say it yourself, Samuel,” the boatman is still chuckling behind his sleeve while Corvo speaks, “but you want to call him a miserable fucker just as much as I do. He speaks to people like they’re plague rats.”

“Oh, I’ll agree with that part, sir, no doubt. Treats everyone but Lord Pendleton like they’re the dirt on his boots.”

(This boatman, Samuel, is familiar. Not a contact, but Daud has seen him before. Is certain he ferried black market goods across Wrenhaven for a while, when the plague brought the blockades into force throughout the city.)

Corvo’s frowning, pensive. “I never see Wallace doing any of the work around here. Does he–?”

“Doesn’t lift a finger while you’re gone, either,” Samuel cuts over him, shaking his head. “All that man does is fetch spirits for His Lordship and order Lydia or Cecelia around. Even little Emily’s been helping with the dishes and that since she arrived.”

“It’s good for her. Empress or not, she has to know she’s not above a little manual labour.” Corvo glances sidelong; notices the boatman watching him with a small smile. “What.”

“Nothin’, sir. Just glad it’s someone like you, and not Wallace, making all the tough decisions here. I don’t envy the weight you got on your shoulders, Corvo, but I know whatever you decide to do next, it’ll be the right call. You got something that Wallace doesn’t have–”

“Yeah, his cigarettes,” and Corvo produces the pack that he must have swiped from Wallace’s coat as they spoke. Even Daud hadn’t seen him do it.

A surprised laugh escapes Samuel, his shoulders shaking with it, the sound so genuinely delighted that Daud’s reminded of nights in Rudshore; his men free to laugh alongside their comrades, knowing they’re safe to do so.

Corvo, one corner of his mouth curving in the semblance of a smile, shakes out one of the cigarettes and offers it to the boatman.

(Doesn’t take one for himself. Doesn’t smoke.)

“You’re awful,” Samuel chastises, no bite behind it. He takes a drag, “By the Outsider himself, that’s fancy stuff.”

“Pendleton keeps him well stocked. I snuck another pack to Anton when the Admiral wasn’t looking,” Corvo admits, and the boatman shakes his head, clearly fond as the void for the man beside him. “Thought it might make his temper more manageable for the interrogation. He’s always been an easy bribe.”

“When did Havelock want to get things, uhh, going?” Samuel asks, hesitant. “Has he told you how he wants to go about it?”

“No. Said he wants to give it a day. Give Sokolov time to stew and realise no one’s coming to help him.” Corvo shrugs one-shouldered, “I know Anton, though. Whoever can offer him what he wants the fastest, he’s theirs. Easy bribe,” he repeats. “He’ll give me the name.”

“I’m certain of it, sir.”

They lapse into a serene silence; Samuel smoking, Corvo’s staring over the yard at nothing in particular.

(But the man’s itching to move. Daud knows those telltale signs, they’re painfully familiar. Corvo hasn’t stopped fidgeting since he blinked down from the rooftops. He keeps grazing his fingers together, like he wants something to turn or twirl between them to distract himself from standing still. Keeps ever-so-slightly stretching out his shoulders like he’s poised to take off in a sprint at any moment. Keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot, restless and distracted, though his expression itself gives none of it away.)

“Go on, then. What do I have that Wallace doesn’t?”

“Well, these for one thing,” Samuel wiggles the cigarette between his fingers and chuckles again, “like you said. But, also, integrity. Respect, for yourself and others. You’ve never once looked down on me, despite your station–”

“I would never do that,” Corvo says, stern, as though the thought repulses him.

Samuel pats his shoulder, “I know that, Corvo. That little girl’s real lucky to have you. We all are.”

Corvo bumps the man’s hip with his, ”Buy me a drink first, Mr Beechworth,” and then he straightens up without warning – erratic, Daud thinks again – turns and tosses Samuel the whole cigarette pack, backing away across the courtyard, “before you start saying things that’ll make me blush.”

Samuel waves him away, grinning, “Oh get outta here, you. Go on, I can see you’re raring to go again, Outsider’s eyes. Can’t stand still for two minutes to talk to a poor old man.”

Corvo gives a short salute over his shoulder, a silent and amicable farewell, and then he blinks again – from the middle of the courtyard in broad daylight, does the man not know he has an overseer with him somewhere – in another of those jolting blue flashes.

He reappears near a chimney stack beneath Daud’s lookout, far damn closer than Daud is comfortable with.

But Daud has the high ground, and Corvo’s notice doesn’t reach him. Too at home among these rooftops, perhaps. Perhaps too like a predator, who knows he’s prey to nothing.

(Daud knows that feeling. It comes with the powers the Outsider’s now granted them both. Daud had thought he had no equal, hunter not hunted, but facing another of the Outsider’s Marked had certainly opened his eyes; had humbled his ego beyond repair. Daud had never been so aware of his own flaws, his own fragile mortality, than in the weeks he’d chased Delilah.)

Corvo teeters on the fringe of the roof, boot-toes hanging perilously over the edge, brown eyes scanning the horizon for whatever route he wants to run while he absently gathers his hair behind his head and attempts to restrain it.

(Daud almost scoffs at his efforts. The damn bird’s nest is no neater than before, strands will be flying free again in seconds.)

And then he’s gone. Disappears in the space of a blink.

Daud rallies his scouts and returns to Rudshore. The pair give their reports along the way, and Daud grunts his thanks to them both when they reach the Chamber. He summons the twins to take over Rapha and Dimitri’s patrols. They’ve indulged Daud an entire afternoon on no warning, and Andrei and Killian pissed him off yesterday so they can damn well survey Draper’s Ward that evening instead.

Daud also calls for Thomas; shares what he’s learned with him, too. Knows the man needs to be kept in the loop. Ever attentive, Thomas offers to spread the word of Corvo’s whereabouts among the men himself, now that they know it at last.

Daud doesn’t even argue with him, just nods his consent and then, as an afterthought, orders Thomas to send more sentries to Rudshore Gate.

Just in case Corvo wanders too close to the entrance.

Alone, he retrieves Tynan’s initial report and pulls a blank sheet of paper to amend the list, adding names, outlining what he had seen.

Loyalist conspiracy

— Previous targets: Thaddeus Campbell, Morgan and Custis Pendleton, Sokolov

— End target: Hiram Burrows

— Next target: Burrows’ Mistress (unknown)

Sokolov’s interrogation pending. Name of the Mistress?

Daud finds himself hunched again above the hound cages the following day, to glean whatever he can of Sokolov’s interrogation. He sees Corvo for the span of about ten seconds, striding over the yard to join Admiral Havelock.

Daud adds another amendment when Corvo emerges, victorious.

Sokolov interrogated. Mistress’ name uncovered.

Three Boyle sisters. Precise target unclear.

He assigns Feodor, his best infiltrator, to the Boyles’. Well, now that Daud’s caught it, he may as well stay on Corvo’s tail. Time to do some digging.

Chapter Text

Weeks prior to finally locating Corvo, Daud had had a Lord Brisby attempting to make contact. Offered them coin, good coin, in exchange for an abduction. Once, Daud would have accepted without batting an eye.

(“The Empress has made you soft, old man,” Billie had scoffed, a day before she’d led the overseers and Delilah into the heart of their home.)

Their last abduction job was Emily Kaldwin. Daud will make certain it remains their last.

But Daud thinks of Brisby now, while at a vantage point opposite the Boyles’ illustrious estate, fireworks raining gold overhead while Sokolov’s Tallboys march the streets and plague rats scurry along the riverside. He thinks of it now, because the target had been Waverly Boyle, and the abduction would have happened tonight.

How ironic, for fortune to start favouring Daud now. He’s damn glad he told Brisby to piss off and abduct his own women, because he knows from Feodor’s report that Waverly Boyle, the Lord Regent’s Mistress, is who Corvo’s here for tonight.

And far be it for Daud to stand in his way.

(Daud isn’t commonly picky with jobs; even lets the men choose their own, as long as they’re smart about it and it’s worth the coin. And just because the city’s gone to rat shit and Daud’s still in the midst of a moral crisis doesn’t mean they’ve stopped working. They need coin as much as anyone. Daud’s been stashing gold aside for years, true, but it’s no Boyle fortune.)

There are two, maybe three, discreet ways into the Boyle estate, if you’re fast, and if you’re clever, which Daud knows Corvo is. Any route would get him safely and unseen into the building.

No.

Corvo chooses the front door.

Daud watches, shaking his head because Outsider’s eyes the gall of this fucking man, as Corvo blinks around a Tallboy, sneaks beneath the bridge, hops up and over the estate’s gateway, then straightens and steps into the light to be greeted by the guards.

“Ah, Mister Bunting! Sorry, Sir, didn’t recognise you with all this mask business,” the doorman chuckles, placing the invitation Corvo’s offered him atop a neat pile of identical envelopes. He scratches what Daud presumes is Bunting’s name off his list. “Please, enjoy your evening. The Boyles welcome you tonight!”

“Pettiest man in Dunwall,” Daud bites out under his breath, as Corvo is ushered into the gardens, hair tucked under his hood and taller than the real Bunting by several inches.

He disappears from sight after striding, cool-headed as you please, past half a dozen of the Watch. Daud doesn’t know whether to seethe at the man’s sheer nerve or scoff at himself for even being surprised. Of course Corvo, Wanted Fugitive, walks into a snake pit of nobles through the main entrance. Why the void wouldn’t he.

Daud feels some sympathy for the boatman, having to put up with this shit. Mr Beechworth is waiting, patient as the Sixth Stricture, on the canal. He seems at peace with his role in all this, from what little Daud has seen, but Daud does not like where he’s stationed his riverboat tonight. The waterway is open from one end to the other, so Daud supposes Samuel’s made the best of a bad situation. But still. He’s not well hidden, and the Tallboys are looming.

The river ripples violently as one of the contraptions passes again; clattering crudely by, stomping atop the concrete. Mr Beechworth’s gaze follows it, wary, no way of knowing he has nothing really to fear for the moment.

Daud’s keeping watch, in case they wander too close to his refuge.

There had been countless jobs in the District tonight, nobles and commoners alike knowing all eyes would be on the Boyles’. Daud had taken a simple infiltration assignment off Rinaldo’s hands.

(The man had shot him a look, clearly suspicious, but Daud’s icy expression stopped him short of asking any questions. Daud’s in charge, the choffer can mind his own business.)

He finished the work in under an hour, found a cushy, weeper-infested apartment with a decent scope of the Boyles’ estate, and hunkered down until Samuel’s riverboat had coasted into view and the Lord Protector had stepped out onto the bank.

Daud spots him again, now; slinking out through a window pane onto the first-floor balcony, quiet and agile as anything despite his height. His mask isn’t on; pushed up above his head, and Daud sees his gaze flit about the gardens below, taking in guests and guards and valuables, restless and sharp-eyed as his namesake.

“Enjoying the view, Daud?”

“Go take a shit in the river.”

Ah, yes. The apartment, though ideally placed, came with an unfortunate addition. Other than the weepers.

A shrine, ceiling high and gauchely erected, stands just beside the window serving as Daud’s lookout point. Purple lanterns litter the floor, their glow ebbing along with the runes’ whispered song; a pair of them, stacked atop the alter.

“Ever a way with words. A most fortunate thing, that you aren’t joining the party too. The three Ladies Boyle don’t take kindly to such language.”

Daud grits his teeth, “Piss off.”

All of it, the unnatural hum, the piercing purple glow, the bastard perched on the shrine watching Daud watch Corvo, is starting to give Daud a headache.

On the Boyles’ balcony, Corvo sidles up behind the lone guard on watch and snatches his coin pouch, right from his belt – the man doesn’t even stir, and Daud feels a smile stubbornly trying to edge its way to his mouth – before blinking down into the enclosed gardens, tugging down his mask, innocent as an overseer as he begins strolling the grounds.

“Restrict the Wandering Gaze–”

“Do you have nothing better to do,” Daud lowers his spyglass, and glares sidelong at his unwelcome companion. “Go and bother one of the other seven poor bastards you apparently follow about. I’m busy.”

“I see all of them, even as I speak to you now.”

“Good for you,” Daud grates out, returning his attention to the estate. Corvo’s nowhere to be seen; must have returned inside. Daud checks on the boatman again; still safe, for now. The Tallboy on that side of the river is patrolling further east now.

“You’ve taken an eager interest in making yourself Corvo’s shadow, as of late. Afraid he’s soon to come for your head, Daud? For your men? Is that why you follow him so closely?” The Outsider’s head tilts, eyes black and fathomless as the Void. “Or is it your own curiosity that you’re sating? Your own interest? He isn’t what you expected, is he.”

“If I’d expected to be bothered by you tonight, I wouldn’t have come at all.”

“And yet here you remain.” The shadows creeping along the walls and swirling at the Outsider’s feet have had Daud uneasy since the moment they appeared, but he’s not giving him the benefit of showing it. “I’m watching Corvo, too, of course. In the heart of the vipers’ nest. Word of the Boyle cameo has piqued his interest; priceless, rumoured to be impossible to find. He’s searching for it now.”

Daud gives a quiet snort at that. He hopes the man finds it, knocks the smug, rich bastards down a peg or two. Reminds them they’re not as untouchable as they think, with their high walls and guarded streets.

“You want to know why he does it.”

Does what, Daud doesn’t ask. He’s learned this bastard’s tricks and he won’t be baited.

“Why he spares them.”

(Daud does. Void, he does; wants to know the man’s mind and motives, because Corvo is fast becoming the most vexing enigma of Daud’s life.)

“Why not spare me,” Daud suggests, “ from your ox shit, for once, and slither back to whatever dank corner of the void you call home.”

The Outsider regards him, smug and satisfied, and Daud knows far too late that he’s played right into his hands with that response; defensive, biting back like a cornered hound.

Foolish, he chides himself. He should have just stayed silent.

“I will tell you that either Lady Waverly Boyle dies tonight by Corvo’s hand, or she’ll live out her days, year by year, far away. A pale husk of herself, as her fine clothes wear into tatters,” he says distantly, and that vague, misty voice that used to inspire endless awe in him is only making Daud’s headache worse, “and her silken hair fades dull and grey.”

“Fascinating,” Daud answers dryly, focusing again through the spyglass. Mr Beechworth’s still safe enough. Corvo must still be inside–

One of pristine double-doors leading to the gardens slams open, and Daud watches a nobleman – a wolf’s mask, though he resembles more a plucked chicken, all skinny arms and pallid skin – descend the stone steps, tailed by two personal guards.

“Pendleton, that snivelling little rat! Gutless, lying sack of shit, I knew he wouldn’t show!” The irate words carry clearly across the rooftops. “The next time he shows his face in court, I’ll have his head for standing me up tonight, mark my words.”

His guards shuffle awkwardly as wolf’s mask continues to mutter to himself, lighting a cigarette and pacing the short length of the patio.

“Lord Montgomery Shaw,” the Outsider provides, as if Daud had fucking asked. “He challenged Trevor Pendleton to a duel, over some crossed words and a trifling insult in Parliament. Pendleton won’t show, of course. So he sent someone in his stead.”

As though on cue, Corvo re-emerges, side-stepping through the door left ajar by Lord Shaw’s tantrum. He bypasses the steps, long legs taking him easily over the hedge and to Shaw in one sure bound. His uncouth approach to them makes Shaw and his guards balk at his audacity, and Daud snorts again.

(Corvo doesn’t carry himself like a spoiled royal, Daud’s noticed. Supposes he isn’t, really; the man wasn’t born to nobility. And he certainly doesn’t seem to care much for their etiquette. Corvo would be more at home running rooftops in the ruins of Rudshore, he suspects, than surrounded by Lady Boyle’s ilk.

Corvo would have made a damn good whaler. Daud feels a traitorous stab of approval in his gut at the thought.)

Corvo and Shaw exchange a few words, too low now for Daud to catch anything, and Corvo produces another envelope. Lord Shaw examines the contents and promptly crushes the papers in his fist, spitting something in his rage and stabbing a finger against Corvo’s chest. Shaw’s guards shoot one another a look.

“I do enjoy an old fashioned duel,” The Outsider interjects. “What better way to appease a situation and settle differences, than the chance that only one of you walks away alive?”

And they are going to duel. Daud watches Corvo give a placating shrug, stepping back from Shaw’s accusing finger. Shaw draws his gun, stamping a few paces away and checking the barrel with a click.

“Damn it,” Daud curses quietly, discarding his spyglass to make sure he has a bolt in place on his wristbow. “What are you doing, Attano,” if Corvo hadn’t killed a man has heinous as High Overseer Campbell, Daud doubts he’ll shed Lord Shaw’s blood, even to defend himself, “you don’t have time to be getting yourself shot.”

Shaw makes a little gesture to the closest of his guards, and Daud knows a filthy, cheating cad when he sees one. Back now turned, Corvo just bounces a few times on his toes, all restless energy and casual obliviousness and Daud wants to smack him.

The man has a Regency to single-handedly topple, he cannot afford the luxury of a bullet through his thick skull.

Guard Two boredly begins a countdown. “One…”

Guard One’s hand sneaks to his holster, and Daud trains his wristbow at his head. He doesn’t have the best angle, but it will hit.

Corvo hasn’t reached for his own pistol, if he even has one at all.

“Two…”

Daud feels his hand wanting to shake; brushes it off, focuses his aim.

“Would you truly do it, Daud? You’ve developed an awfully soft touch since that day at the Tower. Would you kill again, for a man whose life you’ve so thoroughly ruined?”

“Three–“

Everything stops in a grey, sluggish haze. Daud’s finger twitches.

Corvo’s Mark is alight, white flares dancing from his hand, draining all colour from the world. He turns to inspect the scene he’s frozen in time. Shaw, ducked down to avoid Corvo’s shot. Guard One, gun aimed at the back of Corvo’s head. Guard Two, looking bored stiff of the whole situation.

“You would have. Fascinating.”

Daud drops his aim like he’s been burned.

Corvo sweeps to the immobile Lord Shaw; plucks his silver pocket-watch from the trim of his coat. Relieves the guards of their coin pouches. And blinks in that brilliant blue flash to the balcony above again, closing his fist, the light from his Mark waning.

Time and colour resumes, and the confusion left in the man’s wake is a sight to behold. Lord Shaw will likely be ranting and raving out there for the remainder of the party. The guards take the brunt of his anger, as though it’s their fault Pendleton’s representative just vanished into thin air.

Foolish, for Daud not to consider Corvo’s gifts. He had been preoccupied by the man’s stupidity, getting sidetracked by a duel of all things, that it hadn’t even crossed Daud’s mind in the moment.

He quashes his shame, raising a querying brow instead. “A little lazy, duplicating gifts like that.” Corvo can distort time as Daud can. Delilah, too, carried some semblance of his Arcane Bond, sharing her power among her coven. “Running out of clever tricks, at last?”

He isn’t granted an answer. The shrine now sits empty, its patron apparently sated after Daud’s humiliation.

Ass.

Daud retrieves his spyglass, checks on Mr Beechworth once more; safe. Scans the grounds for Corvo; must have slipped back into the manor, back to the job he actually came here for.

(The man’s been flitting in and out of the estate all evening, darting from objective to objective with seemingly no plan that Daud can fathom. Corvo’s direction seems entirely senseless to him.)

Daud slots the spyglass closed, standing to stretch his legs and work the tension from his shoulders, silently cursing himself for even coming here in the first place. Ridiculous. Mortifying, really.

But only the Outsider, who watches everything like the meddling wretch he is, knows Daud was here tonight.

And Daud decides, in a rare moment of pardon, to cut himself some slack. Corvo’s only had a short stint as an assassin, and he’s the best bet anyone has at getting to Burrows. And he’s so close now. What of it, if Daud wanted to make sure the man didn’t get exposed by a noble who may recognise him, or get his head blown off by a trigger-happy Watch guard? His affairs are his own.

And now he’s seen in person that Corvo’s level-headed enough not to get himself killed or caught by these higher-ups, Daud feels strangely reassured.

He takes a rune, feeling energy surge through him as the whalebone dissipates through the touch of his glove, and makes the trek back to the Flooded District.

(He leaves the second rune for Corvo. No doubt the thief will come to pilfer the rest of the neighbourhood before he returns to the boat. And the more strength he has against the Regent, the better.)

Daud returns home to find Quinn, Leonid and Hobson playing Nancy in the yard beneath the Greaves Refinery. Galia and Ardan are perched on the wall above, shooting bolts at rats, keeping score on who hits what.

(Daud feels such a violent, primal surge of fondness at the sight of them all that he needs to take a moment to steady himself. He has so many regrets. His men will never be one of them.

He tries not to think of Billie.)

“You’re slacking, Ardan. Thought you said you were a better shot, you’re lousier than the Watch!”

“Stuff it. It’s the river krusts and all their racket over there, keeps distracting me.”

“Whale shit,” Quinn calls from behind their cards.

Ardan gives them the finger, then aims with his wristbow; taking the shot and missing a white rat by an inch. “Outsider’s cock! These little fuckers, it’s the river krusts, I swear on it, I can’t concentrate!”

Galia smirks, shooting two rats after another. Hobson shuffles the cards on the table, dealing another round.

“Stop wasting bolts, please,” he sighs. “Boss won’t be happy if you waste stock again.”

“Kila’s a better shot than you, Ardan, and he’s only got one fucking arm.”

Ardan throws a lone bolt at Quinn’s head, then stews on his perch at Galia’s side when he misses with that too.

She shoulders him, “Aww, c’mon, don’t be sour. You got other things going for you, you don’t gotta be a perfect shot.”

“Other things like what,” Quinn pipes up again, “his looks? His personality? Funny, Galia.”

“Screw the rats, I’ll shoot you,” Ardan hisses.

“If you can even hit me, mudlark.”

“Prick.”

“Cockend.”

“Behave, both of you.” Leonid examines her cards. “Can we just play, yes? I’m winning this time.”

“Yeah right,” Quinn smirks. “Chance’d be a fine thing, I reckon I got you again this round.”

“Nut up or shut up, Quinn.”

It’s Galia’s sudden and pensive silence that keeps Daud in the shadows of the refinery. The woman’s in a world of her own, pondering something deeply.

“Hey, speaking of the boss, Hobson,” she starts, hesitant, as though she’s wondering whether she should be saying it at all. “D’you think he’s become a little… obsessed, lately?”

Quinn barks a laugh. “Yeah, and the sky’s grey and the river stinks like piss. Are we pointing out obvious things?”

“Daud? Obsessed? Perish the thought.” Sarcasm oozes, obvious even in the thick of Leonid’s Tyvian accent. “Be serious, Galia,” she chuckles, “have you met the man?”

“Of course he’s obsessed,” Hobson sighs again, “Daud’s obsessive, it’s how he is. You mudlarks remember Delilah. I didn’t see the man eat or sleep for weeks.”

“We don’t know Corvo’s another Delilah, though, do we,” Quinn says. “Delilah took Billie and then sent the overseers here. Attano hasn’t done anything to us, we’re the ones who screwed him.”

“I think Daud is just being careful,” Leonid reasons. “He has always protected us, the best he can.”

“Void, Leo,” Galia argues, “I’m not saying he hasn’t! Daud’d take a bullet for any choffer here, that ain’t in question.”

(Daud would. And has, on many occasions.)

Galia crosses her legs atop the wall, before forging ahead. “I’m just worried he’s gonna follow Attano too close and it’s gonna backfire. There’s a reason Daud told us to keep away from him.”

“You’re not suggesting we tail the boss to keep an eye on him, are you?” Quinn recoils at the mere thought, and the rest follow suit, even Galia. “He’d dismember us if we did that, and I like having all my limbs.”

“Outsider’s balls, no,” Galia says, shaking her head vehemently. “I’m not going against orders, fuck that. He’s told us to stay away, I’m staying away. I guess I’m just voicing my concerns, y’know. What happened with Delilah was rough, and Daud lost Billie, and it all just kind of fell apart for the man. Hugely. I know he hides it well, but I also know it had to have hurt bad. And apart from Hume’s men, when he had to push ‘em back from the Chamber, he…” Galia hesitates again, worrying her lip between her teeth, “He hasn’t killed since the Empress.”

(Of course they’ve noticed. Daud would be a fool to think they wouldn’t. They know him as well as he knows them.)

Quinn’s eyes widen, big pools of pale blue. “So you’re saying, what if Attano does come gunning for us, and Daud won’t kill him? D’you think he’d just… let it happen? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Let Attano… get him?”

Galia chews harder on her lip. Shrugs. “I dunno. I dunno, like I said, I’m just.. thinkin’ out loud. I love the man to pieces, I don’t want anything to happen to him if we can stop it.”

(The feeling is mutual.

But the more he’s learned and seen of Corvo, the more assured Daud is of his people’s safety. His own safety, though that’s hardly among his main concerns. Corvo’s killed no one, and the man’s single-mindedly charging for Burrows. And he hadn’t touched Nico’s group that day in Clavering when he came across them. Corvo has other concerns, like putting the rightful Empress on her throne.

By the time he may consider coming for Daud, he and his men might not even be in Dunwall.)

“Maybe we should lock Daud up somewhere,” Ardan suggests jokingly to break the tension, and they all relax. “Might keep him out of trouble.”

“What, like the cultists do when their hounds are acting up?” Galia sniggers.

“I was thinkin’ more like taking him to one of them hospitals for crazies,” Ardan jostles Galia’s side, “like that institute they got in Karnaca with all the doctors and shit.”

“I promise I’ll come quietly.”

Daud transverses in their midsts, and decides it’s absolutely worth it when Ardan scrambles backwards off the wall and Quinn gives the most undignified squeak he’s ever heard.

“Hey, boss!” Galia’s cheer is unaffected as ever, and Hobson just shuffles the cards again, granting Daud a little salute in greeting.

Though Leonid is gawping, horrified.

“Close your mouth, Leo,” Daud orders her, though his effort to sound irritated is half-hearted at best. “You look like a hagfish.”

Hobson deals Daud into the game, and he kicks Quinn’s legs under the table when he realises they’ve been cheating. Ardan continues wasting bolts on errant rats, and Galia’s laugh rings out across the refinery. Daud feels, at least for tonight, that there’s hope for them all yet.

-

In the Estate District, Corvo tightens his arm around Waverly Boyle’s neck, and snaps.

Chapter Text

Waverly Boyle was murdered, neck snapped clean at her own party, and Corvo Attano signed his name in the guest book.

If Hiram Burrows wasn’t shitting himself before, he surely is now.

Daud calls all his men away from Rudshore Gate. Doesn’t dare return to the Hound Pits. It was always only a matter of time, surely, before Corvo’s mercy hit its limit. Lady Boyle was dead, and Daud, his men, their home, are on stolen time once again.

“Maybe he only kills women?” Quinn offers. “Y’know, equality and all that.”

Galia frowns at him, bemused, “How is that equality? That’d mean he’d kill everyone equally, mudlark, not just women.”

That triggers an argument in the hallway, coaxing Finn and Akila to join, and Daud shakes his head at them from where he’s sat at the desk. Thomas stands in sympathy beside him.

“If Attano does move for us, Sir… What are your orders?”

Daud watches the four outside the office, through the open doors. Galia up in Quinn’s face, jeering something at them. Akila falling against Finn’s side, both trying to stifle their laughter.

“Defend yourselves by any means necessary. If you see him, strike him down.”

No chances, now. Whatever was coming, Daud deserved it. His people didn’t.

Daud has weighed several options, several ways Corvo may try and enter the District. One of the first things he’d learned, that day in Holger Square, is Corvo favours guile over brute force.

The man’s a ghost in the city. No one catches a glimpse, no one hears a sound, and he doesn’t leave a trace of his ever being at the scene.

(It’s impressive. Terrifying, the stuff of nightmares, but damn impressive. Daud has to admire a fellow master of the trade.)

The only solid evidence linking Corvo to the Regent’s downfall-in-progress is his name, scratched in that guestbook. He must have been feeling particularly spiteful, that evening.

So if Corvo comes, he’ll come quietly. No guns blazing, no sword drawn, but discreetly, cleverly, with that focus in his eyes and that same sheer will that got him to Campbell, to the Pendletons. To Lady Boyle.

And now, all of Dunwall can hope, on towards Burrows himself.

To Daud soon after, perhaps. But not to his men.

Daud’s best and brightest are permitted to patrol the Flooded District’s outskirts; the Refinery, the old streets once leading to accounting firms and law offices, the now damp and crumbling apartments that housed bank tellers who dealt with Dunwall’s coin and commerce.

The rest – the youngsters, the novices, those Daud isn’t absolutely certain could defend their lives if it came to it – he’s ordered to remain in Central Rudshore, under Thomas, Rulfio and Rinaldo’s keen watch.

Daud’s taken other considerations. He knows the myriad of weepers and river krusts scattered around the District would pose little threat to a man who’s waltzed past Watchtowers and Walls of Light and Arc Pylons and emerged unscathed.

The hounds, though, maybe. The late Overseer Hume’s brutes, one of which mauled Akila’s arm and tried to take a chunk from Daud’s leg, before he broke the damn thing’s snout. They’re all still roaming the alleys beneath the Chamber, and the men give them a wide berth on Daud’s orders. Daud can approach them now, however, thanks to one of the bonecharms he’s carved. The beasts do little more than sniff him when he gets close.

He could use them to his advantage, if it came to it.

Before Daud had called them back, Yuri, Vladko and Leonid have been setting their clever traps all over Rudshore Gate, as well. Daud hadn’t ordered it, but he also hadn’t stopped them. The more of an edge they have, the better.

“The Regent’s had a cushy safe house built above the Tower, you know,” Rulfio says, after Daud takes refuge from his arguing men and Thomas’ questions in the training room. He drops down from the archive room and shucks through the window, comes to lean beside Rulfio on one of the overturned shelves. “And Javi said he saw some guards ferrying a stilt-walker up through the water lock.”

“Man’s definitely shitting himself, then.”

“He’s brought it all on himself. Scabby, bald prick.”

Daud snorts. “The amount of times I’ve thought about trying to get close to him again,” he admits, “just to put a piece of sharp metal in his eye.”

“You don’t do that shit anymore, Daud, we all know it,” Rulfio scoffs, not unkindly, knocking him with his elbow, “don’t pretend just so you sound all tough.”

“Put a piece of metal in your eye,” Daud mutters, and then kicks the man’s shin hard for good measure.

(Rulfio was the first of his choffers and misfits. A Morley man, easy-mannered and quick-witted. Daud had found him bleeding out in Darrellson Street after a deal gone wrong. “That’s what you get,” Daud had said, “for trying to swindle the Sixways Gang.” Rulfio had given him the finger and told him to go suck off a hagfish. Daud liked him immediately.

His brother came next. Four years younger, far less foolhardy. Rinaldo took to his share of Daud’s powers like a rat to rotting flesh. He now oversees the men’s occult training, Rulfio handles weaponry.

And the rest is history.)

“You’ve stopped stalking the Lord Protector, then.” Rulfio rubs his shin, wincing. Not that it stops his tone from staying shitty. “We were starting to get concerned he’d spot you and run you through.”

“There’s still time,” Daud says bitterly.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Attano’s not coming here, he’s got Burrows to take care of. And then probably a mountain of paperwork and other shit to do once the Empress’ daughter’s on the throne. And even if he does,” Rulfio shrugs, “he won’t make it past the weepers or the river krusts.”

You haven’t seen him, Daud doesn’t say.

“Relax,” Rulfio adds, ever the optimist. He shoots Daud a grin, “We’ll be fine!”

“We’re fucking dead,” Rinaldo declares, nodding solemnly, when Daud seeks his counsel instead. He blows smoke through his nose, then flicks his cigarette over the Refinery’s walkway. They watch it plummet to the luminous, oil-tainted waters below. “Better sleep with one eye open.”

“Way ahead of you,” Daud grunts. “Your mudlark of a brother thinks we should stay put. Wait it out.”

“That’s because he’s a mudlark.” Rinaldo glances at him sidelong, “Where would we go, if we didn’t?”

“Void knows,” Daud confesses. Nothing and nowhere feels safe or smart enough, at the moment. “I thought Serkonos.”

Rinaldo hums, approving. “Sunny.”

“Safe,” Daud emphasises. “Safer than here. No plague, at least.”

“And no disgruntled Royal Protector potentially coming for our heads. What’s the food like?”

“Your priorities need shifting.” Daud smiles, just slightly, before adding, “Food’s good. You can taste it, at least. No brined hagfish.”

“Then Serkonos has my vote.”

It’s a wonderful fancy. To imagine simply leaving; putting the city and all its shit behind them, while they sail for fairer waters and clearer skies.

Daud doesn’t let himself dwell in the dream too long. He never does. He needs to be honest with himself, and now is the time for reality, not speculation.

“Moving everyone, finding something, will take time. Time we don’t have, at present. I know it, Rulfio knows it. If we’d had more time, more coin, more…” He sighs through his nose, frustrated. All these fucking ifs. “If I had focused on moving us,” six months ago, Daud had had six damned months, and what had he done with them, “instead of chasing Delilah…”

Rinaldo bumps his ankle lightly with the toe of his boot. “I know, Daud. It’s a nice thought. No one regrets following you to Delilah.”

“Fools, all of you,” Daud bites out, but it’s weak. His chest feels tight. “I’ve taken in dozens of fools.”

“Well, we follow by your example, so,” Rinaldo points out, shitty as his brother, and Daud grips his coat and shoves him forward so he teeters over the walkway’s edge, before making sure to pull him back in.

It only makes the man cackle, like the idiot he is.

That morning, hours before Dunwall’s muddy light of daybreak is due, Fisher comes barrelling to him where he’s smoking on the Chamber’s rooftop. Daud can hear her footfalls advancing on him a mile off, and when she appears, she’s breathless and grinning ear-to-ear.

“Master Daud! We just got word from Javi, Sir, those loudspeakers are all sayin’ it! He got ‘im, he got that nasty Regent!”

(Did Corvo kill him? The question burns in his mind.)

Daud reminds her sternly that no one is to come up to the Commerce roof. He steers Fisher down, ordering her to stay put in the training room with the others.

“Ughh but Sir–”

“Go and knock Dodge and Cleon on their asses,” he adds, knowing that will take her attention, “Rulfio has them doing blade work today.”

The closest operational loudspeaker is just outside the Old Mosley Canal. When Daud joins Javier, Quinn, Galia and the twins there, he hears it for himself.

‘Hiram Burrows, once known as the Lord Regent, is no longer in power. His corrupt and illegitimate regime has come to a close. Recent revelations of his role in the events leading to the spread of the rat plague have necessitated a restructuring phase in the City’s government. Please remain alert for further announcements.

Long live the Empress.’

Nothing about Corvo. Guile, over force, Daud reminds himself. Likely that no soul in the Tower even caught a glimpse of him.

Quinn’s bouncing on their toes as they listen, and Andrei and Killian clamp their arms around each other’s shoulders, Javier squashed between them and smiling. Galia leans sideways against Daud’s shoulder, and Daud releases a breath he thinks he’s held for a long, long time.

Hiram Burrows falls, at last.

When word spreads, the men are livened, restless and itching to celebrate, but Daud forbids them from drinking. Ordinarily he’d let them do as they pleased, as long as no duty or assignment was being shirked. But these are dangerous and uncertain times still, even with Burrows now out of play. Daud wants them sharp, not swaying into the floodwater.

He himself never touches the stuff; likes his mind switched on, not dulled with liquor.

(There had been only one exception. About a week after the Empress, after delivering her daughter to those brothers, after Corvo’s incarceration. Far and hidden from any of the men, in an old, abandonment apartment somewhere on Thresh Street, he’d drank until he thought he would die. At the time, he thinks maybe he wanted to.

He’d been tempted by a bottle of Old Dunwall after Billie. His fingers had itched for it, for the dullness, just for a moment, before Thomas had knocked on the doors, telling him that Kent couldn’t save Akila’s arm after the hound attack. That had banished the temptation far from his mind, and there it had staunchly remained.)

Corvo and his Loyalist retinue – the Admiral, Mr Beechworth and the rest – will likely be moving on to the next stage of their plan, now that Burrows has a cell in Coldridge with his name on it.

Daud runs a hand over his face, pacing the length of the office’s upper floor, trying to muddle it all out. Hiram Burrows was the source of all this, all the schemes and the plague victims and the misery in the city. And yet Corvo hadn’t killed him. So why kill Waverly Boyle? Of all Corvo’s targets, all his enemies, why her?

There is still too little information, still too many questions roving around Corvo Attano, despite the days Daud’s devoted to finding and following the man.

(He skirts around the word stalking, as Rulfio put it. A wolfhound stalks, Daud tails, like a professional.)

He’s moving to the stairs to grab an audiograph recording, too many thoughts running rampant in his head, when Rulfio himself shoulders open one of the doors, looking pale as the Outsider.

Nothing much shocks Rulfio. Something’s happened.

“What.”

“Attano. He’s here.”

Daud stays silent atop the stairway. Waits for more, an explanation, bad news, anything. He gestures for Rulfio to continue, but Rulfio’s mouth only remains slightly ajar, his eyes narrowed like he’s trying to say something but can’t think quite how to say it.

Outsider’s eyes, Corvo’s come at last, why is the man just fucking standing there gaping like a fool?

“Rulfio,” Daud bites out, patience gone, “by the void–”

“Just come and see. Seriously, just come and see it for yourself.”

That does not settle Daud’s nerves, at all.

But he follows the man away from Central Rudshore, and then along the waterfront. Rulfio is quiet and bemused the entire way, and it makes Daud’s fists clench in irritation, apprehension, confusion. Why the void Rulfio is supposedly leading him to Corvo Attano, Daud cannot fathom.

(No more fucking mysteries. He wants to plead it. He’s had just about all he can take in recent months.)

Daud’s expression, he imagines, soon matches Rulfio’s.

They join Rinaldo and Jenkins at Agroosh Way, all four of them ankle deep in floodwater and peering down at the small boat rocking on the waves, knocking gently against the blockade that’s halted its course.

“He’s not dead,” Jenkins sees fit to point out, and Rinaldo smacks him upside the head.

“Of course he isn’t dead, you pillock. We all have eyes, we can see that much.”

Corvo’s Mark flickers, in Rinaldo’s support; a weak glimmer of yellow light.

“So has he come to kill us or what?”

Rinaldo smacks him harder. “Yes, Jenkins, the man’s poisoned himself and posted his sorry ass right to our doorstep to slit all our throats. Use your fucking head.”

Daud, in something of a daze, crouches down into the shallow water for a clearer look.

“You’re sure its poison, Rin?” Rulfio asks, taking a step closer so he’s standing guard above Daud, as though he expects Corvo might spring up and declare it’s all a ploy.

Daud appreciates the caution, but he can see it without a doubt. “It’s poison.” And only Tyvian poison leaves your veins black beneath the skin. Sickly, dark tendrils are snaking up Corvo’s wrists.

The Mark on his hand stutters again, like a cry for help. Daud suspects the Outsider’s gift is the only reason Corvo’s not dead.

Daud can put together the pieces quickly enough. Corvo didn’t damn well poison himself, so the Loyalists, his allies, must be responsible. But why?

(The boatman, Samuel… Daud feels a sentimental stab of disappointment. A seemingly loyal man, a fierce friend to Corvo so it appeared. Daud wouldn’t have expected him capable of this.

Although, this city spits on loyalty, thrives on treachery and deception, so of course it’s entirely possible.)

Weren’t they all dedicated to the same cause, working towards the same outcome? Didn’t they need Corvo most of all? Were they not, all of them, set on restoring a Kaldwin to the throne with Corvo’s aid?

Who’s watching Emily Kaldwin now, if Corvo is adrift here?

This doesn’t make any void damned sense. “You both just found him like this?”

“Floating along like a bloody funeral send-off,” Jenkins asserts. “Thought he might just be a well-dressed weeper comin’ down from the Old Port way at first, but then Rin recognised the coat.”

“Nothing on him but those,” Rinaldo adds, gesturing. Daud picks up a beautifully crafted crossbow from the boat, and then what looks like a sword handle, no blade, until he twists it just-so and the rapier unfolds in a sharp, precise sweep. Clever. “And a couple of those bonecharms, but they’re stitched into his coat, I checked.”

Daud goes to inspect one – had Corvo crafted them himself? Would he even know how? – fingers brushing one at the edge of his collar, and Corvo’s eyes flash open.

His Mark flares and he jerks upright in an instant, on an animal impulse, alarmed and alert, to snatch the handle of his sword, fingers grasping over Daud’s to flip the blade and press it forward against Daud’s throat.

Daud, much fucking calmer than he feels, swings an arm out to stop Rulfio’s wristbow putting a bolt in Corvo’s head. “Don’t,” he barks sharp to Jenkins and Rinaldo, who have their own weapons trained.

Daud has a good read on the situation, and a good grip on the sword handle. He pushes back against the press of the metal, keeping it from tearing into his neck.

This isn’t an attack. It’s defence, desperate and disorientated – Corvo likely has no idea where he is or who he’s with – and Daud, in his peripheral, sees Corvo’s Mark gleam violently, panicked.

Corvo’s eyes burn.

(More red than brown; burnt copper beneath his dark hair. So close to the man, in a second of insanity, Daud’s mind heeds the precise colour of those eyes.)

But they’re unfocused, hazy with toxin, as his grasp on the blade shakes with tremors. Pain surges on Corvo’s face at all the sudden movement, the sudden jolt into wakefulness, survival instinct driving it all.

Corvo’s grasp on his weapon falters. He blinks sharply through what must be agony, Mark stuttering again, and he loses whatever contents of his stomach there are over one side of Daud’s coat, choking out blood and black bile before he slips unconscious again.

Daud drops the sword so he can stop Corvo’s head hitting the side of the boat.

“Outsider’s ballsack,” Jenkins pants, hunched over with his hands on his knees. “What the void shitting fuck, I thought we were all dead as a gutted whale.”

“Shut up, Jenkins.” Though Rulfio only sounds a little more composed.  The man squeezes Daud’s shoulder, “You good?”

“I’ll live.” Daud’s glad to hear his voice is steady.

His glove is still cushioning Corvo’s head, and he places the man down. Corvo looks far from that sharp, errant man Daud had seen at the Hound Pits.

He looks so pitiful, poisoned and betrayed as he is, that Daud has an absurd urge to gather some of the hair out of his face for a moment.

He stands, instead, dank water clinging to his knees. “Rinaldo, Jenkins. Put him somewhere secure. Opposite Cullero’s,” Daud decides. Far from the Chamber and the novices. “The hole we used for Hume’s survivors. Keep watch until he wakes. Inform me when he does.”

Corvo’s come to them unexpectedly. He’s in their territory, unwillingly, with no clever plan and no upper hand. Daud can approach this his way, now. Keep Corvo contained, away from his men, away from a sharp blade, away from Daud’s own throat.

He retrieves the crossbow, folds the blade with a flick, and hands them off to Rulfio.

“And these?”

“Toss them in the Refinery. His coat, too.”

Daud allows himself a moment of regret, a moment of condolence for the man at his feet. But he cannot be kind with this, he has to be realistic. Corvo is dangerous, and Daud must snatch any advantage he has on him right now.

So Corvo won’t be given any edges when he drifts back to consciousness; no weapons, no charms. And his magic’s weakened to nothing by the poison in his blood.

“And if he dies?”

Daud glances at the Mark, still flickering weakly, on Corvo’s hand. “He won’t.”

But he won’t be coming for them, not in the state he’s in. Looking at the man, it’s not possible.

“Get to it.”

They work quickly, as always.

Daud aims to return to Central Rudshore; order the rest of the men to keep far from the office for a while. He needs time to think, to plan. How does one approach a conversation, or at the very least an interrogation, with Corvo Attano, now Daud has the unwitting chance to do so.

He wants answers, information, now more than ever. Those Loyalists may have just granted him the chance to get them, though Daud can’t approve of their methods. Poison is low. Cowardly. He wouldn’t have anticipated that from a man of Admiral Havelock’s reputation.

Daud grimaces down at the black, bloody splatter on his coat before he goes. He considers, then shrugs the damn thing off, casting it to the floodwaters. About time he got a new one, anyway.

Chapter Text

Daud has a split-second to appreciate how wrong he was.

Corvo does come to him, betrayed and weak and starving for blood.

Arrogant, for Daud to have thought he’d apprehended him. Of course Corvo wouldn’t allow a bit of betrayal and poison stop him from taking what he wants.

It’s instinct that makes Daud fight. A visceral, animal impulse that has him drawing his blade to deflect Corvo’s first vicious strike. He appears from nowhere, that blue flash of light Daud’s only warning, a sword aimed for the skin of Daud’s throat.

It’s not his own sword, that clever folding blade Daud found with him. Outsider’s eyes, Corvo hadn’t even wasted time retrieving his own gear, it must still be lying in the depths of the refinery.

He’d gunned straight for Daud, across the waterfront, through Central Rudshore, through his men because Corvo’s gripping one of his men’s swords, and that makes Daud strike back. That makes Daud want to fight.

So he fights. Harder, dirtier, aiming a brutal kick to Corvo’s torso and marking the bookcase, pulling it down so hard on the man that he barely manages to skirt aside in time.

The office is a flurry of loose papers, clashes of metal, wristbow bolts thunking into walls and clanging against the stair railings, scuffs on the floorboards as their feet dart and strike out to trip.

He backs Corvo out from the Chamber, across the makeshift walkway and onto the ruins, with a bolt to his shin. A lucky shot, but void, Daud takes it.

He slashes, his blade catching Corvo’s arm and slicing through his sleeve.

It’s enough to disarm him. Daud seizes the opening, hooking his blade around Corvo’s injured wrist and lunging back, knocking the sword from Corvo’s grasp completely; it skids across the walkway, out of reach. Corvo staggers, and Daud grabs his wrist, drags him forward, flips his blade to strike down–

Corvo rips the bolt from his own leg and slashes it into Daud’s side, blood oozing through Daud’s shirt and flecking across Corvo’s face. There’s a surge of energy, the flare of Corvo’s Mark white-hot in Daud’s peripheral, and then he’s blasted into the broken wall overhanging the floodwater, his sword clattering down over the side and into the ruins below.

Corvo’s fist lashes out, breaks his nose. Every drop of anger he must hold is in the strike, vicious and ruthless as he seizes Daud’s collar, slams him up against the wall, the back of Daud’s head knocking hard against the bricks. He swings again and Daud’s vision seizes, swimming.

Corvo zeroes-in on the knife – a gift from Billie – Daud keeps in his belt, and he swipes it in one motion, pressing it to Daud’s throat so hard it draws a thick line of blood from his flesh.

Daud could have died in a thousand bloody ways. It’s fitting, that it’ll be here after all, in Rudshore. At Corvo’s hands and with Billie’s knife. After all is said and done, his life is Corvo Attano’s, and has been since that day at the Tower. Since Daud let him become a pawn in Burrows’ and Campbell’s plans, let him be dragged to Coldridge to rot for a crime, a mistake, that was always Daud’s.

He has to be at peace with this. It could never not have ended like this.

(Daud’s just relieved he ordered his men far from the office, knows any of them would interfere in a second, were they here. At least he made one good choice today, at the end.

His men... They’ll be alright. Rulfio and Rinaldo know where he’s stashed the coin. They’ll all be alright.)

Corvo keeps him pinned there, gaze burning into him, all rage and hatred and vengeance so sharp that Daud doesn’t dare breathe under the force of the knife at his neck.

And then, after a torturous moment, something in Corvo’s eyes focuses. A flash of indecision, of awareness; a flicker of reality bearing down on him as he regards Daud, bleeding and beaten and held tight in his clutches like a rat by the tail, utterly at his mercy.

Corvo hesitates, and it’s enough.

It’s there, eye to eye, hand gripping Daud’s collar and blade pushed to Daud’s neck, that the frenzy, the bloodlust glazing over Corvo’s eyes, begins to dissipate.

Daud watches his expression shatter, although the knife sinks in further, just for a moment, as though Corvo’s desperate to do it. But then it eases away, and slips from Corvo’s fingers completely, clattering onto the rotting floorboards beneath them.

Corvo slumps forward with this raw, wounded sound, and Daud lets the breath he’s been holding for void-knows how long rush out of him, rasping and wet with the tang of iron in his mouth.

Corvo’s other hand, the one shining and scraped with Daud’s blood, grasps Daud’s shoulder, and Daud grasps at the man’s wrist in return like a lifeline; steadying himself as Corvo shudders, gasping out these uncontrolled, choked noises that match Daud’s own.

It’s grief and anguish and regret and the unfairness of it all, the two of them curled together, clinging to one another, like it’s all that’s keeping them afloat.

Daud doesn’t know how long they stay there.

Eventually, Corvo sags sideways, sinking to the ground, and Daud drops too, his knees too weak to support him without Corvo’s weight. They both slide onto the floorboards, stagger themselves back against the broken wall, shoulder to shoulder, with the statue of Jessamine Kaldwin stood like a sentry behind them.

They sit there beside each other, crashing. Shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion, harsh breaths gasped out and hissing from behind their teeth.

“Why did you do it,” Corvo whispers, and it sounds like a plea; so quiet that Daud barely hears the words over their haggard breathing. “Was it for coin?”

Daud feels something between a scoff and a sob leave his throat. He forces his head to shake, “No.”

“But there was coin,” Corvo doesn’t ask. Accuses.

Daud shuts his eyes, squeezes them shut. “Yes.” His hands are going numb from the speed of his breaths, chest unbearably tight. “Burrows… made us a deal. One last job,” he slurs; smears the blood running from his nose with the back of his glove, his words coming red-wet and jagged. “He was getting closer and closer with the High Overseer. I didn’t want Campbell’s attention on my people. I wanted to be done with Burrows, with them both. So I didn’t refuse him.”

Corvo’s hands are trembling. He says nothing, waiting.

“It was a job. It was just another job–”

“And Emily?” Corvo bites. “Was it your job to hand her over to those twins,” he snarls the word. “Was it your job to let her watch–”

Daud’s breath shudders, “I know–”

“–while you kill her mother in front of her? Watch me take the fall for it all? She saw everything–”

“I know!” Daud can’t open his eyes, “I know... I know…”

A span of silence follows, filled only by their rough breathing against the cool morning breeze. Daud clutches his sliced side, and Corvo draws his legs up to an arch and rests his arms atop his knees, as they both share a few moments to allow themselves to breathe again.

It’s unnervingly peaceful, following what just happened.

Daud lets his head fall back against the wall, and opens his eyes to the murky yellow sky. “You weren’t supposed to be there, bodyguard,” he says hoarsely. Confesses. “Or the girl.”

Corvo was supposed to be on a ship, two days out of Dunwall. Rulfio was supposed to abduct Emily from the east gardens, where Burrows assured them she would be. Neither of them were supposed to be under that gazebo, when the job was done.

And now he’s started, Daud can’t stop. He needs to bridge the silence between them, with all he wants this man to hear. Needs him to hear.

“That day, when… I killed your Empress, and took her daughter… something broke, inside me.” He scoffs, ends up coughing more blood and breathing harsh for a moment. “All the years of doing Burrows’ dirty work, all the money exchanging hands, from one rich bastard to another… killing for one of them one year, then being paid to kill him in return the next. I’d give back all the coin, if I could. If it would change anything. I’ve had enough killing.”

He chances a glimpse at the man. Corvo’s eyes are fixed somewhere in front of him, hard and unreadable, but focused. He’s doing Daud the courtesy of listening, at least.

“I remember bending at the shrines, listening as the Outsider whispered that I was going to change things, that I was somehow important. It felt good. Made me believe I was powerful.”

(But what has he accomplished in all those years, in the end? More than Corvo has, since his run as an assassin began. It feels like much less, dismally less.)

“I didn’t know what would happen when I killed her, bodyguard.” Jessamine Kaldwin’s hands were all that was holding the city together. Daud didn’t know. “I know none of that makes a difference. I know it doesn’t change what I’ve done. But I didn’t know.”

“No amount of pretty words can undo your crimes, killer.”

By the void, does Daud know it.

But then Corvo lowers his head, closes his eyes. Sighs out a harsh breath. The sound is resigned, almost irritated. “But… what you’ve said,” he continues quietly, as though he doesn’t particularly want to be admitting it at all. “I believe you.”

Something, a weight, a penance, lifts the second those words are spoken. Daud’s shoulders sag with it, and an unbidden noise tries to scrape its way out of him. He swallows it down.

“I’ve done enough, to you. I won’t start lying now.”

“Good for you,” Corvo answers, utterly deadpan, and Daud has the mad urge to laugh.

They sit in silence once again, and it’s different now, as their breathing slows bit by bit and the torrent of their fight subsides. It’s not companionable, by any measure. But it’s different. Quieter. Like the sea after a brutal storm.

Daud takes the chance, takes advantage of the quiet and the calm, to light up a cigarette. He’s alive to do it and he fucking needs one. He digs the pack from his pocket with his hands shaking still, trying to ignore the pain in his broken nose and the blood all over his chin.

“Not going to offer one?”

“You don’t smoke.”

And then Daud freezes, caught.

“So you have been following me.” Corvo doesn’t sound surprised.

Daud feels the heat of shame crawling up his neck, a sensation he hasn’t felt since he was a boy. But there’s no use denying it, now. “You were a mystery, and I couldn’t allow that. Not with everything else being so uncertain.”

Corvo gives a little irritated hum in answer, but says nothing more about it. He does pluck the cigarette from Daud’s fingers, though – just to be snide, Daud suspects – and grimaces immediately when he takes a drag.

Daud glances his way when the man pushes the spliff back to him. It brings the blade Corvo had stolen, now lying halfway across the walkway, into his view past Corvo’s shoulder. It’s Rinaldo’s. Daud recognises the handle.

Only one question really matters, then.

“My men… at the waterfront, are they…”

Corvo follows his gaze to Rinaldo’s sword. “I haven’t touched them.”

The relief Daud feels is crippling. And it could be sympathy, but Daud decides it’s closer to pity, the emotion he sees flash across Corvo’s face. Daud must sound as pathetic as he feels.

“I only came for you. Though two of them are snoring near where you put me,” Corvo says, not sounding particularly apologetic. “They almost saw me get out.”

Daud feels some pride at that, before remembering that Corvo’s poisoned, probably hasn’t slept in days, and is running on adrenaline and spite. He chalks up the near-notice to a fluke, as Corvo’s clearly not at full capacity. It’s only fair.

“I hope you die weeping, by the way,” Corvo sees fit to add, “for locking me in that hole back there. And for everything else. But right now, specifically for that. Pissed me off, that’s why I came here to kill you,” and Daud does laugh at that; a short, broken sound of amusement that sends a spike of pain shooting through his middle, where the wristbow bolt had torn.

“I was taking precautions, not trying to piss you off.”

“I’m having a bad fucking day, if you couldn’t tell. It didn’t take much.”

Another question gnaws at him. “How did you get out?”

“Possessed a rat.”

Of course, obviously. “Foolish, not to consider rat possession when I built the damn thing.”

Corvo gives a nod, “That one’s on you.”

The unsettlingly easy back-and-forth dredges up more of those ifs in Daud’s mind. If he hadn’t kept Corvo contained, if he’d brought him to the Chamber instead and beared his soul to him under different circumstances, if he’d put Corvo under Kent’s watch, on the floor that serves as their infirmary, not under Jenkins’ and Rinaldo’s in a cell smaller than those at Coldridge.

(If he’d sworn his loyalty to a better man at Dunwall Tower… bowed to Corvo’s will instead of bending under Burrows’ promise of coin and freedom, six months ago…

Little good these ifs will do either of them, now.)

“I didn’t know what you’d do, when you woke and realised where you were,” Daud confesses.

“Why not just kill me then? Isn’t that what you do?”

So Corvo has questions of his own. Daud feels a strange, selfish surge of satisfaction at that.

“Like I said, I was merely taking precautions. You hadn’t touched my people, when you found them by Bottle Street. You chose mercy, for all of Burrows’ allies. But the Boyle party–”

“Don’t,” Corvo warns, and the dry humour of before is cut down in an instant by that tone. “You don’t know anything about me. And Waverly was different.”

Daud hesitates. Calls his nerve to heel. He has to know. “Why?”

“Why should I explain myself to you.”

“It’s not an interrogation, bodyguard.”

It feels like he’s trying to placate a feral wolfhound. Daud vaguely wonders whether that taming bonecharm of his works on people, too, before dismissing the notion. Absurd.

“I’m asking.” Daud wants, so fiercely, to understand. “The men you’ve been working for, the ones that–” betrayed you, he stops himself from saying, feeling Corvo tense at his side. “That sent you here. They asked you to kill for them?”

Corvo’s steady silence is answer enough.

“But you found another way, each time.” Except Waverly Boyle. The question burns in his mind, but Daud pushes it back. “You took a path I could have followed, when the Outsider gave me his gift. But did not.”

(But Daud is trying now. Trying to make amends. Choices always matter, to someone, somewhere, and void, Daud is trying. Why does he want Corvo to know this so desperately?)

“You didn’t kill any one–”

“I wanted to. Do you think I didn’t.”

Daud feels his blood run cold; a sudden jolt of dread and astonishment spiking through him at the venom in the man’s voice.

“I hated them,” Corvo spits out. His eyes flit to Daud, almost too quick to catch  “I hated you. It would have been so… easy, to slit Campbell’s throat in that interrogation chair. To put bullets in those twins, to run a sword through all those nobles. Through Burrows.”

Through you, Corvo doesn’t say.

Daud hears it, all the same. “But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Corvo does look at Daud, then. Meets his eyes for the first time without one of them holding a blade to the other’s neck. Burnished copper against cold steel. “What would killing them have accomplished, other than give the Watch more corpses to toss into the river. How would their deaths have answered for what they’d done.”

And Daud, at last, understands.

Pettiest man in Dunwall, his mind supplies, somewhere in the distance of this conversation. It was never a kindness, never mercy.

It was revenge, plain and simple. It wasn’t enough for Corvo to kill them. He wanted revenge, and he‘d taken it. He’d humiliated each of them, one by one, by sparing their lives.

Campbell excommunicated from the Overseers, doomed to live out his days among the sick and the poor he’d so despised. The Pendletons, put to hard work in their own mines; driven cruelly, mercilessly, like the slaves and servants they’d abused all their lives. Burrows, taken down by the same apparatus that gave his reign life to begin with, his power and public image forevermore in ruins.

It’s genius. It’s sadistic. It’s spiteful as the void.

“What made Lady Boyle different?”

Corvo glares at the floor, eyes burning slowly at the floorboards. Then, “Waverly was different,” he repeats, “because she’d done nothing to me, not directly. Nothing to Emily. Burrows was a manipulative rat, and Waverly got caught up in something she didn’t understand, becoming his mistress. Then another Lord cornered me, at the estate, said he wanted her for himself.”

Brisby.

“I wasn’t going to knock her unconscious and hand her over like some prize, some object. But I needed her gone. Waverly said she couldn’t escape Hiram, she was scared. She didn’t know he’d brought the plague here, didn’t know fully what she’d been throwing her coin into…” Daud waits, doesn’t dare interrupt. But he thinks he knows what’s coming. “But she knew why I was there. Asked me to kill her. Wanted freedom, wanted to end things on her own terms, by her own choice. I respected it. Made it… quick.”

A mercy killing, then. Or Corvo’s own personal view of mercy, at least.

(Daud believes he may have unknowingly allied with that mindset after the Empress, to a point. After all, killing Rothwild may have been kinder than shipping him off to the frozen plains of Tyvia. Kinder than watching Timsh get arrested. Kinder than tricking Delilah into being siphoned to the void for all eternity.

Kinder than banishing Billie from her home.)

“It was only Waverly,” Corvo continues. “Everyone else can suffer where I’ve put them, regretting their choices for however long they live now.”

He shuffles, winces when he moves his leg; the wound from Daud’s bolt stretching and seeping blood.

“You, too. I thought about coming here. I knew where you were, where you put your assassins around the city. I wanted you to know that I knew.”

Nico’s group, on Clavering. Stealing their pouches. It had been a message, a warning. I know where you are and I can reach you.

“I wanted you running scared, to be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life, wondering when I’d come for you. I hated you,” Corvo repeats, but there’s no venom this time, no real force behind the words now. “And hating you… hating them, Burrows and the rest… and now hating Havelock, and Pendleton, and Martin, all of them…” Corvo’s quiet breaths stir the hair hanging over his face, “I’ve hated myself, as well.”

He lets his head drop back; a soft thunk as it hits the wall they’re both slumped against. Daud notices a burn mark then, faintly purple and almost healed, along the sharp cut of his jaw. Coldridge. Months of torture, at the hands of Burrows and Campbell.

Corvo’s eyes are glazed over now, in the dull morning light of Rudshore. Resigned. Distant. He looks so painfully tired.

He’s been through too fucking much.

“I just don’t have the energy for it, anymore.”

(Daud has a sudden impulse to touch his leg, his arm. To ground him somehow, like he would one of his men. He doubts it would be appreciated, here.)

Something else steals Daud’s attention then. The Mark on Corvo’s hand is still flickering, has been since they slumped down beside each other, yellow light flashing in fitful bouts.

Still trying to abate the poison.

Now the chaos from before has lulled, Daud takes a moment to admire the fact that Corvo even managed to disarm Daud and use his witchcraft at all, let alone make it here, past his men, past the weepers and river krusts and hounds, all while still heavily under the poison’s hold.

“Your allies…” Daud anticipates whether the question will be knocked aside. Watches for any flinch or frown that tells him it isn’t welcome. He’s starting to adapt to Corvo’s small tells. “Why did they poison you–”

“Because they’re weak,” Corvo snaps before Daud’s even finished the question. “They got fucking greedy, and now Emily’s paying for it all again. They wanted me gone, to use me to…”

Corvo bears forward suddenly, supporting himself on the broken wall and hauling himself to his feet.

Daud grunts a disbelieving sound, “Where are you going, bodyguard.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern, killer.” Corvo takes a step, falters, and his leg, the one Daud put a bolt in, buckles. Corvo drops to one knee, breathing out a frustrated sound before trying to stagger upright again.

Stubborn fool, “Attano–”

“They have her, I ne–“ He makes it two strides before tripping again, Mark flashing in warning, eyes clenched shut against the pain he must be in. “I need to go, I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve wasted too much time–”

“They have her– The Admiral and the others?”

“They got too close to the throne. Havelock wants to be Regent, he has all the support he needs, and they have her, I need to go.”

He won’t make it, not like this. “Wait–“

Corvo drags himself standing again, still shaking from exertion, exhaustion, the toxin in his bloodstream.

“Wait, bodyguard–“ Daud tries to stand, too, to stop the man, to help, he doesn’t know. His slashed side protests immediately, and a pained noise escapes him. He presses his hand over the wound, panting harshly as he watches Corvo attempt another step. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Corvo shoots a fierce glare over his shoulder, “What do you care?!”

“Just stop and think–“

“I need to go!”

“Fucking think for a moment! There’s one of you, you can’t just chase those Loyalists across the city alone–“

“I’ve done everything fucking else on my own, why stop now–“

“Because you’re half dead from poison and bleeding out in my District, you damned fool! Don’t throw your life away just out of spite, just for that girl to end up as a puppet for another Regent!” That gets Corvo’s attention. That stops Corvo in his tracks. “Don’t do this.”

“What do you suggest, then,” Corvo spits out, clutching the side of his injured leg and rounding on Daud, doing his best not to keel over in the process. “I wait for them to die of old fucking age?”

Daud holds the man’s gaze, breathes, and finds the words come disturbingly easily. “Let me help you.”

Corvo stares at him. Perhaps trying to discern whether or not he’s joking or gone truly mad. Daud’s not certain himself.

After a few seconds, Corvo huffs a scornful sound through his nose. “Why in the void would I accept your help.”

“Because you’re desperate.” Daud doesn’t say it to insult him, it’s merely the truth. He forges on before Corvo can make another derisive sound, “You need allies. Ammunition, weapons. Somewhere to regroup. I can provide those. You can’t hunt these men by the skin of your teeth, bodyguard, and you know it.”

There’s evidently a cascade of bemusement and frustration and distrust raging inside the man as Daud speaks. But Corvo doesn’t cut across him, doesn’t say anything yet. Just has those red-brown eyes trained on him, sharp with suspicion.

So Daud, gritting his teeth through the weariness and the pain coursing through his whole being, shifts to one knee. “Please.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever begged in his life. But he’s not letting this man die because he’s too stubborn to accept the help he needs when it’s being offered at his feet.

Daud swallows whatever pride he has left in him, and gives what he owes. “My life is yours. My men, are yours. Let me help you.”

He’s saved Emily Kaldwin once, and by the void, by anything, Daud won’t let that all be for nothing. Somehow, and he’s sure the Outsider is laughing, it’s all been leading here, to this.

“Let me help you save the girl.”

It’s silent for so long, Daud feels as though they’ve frozen themselves in time. Corvo scrutinises him all the while, icy and sceptical. Daud can see that whirlwind mind of his running a mile-a-minute, calculating, weighing his options out.

Then his Mark glints, and a strange, dark contraption materialises in his palm; throbbing steadily, beating behind Corvo’s fingers. He tightens his grip on it, just slightly, and Daud steels himself for something to happen.

There’s nothing. Nothing that Daud can see or hear, at least.

But whatever it is, it makes Corvo’s decision. There’s a shift in his expression, distrust and wariness veering to… surprise, maybe. Understanding. Resignation.

Something in Corvo’s gaze thaws, just a little.

The contraption vanishes in a flicker, and Corvo closes his eyes, sighs at his own sad situation. Then fixes Daud with his glare again, annoyed and resolute.

He strides forward, “Alright,” and offers Daud his hand.

Chapter Text

In the span of a scuffle and a sit-down, Corvo Attano is now his ally. The Outsider must be howling, wherever he is.

Corvo pulls Daud to his feet.

They’re too drained to risk transversing anywhere, so they stumble their way back into the Chamber on foot, supporting each other’s weight; Daud’s arm slung around Corvo’s shoulder, trying to stop his side from bleeding any further; Corvo leaning on Daud in return to take the weight off his injured leg.

“These murderers of yours know how to patch a wound?“

“It won’t be pretty, but yes.”

“Excellent,” Corvo says dryly, righting them both when they almost stumble off the edge of the walkway. “You have half a fucking roof,” he points out, peering around the office. “All that coin you got from Burrows not enough to afford a whole one?”

Snide bastard. “Shut up and move, bodyguard.”

Daud doesn’t like the way Corvo’s Mark keep stuttering. It looks sick, tainted. And despite what overseers and paranoid commoners think, black magic doesn’t cure their ails.

(It grants them asylum to many unpleasant things, true, the plague being among them. It was one of the first things Daud sought to confirm when the rats came to Dunwall; that his Arcane Bond would keep his people defended.

Though his orders are that the men still wear the whaling masks when they’re out in the city. He won’t have them taking stupid risks around rats hoards and weepers, won’t have them breathing in anything that might cause them to cough up their guts.)

Their Marks don’t make them immortal, no matter how many times Daud may have felt like it over the years. And while Corvo’s magic may be fighting the poison, Daud knows it won’t flush it out entirely. Only time and treatment and some void-damned rest can do that.

When they reach the nearest set of doors, Corvo props Daud against the wall so he can shoulder one open. His Mark flashes again, concerningly brightly this time. The glass diamonds patterning the doors refract its glare all over the room.

Then Corvo sways, and it could be from the poison, or his rage-fuelled stretch to the Chamber, or their fight, or just getting back inside the office. Daud’s not certain.

He is certain Corvo’s about two seconds from passing out.

Daud has a very brief internal debate about it, before he transverses just in time to stop the Lord Protector’s head from cracking on the floor. A guttural grunt leaves him as the magic bleeds his energy and the movement tears his side open further.

But he has just offered his aid and his life to the man. Daud supposes if he can prevent a head injury being added to the list of shit that’s happened to Corvo today – the last six months, really – then he’s probably obligated to do it.

“See? You’d have been face-down in the sewers by now if I’d left you to it,” Daud bites out through the pain.

He spends a few moments hunched on the floor, breathing hard, Corvo’s head on his leg. Takes the moment to dredge through the disorientation, to fully convince himself that Corvo hadn’t just slit his throat and thrown his corpse to the floodwaters, as he’s done in Daud’s dreams the last few weeks.

And then, once he’s pulled himself together, he exhausts whatever’s left of his mana and summons Thomas, Kent and Rulfio without even a warning. Daud feels it’s justified, given the circumstances.

The collective shock of finding Corvo slumped over him is expected. He and Daud must look a sorry sight, bleeding and bedraggled and collapsed together on the floorboards. But once they’ve taken in the spectacle, Rulfio clearly remembers his brother was stationed at Corvo’s confinement.

Daud can’t bear the look that comes over his face.

“Rinaldo– is he–”

“Alive,” Daud assures, gently as he can. “He didn’t touch anyone when he broke out. Came straight here.”

Rulfio nods, lets the relief sink in. And promptly rounds on Daud. “You shitting dullard,” he chastises, “why the fuck wouldn’t you call on one of us, you absolute– you know what, no, you deserve to have your face broken, I can’t believe you,” and so on and so forth.

While Rulfio rants, Kent shoves Corvo from Daud’s lap, giving him a cautious once-over. “Breathing?”

“Breathing,” Daud confirms, while Thomas scoops himself under Daud’s shoulder, easing him to stand.

“I’m relieved to see you in one piece, Sir.”

Thomas’ respect never wavers, Daud credits him, even in the strangest circumstances. “You and I both.”

“What the void happened?” Rulfio regards the once-again unconscious Lord Protector at their feet. “Did you knock him out?”

“Nevermind what happened,” Daud dismisses.

(The thought of revealing any of it, their fight, their conversation, puts a sour taste in Daud’s mouth. That’s between him and Corvo alone. No more mistakes, now, where Corvo is concerned. Daud’s made far too many already.)

“We have a new contract. Inform the others. We’re fighting for Attano, now.” Daud had always thought fleeing the city was his only option, assuming he outlived what was coming. How strange, to be fighting for it instead once again. “And for the Empress. There’s work to do.”

His expression, even bloody and dishevelled as he is, brooks no arguments.

Thomas bows his head respectfully, and Rulfio just gripes a breadth more to himself. “The shit you get yourself into, Daud, Outsider’s eyes.”

Kent, ever the rational medical man, just jerks his head down at Corvo. “Infirmary?”

Daud nods his accord. “Infirmary.”

Thomas spreads the word fast, once he escorts Daud safely into Kent’s domain. Daud spies curious heads leering behind the doors, scrambling over each other to get a glimpse of the Royal Protector.

Daud snarls at them to piss off and do something useful. Though he doesn’t truly fault them their prying. He knows it’s the intrusive stab of Kent’s needle in his side that’s actually making him lash out.

(Their resident physician is far from gentle, but he’s quick and clean. Daud favours that. Better efficiency and a quickly closed wound than a kind bedside manner.)

Daud grinds his teeth as Kent feeds the point through his flesh again. “Leave him,” he grits out, shooting Rickard a warning look when the man approaches Corvo.

Rickard hesitates, peering at the binds he has in his hands. “You wouldn’t prefer him restrained? What if he wakes up?”

“Leave him,” Daud warns again, lower, and Rickard immediately backs off.

Daud’s leaned his lesson about that today. He’s added it to a fresh mental list of what not to do to piss off Corvo Attano. Don’t confine him currently being priority. No matter how tempting a survival instinct it might be.

“He’s not going to kill anyone,” Daud adds to Rickard, and to remind himself. “Let him be.”

The final pull of the needle makes Daud hiss through his teeth, but then it’s done. Kent bullies him into downing two elixirs, one after the other, and that paired with Daud’s Mark should make quick work of the rest; the cuts and scrapes, the bruises, his broken nose.

Corvo’s recovery won’t be nearly as brisk.

Daud glances to where Rulfio draped the man on one of the cots, before Daud told him to check on his brother and Jenkins at the waterfront.

Corvo’s Mark is still ebbing, black veins still visible at his wrists. They can’t give him an elixir until he’s conscious, clearly, so Daud supposes the poison’s a waiting game. He’s ordered Kent and Rickard to look him over, do what they can in the meantime. They can at least tend to the leg Daud crippled.

Daud winces when he stands, his side protesting sharply, but the pain’s considerably dulled thanks to Kent’s efficient work. He claps the man’s shoulder in thanks as he moves to the faucet, bending to splash water over the back of his neck; his face to the wash away the dried blood.

Kent whistles his attention, tosses Daud a fresh shirt and a third elixir. “Drink it all. Don’t argue. I know they taste like rat piss, we all know, but suck it up.”

Then he barks at Rickard to get the bandages, already focused on his next patient. Kent pokes Corvo’s knee, and then, satisfied the man is truly out cold, gets to work.

Daud shrugs on the shirt, and tries to get to the office without recoiling at the elixir’s acrid tang.

He flushes out the taste with a remedy from one of the lockboxes; savours the cold, restorative surge of mana that spreads through to his Mark and makes the surface of his skin tingle with renewed spirit.

Then he takes a minute to get his thoughts in order.

Then he gets to work.

He summons Rapha and Dimitri, tells them to shut their traps when they instantly barrage him with questions about that morning, and orders them to scout out the situation at the Hound Pits.

If these Loyalists do have their sights set on Dunwall Tower, and they have the support required according to Corvo, they’ve probably already fled the scene. But Daud knows the mindset, the arrogance, of men like Havelock and Pendleton. They’ll have made a mistake, left something behind that can be used against them; to find them, to weaken them.

It’s always a sure bet, to begin hunting at the scene of the crime.

Daud sends the pair off, after growling at them to be smart and damn careful about it.

He calls Hobson to him, asks him to round up Vladko and Leonid and together take stock of Rudshore’s munitions. Weapons, traps, anything that could be utilised.

Daud isn’t ignorant of Havelock’s reputation. In his younger days, the man took down an entire fleet off the coasts of Alba and Driscol. If another Regency needs toppling, and the Admiral is at the helm, then it will take more than guile and spite. They’ll need some firepower.

Thomas appears again and confirms Corvo’s claims. The loudspeaker on Mosley Canal is announcing the Admiral’s new title. Lord Regent Havelock. Word of his ascension will no doubt have been spread across the city by now.

Time to spread some word of their own, then.

Daud calls Ardan and Galia to him. They’re by far his fastest runners, and Thomas is amiable and well-trusted amongst all their contacts. Daud assigns each of them to one third of the city; Ardan north-west, Galia north-east, and Thomas this side of Wrenhaven.

“Notify any contacts you can. Street gangs, black market dealers, corrupt officials. Let them know Lord Regent Havelock is no better man than Hiram Burrows.” Burrows was despised by the common folk, was terrorised and ridiculed whenever he showed his face in the poorer parts of the city. “Something tells me the citizens won’t take too kindly to another tyrant. Make certain no one will hide or help the Admiral or his allies if they’re still somewhere in the city.”

(They’ve all felt stifled, purposeless, stood idle in Rudshore since they bested Delilah. Now, as Daud gives his orders, his men seem invigorated, raring and eager for their assignments. It feels good, he thinks in the midst of all this, to be fighting for something again.)

“Right you are, boss,” Ardan salutes, and Thomas bends in that little awkward bow of his.

They get straight to it.

Galia lingers, comes around the desk and the chair to wrap Daud in her arms. Where he’d typically brush that kind of contact off, Daud endures it; allows himself a squeeze of her arm in return. Seeing as he may have almost died that morning.

“Glad you’re okay,” Galia says, muffled in his hair, before pulling back to punch his shoulder and prance from the office. Daud hates how fond she makes him feel.

(He suddenly longs for Billie. Wants her desperately by his side in this.)

But now is the time for focus, not fondness.

He summons Javier and Yuri, deciding Rapha and Dimitri may need some additional support. Daud orders them to follow the pair to Rudshore Gate, check up on them.

As an afterthought, Daud scratches down a quick note and summons Tynan.

Greaves Refinery. Get Corvo’s gear.

Coat too.

Might as well. Daud admits to himself it was petty, tossing them down there. Even as a precaution.

His final port of call is Rinaldo and Jenkins. Daud nudges the Bond for them both, and knows what he’ll see before they appear. Jenkins looks ready to shrink into the floor, all nerves and shame. Rinaldo is silent, won’t meet Daud’s eyes.

Daud raises a hand before Jenkins can try and fumble an explanation. “I’m not interested in what happened. I just wanted to see you sorry excuses of guards for myself.” He just needed to make sure they were alright. Though he can’t resist a bit of goading. “Remind me to never stick either of you on guard duty again.”

They both visibly relax, and Daud sends them off on the order to get some proper rest. Being choked out or darted with sleep toxin or however Corvo incapacitated them hardly counts.

Near midday, Daud’s taking precise note of stock after Hobson returns with some numbers, and muttering a curse after Javi appears to inform him the Watch are patrolling Rudshore Gate – not close enough to be a concern yet, but still in his fucking District – when Quinn and Rickard rush in to interrupt them.

“Sir! The Lord Protector,” and that has Daud’s head snapping up, adrenaline spiking instinctively. “Kent keeps tryin’, Sir, but–”

“He’s awake and he won’t touch any of the elixirs we’re giving him,” Rickard explains. “Thought I’d come and get you, see if there was–”

“The psychopath just smashed one of the vials everywhere! You’d think we were trying to bloody kill him with ‘em, not help–”

“Imbeciles,” Daud growls under his breath, cutting the pair off. He wants to strange something for their incompetence. “Of course he won’t fucking touch it, the man’s just been poisoned by his allies.” He stalks to the doors, glowering at Rickard as he passes, “Use your head.”

Corvo’s conscious and snarling in a corner when Daud steps inside the infirmary, looking like a wary, ambushed hound. The blood’s been cleaned off him, at least. And his leg’s been bandaged.

Kent, ever unfazed by patients baring their teeth at him, is calmly stood a few feet away, an elixir vial in hand.

There’s a smattering of glass shards and a puddle of red liquid between them.

Kent clocks Daud from the corner of his eye. “If,” he begins, fixing Corvo with a raised, unimpressed eyebrow, “you could kindly tell our new client that if he doesn’t get one of these down him, I’ll happily force one down his thro–”

“Try it,’ Corvo warns, eyes flashing, and Daud walks forward to snatch the vial from Kent’s grasp.

“That’s enough,” he orders, with an authority he doesn’t quite feel under Corvo’s burning stare. “Kent, take a walk. Bodyguard, take a seat before I have to spare you another head injury.”

Kent’s gaze narrows. Clearly he’s unwilling to leave a job unfinished. But he doesn’t disobey, just grants Corvo a withering look and strides into the corridor.

Corvo stays where he is, stood defensive as though he’s prepared to fight, backed into a corner in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar district, with unfamiliar company. Daud doesn’t judge his hostility, given the circumstances.

(Though the moment Kent leaves, Daud notices some tension drop from Corvo’s frame, when the two of them are standing alone again. Daud supposes his face is the only one Corvo knows in this place. The irony of it is tragic.)

Time to put this uneasy alliance they’ve formed through its paces.

Daud sits at the edge of the cot nearest Corvo. “You’ll heal slow as a weeper without elixirs.”

Corvo’s glare sharpens. “Take your elixirs and shov–” he starts to bite out, and no doubt it’s something terribly cutting and clever, but Daud’s prepared for it.

He severs Corvo’s impending threat or insult or whatever it would have been by flicking the elixir vial open and taking a visible gulp. Then he offers the rest to Corvo. A show of faith.

Corvo blinks, those red-brown eyes losing some of their fire in his surprise. He steadily regards the vial, still wary, perhaps waiting to see if Daud will keel over dead.

Daud waits, expression perfectly still.

Corvo, after a few moments, carefully takes the elixir and drinks.

(I’m starting to get a handle on you, Daud thinks to himself, quietly counting it a victory when Corvo swallows down the elixir. He vaguely wonders whether Corvo will ever trust an offered drink again.)

Corvo grimaces at the taste. “Fuck Sokolov,” he mutters.

Daud hums his agreement. “Can see why Bottle Street waters his shit down. Besides the profit.”

He waits another beat, then gives a nod towards the neighbouring cot. An invitation, not an order.

And Corvo, still slightly on guard, does come to sit, discarding the empty vial on the window sill. Daud considers that another victory.

“I’ll get you up to speed,” Daud begins, getting straight to business because he suspects Corvo was about to ask anyway. “Havelock’s Regent, as you predicted. I have men watching the Old Port District for now, but my scouts have said there’s no sign of him there. Or the Empress,” Daud adds, an apology seeping into the words without his consent. It’s not his fault, this time, that Emily Kaldwin is in the wrong hands once again. “My people are scouring the city, both sides of Wrenhaven. If Havelock and his support are holed up in one of the other Districts, we’ll ferret them out.”

Corvo’s eyes are narrowed, but it’s not scepticism. He’s listening intently, focused, though clearly exhausted still. There’s a glimmer of regard, of approval, behind his gaze.

“You work fast, killer.”

“Had you expected me to be idle with this?” Daud retorts, a little harder than he means to.

(Daud’s sworn his sword and all his assets to the man. His word is his law, and there’s a job to be done.)

“The Hound Pits has been taken over by the Watch. That can be our first port of call once you’ve fully recovered. There’s a small army’s worth of security there now,” Daud continues. “Stilt-walkers and about a dozen guards. And some overseers.” He hesitates, then decides he must ask. “That cultist that was with you. He’s–”

“He’s part of it,” Corvo answers, eyes sharp and hateful. “He’ll be Havelock’s support in the Abbey. Name’s Teague Martin. If he’s not already High Overseer then he will be. He has Campbell’s black book,” Corvo adds, and Daud’s stomach twists, “knows all his secrets.”

(Including their location. The words Rudshore and Whalers and Daud are inked somewhere in that damn book.)

Daud calls on Feodor immediately. When he materialises in shadows, familiar to Daud but clearly a threat in Corvo’s mind, Daud stands, shielding both Corvo and Feodor from each other before one of them grabs the nearest weapon. He reaches a placating hand back to keep Corvo seated, seeing the man flinch violently in his peripheral.

“Go to Holger Square. Infiltrate the Office and find any word of Teague Martin that you can,” Daud orders Feodor. His hand remains outstretched behind him, like he’s trying to soothe one of their fickle, wolfish residents beneath the Chamber. “There may be a lead to their plans or location. Engage no one,” Daud emphasises, fixing Feodor with a stern look. “We’re not taking risks with the cultists while they may be under new leadership.”

“Yes, Sir.” Feodor glances nervously at Corvo, where the man’s sat glaring at him from behind Daud’s hip, and then disappears.

“Stop scaring my men, bodyguard.” Daud strides across the room, grabs another elixir from one of the cupboards. He takes a sip himself, under Corvo’s attentive gaze, before tossing it towards the man. “And drink your rat piss.”

They spend the next half an hour sat opposite one another in the infirmary, Daud garnering everything Corvo knows about his former allies and their plans, their strengths and possible weaknesses.

Daud had always suspected the Loyalists’ involvement in Burrows’ downfall to be passive. Still, he finds himself a little struck back when he learns that Corvo did everything. And it truly was everything.

The Loyalists had done little more than pay to have someone slip Corvo the key in Coldridge.

Corvo was driven like a dog, his capabilities and mind bled dry, and then he was just tossed into the river. No wonder locking him in that makeshift prison of theirs had driven Corvo over the edge. Daud would have been pissed off, too.

“These Loyalists sound very comfortable,” Daud frowns, “shirking off all the real work.”

Corvo just shrugs, indifferent to the matter. Clearly a man who’s become at peace with having to do everything on his own.

(That changes now. My men are yours, Daud had vowed.)

“Might have been for the best, to be honest,” Corvo says wryly. “What if they had been more involved, can you imagine Trevor Pendleton becoming an assassin.”

Daud huffs his amusement at that dryness, that sliver of humour he’d been allowed a glimpse of before. “Dunwall’s rich and well-born rarely flourish out in the real city. Much better kept in their fancy Manors.”

Corvo smirks, and Daud, for reasons he can’t fathom, counts it a third victory.

“How far do you suppose Pendleton would’ve gotten, in your place?”

“Void, he’d still be trying to get Campbell, probably pissing himself somewhere in Bottle Street.”

“Your poor boatman would’ve been left waiting for all these weeks.”

The roguish glint in Corvo’s eyes extinguishes at Daud’s mention of Mr Beechworth.

Daud silently curses himself. “Your boatman. He’s also part of it?”

“No,” Corvo assures, and his voice is sure, protective. “Samuel saved me, after the poison. Sent me here, though I’m not sure why.”

(Daud has the abrupt, familiar sensation of being watched by something he can’t see, a shiver prickling along the back of his neck. No coincidences in Dunwall, he thinks to himself bitterly, knowing the Outsider must be ever-so pleased with himself for how this has all fallen into place.)

“He was supposed to take me somewhere else and wait for Havelock’s next orders, assuming the poison did its job.”

“But he didn’t.”

Corvo shakes his head, certain. “He’d never.”

“He sounds a better man than most, then.”  

“He is.” Corvo’s expression is fond, warm, for the briefest moment. But then a sudden tremor of worry, a fierce concern for his friend, replaces it. “They might have killed him, for saving me.”

It’s the first hint of weakness, of doubt, Daud’s seen in Corvo. He decides quickly that he won’t abide it. “My men know his riverboat. I’ll have them watch for it.”

Corvo’s head cocks slightly, weighing Daud’s sincerity under his gaze, and he looks every bit his namesake; all ruffled feathers and cautious curiosity.

But he must see that Daud is sincere. His eyes lose their edge, and simmer down to something less fierce than before.

Corvo doesn’t thank him. Daud doesn’t want him to.

(He owes the man this much. More, really. Finding a damn riverboat won’t atone for all Daud has done. But it’s a start.)

They speak more; keep the conversation intentionally practical, discussing strategy and where best to begin once the time comes to move.

Though at one point, Daud does attempt a transversal when he decides Corvo needs to eat something. He bumps into one of the tables in the old Commerce mess hall when he materialises off course, still a little weak. He’s glad to see no witnesses are around.

He shoves half a loaf of bread at Corvo when he returns; picks at the other half himself as their conversation resumes, so Corvo can see no one’s doused it with poison.

“Overseers are always an obstacle. Those music boxes–”

“Wedge a bolt in the right spot and they wont be able to turn them.” Corvo says it like it’s that simple. “What about Tallboys, any weaknesses? I’ve not been too close to one.”

“Springrazors work. Haven’t tried chokedust, but if you were to get above them perhaps, at a vantage point–”

“Maybe they can be tripped. Not much they can do if they’re flat on the ground.”

The image of a flailing stilt-walker tempts a slight smile to Daud’s mouth. “How by the void would you suggest going about–”

“If I possessed at rat I could get close enough and climb the legs. As long as I wasn’t stepped on–”

“What is this rat possession nonsense–”

“If they’re using loudspeakers to play overseer music instead of the boxes, we could–”

“Focus, bodyguard.”

Corvo’s mind is erratic, as Daud had suspected. He flits from one focus to another, like he can’t quite keep up with his own thoughts. Daud has to keep anchoring him back to point.

(Sitting with Corvo like this… It’s disorientating. It’s civil. It’s strange. After watching the man from afar, Daud doesn’t know how being in Corvo’s company makes him feel, especially now he’s got a better grasp of the man, figured him out a little more. He wants to keep figuring him out. That’s all he knows for certain.)

But there comes a point once again when Corvo’s consciousness decides enough is enough.

Daud’s ready, this time. Corvo’s been losing grip on his words and grasping the edge of the cot for at least the last ten minutes, and his Mark’s been flickering in warning for longer. After another bright flash, Corvo doubles over in pain and drops sharply off to the side.

Daud catches him before he slips off the bed.

“Wha’ h-pned t’ your coat by th’ w-y,” Corvo slurs against Daud’s sleeve, barely conscious and a little delusional. Daud’s impressed he stayed lucid for this long.  “Th’ red ‘ne.”

“You lost your guts all over it. It’s ruined.”

Corvo makes a self-satisfied noise, as Daud eases him onto the mattress. “D-srved it.”

He makes a feeble attempt to push himself upright again, before collapsing when Daud shoves him gently back down. Stubborn.

Daud does move Corvo’s hair out of his face this time, just because the man looks so pathetic.

Daud decidedly doesn’t summon Kent or Rickard back, but calls for Rulfio instead, a less threatening face by far, asking him to keep an eye on Corvo.

When he returns to the office, Daud wipes a hand down his face, aching with exhaustion but knowing he couldn’t relax even if someone stuck him with a sleep dart.

Tynan’s placed Corvo’s gear on the desk and folded his coat over the chair. It’s torn, perhaps beyond repair, and aglow with splatters of whale oil. A coat for a coat. Daud thinks of his own, ruined and floating in the floodwaters.

He has a cigarette held between his teeth, aiming to do some digging on the Pendletons and groping around for his lighter, when he realises it’s gone.

Rulfio shoots him a questioning look when he stalks back into the infirmary, and Daud’s suspicion is proven when he sees the lighter peeking out between Corvo’s closed fingers.

“Thieving shit,” Daud mutters, snatching it back. He hadn’t even felt the man take it.

He sends Walter and Denman to watch Pendleton Manor instead, after some consideration. Daud knows himself too well, he won’t be able to focus if he leaves the District while Corvo is here.

(Corvo is Daud’s responsibility. If he wakes up while Daud’s gone and ends up shanking someone because they appear too abruptly for his liking, Daud will have no one to blame but himself.)

So he stays, weary as the dead and watching over the Lord Protector like he’s being paid to do it.

“I’m getting you coffee,” Rulfio decides soon after Daud settles himself there. “I’d say you need a stiff drink after today, but I know you don’t touch the stuff. Sit tight.”

The coffee is shit. Gristol coffee’s always shit and always will be shit, but it at least saps some of the weariness from Daud’s bones.

Kent and Rickard do return after long, and they give Corvo a wide berth thanks to Daud’s hard expression. They make themselves useful restocking the infirmary for future use, Rulfio lending a hand bringing elixirs and tonics they’ve stockpiled to and from the room.

Corvo keeps mumbling incomprehensible things in his sleep. Daud catches the odd word now and again, that seem to have no relevance to anything in particular. He thinks he hears Emily’s name at one point.

“Haven’t needed to do this for a while,” Kent notes, arranging a pile of spiritual remedies in one of the cupboards. “A supply run may be required.”

“We weren’t to know that Daud would swear us into a government-toppling conspiracy this morning,” Rulfio points out, aiming a shitty wink Daud’s way from across the room. “We’ll make do, lads. Should have enough to last us.”

“We should have asked the Royal Protector where he stashed all those valuable things he stole,” Rickard ponders. “We could probably trade out every black market in the city.”

“You’ll have to ask him when he wakes up, Rickard.” Rulfio shoots him a grin, “Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared. I will ask him.”

“Ask him then, choffer. Bet you a hundred coin you‘ll fold up like a dry river krust.”

As Daud absently listens to his men bicker, shit Gristol coffee in hand and Corvo glaring at something in his dreams beside him, a strange sense of peace Daud hasn’t felt in a long time comes over him.

“The river’s that way,” Corvo mutters in his sleep, “stupid hagfish,” and Daud snorts into his coffee.

Chapter Text

Corvo’s testing his spiritual recovery by possessing the wolfhounds.

Daud is not necessarily surprised, and he’s seen a lot of weird shit since he left Serkonos. But he decides this is one of the weirder instances.

He blows smoke from his nose, watching from the window as Corvo spins and spins in place, hunting his own tail. Then in a muddy yellow cloud he reappears, tall and human and a little unsteady on his feet.

The hound shakes itself and turns on him, snarling. Corvo blinks to safety before it can snap its teeth. He balances on the wall above, presumably waiting for his mana to rejuvenate.

He looks much more the man Daud saw at the Hound Pits. The poison has faded from his bloodstream, thanks to some rest and droves of elixirs. And now he’s lucid, Corvo’s curiosity has been spurring him around the Chamber. He’s still wary of the men, hackles raised whenever a shadowy traversal catches his attention, but he seems to have accepted that he isn’t in any danger.

Daud’s been making sure he doesn’t wander where he shouldn’t, like over a loose slat or the edge of a walkway. He doesn’t particularly want to fish Corvo out of the floodwater, that would be mortifying for both of them. But Daud’s caution, he’s realised, is needless.

Corvo’s in his element, here, among the high walkways and narrow pipes and the myriad of platforms to blink to and leap from. He’s been doing circuits around Central Rudshore, traversing different routes and testing his balance atop the rooftops, movements deft and fluid as any of Daud’s people.

“Still stalking him, then,” Rulfio says suddenly from his side.

Daud wants to point out that it isn’t stalking if the man’s in his District.

They both watch as Corvo slinks along the abandoned road, wolfhound once more. He sniffs the slimy foam at the edge of the water and gives a violent sneeze that shakes him from ears to tail. Rulfio snorts.

“D’you reckon he’s still fully himself when he… does that,” he questions, motioning vaguely to wolf-Corvo’s form. “Or d’you think his brain is half hound?”

A valid question. Corvo scratches himself behind the ear with his back leg, growling at a nearby rat.

When he emerges human again and almost trips over his victim, narrowly avoiding another snap of its teeth, Daud discards his cigarette and shucks himself through the window, out onto the walkway.

“Don’t get yourself mauled,” Rulfio chuckles after him. “Kent just patched you up, he won’t be happy.”

“Give me a time Kent’s ever happy,” Daud mutters, before transversing down into the avenue.

Corvo’s taken sanctuary on the streetlight above, perched like his namesake on the narrow metal. The hound is barking threats at him, but when Daud approaches it quietens, ears pushed back in submission.

“Had enough of terrorising it?”

“Possession doesn’t hurt them.”

They’ve found a tentative common ground, since their conversation in the infirmary. It has remained civil, professional, between them thus far. Daud has found that if he approaches Corvo and his oath to him like he would any ordinary client and contract, keep things impersonal and focused on the task at hand, then Daud has a more solid handle on the situation. And on Corvo himself.

Corvo has his head tilted curiously from his vantage point. He’s watching the now perfectly docile hound sniff at Daud’s glove. “They like you.”

“This calms them,” Daud gestures for Corvo to join him, keeping one hand on the beast’s head. Corvo warily blinks to his side, inspecting the bonecharm fastened on the belt across Daud’s chest. “Keeps their teeth away, at least.”

Corvo experimentally pokes the hound’s snout, giving a thoughtful hum when his fingers remain in tact.

He grants the beast a scratch under the chin as he regards the charm. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t. It’s crafted.” Daud digs two fingers behind the hound’s ear, and it melts under their combined attentions.

“You made it.” Corvo arches a brow at that. Daud dares to claim he looks intrigued. “How?”

“Whalebone, some fur stitched in. Few other things.” The hound snaps playfully at Daud’s arm, and he pushes its snout away, letting it prowl away along the wall. “Find the right combination of ingredients, and the possibilities of witchcraft are endless,” Daud adds dryly. “The Abbey doesn’t know how easy it really is.”

Corvo scrutinises the triad of bonecharms he has. “And the other two?”

Daud’s had the first for years, since Sokolov’s inventions began littering the streets and High Overseer Campbell rose up through the ranks. “There’s a chance, with this, no energy is drained while using magic. Makes drawing on it quicker, smoother.” The one stitched between that and the taming charm is more recent, from when the rats made their first appearance in the city. “This deters the rat swarms and the weepers, except in the closest proximity.”

(His charms’ enhancements flow through the Arcane Bond, too; grants his men a share of their benefits. Daud learned swiftly how to weave the magic through whalebone in a different way, once he started taking in his strays.)

Corvo looks genuinely taken in by the information. “Would you–” He cuts off abruptly, like he’s surprised himself. Like he’d began speaking without thinking. He hesitates. Daud can see his mind at some kind of war with itself for a few moments, before he seems to steel himself, “Would you show me, some time. It sounds useful.”

Daud has to physically focus on controlling his expression. Corvo’s request carries deeper meaning, and they both know it. Some time implies future, after this is done. After Havelock and his retinue have fallen and a Kaldwin is back on the throne.

It’s not an unwelcome idea, by any means. Daud’s sworn his sword to the cause. His life and his operation here are Corvo Attano’s until the man decides otherwise. Daud just hadn’t expected Corvo to take his pledge, his assets and knowledge and resources, and consider it in regard to the future.

It’s good, it’s a step forward.

It’s just unexpected, and a little uncomfortable, and now they’re both standing there like two awkward rats without a hoard to retreat into, quiet for much too long.

“I’d… Yes. If you wish.”

Daud hopes to the void Rulfio and his shitty grin aren’t still watching.

Corvo nods, satisfied. It’s reassuring to see he looks every inch as uneasy as Daud.

The hound saves them. It’s teeth nip at Corvo’s fingers from behind, making him flinch and blink back up to his refuge on the streetlight. Daud scoffs, and expresses his gratitude by giving the beast’s head a good pat.

“If you’ve finished tormenting everything on four legs,” Daud says, shifting focus and already moving for the Chamber’s upper floors, “I have a training exercise that may interest you.”

Anything to keep Corvo busy. In the short time Corvo has been up and about, Daud’s discovered that his energy is truly boundless when he’s at full health.

(“No wonder he’s lean as a wolfhound,” Galia had commented, watching Corvo dart and blink his way over the ruins on the floodwater. “Guy could eat anything, he’d probably just sprint it all back off.”)

Since they’re waiting for nightfall to move to the Old Port District, they still have hours to kill. Corvo was reluctant to stall, but ultimately agreed it was their smartest play. The cover of dark will give them an advantage; he and Daud both know the Hound Pits’ streets well enough to navigate them in low light.

Daud’s scouts have found no sign of Havelock himself in the city, nor of Emily Kaldwin, Pendleton, or the overseer. But from Rapha’s report, the Hound Pits is still steadily abuzz with activity. Which means there is certainly something there Havelock doesn’t want anyone to find, be it a clue to their location or one of Corvo’s other allies with more information.

The Hound Pits is priority, once night comes.

Until then, Daud is devoting his time to keeping Corvo on the move and as distracted as possible. Now he’s regained full control of his magic, Daud wants to know if he’s as sharp with a sword as he is at wielding witchcraft.

There’s high chance that Daud, his men, will need to fight alongside Corvo sooner or later. It’s always wise to know how your comrades handle themselves in combat.

(Focused and impersonal, Daud reminds himself. He’s ticking boxes, measuring Corvo’s capabilities. Nevermind that he himself is itching to move, desperate to relieve some tension after the last intense and disorientating few days.

And Corvo did win the Blade Verbena. What self-respecting swordsman wouldn’t be curious?)

Corvo hasn’t snooped around the training room yet, as far as Daud can tell. He takes in its dark corners, it’s bolt-stricken mannequins, the large space in the centre, with speculative caution. Daud moves with familiarity to the equipment box.

He tosses a blade Corvo’s way, draws one for himself. “No witchcraft. Spar with me.”

Corvo’s eyes dance.

Daud chooses to restrain himself, at first. He errs, foolishly, by considering Corvo might benefit from the slow introduction back into sword-play. His stealthy approach in the city these past weeks wouldn’t have yielded need for fighting. And Daud’s not convinced anyone at the Hound Pits was proficient enough with a blade to keep Corvo on his toes.

Daud’s error lands him on his ass within the first minute.

“I’m not one of your kid assassins who can’t hold a blade. Don’t patronise me, killer.”

So Daud drops the pretence. If Corvo wants to fight, then they’ll fight.

Corvo fences like he thinks. Quick and sharp and intuitive. He attunes to Daud’s movements in seconds; the angles he favours, the tells before he feints, the way he shifts his weight.

There’s precision in his movements that can only come from formal training, but there’s an edge as well, underneath the poise. Daud is enraptured by the flashes of something less tame, something instinctive; a fierce, impulsive stridency that reminds him of street fights and gang brawls and the drive of his own men.

Though Daud’s men don’t fence like this. As hard and as rigorously as he’s trained them, Daud has no equal in Rudshore with a sword.

Corvo, however, without the advantage of rage-fuelled adrenaline or the disadvantage of being poisoned, meets him at every juncture. Where one seems about to take the victory, the other seizes it back. Daud has more brute strength, Corvo more speed. Daud’s has experience on his side, but Corvo is astute and adaptable. Daud fights a little dirtier, a little craftier, flipping the sword to his left hand to catch Corvo off guard. Corvo’s already flipped his own blade, meeting Daud’s strike.

(It’s thrilling, fast and ruthless. It’s rapturous. What was meant as a diversion for Corvo captures Daud entirely. He’s never been so well-matched, so challenged by an opponent. He realises quickly that he’s at liberty to spar, here, with all the strength and skill and savagery that he hones, that Corvo wants him to.)

They agree on a short ceasefire, when they both fumble and Daud’s blade stops short of Corvo’s neck, Corvo’s almost digging into Daud’s side.

“Score’s even.”

“As you say.” Corvo shoots him a wry look when they disengage. He’s breathless, hair dishevelled around his face. Daud can tell, with no room for doubt, that Corvo’s enjoying himself as much as he is. “Whatever you want to tell yourself.”

“Don’t get cocky. A sliced neck is sure death. As we’ve proven, a side wound won’t kill me, bodyguard. That point’s mine.”

“If it makes you feel better, killer.”

(Another step forward, Daud decides, strangely proud of this one. The rush from the fight must be making him delusional.)

Daud uses the respite to finally address the pack of prying eyes peeking in from the hallway.

“If you three wish to take over for me,” he offers, muscles trembling and hair sweat-slicked, “be my guest.”

That does the trick, as he’d expected. Fisher, Cleon and Dodge scatter immediately. Corvo huffs an amused sound from where he’s tying his own hair back from his neck.

(It reveals the sharp cut of his jaw, the line of dark stubble trailing it. His fingers twist in his hair, gathering it absently. Daud watches, longer than he realises.)

“Which ones were they.”

Daud works to loosen the muscles in his shoulders, and sees that Corvo is genuinely waiting for an answer. “My kid assassins,” he answers dryly. “Short one’s Cleon, skinny one’s Dodge. The one with red hair’s Fisher, the youngest.”

Corvo looks as though he’s actually committing all that to memory. “How old?”

“Fifteen. Though I took her in a year ago.”

“Took her in?”

Daud hesitates. It’s not Corvo’s business. But this tentative truce has to work both ways, and Corvo’s clearly trying, as Daud is.

“Her father was a Butcher, on Slaughterhouse Row. Wasn’t pleasant when he drank.” Daud leaves it at that. If Corvo wants to know more, he can ask Fisher himself. It’s not Daud’s tale to tell.

Corvo glances to the doorway, to where the girl was stood. He looks pensive. “So you recruit kids.”

“I took her in,” Daud repeats. “She chose to train with the rest.” He doesn’t feel obliged to explain himself. Something about Corvo’s shrewd gaze makes him want to elaborate, though. “I don’t make a habit of recruiting children, bodyguard, that’s the Abbey’s job. If they want to learn the trade, they learn. If they don’t, they have the same share of food and elixir, and a roof over their head. It makes no difference to me.”

Corvo‘s eyes have softened. He looks less accusing, maybe a little surprised. Daud waits for another comment or question on the matter.

“No roof over their head if they’re in your office, though,” Corvo says at last, because he’s a snide shit. “All those holes.”

Daud chucks the nearest object, a bound cluster of wristbow bolts, at the man’s shins.

Corvo sees it coming, sidesteps it. “Teasing,” he defends, and he’s almost smiling. It’s in his eyes, a visible glint that betrays his amusement. “Just teasing.”

(If you’d told Daud, months back, that he’d one day be teased by Corvo Attano in his own training room, he’d have called you a brainless hagfish and been done with it. His ears feel warm.)

Corvo comes to lean against the overturned shelf, opposite to where Daud’s slouched himself against one of the mannequins.

“It’s been a while since I did this,” Corvo confesses after a moment of comfortable silence has passed. “Sparred with someone. There’s only so many times you can drill through a routine on your own.”

“No one at the Hound Pits indulged it?”

“No one had the knowhow. Martin offered once, but I felt like I was back in guard training. Got pissed off and didn’t ask him again.”

“I assume your boatman isn’t a man of the blade?”

Corvo shakes his head, fond, “No. Samuel said he would offer but didn’t want to embarrass himself. The Admiral was too busy planning his grand betrayal, I would imagine, and the rest there were civilians.”

“The Royal Physician’s always looked like he could throw a good punch.”

Corvo smirks, “I wouldn’t put it past him. Threatened to skin me with his bare hands after I abducted him.” He twirls his blade a few times in his palm, bouncing on his feet, raring to move once more. “Again?”

Daud can’t possibly deny himself.

They occupy the training room for far longer than Daud intended. Now and again, the odd curious head pokes in from the hallway or the small courtyard outside to observe. Daud barks them away each time, but Corvo always inquires after their names once they’re gone.

(It’s strategic, Daud tells himself. It’s smart for Corvo to distinguish between his new allies, know who’s who. Though when Fisher makes a reappearance, Corvo actually grants the girl a nod in greeting.

Soft spot for kids, Daud adds to his ongoing mental list. That discovery, for some reason, doesn’t surprise him at all.)

They reluctantly disarm and call it a draw, after Tynan drops by with a note.

Feodor’s back

Information on Teague Martin on your desk

Tynan offers Corvo a nervous, respectful salute before she disappears. Corvo scrutinises her writing over Daud’s shoulder as they move to the office.

“Mute?”

“Deaf. Her hearing was damaged by overseer music.”

Corvo’s quiet for a moment. “Can she sign?”

“Basic. She’s learning what she can.” Daud considers the heavy silence. Aims a glance behind him, “Can you sign?”

Corvo nods. “My mother,” is all he offers, and says no more about it.

(Daud decides not to pry into it any further. Something cold in Corvo’s eyes tells him it isn’t welcome.)

Daud moves behind his desk, glimpsing over the information Feodor’s neatly laid out for him. He’s not expecting it to be much, since Corvo’s warned him that this Martin is the secretive sort, and he’s right. There’s barely any more information than Corvo’s already told him.

So Daud runs through the first stage of their plan with Corvo, instead. What kind of security they can expect at the pub, which of his men he’s bringing with them and why.

Daud’s not taking many. The twins, Galia, Feodor, Leonid and Vladko. His most eclectic group by far; a good mix of skills, strength and stealth. Corvo commits each name to memory once more. Daud sees the focus in his eyes as he does so, the sincere intent to match each name to their description and skillset.

Daud’s keeping Rulfio, Rinaldo and Thomas in Rudshore, so he knows his District will be well-defended in his absence. Rapha and Dimitri have been watching the pub in shifts for the last day or so. The pair are due to return for an update before Daud and Corvo head out. Javier and Yuri are overseeing Rudshore Gate, acting as a go-between for Rapha’s reports and Daud, as well as making sure none of the guards from the Hound Pits stray further into their territory.

Daud takes a minute to re-familiarise himself with Dimitri’s sketched-out plans of the sewer tunnels running beneath the pub. Corvo’s inspecting the bookcase that, two days prior, Daud had almost crushed him with.

He grants Daud and the plans atop the desk a sidelong look. “You operate very efficiently,” he remarks. “Most street gangs aren’t so organised.”

Maybe it’s a harmless jibe. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to sound spiteful. But the comment, for some reason, irritates Daud immensely. Unbidden anger suddenly coils through him.

“You think a common street gang could have made it into your Tower and walked away untouched?”

And thanks to that, they then take a significant step backwards.

Corvo surges away from the books, to the desk. “Watch your tongue, killer,” he snarls, eyes flashing. “Don’t think just because I spared your life that I’ve forgotten your part in what happened.”

Daud knows that was the wrong thing to say. He knows it was. But Corvo’s not the only spiteful bastard here, and Daud won’t be disrespected in his own damn District, in his own damn office. “And don’t think because I’ve offered my life that you can undermine my methods and deride my operation, bodyguard,” he bites back, the two of them glaring at each other on either side of the desk.

“…Sir?”

Thomas is stood in the doorway, with an arm full of chokedust canisters.

(Daud had asked him to fetch a batch, after learning Corvo hadn’t come across them before. They’re useful tools, particularly for quick getaways, but they’re also volatile. Daud thought it best to show Corvo the ins and outs.)

“You asked for–”

“Put them on the desk and piss off, Thomas.”

Daud tears his gaze from Corvo’s, focusing back on Dimitri’s plans. He doesn’t actually focus on them, though. He seethes instead.

Thomas cautiously hands off his bundle, giving Corvo a wide berth before making himself scarce.

Though Corvo vanishes from Daud’s peripheral anyway, in that blue charge of light.

Daud feels like the lowest form of shit the second he disappears. He rarely feels guilt quite so fiercely for something so trivial, but apparently Corvo Attano is a catalyst for regret. Just disparage the murder of his Empress with irony and then bite back at the man for reacting accordingly, excellent fucking idea, Daud scorns himself.

“I wasn’t deriding you.”

Daud glances back up. Corvo didn’t actually blink from the room, as he’d assumed. He’s sat cross legged above the bookcase, rolling a chokedust canister he must have snatched from the desk from hand to hand.

Corvo’s glare is still staunch in place, but Daud’s coming to realise any real emotion is held in those eyes. Daud can’t discern exactly what it is. But it’s no longer anger.

“I meant to say… What you have here, I wasn’t expecting it. It’s impressive. Your people, too. Even if you are all murderers,” Corvo adds, because apparently he can’t resist a snide jab, even in what sounds like the whisper of an apology.

(It seems wrong, even to Daud who’s entire life is awash with wrongs, for Corvo Attano to be apologising for anything.)

“I’m not used to it.”

“Used to what.”

“Working with people… Having allies who actually do some of the work themselves.”

Daud gives a quiet scoff. That much makes sense, at least. Corvo carried out an entire conspiracy with little more aid than a place to rest his head and the odd sprig of inside knowledge from the Loyalists. Daud and Rudshore have provided him more than that in a mere few days.

“I know you’re not just another street gang,” Corvo continues, and Daud decides he doesn’t like this tentative Corvo. Doesn’t like the way hesitancy sounds in his voice. “I always knew there was someone else doing the work when Burrows was Spymaster. I could never figure out who it was.”

“That’s the point of a Spymaster, bodyguard,” Daud retorts, but there’s no bite behind it now. “I cover my tracks.”

They lapse into silence, and he watches Corvo fidget with the chokedust canister, shoulders tense and hands restless. Daud wants to apologise.

(He won’t. Daud’s stubborn and has been for forty-two years. That won’t change just because a twice-betrayed Corvo Attano washed up on his turf.)

“Stop playing with that,” he warns instead. “Before you break it and blind yourself.”

Corvo’s gaze moves between Daud and the canister. “Chokedust can do that?”

“Temporarily. So keep the damn thing still.”

Corvo throws the canister up and snatches it from the air, because apparently he’s also a child. When he goes to do it again, Daud trains his Mark and tethers the can into his own hand before Corvo’s fingers reach it.

“Killjoy,” he hears Corvo mutter. When Daud peers up at him again, he sees the play of a curve at Corvo’s mouth.

(Handsome, Daud’s mind supplies. Which is relevant to absolutely nothing.)

“Child,” Daud mutters back under his breath, to see the smile curl higher, just slightly and just for a second.

He counts that apology enough for them both. And another step forward.

Chapter Text

When Javier informs him that Rapha and Dimitri are late with their reports, Daud suddenly finds he can’t summon them back from the Hound Pits.

Which means something has happened, and it won’t be something good.

They’re moving ahead of plan, sundown isn’t for another hour, but Corvo seems unperturbed when Daud calls for their agreed-upon group. If he notices that Daud’s strung with anxiety the whole way through Rudshore Gate, then the man’s merciful enough to keep that cutting tongue of his silent.

The mystery is solved the second they enter the District.

Rapha and Dimitri are stationed at Daud’s old reliable lookout spot atop the hound cages. It can’t be reached without the aid of their transversals, which would ordinarily not be a problem. Only now every loudspeaker in the Old Ports is blaring overseer music, leaving the pair stranded high above the District.

And after Corvo routes them to a vantage point above the pub, Daud sees that there’s been an abrupt spike in security. Which Rapha and Dimitri must have spotted but were unable to warn them of. On account of being stranded.

“That is a lot of shit to tangle with,” Vladko sees fit to point out.

“There wasn’t this much security when Raph last reported, boss,” Javier swears. “Her and Dimitri had no trouble, they got straight back down to meet me last time. And there was definitely only one Tallboy.”

Daud grunts an acknowledgment. And now there’s overseer music running through every loudspeaker, into every street. Havelock and his conspirators are taking no chances, which means they’re scared, but it also makes things less than ideal for them here. That blasted music means no transversals, no stopping time, none of the tricks they’d usually rely on in this situation.

Daud’s struggling to concentrate under the sound of it. They’re all not to cringe amidst the music’s dull and constant drone.

“That Admiral must be protecting something ‘round here,” Killian points out. “Means we’re on the right track.”

“Terribly optimistic, but that doesn’t solve all this,” Andrei sweeps a gloved hand to the myriad of obstructions below, fixing his brother with a long-suffering look, “does it, genius?”

“Get a grip, both of you,” Daud grits out. “We’ve gotten through worse with less. It’s unexpected, not impossible.”

“Now who’s being optimistic,” Corvo mutters. He’s scrutinising the space around Joplin’s workshop intently, where he’s perched at Daud’s side.

He’d traded in his old coat – full of holes and luminous with whale oil – for one of their own back in Rudshore. Though he’d cut his bonecharms free from the stitching first, fastening them onto a munitions belt he’d pinched from someone in the Chamber. Daud’s still not worked out exactly whose it is.

The whaling coat’s one of their darker ones, and it’s better than his other, from a tactical view; no tailcoats flapping about, begging to be tripped on.

(From a non-tactical view, it fits him well. Suits his height. The hood keeps his hair out of his eyes.)

“Javi, get back to the gate. You and Yuri stay on guard.” Daud quickly decides they need a more thorough idea of what they’re dealing with. “Feodor, with me,” he orders. “You too, bodyguard, you know these streets. We’ll get an idea of what’s stationed where. Rest of you stay put.”

It’s a brisk and admittedly risky sweep without their powers. Between them they count twenty Watch guards, including those inside the pub where Feodor had tentatively scoured, five overseers, and an odd-looking Arc Pylon on the roof of the workshop.

And the pair of Tallboys in the yard. Because some prick, somewhere, had decided all of the above wasn’t excessive enough.

“That Pylon doesn’t belong to the Watch,” Corvo reveals. As though this magically renders all the other obstacles in their path obsolete. “Piero’s been working on it for weeks. Wanted to increase the range.”

“Most informative,” Daud says impatiently, “but irrelevant to the fact there’s still a battalion stationed beneath the damn pylon.”

Corvo grants him a sour smile.

“We should deal with the stilt-walkers first,” Galia suggests, ever the saving grace among Daud’s mudlarks. “They’re the most likely to spot us.”

“We cannot just take them down,” Leonid points out. “They’ll make far much too much noise. I thought we didn’t want to attract attention?”

Unfortunately, she’s right. If the Tallboys fall, the surrounding guards and overseers will be alerted, alarms will be rung, chaos will ensue. Daud would rather keep the element of surprise on their side as long as possible.

“Then we group everyone in the yard, and take them all out at once.”

Corvo doesn’t react when all eyes turn on him.

“It’s not impossible,” he adds, using Daud’s words against him and looking straight at him while he does. “We can use that irrelevant Arc Pylon.”

Daud glowers. “If you have an idea, we’re all ears.”

It’s an absurd idea. It also might work.

(Assuming this Piero and the Royal Physician – who, according to a loud conversation between a guard and an overseer, have blockaded themselves inside the workshop – are willing to lend a hand. Corvo seems confident that they will.)

Favours guile, Daud scoffs to himself, watching Corvo land catlike on the brewery’s rooftop, balance along the rafters below, drop to the ground and stride into the center of the yard.

“Excuse me,” Corvo says loudly. Every guard and overseer turns on him. And, most importantly, the Tallboys turn from guarding the workshop.

A perfect distraction, and Corvo’s in position. From the pub’s rooftop, Daud signals his men to get into theirs. Andrei and Killian, the muscle, move to hide at either end of the yard, ready for combat in case it comes to that. Vladko and Leonid are stationed to cover the pub’s main entrances, their stun mines and traps ready to be placed so that, once they’re outside, no guards can retreat back in. Feodor and Galia, the quietest, are with Daud, ready to infiltrate Joplin’s workshop.

And Corvo is the decoy.

“I’m that assassin you’re looking for,” Corvo declares, hands raised in surrender and hood hiding his face, bonecharms and Mark on show, undaunted even as he’s descended upon by tens of the Watch. “The one ‘Regent’ Havelock’s been soiling himself over.”

“Stay where you are!” One of the guards – one of the only two Captain uniforms among the other, lower ranking officers – approaches Corvo. “Don’t move a fucking muscle! And don’t you think about going for that sword!”

Any men stationed inside the pub emerge as planned, filtering outside to see what the fuss is about. The Tallboys tower over Corvo, backs to the blockaded workshop, incendiary bolts trained on him.

Daud shrugs off the unease that swells inside him, seeing Corvo so utterly surrounded, and he drops down onto the balcony Corvo said could get them inside the now unwatched workshop.

He was right. The shutter there is loose. He, Galia and Feodor edge beneath, and come face to face with Sokolov and Piero.

The Royal Physician throws a book at Feodor’s head.

“Argh– ow, bastard–!”

“Stay back, intruders! I’m warning you! I am the Royal Physician, Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy, and I will not stand for–”

“Quiet,” Daud bites. They don’t have time to stand on pleasant greetings or projectile books. Daud can hear muffled voices from the other side of the shutter, and he can’t use his void-damned Gaze to see whether Corvo’s currently being maimed. “We’re with Corvo. We need to get that Pylon running.” Daud switches his attention to Piero, who looks the more reasonable of the two, “Tell us what that requires.”

Piero Joplin, Daud decides, is a man he can respect. Concise. No ox shit. His explanation takes twenty seconds, at most.

Daud gives his orders swiftly.

They form the equivalent of a conveyer belt between them all; Sokolov and Piero on the ground floor, filling the whale oil tanks; Feodor running them up to Daud and Galia at the Arc Pylon itself.

When they install the first tank, the Pylon’s light sputters weakly atop the workshop before fizzling back out. Feodor darts back down to retrieve the next, and Daud trains his attention down on the yard.

“Well, well, well,” one of the Captains is taunting, cocky among his comrades, chest puffed up with the music shielding him from any black magic. “Either you’re weeping mad, or we’re the luckiest sons of bitches in Dunwall. Get scared of hiding, did you?”

“Hammond, stow it, would you. He’s wearing one of them whaling coats,” the other Captain says nervously. “He might be one of them lot, with that Knife of Dunwall.”

The cocky Captain, Hammond, barks a laugh. “So what if he is one of ‘em, he’s alone! And there isn’t much he can do here, is there, with that music. Ain’t that right, assassin.”

“Let’s just restrain him. Take him to the checkpoint and let one of the higher ups deal with him.”

“Ha! Not a chance, I’m takin’ him to Lord Havelock myself! I’ll probably get a medal for this.”

Corvo discreetly peers up, meets Daud’s gaze, and then takes in everything going on beyond the Tallboys’ notice; the unpowered Arc Pylon, Feodor heaving the second tank of whale oil across the walkway, Galia motioning him to get the final one as Daud helps her slot the tank in place.

Corvo reads the situation in the space of a blink. “Acting tough in front of your friends? Pathetic,” he riles. “I can see you shitting yourself from here, Hammond.”

Hammond stomps forward and strikes Corvo with the butt of his pistol, hard. Corvo catches himself on one knee, and Daud ignores the itch to train his wristbow at Hammond’s head.

He knows what Corvo’s doing; making a spectacle, stalling them, keeping all eyes, especially the stilt-walkers’, on him.

Clever bastard.

“Not so tough now are you, assassin,” Hammond jeers with his smug, shitty smile, peering back over his shoulder at his comrades. “What the void are you gonna do now, huh? Without all those fancy black magic powers, you’re jus–”

Corvo decks him.

As Hammond’s nose cracks and he buckles onto the ground, one of the Tallboys draws its bolt to fire. Daud moves without entirely thinking it through.

He leaps down on top of it, the force knocking the stilt-walker off balance and keening it forward. Galia must follow suit, because she drops into a roll beside him, both of them landing without breaking their ankles Daud’s pleased to note. Both Tallboys plummet down in twin heaps of metal, any stray bolts that were holding the contraption together catapulting across the yard in all directions.

Feodor has the final tank, Corvo’s distraction has given them enough time, they only need to hold Havelock’s lackeys off for another minute or so.

Corvo barely gives them a chance to try.

The remaining guards scramble forward in a panic, drawing blades, but Corvo’s already twisted the handle of his own sword; a quick, practised flick of his wrist uncoiling the sharp metal. He parries the first strike and lashes the guard back, dropping to swipe out a leg and sweep his second attacker to the ground; raises his sword again just in time to shield his face, flipping his blade and hooking it behind the overseer’s sword, thrashing his elbow into their jaw and sliding the weapon from their grip in one fluid motion, aiming a vicious kick to their stomach to back them off.

(The way he moves tests Daud’s sanity. The flow, the effortlessness, the sharp bite in all his movements, no one should be able move like that–)

Daud puts a bolt in the other Captain’s shoulder before he can swing at Galia.

He knocks two overseers to the ground with a fire-off of bolts to their legs, crippling them, and he disarms the one remaining with a swift strike of his blade-handle to their stomach, staggering them down. One of Vladko and Leonid’s traps electrocutes a retreating guard, and Corvo lashes a stray empty bottle into another’s arm to keep her from firing at Andrei across the yard, when a sudden swell of electricity surges from the workshop, the Pylon sparking violently, and Feodor’s warning sounds from above, “Get behind something!”

Daud and Corvo throw themselves inside the pub, and then the District is blasted with a blinding white light, the air all around them frothing and charged with bouts of electric currents driving out from the Arc Pylon.

It must last a few seconds, at most, and then the world comes back into focus, silent and serene.

Daud sees spots behind his eyes, and there’s a fuzzy, thick taste beneath his tongue.

“Fuck Sokolov,” he grimaces from the pub’s dusty floor.

“Actually, this one’s on Piero.” Corvo’s slumped against the bar, frowning at the feel of his own tongue as he speaks. “Though I’m sure Sokolov helped.”

Daud pauses, realising it actually is silent. “No music.” His Mark comes alight when he raises his hand, experimentally summoning his aim to transverse.

That Pylon must have had enough power to disrupt any mechanism within range, including the District’s speakers.

Now to make sure it’s done it’s main job.

Daud shucks himself to his feet, Corvo dusts himself off, and they warily step to the door and peer out into the yard.

Each of the guards have dropped like flies, unconscious, if bruised and beaten. Corvo’s instruction to Daud had been clear; if there was a way to make the blast non-lethal, then tell the physicians to do so.

“You’re a madman,” Andrei accuses Corvo, after he and his brother exit the cover of the brewery. The insult is full of admiration. “Absolutely gone in the head.”

“Balls any bigger, you’d need a damn cart for ‘em,” Killian chimes in with a grin. “Crazy bastard.”

“Isn’t he just.” Vladko has his arm wrapped around Leonid’s shoulders as they emerge from the alleyway. “Dunwall’s most wanted, strolling up to the Watch like that.”

“You got some nerve on you, Mister Attano,” Galia‘s bold enough to give Corvo’s shoulder a light punch. “I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

(Daud hasn’t mentioned the Boyle party in detail. They aren’t to know this isn’t Corvo’s first ludicrous escapade.)

Corvo looks entirely unruffled by his men’s unique brand of praise. There’s a dark bruise blooming on his cheekbone from Hammond’s gun.

The workshop’s shutter judders and starts to rise. Feodor dips underneath, shooting Daud and the successful scene surrounding him a relieved look.

“Not a bad go of it for no powers, eh, Fee?” Killian says proudly, nudging Daud’s shoulder with his elbow. “Could at least crack a smile, you old knife. You just took down a Tallboy!”

“Two of the fuckers,” Andrei adds, jostling Galia’s side. “A job damn well done, I’d say.”

Galia shoves him away, but she’s flushed and smiling. “We still got work to do, mudlark, pipe down. A few scrapped Tallboys ain’t gonna–”

“Corvo Attano!”

Everyone startles at the brisk tone, as the Royal Physician, beard and all, stalks his way out of the workshop.

Even Corvo looks a little chastised, as Sokolov marches straight for him. “Good evening, Anton–”

“Don’t you ‘good evening’ me, my boy! You’re supposed to be dead!” Sokolov barks, jabbing a finger in the center of Corvo’s chest. “I’ve been stuck in that damnable little hovel for the past two days! It shall not be tolerated! If you were alive, which I now see you were, I’d have thought you of all people would have the nerve to come and rescue me! And my lesser companion back there,” he adds as an afterthought, waving a vague hand over his shoulder at Piero. “So where, by the void itself, have you been?!”

Daud takes a moment to appreciate the sight of a scolded Corvo, as the man gingerly escorts Sokolov back inside the workshop.

The sun is now setting, the dusk sky reflecting oranges and purples in the murky river. The Hound Pits is bathed in a rustic, golden light, making their victory here taste all the sweeter.

Daud can see the men’s fervour, their eagerness to keep pushing forward, so he gets to work, seeing as the District is now theirs for the taking.

He instructs Vladko to collect any fallen weapons or ammo, and the twins to carry all unconscious guards and overseers to the hound cages and lock them inside. He sends Galia, Feodor and Leonid to scour the pub and any surrounding buildings, to find something that tells them where the Loyalists have gone to cower.

He pulls Galia aside before she disappears. “That was a damn reckless jump,” Daud says sternly. Her jacket’s torn at the elbow and her knee’s scraped and bloody from the rough landing. “You were excellent,” he credits, just to see her pleased grin. “Don’t do it again.”

He dismisses her, and then successfully summons Rapha and Dimitri down from their lookout. The pair couldn’t be more grateful.

“Outsider’s eyes, thank you,” Dimitri all but falls to the yard’s solid ground in relief. “I feared we were going to wither away and die up there.”

“How fortunate no one overreacted, and that you can both abide heights. You can thank Attano and those physicians for the rescue.”

“Knew you’d show up, boss.” Rapha peers up at the old cages with disdain. “We were honestly starting to consider just jumping down.”

“Hm, who needs unbroken legs these days,” Daud says dryly, but he claps them both on the shoulder. He’s relieved to see them, too. “Still awake enough to watch the blockades?” They both nod, eager. “Get to it, then. Make sure no more security is headed our way.”

He spares Corvo another cursory glance before he starts his own snooping. Sokolov seems a little more pacified. He and Piero are presumably filling Corvo in on all that happened in his absence. Piero motions tentatively across the yard, to a pair of shrouded corpses laid near the brewery.

Something briefly distorts Corvo’s expression. It’s a flash of the same anger, the same hatred Daud had seen himself above the floodwater.

Daud wants to know if one of the bodies is Mr Beechworth’s. It’s not his business, and the answer shouldn’t be gnawing at him.

(It gnaws at him, all the same.)

Leonid returns to him with an unexpected discovery. She traverses down with Watch Captain Curnow’s niece hanging nervously onto her arm.

“That Admiral had her locked in the tower, up there, for the last two days,” Leonid explains, awkwardly patting her new ward on the hand. “Poor miss has been through the wars.”

(Daud can’t tell if the woman recognises him, or if the wariness in her regard is merely to do with the situation. Would she know his face? Curnow himself may be familiar with Daud’s name, his work, but that knowledge wouldn’t necessarily extend to his niece.)

“She says Havelock was going to shoot her with the others, but he stopped. Something about owing her uncle.”

“Oh– Corvo!” Curnow’s niece tears away when she sees Corvo inside the workshop, and the two embrace hard. “Thank the stars, we all thought you’d been killed.” Her arms are clutched around his shoulders, feet stretched to tip-toes, until Corvo eases her back down.

Daud discerns some of the words that pass between them. Havelock. Emily. Poison. Samuel.

(Corvo’s eyes are unusually soft as he speaks with her. Thawed with an affection Daud’s only seen him hold for the boatman, so far.)

He leaves them be. Not his business.

Daud traverses up to the niece’s hideout, relishing the cool surge of magic, now unrestricted, that channels its way through him from his Mark.

Whichever paranoid cultist honed that damn music can die weeping, in Daud’s opinion.

The room inside the tower is small, dimly lit with a single lantern, and it’s littered with childish drawings, colourful and misshapen. A likeness of the Golden Cat’s idol. A range of shells and sea creatures, among them an anatomised whale, blue oil and all. A portrait of Corvo, crudely done but Daud can tell it’s him. Red-brown eyes, dark hair.

(Just for a moment, Daud lets himself savour the sight of them all. Rough, inexperienced scribbles and bland crayon. Had he failed, had Delilah survived him, they could have been something else entirely.)

Daud inspects the picture on the table. Three figures in a riverboat, ferrying along. The titles Daddy, Mr Samuel and Me are adjoined to each with an arrow.

“Cute.”

“An art critic and a killer?”

Daud scoffs, but doesn’t turn to Corvo. “She’s no Sokolov, but she has promise.”

He hears the man begin to roam around the room behind him, restless. “Your people handled themselves well, down there. I appreciate it wasn’t the most sophisticated plan.”

“What about any of my men seems sophisticated to you?” Daud retorts. “Plan worked. That’s good enough.”

Corvo gives a hum, sounding satisfied with that.

“You utilised them well, considering what little time we had to strategise,” Daud finds himself adding.

Corvo had borne the plan; relied on the sparse knowledge Daud had provided him with about the group, and had each of them play to their strengths. He had put himself at the most risk, trusting them and Daud to pull it off.

“Though that punch was reckless.”

“No more than dropping on a Tallboy.”

A fair point.

“The Admiral and Martin never had a detailed course of action for me, dealing with Burrows’ allies,” Corvo explains, sounding bitter. “Seemed happy to just send me out into the city, quick as possible. Had to improvise. Got good at it.”

(Used him, and then spat him out. Bastards. Fools. Daud fiercely hopes that they regret it now, knowing what’s coming for them.)

“Samuel always gave what little help he could, but he barely knew more than me about what we were doing.”

Daud decides he has to ask. “The bodies, in the yard.”

“Wallace and Lydia. Pendleton’s servant, and the hostess, back when the pub used to run. Havelock shot them, day they poisoned me apparently. They were trying to cover all their tracks.”

“They’ll have left something to track,” Daud assures, in lieu of saying something ridiculous like I’m sorry or you never deserved any of this. “Galia and the others are searching inside. There’ll be something.”

Corvo comes to stand beside him at the table, shoulder brushing Daud’s. The contact is deliberate, in lieu of saying something equally ridiculous like thank you. “That’s Samuel’s riverboat.”

Daud huffs an amused sound, eyeing the drawing beneath him. “She’s not that bad an artist, bodyguard, I can see it’s the riverboat–”

“No.” Fingers close gently around Daud’s chin and manoeuvre his gaze up, out through the window ahead. “That’s Samuel’s riverboat.”

True to word, Mr Beechworth coasts towards the shore.

Chapter Text

The boatman’s company brings about a disturbingly easy comfort. Daud doesn’t quite trust it.

That’s not to say he distrusts Mr Beechworth himself. Daud’s sure the man is exactly who and what he appears to be. But that kind of ease and comfort is like seeing the sun appear over Gristol.

It’s a rarity, and makes you wonder what the catch is.

“Haven’t been up this way in a long time,” Samuel states, steering the Amaranth along Mosley Canal. “Think there are days some folk forget the old Financial District is still even here.”

Daud settled on Rudshore for that reason precisely. “We like the peace and quiet,” he says dryly, and Samuel chuckles.

(Like the damn sun. Reminds Daud a little of Rulfio, all smiles and warm manners.)

“Is that why you sent Corvo this way?” Daud finds himself asking. “You knew the Admiral wouldn’t send men to search here?”

“Honestly, sir, I’m not sure what compelled me. Panic, I suppose. I didn’t have a lot ‘a time to get him away from there after those three… well, after it all happened.” The clouded expression passes from his face quickly enough. Samuel grants Daud another of those heartening smiles, as he coasts them along the moonlit floodwaters, “Lucky for him you all were here, though.”

Lucky isn’t a word Daud would associate with Corvo Attano. Cursed, perhaps. “Hm. Believe what you wish.”

They’d learned Samuel had managed to slip away after the killing at the Hound Pits started, knowing his deed protecting Corvo would be discovered. He had bided his time on Wrenhaven, waiting for sign of the Lord Protector to surface.

“Knew I’d find you here soon enough, Corvo,” the boatman had said, crushed against Corvo’s shoulder and holding him just as tightly. “Never pays to bet against you, does it?”

“You stupid fucker,” Corvo had bitten back, fonder than Daud has ever heard him.

They’re meeting Corvo back at the Chamber. Daud’s keeping a handful of men at the pub, on guard. Now the Old Ports is theirs, Daud is determined to keep it that way.

Corvo is escorting the pair of physicians and Curnow’s niece through Rudshore Gate, since Callista refused to be handed off alone to any of Daud’s men.

(All that happened has rattled her. She’d hidden her shaking hands well, to her credit, but Daud knows trauma when he sees it.)

Daud grudgingly offered to show the boatman the best way into Rudshore from the river. Part of him honestly hadn’t expected Corvo to agree.

“It’s getting dark, don’t let him crash into any river krusts,” Corvo had instructed, shooting a teasing look Samuel’s way before they’d gone their separate routes.

(The affection Corvo holds for his friends, those few he’s clearly come to care deeply for, is fierce. As fierce as Daud feels for his own men, he’d wager. It makes Corvo’s eyes brighter, his brow softer. Was that how he looked, when Jessami–)

“End of the street. Stop under Cullero’s sign,” Daud directs the boatman, far gruffer than he means to.

Those thoughts… He has no right.

He’s silently furious with himself until Samuel slows the boat, and Daud distractedly offers his arm to help the man stand. If Samuel discerns his mood, he’s too kind or too polite to pass comment on it.

It’s slow-going into Central Rudshore, by Daud’s own choice. He doesn’t want to give the old man a heart attack, transversing anywhere too high with him, so they take the ground route, through the rail station.

Samuel seems content to amble along at his side in comfortable silence, taking in the walkways and the ruins as they go. Rudshore always looks a little sinister in the evening’s misty light, not that the Samuel appears affected.

“Ah, the old Commerce Chamber,” he declares, peering up with awe at the heart of Rudshore. “Bigger than I remember! Not a bad place to call home, I bet.”

“It has its charms,” is all Daud says, before he warns the boatman to brace himself. There’s no avoiding a transversal to enter the building. Samuel looks a little green by the time they reach the upper levels.

“Have you done business with merchants, since the plague?” Daud asks, partly to distract Samuel from the nausea, and partly because he’s still trying to work out where he’s void-damned seen the man before. “Riverboat would make transporting black market stock easy.”

“A little, before the Admiral found me. I did some work for Jerome in Draper’s Ward.”

Jerome’s, that’s where. The memory returns to Daud instantly.

“Ferried packages between there and Clavering for a while, back and forth across the river. I, ah… Actually, sir, we’ve met before,” Samuel gives an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as they pass the Chamber’s old mess hall. “It was a long time ago, mind,” he forges on quickly, “so I don’t fault you for not remembering. You’re a busy man, no doubt, I wouldn’t expect someone like me to stick out.”

“I remember. Just couldn’t recall where.” That’s another mystery out of the way, at least.

Daud hears Sokolov from yards down the hallway. The man’s criticising the layout of Kent’s infirmary when Daud and Samuel enter.

“You call yourself a Physician?! Bah,” Sokolov scoffs, unimpressed. “Nothing in here is sterile, I’d bet my life on it! And those aren’t proper bandages! My good man, did you even attend the Academy?! Do you have any formal training whatsoever?!”

Piero, in contrast, is standing uncomfortably close to Rickard, fixated on the tattoos weaving along his forearms. He’s querying something about whether they’re a product of black magic and if so could he sketch out the patterns for reference.

Corvo is also awaiting them there, sharply watching Kent as he asks Curnow’s niece the usual humdrum questions. Any injuries, any plague symptoms, so on.

“I advise food and rest,” is Kent’s professional verdict. “You’ve been through a nasty ordeal, but the worst has passed.”

“You’ll be safe here, Miss,” Rickard adds, ever with more heart than his tutor.

Corvo sidesteps a still ranting Sokolov, and strides quietly to Daud’s side. “Would you summon Fisher and the other kids?” At Daud’s questioning look, the only explanation he gives is, “They’ll help.”

They do.

The niece comes alive, bit by bit, at Fisher’s excitement for having a new guest, and Miss Curnow soon manages to coax Cleon and Dodge out of their shyness by asking them to show her around. A natural-born governess.

(Another intuitive play of Corvo’s, another situation he’s seen through like glass. Offhandedly nudging the niece’s focus from herself, from all she’s been through, onto the safe and familiar task of keeping three youngsters occupied. Clever. Kind.)

“Make sure she’s fed first, Fisher,” Daud orders before the girl tugs Callista away. “And show her where she can sleep. The nice rooms,” he adds sternly.

“Without any holes in the roof?” Corvo says, wry and teasing, under his breath.

“I’ll stay with Callista, sirs,” Samuel insists, after he’s assured Kent he’s perfectly fine and in no need of an elixir. “Keep out of your way for a while. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, Corvo, regarding Havelock and the others. Just let me know if I can be of any help at all.”

Corvo watches him go, with that softness in his eyes. Daud reluctantly admits that he’s already starting to share some of the sentiment.

“I know,” Corvo says, once the boatman’s out of sight and he’s clocked Daud’s expression. “Man’s like a river krust pearl. One of the only good things in this cistern of a city.”

(In a moment of madness, Daud wants to ask what the other good things constitute, in Corvo’s mind. The young Empress, certainly. Curnow’s niece, perhaps.)

“You! I do know you, I thought so,” Sokolov is saying, eyes narrowed accusingly at Daud beneath his thicket of eyebrows. “You’re Daud, aren’t you. Yes, I remember. So this is what became of you after that winter–”

“Check him over, Kent,” Daud cuts the man off. “Thoroughly. Make sure he’s not about to start weeping blood.”

“His partner, too,” Corvo adds, a roguish glint in his eyes, and Sokolov blanches.

“Partner?! Partner, the nerve of you!”

“We are not partners,” Piero says passively.

“Certainly not! I have no damned need of any partner, wha– unhand me, you cretin,” Sokolov growls when Rickard carefully steers him and Piero over to one of the cots. “I will not be treated so disrespectfully! I am the Royal Physician, Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy, do you have any idea what kind of connections I have?! I will not be kept in this crumbling outhouse!”

Sokolov doesn’t seem to be running out of steam. Daud doesn’t particularly want to stay to see how long the raving lasts, and when he glances Corvo’s way, the man nods vehemently, already moving for the hallway.

Daud has the heart to shoot Rickard a commiserating look before he follows.

(Not Kent, he knows Kent can handle it. Sokolov might have actually met his match with Kent; both brisk-mannered and stubborn as an ox.)

“When did you know Sokolov?”

“Dull story.” Daud knows he said that far too quickly. He can feel Corvo’s eyes on him, calculating, as they walk side by side towards the office.

“Was it when you sat for a portrait?”

Daud withers. That fucking portrait.

(He’s been trying to track the thing down for years on the side, but it kept getting auctioned off and passed between too many different circles too often. He still doesn’t know exactly what compelled him to agree to it. Coin, probably. Desperate times. He had just been starting out in Dunwall.)

Daud recalls the stacks of empty frames at the art dealer’s apartment, and his mood wilts further. Of course Corvo, of all people, had found it.

“It was a lovely painting–”

“Die weeping, bodyguard.”

Thomas is waiting patiently for them at the desk, maps of Kingsparrow Island already laid out and ready to inspect.

Three things had been unearthed at the Hound Pits, not including the pair of physicians and Curnow’s niece.

The first was a note, addressed to Corvo, tucked beneath a pillow in the servants’ bunk room. From a Cecelia, something about Corvo’s courage inspiring her escape. Nothing generally relevant, but it seemed to give Corvo some peace of mind.

The second was a letter in Captain Hammond’s coat pocket, signed and sealed by Havelock himself. It mentioned ‘the lighthouse’, which is vague as The Outsider himself, granted. But if Daud’s thrived on nothing else, it’s his ability to chase vagualities. Hence requesting Thomas to dig out anything they had on Kingsparrow Island ahead of their arrival.

The third, Corvo pulls from his own pocket and slots into the audiograph player. A recording card Feodor had spotted, near the pub’s sewer tunnel entrance. Beside it, verified by Corvo, was Pendleton’s audiograph device, cast hazardously into the grimy water and being circled by hagfish. Void willing, the water hasn’t damaged the audio beyond understanding.

Pendleton’s voice comes a little distorted, static fizzing now and again, but it confirms Daud’s suspicion. The lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island, off the coast of Dunwall, is where the the Admiral has retreated.

(How fortunate Pendleton shares Daud’s penchant for recording his thoughts during trying times. Not so fortunate for the Loyalists, of course. Pendleton’s carelessness has led their ruin straight to their doorstep.)

They work themselves like dogs, scheming and discussing until dark clouds fog over the moon, now high above Rudshore.

Thomas, Galia and Rulfio have been filtering in and out every few hours, offering their help and inquiring after their progress. Daud’s requested one or two things from them, but truth be told he wants them all rested. Whatever plan he and Corvo eventually, hopefully, form, they’ll all need to be at their best.

Daud’s vision is becoming hazy, the amount of hours he’s scrutinised these maps.

The island houses Kingsparrow Fort, militarised following the Morley Insurrection. The perfect battlement for an Admiral to cower within, Daud thinks bitterly. And there’s the lighthouse, of course. Hiram Burrows’ last paranoid whim, the project largely unfinished thanks to all of Corvo’s interruptions.

But the grotesque metal rise was at least constructed. It now towers over the fortifications, and the shores have four watchtowers stationed north, east, south, and west, their spotlights on every ounce of water surrounding the island.

It’s the most heavily defended keep in all of Dunwall. The lighthouse’s peak will be where Havelock has Emily Kaldwin. That is the point they need to reach.

Somehow.

“And if they’re playing that music over loudspeaker–”

“Which we can assume they are,” Corvo cuts in, running an exhausted hand through his hair.

“Which we’ll assume they are,” Daud agrees. Expect the worst is a mantra that’s honestly kept him alive, thus far. “Then should we even make it onto the shore–”

“You won’t be able to summon your men,” Corvo finishes, letting his weight slump against the desk. “And we’ll need your men, with a fort and an army that size. But we can’t ferry everyone in person onto the island because we’ll be spotted. And they won’t all fit in Samuel’s boat, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And that’s before we even make it up to the lighthouse.” Corvo lets his forehead fall, too, with a quiet thump against the wood. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s absurd.”

“How the fuck are we going to do this?”

“We’re exactly where we were six void-damned hours ago.”

“Six hours,” Corvo repeats, sounding pained. “Fuck. I can’t see straight anymore.”

“Everything’s fucking blurry.” Daud rubs hard at his temples. Digs his fingers in try and ease the throbbing headache. “The Admiral must be shit scared of you,” he adds as an absent afterthought.

Corvo peers up in question.

“Choosing that island,” Daud clarifies. “I haven’t seen that much fortification in one place for a while. Not since Lord Estermont got paranoid about the rats. Man turned his garden into a minefield.”

“Nice to know I’ve made an impression, I suppose.” Corvo gives a jaw-cracking yawn, shaking the hair out of his face.

(It’s the way the wolfhounds shake themselves, and the sight makes Daud feel such an abrupt, unexpected rush of affection that he decides within the last six hours he must have lost his mind. It’s happened at long last. He’s truly gone delusional.)

“Coffee.” Daud mutters it like a curse, pushing away from the desk. He sways, catching himself before he stumbles.

Void, he’s tired.

He pauses a few paces away, turning back to Corvo’s drained eyes and tight shoulders where he’s now perched over the plans. Does the man even drink coffee?

“Tea,” Corvo says distractedly, already focused back on a schematic beneath him.

Daud heads to the floor below.

(Drinks tea. Gristol nobleman swill. Any self-respecting Serkonan would be ashamed.)

Curnow’s niece and the novices are nowhere to be found when Daud stalks wearily into the old mess hall. It’s one of the only remaining rooms in the Chamber with clean running water and an actual working stove.

Samuel is there, however, sat with Galia, Ardan and Quinn at one of the tables, all talking amicably. The boatman seems to have a knack of endearing himself to anyone within his general orbit. Daud’s never seen Quinn warm to a stranger so quickly.

“That Sokolov’s got a foul mouth on him,” Galia is saying. “I’ve never heard a noble curse that much.”

“Aye, and I’ve never seen such a huge beard,” Ardan jeers. “Thought the boss had brought back one of them bears from Pandyssia!”

Daud barely hears them. He tries to talk himself out of it long past the water boiling, and by the time he growls the boatman to his side, his pride is teetering and he’s irritated himself to the void.

Samuel graciously says nothing on the matter, as he shows Daud how Corvo likes his tea.

Corvo is not so gracious. “Mint,” he recognises, when he catches the scent upon Daud’s return.

Daud just tries to hand off the mug, but Corvo doesn’t take it. Just eyes it, warily, in Daud’s hand.

Daud recalls, withers, and then takes a pointed sip to show the man it isn’t poisoned or otherwise tampered with. He cringes at the taste – fucking mint, of course Corvo would prefer the sharpest, shittest flavour known to man – but Corvo seems satisfied.

“Disgusting.”

“How did you know. The mint.”

“All there was,” Daud lies.

(They don’t stock up on sugar or honey, because they’re not in Dunwall fucking Tower. However, Daud had relented on some herbs, spices, a few Serkonan delicacies; Domenico begged to have some variety in the Chamber’s remnant of a pantry.

Samuel had seemed satisfied enough when he spotted the mint.)

Corvo hums impassively. His eyes, though, have that same glint he’d aimed at Sokolov. “I hope you thanked Samuel for passing along my preference.”

“Bastard,” Daud mutters, pride lying face-down, dead on the floor.

“Child,” Corvo bites back. Though that handsome curl has found its way back to his mouth.

Daud’s surprised his own neck doesn’t snap with the speed he turns away from it.

He roughly excuses himself, leaving his coffee to go cold on the desk, and transverses to the rooftop, suddenly desperate for a cigarette.

Daud stands at the edge of the roof as he smokes, savouring the sight of the District spread before him, dark and decaying and achingly familiar.

(It feels different now. After Corvo came to them.)

The issue, Daud is swiftly starting to find, is that when the two of them fall into a rhythm – when Corvo says something wry and cutting and Daud can’t resist biting back, or when Daud reveals some information that reels in Corvo’s attention and makes his eyes bright with genuine interest – it’s then becoming increasingly difficult for Daud to uphold his plan of remaining focused and impersonal.

Daud has already admitted to himself that they work well together, that isn’t the issue. The issue is that he and Corvo, when they each start forgetting themselves, get along with each other.

It hasn’t happened often enough to blindside Daud to the rocky foundation of their alliance. But it has still happened. And it keeps happening, with more and more frequency.

(“You like him,” Leonid had said at the Hound Pits, when she’d caught him watching Corvo try to fish out Pendleton’s audiograph recording without getting maimed by a hagfish. “It is nice that you are both getting along, yes? Considering we all thought he was going to kill you.”

Daud hadn’t replied, but he had aimed his Mark and Pulled the recording out himself, for the sake of Corvo’s fingers.)

Daud should put a stop to this, show some damn self control. Focused and impersonal was his strategy for a reason. Daud knows there is no forgiveness or redemption down his path, even with his oath to Corvo. And he’s made his peace with that. He’d made it long before Corvo had ever arrived here. There is no way Daud can atone, no possible reality in which he can give Corvo back everything he’s taken from him.

So there is no world in which it’s viable for Daud to like Corvo Attano, and no world in which it’s viable for Corvo to like him. Daud is a means to an end. Corvo has tolerated him, enough that they can work together. Has shown a grudging sort of respect for Daud and his men, for their capabilities.

The notion of finding enjoyment in Corvo’s company is a foolish one and shouldn’t be entertained any longer.

(It isn’t a notion, though. Daud finds enjoyment. He had expected Corvo’s capability, not his curiosity. Had expected his quick mind and skills with a blade, not his sharp, dry wit or the way it had felt to fence with him.)

When he transverses back down through the roof’s debris, Corvo has fallen asleep at the desk.

“Fuck sake,” Daud breathes out, wanting to be irritated.

The man’s hair has fallen in his face, head cushioned on his arms, one long leg curled under him on Daud’s chair and the other stretched out beneath the desk.

“Arrest me, then,” Corvo mumbles, glaring. “I can take all you rats at once.”

Daud drapes his coat over Corvo’s shoulders, and traverses up to his own bed.

They weren’t going to come up with even a half-decent plan tonight, anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes in the void, and that makes him irritated.

Under the gazebo. It’s the sight that always greets him, since that day. The note lying next to a drying splatter of blood is different tonight, however.

HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU HE WON’T FORGIVE YOU

How original, Daud thinks dryly. He surveys the convoy of floating islands beside his own, suspended in pale blue light and all likely holding some statue-still scene of Daud’s failures; clearly the path the Outsider wishes him to follow.

He lies down on the cold, smooth tiles of the gazebo instead, hoping it will piss The Outsider off enough to just banish Daud back to the waking world. Daud’s not certain the prick can be pissed off, though, which puts a slight dent in the plan.

He lies there, anyway, letting the low, distant drone of the Void thrum through him. A whale drifts past him at one point, poor bastard. Daud vaguely wonders whether the things are aware of where they are, or whether they just assume they’re in a bigger, stranger ocean.

If not pissed off, then apparently The Outsider can become impatient. He materialises in his shadows after a while of Daud making it clear he isn’t moving.

“A petty show. Even for you, Daud.”

“Clearly I’ve been spending too much time with Corvo.”

“Haven’t you just.”

Something shifts, and Daud quickly shucks himself to his feet. All of a sudden, he’s inside; a dark room that reeks of stale blood and cinders, a glaring spotlight centred on an interrogation chair.

“Has he described his time in Coldridge, during your pleasant little talks?”

Daud recalls the space, now sparse and untainted by the thick, swirling vines he’d seen himself during his own visit to the prison. Corvo’s arms are bound behind the chair, his bare skin seared and scarred more places than not. Daud recognises Sullivan, Burrows’ Torturer, standing before him; enjoyment twisted on his face, a poker aglow with scolding heat poised in his hand.

Daud doesn’t give The Outsider the satisfaction of looking away. “Hasn’t come up in conversation,” he says sourly. “We’ve been a little busy.”

“Indeed you have. It’s been most entertaining, to watch your progress.”

The scene shifts again, Daud’s only warning the slight sensation of falling that churns inside him, and then he’s stood before Corvo’s cell. The man’s on the floor, back against the wall, legs arched and arms resting over his knees, dark hair hanging over his face. A mirror of how he’d sat at Daud’s side, on Rudshore’s ruins.

“Do you know he would have died here, Daud? If the Loyalists hadn’t paid that guard to slip him the key. His head would have rolled off the block in the execution yard. Idiots would have cheered, as the Empress’ ‘murderer’ was served justice at last.”

Daud focuses on something else. For some reason, he focuses on the cell door. Lock and key, not controlled from the guard station. Of course, Burrows had had the security system changed in a panic after Corvo’s escape.

“A pity, you weren’t the one to break him out, isn’t it. You were considering it, at one point. Were you not?”

(He was. In the midst of hunting down any sign of Delilah’s name, Daud had considered it. Had even tracked down the schematic layout of the prison and started forming a plan. He’d scrapped it. It felt like rubbing salt in a deep wound; the man who had ruined your life, taken everything from you, coming to your rescue. Absurd. Cruel, almost.)

“Have you told Corvo about your little trip into Coldridge? Donning a cultist mask and being escorted by the guards? I’m sure he’d find it most interesting.”

“Do you ever get sick of the sound of your own voice.”

The Outsider goes on, as though Daud had never spoken. “He’d respect your resourcefulness, for the overseer guise. Your nerve, walking into such a heavily guarded fortress and avoiding all suspicion. It was a pleasure to watch.”

It all sounds very intentional, so Daud bites out, “Get to your point, if you have one.”

The Outsider’s black eyes consider him, head tilted. And, for perhaps the first time in seventeen years, he actually makes a point that Daud can work with. “Guile over brute force.”

And then Daud has their plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

He and Corvo had been too narrow-minded, thinking storming Kingsparrow Island head-on had been their only option. A fortress that size, who wouldn’t assume the only route was brute force?

But they’ve shifted their focus to guile, as they should have from the beginning. It’s where Corvo thrives, after all.

Infiltrating the fort – Daud disguised, and Samuel sneaking Corvo ashore – and picking its defences apart from the inside, being quiet and patient, will only work in their favour when they finally do have to fight against Havelock’s forces.

They can take him by surprise.

Daud had considered an overseer guise again, at first. Blending in as a cultist would get him to the fort’s loudspeakers, give him chance to disable the overseer music.

Corvo refused. “Martin’s smart, killer. Too smart to be fooled by a disguise. He’ll know you’re not one of his own.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Corvo proposes Watch Captain Curnow, which raises Daud’s hackles at first. Curnow isn’t one of their contacts. He’s never been bribed or bought. Knowing the man’s stringently decent reputation, Daud doubts that he can be.

“If you want to play dress-up, then Geoff can get you past the island’s security.”

“And you suppose he’ll agree to this?”

Corvo does suppose. He’s stubbornly certain that once Curnow and his squad of loyal men learn the truth about Havelock, they won’t stand for letting the Loyalists use Emily.

“And we have Callista,” Corvo reasons. “She’s seen how Havelock came to power, what he’s done. Her uncle won’t doubt any of it, as long as it comes from her.”

Daud shadows Corvo to the meeting.

(Corvo hadn’t asked him to do this. Daud is doing it anyway, in case it turns out Curnow is trigger happy like most of the Watch.)

But Corvo is right about him. Daud’s grudgingly coming to realise that Corvo is often right, and it pisses him off a little.

Corvo and Callista corner the Captain at his own apartment in the Distillery District. From where he hunkers down beneath the window, Daud hears Curnow come around to their plan with little coercion, thanks to the niece. It may help that she reveals it had been Corvo that night in Holger Square. He and Curnow had clearly been friends, before Burrows became Regent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t push further, investigating Hiram’s lies.” Curnow sounds truly ashamed. “If I’d known you were innocent, Corvo, I never–”

“Shut the fuck up, Geoff.” Corvo’s tone is fond. “You weren’t the only one fooled, you aren’t special. If you really want to apologise, you can make sure he,” and he jerks his head toward Daud’s window, “doesn’t get disintegrated by an Arc Pylon on the way up to the lighthouse.”

So that’s how Daud gets roped into the meeting. He refuses to feel even a little guilty for spying, even if Corvo’s glare sears into him their entire visit. Corvo’s track record for being betrayed by his allies is, to be kind, questionable, and to be blunt, lying in rat shit.

Daud’s still not taking chances, where Corvo is concerned. He takes his oaths seriously.

(If Curnow recognises him, he says nothing. He’s either cautious enough or smart enough to let whatever knowledge he has about Daud lie silent, given their fresh alliance. The Captain has the same guarded look about him as his niece. Perhaps they do know of Daud, and they both simply trust Corvo enough to overlook it.)

He and Corvo return to Rudshore, and work their plan around Curnow’s aid. The Captain, on his end, sends an amicable letter to Havelock, requesting a meeting – something about offering more City Watch support for his term as Regent – and in due time, an invitation to discuss matters further at Kingsparrow Island reaches him. It includes permission for Curnow to be accompanied by his retinue.

That’s Daud’s way into the lighthouse.

“Never thought I’d be putting on a Watch uniform.” Though Daud hadn’t thought he would don an overseer mask, either.

“You’re sure Havelock doesn’t know your face?”

Daud’s sure.

Corvo himself can’t exactly accompany Curnow’s squad, the Loyalists know him far too well. The only resident that might recognise Daud is Trevor Pendleton, and Daud was planning on avoiding that snivelling little rat like the plague, anyway.

“Take Feodor with you,” Corvo suggests. “We’ll get him a uniform, too. He’s your best infiltrator, isn’t he.”

Daud almost smiles. Well remembered, bodyguard.

“He can filter off from you and Geoff once you’re all inside, and disable that music.”

“Thomas, as well,” Daud decides. “I trust him to keep his head.”

(If their plan requires every man, then Daud wants Thomas at his side. Daud’s kept him in Rudshore of late, overseeing the men, planning with Daud himself, since he’s considering the man for Billie’s replacement, as his second in command. Thomas is probably raring to get back out in the field, not that he’d ever complain about it. He’s far too polite to offer complaints.)

Killing that overseer music is priority. As long as Havelock’s eyes are off the fort, kept distracted by Daud and Curnow, then Thomas and Feodor can make quick work of silencing the speakers. Thus allowing Daud to summon his men inside.

And they’ll need every man Daud has. Havelock’s forces, the fortress, the overseer support; if they’re going to topple Havelock’s reign, then it has to be in one move. Daud and Corvo need to take the entire island from his control.

“I should be able to get close enough to the shore with Samuel.”

“Assuming your boatman can avoid the watchtowers.”

“He’s had a lot of practise, keeping that boat out of sight,” Corvo says, waving off Daud’s concern. “He can do it. Samuel’s tougher than he looks.

“And assuming you can get up to the meeting chamber alone.”

The lighthouse’s height is nothing to scoff at. There will be a minefield of obstacles between the shore where Samuel docks and Havelock. At least Daud is going in with back up and a disguise.

But Corvo just grants him an unimpressed look. “I can get there, killer.”

Daud doesn’t question him further. After all, if Corvo can slink his way through Burrows’ defences, then what’s an entire military fort and a massive fucking lighthouse.

“Once it’s quiet and my men can be summoned, they’ll take the fort.”

“I can try and disable any alarms on my way to you, but Havelock will know something’s wrong the second that music stops. Geoff’s squad can at least give them all some support, but the men will need to move fast once you’ve got them inside.”

“They’ll keep Havelock’s forces and any overseers off us, cause some trouble. They’re good at that.”

Corvo is clearly hit with an abrupt thought. It’s in his eyes, a visible little flicker of consideration. “How much energy does it take for you to summon everyone at once?”

“A lot,” Daud says grimly.

(All of it, really. He’s thought it through, though, and deemed the reward is worth the risk. Daud isn’t worried about himself. If things go sideways and Havelock guns for him or Curnow, Daud has more tricks up his sleeve than black magic.)

“It’s doable, bodyguard. I can get them all onto the island. But I can’t claim it won’t weaken me.”

“I’ll be with you by then, anyway.” Corvo says it so casually, but there’s a sharp resolve behind it. Like he’s decided the option of not being at the lighthouse’s peak by then is out of the question. “Looking at the plans, there’s a route that should keep me unnoticed…”

Daud watches as another thought occurs to him, making Corvo frown. Errant mind, Daud thinks, every time he sees it happen. Erratic.

“Though, from how far can you summon the men? Wouldn’t they at least have to be somewhere near the island?”

“They would.”

Corvo glares, crossing his arms. He looks like a tall, ruffled crow, with his tousled hair. “Then this plan won’t exactly work, will it, killer. We’ve already established that Samuel’s boat can’t bring them all.”

“Then we’ll need someone to smuggle them close enough.”

How fitting, Daud thinks dismally, that once again the best choice he has is Lizzy Stride.

He goes to Drapers Ward, to strike the deal in person.

Lizzy saunters to him, smug and pleased, when he appears in the yard. The textile mill looks no different from his last visit, only now with a noticeable absence of Hatters. The mill is Dead Eel territory, now.

(Daud hears Stride gave the Geezer a proper funeral, or as proper as a street gang can manage. Daud didn’t ask then, doesn’t ask now. But he’s sure he was her father. It was in their faces, the small similarities.)

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favourite business partner.”

“Brigmore was a favour, not a partnership.”

Lizzy pauses, looking a little wary. “And you’ve just dropped by to catch up with little old me, right? Not for any more of those favours?”

He doesn’t answer. The heavy silence is evidently answer enough, because Stride throws her hands to the air and fires off a string of curses that makes the surrounding Eels tuck their fingers under their sleeves.

She comes around, after a little haggling and the guarantee of a lot of coin.

“Well this has been a real touching reunion, Daud. Hope you know what a fuckin’ solid I’m doing for you. Again,” Lizzy grins. “I want cold, hard coin for this one, remember. I got no more Wakefields around for you to stick with your fancy sleep darts.”

“Understood.” Daud shrugs her elbow off his shoulder, unconcerned.

It won’t be his coin. Corvo said the Crown will cover whatever amount Stride demanded for her help.

“So you’ve cashed in with royalty now, huh. Workin’ with the Lord Protector, what a crazy world we live in,” Lizzy drawls, leaning over the railings of the mill’s office floors. “Thought it was odd when your big man dropped by a few days ago, askin’ about this new ‘Regent Havelock’. Wondered why the void your lot cared if we’d seen him. You gotta stop gettin’ yourself involved in everyone else’s shit.”

“Appreciate the advice,” Daud retorts bitterly, leaning at her side. “You’re all heart.”

Lizzy punches his arm so hard it bruises instantly. “Better not tell anybody, if you wanna keep those fingers of yours.”

“Just be ready to meet us in Rudshore. Don’t be late.”

“See you on your turf.” Lizzy shoots him a wink and a sharp flash of teeth as he leaves. “Partner.”

Things are busy, when Daud ducks in through one of the Chamber’s windows.

The men are all vigorously preparing for Kingsparrow Island. They’re armed to the teeth. Hobson has outdone himself, organising Rudshore’s munitions. Once the cultist music has been silenced on the island, Daud knows his people will make quick work of the fort; keep Havelock’s forces busy and away from the lighthouse, give them a real fight.

Though some of the men have been sidetracked, Daud finds.

He frowns and has to double back when he catches sight of Sokolov talking Leonid, Vladko and Yuri through refining their makeshift stun mines. The Royal Physician looks livened, studious as he had done at the Academy, while he tinkers with their inventions.

Daud’s not entirely surprised he’s warmed to the Tyvians. Strange minds, those three.

Piero, too, Daud spots as he passes the infirmary. The inventor has Rickard taking notes on enhancing their stock of spiritual remedies. “You have so many river krusts growing here,” Piero declares, ardent as he measures something out into one of the flasks, “if we were to up the dosage, perhaps it would add any number of yet unknown benefits to your gifts.”

The physicians have certainly come around quickly to their new residence, Daud credits them. And if they wish to offer their aid and knowledge, then he certainly won’t be the one to stop them.

In the office, Daud relays his success with Stride to Corvo.

“The Dead Eels, hm. You have interesting friends.”

Daud goes to scoff a retort, but then he feels the bruise in full bloom on his arm, and says nothing. What a truly sad hand fate has dealt him, to be able to count Lizzy Stride among his friends.

And as if he doesn’t feel persecuted enough, a bundle of fabric hits him in the face.

“Present from Geoff. Thomas and Feodor have theirs. It should fit,” Corvo says absently, eyes locked down on the desk, retracing the schematics of his chosen route from the shore to the lighthouse. “Though he said most officers aren’t so broad in the shoulders, so it might not. I assume that was a compliment.”

“I’m flattered,” Daud grinds out, making Corvo huff an amused sound.

He transverses to the upper floor to shrug on the uniform.

(Daud’s gained all manner of new allies lately, he thinks dryly as he detaches his wristbow and slides it from beneath the uniform’s fit. Corvo Attano, the Royal Physician. And now the Watch Captain himself.

Billie would be smirking at him, if she were here. At that and at the uniform.)

When he moves back down into the office, infuriated already by the coat’s sleeves –open and slack around his wrists, that’s just going to get in the damn way, no wonder the Watch can never aim straight – Corvo’s nowhere in sight. Dashed off somewhere without preamble, as he often does.

Fisher trudges into the office, though, looking downtrodden as Daud irritably slots a pistol into the holster Curnow provided him. These guard uniforms are stifling, and anything they use to hold their munitions is far too fucking loose.

“I can still help, Sir,” Fisher insists, eyes big and pleading. “C’mon, we never got to help when that Delilah witch was still around.”

Daud can see Cleon and Dodge in his peripheral, peering hopefully around the doors.

“I’m gettin’ real good with my sword now, I swear it! I can stick that nasty Admiral for you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Daud puts a hand on her shoulder, steering her back the way she came. “But someone needs to guard Miss Curnow while we’re all away.”

Callista marches up to them, ushering Dodge and Cleon back towards the lower floors. She grants Daud an apologetic look, “I’m sorry, they were too fast. Fisher,” she scolds, “I thought we talked about this. You were told to stay here, now don’t bother the gentleman about it again.”

Both Daud and Fisher snort at the word.

“Daud ain’t no gentleman, miss,” the girl scoffs, but she lets Curnow’s niece shoo her down the hallway.

Callista had consented to stay in Rudshore while her uncle aids them. It’s probably the safest place for her, following their assault on the Old Port District. Daud doubts anyone would think to search for a respectable governess in a crumbling ruin surrounded by feral hounds.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Callista says, gaze staunchly avoiding Daud’s own. “Make sure they’re occupied, until you all come back.”

Daud gives a short nod in thanks to her, turning back into the office. Callista grabs his arm, gently, from behind.

“Please.” Her voice sounds harder. There’s a little more fire in that one word. “Please keep Corvo safe. He’s a good man.”

(What is he to you, Daud wants to ask.)

“My life is his,” he says. It’s the only answer that feels good enough.

Daud heads to the roof, hoping for a smoke in solitude before things get underway. He finds Corvo perched at the edge.

He has an arm propped on one arched knee, other leg curled under him. His hair’s tied back from his face, though it’s still tangled as the void. He looks peaceful, or as peaceful as Corvo is able to be.

(Belongs here, Daud thinks, in a devastating moment of sentiment. Not in that Tower, caged by pomp and frills and sleazy nobles. Surely he needs space to run. He looks free, here.)

Daud considers retreating, before reminding himself he’s not a damn coward.

He shakes a cigarette free, shucking himself down at Corvo’s side and letting a leg hang down over the floodwater below.

“Stride’s ship should be here soon.”

“And Geoff should be heading to the meeting point, with his squad.”

Void willing, if they all leave within the right timeframes, it should put everyone in their devised positions around the island at the pivotal moment.

(Should, being the operative word. Daud doesn’t want to tempt fate by saying will.)

Corvo turns his gaze on him, after Daud tucks his lighter away. “Suits you.”

The cigarette hangs loosely from between Daud’s lips.

“The uniform,” Corvo clarifies, eyes flicking down somewhere near Daud’s throat. “Collar’s wonky, though.”

Daud remembers to pluck the smouldering, hot fucking cigarette out of his mouth, before going to correct the garb. His hand brushes Corvo’s fingers, when the man reaches to do it for him.

“There.” Corvo gives the fabric, now snug around Daud’s neck, a little tug. “Respectable as any Watch officer, now.”

“Respectable,” Daud scoffs. It sounds a little rough. “Have you met the Watch, bodyguard? They’re gang members, just with polished boots. Your Captain not included,” he admits.

Curnow does seem a decent sort, in person. Someone Daud could potentially respect. But he’s the only officer Daud’s met who warrants it. The rest are either greedy, lazy, or plain sadistic.

“They didn’t used to be.” Corvo’s eyes are trained on the horizon now, on the dreary yellow light cast over the District. There’s a distance in his gaze. A sliver of reproach. “They changed, under the Regent. Got complacent and undisciplined.”

“Happy with their lot,” Daud supposes, and Corvo hums in agreement. “Found they could do whatever they wanted and Burrows never cared, as long as they kept the poor out of his sight.”

(That might explain Corvo’s penchant for pickpocketing guards, to teach them a lesson. Although to Daud, that seems too simple a conclusion to draw. He’s trying not to make any more rash assumptions about Corvo. He’s been taught his own lesson on that.)

“Emily would care.”

Daud’s hand freezes, where he goes to take another drag. Corvo hasn’t spoken her name, not since Daud had made his oath on the ruins.

Daud knows that all they’re doing revolves around that little girl, that this is all being done with the domineering aim of rescuing Emily Kaldwin. But it’s been left largely unspoken, between them.

“She has a good heart, even after everything.” Corvo’s head lowers, his jaw tight in shame. “I’ve failed her too many times. I can’t–”

“We’ll get her.” Daud hears the roughness in his own voice. He’s bore a lot of shit in his life. But he cannot bear that look on that face. Corvo can doubt himself all he wants when he is alone, but he’s not alone. He has Daud and his men at his back, and they won’t fail him. “We’ll help you get her.”

It’s a rough repeat of Daud’s desperate vow to him, and Corvo hears it.

He swallows, says nothing more. But his head knocks against Daud’s shoulder, where he lets it fall and rest.

Corvo’s vulnerability makes something twist and coil deep in Daud’s chest, some flagrant mix of regret and confusion and pleasure roiling through him. It dazes him, it disgusts him, to find that Corvo’s weakness could please him.

(It’s not his vulnerability, Daud knows that isn’t it. It’s that Corvo has allowed Daud to see it, that he had chosen Daud as the one to drop his guard beside. The intimacy Daud finds in that is startling.)

Daud lets the cigarette burn down to his fingers. He never takes that next drag.

Chapter Text

It’s time and Curnow is nervous. Which isn’t ideal, considering their plan rests on him getting them into the lighthouse.

Daud attempts a heartening, “Keep it together.” It comes out terse, irritated.

“Just consider it like you’re attending a real meeting,” Thomas adds, coming to Daud’s rescue. “Nothing untoward is happening. You’re simply getting us inside.”

“I know, I know,” Curnow says. He sounds apologetic, but he’s still fidgeting. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done… this, before. But I can do it. I told Callista I would.”

“You’d better,” Daud mutters under his breath, and Feodor nudges him with his elbow, chastising.

Curnow’s men, equally jittery, steer them toward the eastern shore. The watchtower stationed there has it’s spotlight trained on them all the while.

Daud knew the security would be obscene, knew there would be scores of guards, knew the lighthouse was enormous. He and Corvo have looked at the plans of Kingsparrow Island enough times.

It’s a different perspective, seeing it in person.

The lighthouse looms, ominous in its height, its peak obscuring the late-morning sun, blanketed in thick, grey cloud-cover. The fortress’ walls tower over the shoreline, and Daud can see specks and specks of guards patrolling along them, high above.

Corvo, somehow, believes he can make it past all this. And without the aid of black magic.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous,” Thomas credits, glancing at Feodor’s borrowed Watch helmet. It’s a little big, wobbles when he turns his head. “It’ll keep them from shooting us on sight though, so.”

“Should probably keep it on, then.”

“I’d recommend it.”

They’re nervous, too. They’re just hiding it better than Curnow.

“At least you both can strip the disguise, once you’re out of sight,” Daud says bitterly, just to make them both chuckle. “Keep your heads.” That sounded more heartening. “Just focus on getting to that control room. We need that music killed when it’s time.”

The persistent, burring drone of the overseer music had hit them from much farther out than Daud had expected. Havelock and Martin are blaring the music over the water in every direction.

“Sorry about the racket!” The officer who greets them salutes Curnow as he, Daud and the rest disembark the guard skiff. She gestures to the fort at large, “The Regent says the overseer ‘music’ is a necessary precaution. That mad assassin is still out there, for now, so he doesn’t want us taking any chances.”

“That’s understandable,” Curnow answers amicably, “It’s no problem at all,” and perhaps Daud had judged his nerve too briskly. The man is entirely at ease now. Or at least has the appearance of it.

Daud almost wants to squeeze his shoulder in gratitude.

“It’s much quieter inside the fortress,” the officer adds. “Shall we, Captain? I’m Officer Brenneck. Lord Havelock sent me to greet you, he’s waiting in the meeting chamber. It’s quite a way up, so, I hope you and your squad aren’t afraid of heights.”

(Just as Corvo predicted, Havelock has locked himself safely away atop the highest point in Dunwall. As Rulfio had charmingly put it, if Burrows had been shitting himself, Havelock’s taken ownership of the whole latrine.

He’s more than scared. Corvo must have him terrified.)

The thought offers little comfort, unfortunately, as Daud moves with Curnow and his squad through the first checkpoint. Each of them are stopped, searched, and their weapons are confiscated, though that was foreseen. It’s been off-putting and niggling at Daud, not to have had the familiar weight of his wristbow on the way here. But it wasn’t worth the risk of attaching it. They’d have found it and started asking questions.

They’re all paired with the Arc Pylons and Walls of Light placed along the way. Daud sees how Thomas and Feodor’s shoulders go stiff as they pass through or by one of the devices. Daud himself is involuntarily seized by agitation for a moment, when the first Wall of Light buzzes at his entry.

It feels a little surreal; they’re used to disarming the damn things, not walking through them.

Inside the fortress’ courtyard, the belly of the beast, they’re now enclosed by those high walls. More guards and a myriad of overseers are walking the ground level and the battlements above.

The music is quieter here, as the majority of the loudspeakers are mounted to defend the shores. But the violent pulse of it is still there, drilling into Daud’s skull. Thomas and Feodor’s faces are tight, trying not to appear affected. Daud himself keeps having to unclench his jaw under the harsh drone.

The overseers nearest watch them warily, hollow eyes of their masks passing judgement on their intrusion through the staging area.

Officer Brenneck leads them to a stairwell, connected to the battlements. She turns to shoot Curnow another smile, “Don’t mind our friends from the Abbey. Lord Havelock’s associate is here preparing for his transition to High Overseer, the cultists are his.”

Curnow hums politely, as Daud spies Thomas and Feodor’s port of call. The control room, overhanging the fort’s boarded walkways.

Before they ascend the stairs, Curnow clears his throat. “Officer Brenneck, if I may. I’m sure my men will be bored stiff, standing idle while Lord Havelock and I discuss our business,” he chuckles, and yes, Daud decides he did discredit the man too soon. Curnow’s a natural now the pressure’s on, now he’s in the thick of it. “If you don’t mind them occupying themselves, I’d be happy to station them here for the duration of our meeting. Familiarise themselves with the perimeter, perhaps. After all, if all goes well with the discussion, they may be providing their support here, alongside our overseer friends.”

Officer Brenneck shrugs her assent, “As you please, Captain. Though officers, please be mindful to stay inside the Keep. The guards here have very specific patrols, as per Lord Havelock’s orders. People aren’t permitted to wander, around here,” she warns, softening it with an apologetic laugh.

“Understood.” Curnow gives a curt nod to his six officers, and to Thomas and Feodor. “You heard her, men. Keep your noses clean, now.”

Get to that control room, Daud thinks, as his pair follow the officers’ leads, fanning out to patrol the area. Don’t get caught.

(It’s taken them around twenty minutes, since they docked. Daud peers up at the dim, glowing outline of the sun behind the cloud cover’s gloom. Almost midday, as Havelock had scheduled for their meeting. Stride has to get The Undine in place, and give the foghorn’s signal, before the discussion is over. And Corvo has to navigate his way to them by then, through all this shit.)

As Curnow’s highest ranking ‘officer’, Daud accompanies him and Officer Brenneck to the fort’s upper levels. His self-control caves a couple of times, and he finds himself discreetly scanning the surroundings for any sign that Corvo might have caught up to them, any glimpse or passing shadow of the man.

Daud sees nothing.

They cross the cable bridge, once they’re paired with yet another Pylon, and Daud sees Curnow beside him also peering up at the lighthouse, neck craning and mouth slightly agape.

Officer Brenneck unhooks a key from her belt to access the elevator. Daud’s fists clench as the doors slide open. He doesn’t know why the void he’d assumed there would be a staircase to the top.

Anxiety swells and ebbs in the pit of his stomach as the elevator slowly, painfully slowly, carries them to the pinnacle.

(Daud does not trust these contraptions. He’d taken one look at Barrister Timsh’s rickety little dumbwaiter and turned the fuck back around.)

A red-bordered sign greets them upon their exit. Warning: risk of falling. Daud spares a glance over the railings. He’s never feared heights. It would be ironic if he did, considering the reliance he’s had on rooftops throughout his life.

But there’s high, and then there’s this.

The fortress is an ink dot on paper beneath them, small and obscure and shadowed in the wake of the lighthouse’s scale. The wind at this height jostles and shoves at them as they follow the walkways, as though toying with them. Look how easy it would be, it’s saying, to just tip and tumble you over the edge.

(Corvo, surely, can’t make his way up here without using the elevator. Unless all that spite and stubbornness he possesses is enough to grant him the ability to fly, Daud supposes dryly. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past the man.)

The atrium is almost a welcome sight, when Officer Brenneck ushers them inside out of the wind. The bronze statue of Hiram Burrows soils it’s appeal, however, standing obnoxious and gauche in the center of a spiral staircase.

This area is clearly where Burrows himself had been intent on settling. It’s polished and gold-trimmed, all the marble and clean stone a stark contrast to the bare-bones military simplicity of the fort.

The animal heads mounted up the staircase, with their milky, dead eyes that remind Daud vaguely of The Outsider’s stare, feel like they’re watching their every step as they ascend to the penthouse.

“Please, go on through, gentleman,” Officer Brenneck offers them another salute, “They’re expecting you.”

“We appreciate the escort, Officer Brenneck, thank you,” Curnow bids cordially.

Daud grants her a nod as she leaves them, but his nerves are strung.

They’re expecting you?

“Ah! I believe our guest of honour is here, at last.”

As Daud and Curnow enter the meeting room, the Admiral sits at the planning table, under harsh, fluorescent lights. He looks haggard, harrowed, far from the man who had reputably told Hiram Burrows to drink rat piss instead of offering his support.

Daud and Corvo had counted on him having one or two guards stationed with him. That would only be expected.

Seated with him is Pendleton, who had announced their arrival. And Teague Martin.

Outsider curse it all.

“Geoff, it’s been too long. Good to see you made it.” Havelock stands to greet him, “I apologise for running you through a few circles, with all the security. But we’re living in dangerous times, you understand. Can’t be too careful.”

Daud immediately takes position at the entryway, as any dutiful Watch guard would, hands laced behind his back. Hopefully the picture of indifference, as Curnow makes his formalities; shakes Havelock’s hand, offers a civil greeting to Martin, offers Pendleton a bow.

Pendleton hasn’t spared Daud a glance, either too absorbed in his wine glass or too self-important to address the presence of a lowly guard.

None of them acknowledge him, but Daud catches Martin’s gaze flick to him more than once in the first few moments.

‘Martin’s smart, killer,’ Corvo had warned. ‘Too smart to be fooled by a disguise.’ Daud can only hope this is one instance where Corvo is wrong.

Daud and Curnow just need to hold out, keep Havelock’s attention on them, until the Undine’s signal sounds and the loudspeakers below are silenced.

(And Corvo makes it to them. Preferably unharmed and not in Watch handcuffs.)

And void, the cultist music is still filtering in, even from up here. It’s muffled behind the conservatory glass that domes the room, but there’s also a single loudspeaker fixed above the fireplace, the music’s drone softly filling the space.

Daud watches in his peripheral as Havelock gestures for Curnow to take a seat. Pendleton’s already reclined closest to the fireplace, but Martin stays standing, perusing the bookshelf at the side of the room in what would pass for a convincing pretence of disinterest, if Daud weren’t putting on a pretence of his own.

He knows a front when he sees one.

Martin is listening to every word, watching every movement. He isn’t convinced by Curnow’s request to meet here, that much is clear. He knows something is amiss.

(A man who thinks he’s clever enough to predict every outcome. Daud had thought that about himself, once. But surely no one would see a plan as insane as Corvo’s coming. Daud has no choice, now, but to put all their reliance in that.)

Once some more pleasantries are exchanged, Curnow and Havelock get straight to business. Curnow makes a good show of considering how he and his men could best support Havelock’s reign; how many officers he could spare, what Sokolov tech they could utilise.

The man’s taking Thomas’ suggestion to heart to sell it. Just another meeting.

“I apologise, Captain,” Havelock says, during a slight lull in the conversation. “I haven’t offered you a drink. I must get better at this hosting business, if I’m going to have to shoulder the role of Regent, aren’t I.”

He says it like it’s a weight, an unwelcome burden. Daud hears beneath it, hears the power-hungry self-satisfaction that only a man who had killed for the position, and would kill for it again, could hold.

Daud does not trust the bottle of Gristol cider he places on the table.

Neither does Curnow, if the slight twitch of his brow gives anything away. It’s not the first time he’s been offered a suspicious drink in a meeting room, after all.

“You’re too kind, Admira– do excuse me, Lord Regent,” Curnow chuckles, making none of his trepidation known, “I apologise, too, I’m going to have to get used to using that title.”

Havelock chuckles as well, grabbing a fresh glass. Pendleton has his wine, and Havelock is drinking cider, but it was already poured so Daud doesn’t trust it an inch.

It’s all too pointed, too intentional. It’s not like these men haven’t used poison before.

(Daud wonders which one of them it was.

Pendleton, nervous and toady, offering a glass of expensive red.

Martin, snake-like and sly, sliding a whiskey tumbler across the Hound Pits’ bar.

Or Havelock, straight-faced and brash, offering a toast to their victory with a glass of cider.

Which of them had given that drink to Corvo.)

“And you, my good man.” Martin stares at him, patient and impassive, across the room. “Won’t you join us in a glass?” His eyes, though, are not patient. They’re fixed on Daud like a spotlight.

“Don’t drink,” Daud grunts.

Martin’s mouth curves, like a wolfhound’s when the beasts bare their teeth. “Is that so?”

“You must be the only man in the Watch who doesn’t,” Havelock scoffs, handing the glass down to Curnow. “Where’d you find this one, Geoff? I could do with more of that discipline.”

Curnow only waves him off, smiling. But the glass in his grip; he’s swilling the drink around too quickly, too nervously. It’s obvious, Daud wants to snap at him to just put the damn thing down, resume their talk, pretend to forget the cider altogether.

“A toast, I think,” Havelock decides, returning to the head of the planning table and retrieving his own glass. He raises it proudly, and Pendleton does the same; a jittery little tilt of the wine glass, stem balanced on his knee. “To honest allies, and a bright future.”

Curnow’s gaze flits to Daud in panic. Too obvious, too damned obvious. “Indeed. I hope you won’t take offence at my not partaking, Admiral. I’m sure you understand, after my experience in Holger Square, with High Overseer Campbell, I haven’t–”

“Former High Overseer.” Martin corrects him smoothly, but there’s an edge in his voice, something pointed.

“And it’s Lord Regent now, Geoff, as we’ve already established. No longer Admiral. Come on, man,” Havelock coaxes brashly, almost a bark. He’s getting impatient, tense. “Surely you’re still man enough to join us for a drink.”

“Maybe next time, Lord Regent,” Curnow answers sternly, looking a little pissed off now as he firmly discards his glass down on the table. “You’ll have to enjoy your drinks alone this time, I’m afraid.”

There’s an unsettled moment of silence, and all Daud can take credit for in those few seconds is the realisation that they’ve had their own agenda from the beginning, agreeing to this meeting.

“I’ve always respected you, Geoff. I wanted to make this easy for you.”

They invited Curnow here to kill him.

Any moment. Any damn moment now, the Undine will be in place and his men will be close enough.

So Daud finds himself taking a calculated risk, and channeling Corvo’s sharp and reckless tongue.

“Bold to talk of respect, Admiral. Using poison,” Daud clarifies when all their eyes snap to him. “Man of your reputation? Even shooting him outright would have earned you more respect than this piss-poor farce.”

Martin smirks. “So he’s got a bite, after all. I knew you weren’t what you appeared.”

“Rot in the void, overseer. I’m not interested in how clever you think you are.”

“You!” Pendleton’s gone pale as he slowly stands, finger shaking as it jabs toward Daud, “I do know you! He’s an assassin! He’s Hiram’s man, his bloodhound. I knew I recognised you–”

“I was never his,” Daud snarls. “Our business was cut, long ago.”

Havelock considers him from across the table, placing his own glass down. To free his hands, Daud assumes. His pistol is snug, waiting, in its holster.

“Who do you work for, then? And what can we offer you for your loyalty? Whatever Burrows was paying you, we’ll double it. Triple it, even,” Havelock says, and Daud feels pure disgust curl in his gut. “What can we interest you in? Coin? Power?”

“Nothing you have to offer me,” Daud assures. “What a sad, pathetic play, Admiral, to result to bargaining. You’ve fallen far from your seafaring days.”

Havelock’s nostrils flare, and he turns his attention to Curnow. “Did you hire your friend here, Captain? Is this why you set up this little meeting, to try and have us killed?” He glances back to Daud, “Why? Why the meeting?”

“Why agree to it?” Daud fires back, though he’s sure he knows the answer. Stall, until it’s time. Keep him talking.

“To keep that boot-licking little busybody out of the way,” Pendleton spits, sloshing his wine toward Curnow.

“We thought you’d bring your squad up here with you, Captain, so we could get you and all your merry men out of our way in one move. We had the whole bottle,” Martin adds, bitter, and then he trains his eyes back on Daud. “You were a surprise, though.”

“You would disrespect my men like that.” Curnow‘s fingers clench around the arms of his chair, face contorted with anger, “Cowards, the lot of you–”

“We didn’t trust you would truly offer your support, not once you knew we had Emily Kaldwin,” Havelock sighs, again with that air of burden, like everything he’s done has fallen on him against his will. Pitiful.

“We knew you would have questions down the line, Captain, questions we didn’t want to answer. Everyone knows you questioned Hiram Burrows relentlessly,” Martin says, and his eyes keep sliding between Daud and Havelock’s gun. “It’s why he and Campbell wanted you gone.”

“If Corvo had just let the High Overseer finish the damn job that night, we wouldn’t have to be wasting time with frivolities here,” Pendleton gripes. “If the man had just killed Campbell like we’d asked and been done with it–”

“Calm down, Trevor–”

“That’s Lord Pendleton to you! Admiral,” Pendleton sneers.

“If both of you would have the care to focus for a moment,” Martin snaps, his careful mask of control slipping.

“Oh go and lecture someone else, Martin,” Pendleton goads, “no one wants your sermons here.”

“Both of you, get a damn hold of yourselves!”

They’re at each others throats. This alliance wouldn’t have lasted. It surely would have torn itself apart from within in time, looking at the three of them now.

As though to support it, a flicker of lightening illuminates the room, rumbling thunder chasing it as rain begins to patter against the penthouse’s glass dome.

“Then why spare his niece at all,” Daud questions, jerking his head at Curnow. Stall, stall, stall. “Trying to grasp onto some of your old honour, Admiral? A final stab at some self-respect?”

“What would you know about me, about any of this?” Havelock demands, shame-faced and furious. “I’ve taken the throne, what could that child do with all that power? I’ve shouldered that responsibility!”

“How good of you,” Daud says sourly. “You think you can take it all with killing and cowardice, and be able to keep it?”

“You’re not fit to rule, none of you,” Curnow pitches in, and Daud feels a sharp surge of respect for the man.

“I’ve seen this paranoia, this fear, before, Admiral,” Daud taunts, just to see more of that anger, that shame, flare in Havelock’s eyes. “You’re just another Burrows.”

“Enough!”

“Farley,” Martin warns, “keep your head–”

“Address me properly, damn you, Martin!” Havelock roars, rounding the table and drawing his pistol, pointing the barrel straight at Daud. “Who are you to question me?! Who the void do you suppose you are?!”

And just to see the fear engulf every one of them, Daud snarls, “Corvo sent me.”

Pendleton visibly blanches, narrowly saving his wine glass before it slips off his leg. A harsh breath leaves Havelock’s nose, dread stuttering out some of that fire from before. Martin’s reaction satisfies Daud most. It’s barely more than a movement, just a little stumble to lean his shoulder against the bookcase. But Daud knows to a man like Martin, that may have been the equivalent of a frightened shriek.

Then Pendleton seems to shake himself, giving a snivelly, agitated little laugh, “Corvo sent you, did he?” He scoffs, “Where is he, then? Too afraid to come and pay us a visit himself?”

A foghorn sounds from the waters, and then the music cuts off, like it’s been severed with a knife.

“Unlike you three,” Daud only then notices Corvo perched on the bookshelf above them. “Corvo doesn’t make decisions out of fear.”

Only out of spite, apparently.

Martin clocks the stillness left in the music’s wake, and Havelock’s finger tightens on the trigger, so Daud wastes no time. His Mark flares bright, the Arcane Bond straining and faltering at the scale of his ask, before the magic floods him, rushing and urgent, and then dissipates from his veins all at once.

Daud hears the gunshot, hears a cry of alarm from Pendleton, sees a sudden shockwave of air blast across the room and hurl the planning table into the opposite wall, thinks he sees Martin lunge towards him, before his vision seizures in blinding white and a noise rings relentless and high-pitched in his ears.

Daud collapses instantly, every drop of magic drained, but they’re in, he did it, he can feel it, he summoned his men inside, all of them.

He feels the floorboards beneath his gloved palms, smooth and polished, feels quick movement and panic in front of him. Daud shakes himself, blinks hard, hears a guttural groan of pain that slips from his own throat. Another blink, and shapes come into focus; Corvo swiping a vicious kick to Martin’s stomach, lashing him into the bookshelf; Pendleton, slumped and shaking near the fireplace, bleeding from the gut, hands desperately clutching at the wound. The wound from Havelock’s bullet; meant for Daud, blasted astray by Corvo’s magic.

Curnow, leg trapped beneath the tumbled table, scrambling for Martin’s disarmed pistol, firing twice but missing his target.

His target is Havelock, bolting up the stairway to the upper level. Escaping.

“Corvo–”

Corvo grabs one of the fallen tumblers from the floor, turns back to a bloodied, doubled-over Martin supporting himself on the bookcase, and smashes it into the side of his head. Martin drops, dead or unconscious, Daud can’t tell. He doesn’t care.

“Corvo!”

Corvo whips around to him, follows Daud’s hazy gaze to the stairs, to Havelock’s disappearing form. He hesitates.

What the fuck are you doing, bodyguard–

He’s approaching Daud instead, fishing a spiritual remedy out of his coat, the damned idiot.

“Damned idiot, wha–”

“You still with us, killer?”

“Fucking–” Daud slurs, gives a growl of frustration and snatches the vial from Corvo’s fingers. “Go after him, bodyguard, for– Go!” he barks, with much more clarity, and Corvo, assured, turns and surges Havelock’s way, blinking up and over the railings to the upper floors.

Daud downs the whole vial, waits a beat until he can see clearly again, and then forces himself to his feet. He moves to the corner of the overturned table, heaving it up enough to free Curnow.

The man wiggles out with a relieved breath, regarding a whimpering Pendleton indecisively before his compassion wins out. He shrugs out of his coat, pressing it to the man’s wound–

Daud hears another gunshot, far above. He doesn’t know what his face does, but it makes Curnow insist, “Go, I’ll watch things here.”

Daud doesn’t care that his mana’s still weak, he transverses to the next floor; takes the stairs three at a time when the sound of clashing steel rings down from the ledge at the lighthouse’s peak. Noises carry up from the fort, as well; shouting and commotion, his men doing their part, but Daud doesn’t give himself a second to focus on it.

He sees a small shape, the Admiral’s pistol, clang onto the meeting room’s glass roof, and slide off to rush toward the land far below.

The rain is thick now, thunder rumbling and roaming amidst the dense, blackened clouds above them. Daud reaches the ledge soaked, every muscle taut as Corvo and Havelock come into his view.

Corvo barely fends off a swing of the Admiral’s sword; the weight Havelock puts behind the strike is savage, fuelled by panic, by pure survival. Corvo’s lithe, quick, but Havelock is bigger, broader, and when he strikes again, Corvo loses his footing, far too close to the side of the ledge and the sure-death drop beneath.

But he clearly catches Daud’s movement in the edge of his view, sees Daud’s Mark swell with energy to transverse; he reads it all and attunes in a second. Corvo flips his clever blade closed, tossing the handle up and to his left, and into Daud’s hand as he reappears. Daud unsheathes the steel in one sharp draw and deflects Havelock’s killing strike, backing him off and away from Corvo to the ledge’s precipice. Daud marks Havelock’s sword arm, Pulls it forward into range with a brutal jolt, and Corvo dashes to Daud’s side, swipes a foot out and kicks the weapon from Havelock’s outstretched grasp, two of the man’s fingers cracking under the force. The blade clatters on the metal rafters running beneath, tips over.

Havelock watches it rush alongside the rain into the expanse below, and knows he’s lost it all.

Daud goes to return Corvo’s sword, but Corvo pushes past him, glare sharp and searing into the Admiral. “Was it worth it?”.

“Just get on with it and kill me,” Havelock spits, knelt beaten, the picture of downfallen with rain dripping from his collar and lightening flashing overhead. “Though we both know you won’t. And you called me a coward,” he adds to Daud, making him bare his teeth. “You’re no better, Corvo.”

“Why so sullen, Admiral? Is this not everything you wanted it to be, when you decided to betray Emily? Lydia, Wallace? Me?”

“She’s a child, Corvo.” Havelock has to shout over the thunder, scowling up through the rain. “You expect her to be able to run a damned meeting, let alone the Isles?! Wake up!” He goes to stand, but a purposeful jut of Corvo’s sword from Daud, to the center of Havelock’s chest, keeps him down. “We need structure, power! We’ll get none of that from her–”

“And what would we get from you?” Corvo retorts, “Your structure and power is built on kidnapping a child, killing our friends and then running here scared. You’re nothing,” he snarls. “And that’s all you’ll be now. Martin and Pendleton, too. Your short reign’s done.”

Havelock laughs bitterly, “You’re no better than us, Corvo,” he repeats, “and you’ll know it soon enough. You want Emily back, she’s all yours. But so’s the Crown, if you’re going to be the one to guide her. Once you’ve got your hands on that kind of power, you’ll see I’m right. You’ll take it all and run with it, too, honour be damned.” Havelock leans forward, still enough pride left in him to goad, self-righteous, right into Corvo’s face. “You’re not above that kind of weakness. You’re a man just like any other. You’re a man just like me.”

Corvo’s eyes flash, and Daud feels a quick breath startle out of him as he watches Corvo step back and strike a sudden, hard kick into Havelock’s chest, knocking him over rim of the walkway.

The Admiral’s eyes widen in terror as he begins to plummet downward, gravity taking him.

Daud’s blood is cold, heart racing, but then everything slows and stops. Corvo’s Mark is alight, draining all colour from the world.

Corvo’s staring down at Havelock’s frozen, petrified form, his expression carefully blank. Dead eyes.

(Daud wants to reach for him, to ground him somehow, so desperately in that moment, he thinks that he’d give anything.)

Then, after a decisive moment more, Corvo says, “Pull him up,” and turns swiftly to stride away.

Daud does as he’s bid, unable to discern whether Corvo, merciful, petty Corvo, had merely wanted to scare the man. Or whether he had truly aimed, in those few seconds, to watch him fall to his death.

When time resumes, rain hurtling and lightening forks continuing their jagged paths, Havelock is heaving harsh breaths, flat on his back atop the walkway, trembling and disorientated.

Daud looks down at him, disgusted. “Pathetic.” He sneers it through his teeth, “You’re just like Burrows, using others while you sit on your cushions and your comfort, knowing they’ll do your dirty work for you. Two of a kind, cowards, the both of you. He,” and Daud juts a finger violently the way Corvo had gone, a protective rage he’s only ever felt for Billie flaring through him, “is nothing like either of you.”

For good measure, he uses the handle of Corvo’s blade to knock the man unconscious. A hideous red lump appears immediately, and Daud savours the sight as Havelock slumps limp on the walkway.

The fortress below has gone silent. It’s done.

Daud will summon someone up in a moment, to restrain and deal with the Admiral and the other two. Ardan, probably. He’s the only man big enough to support the Admiral’s weight alone.

For now, he lets mana seep back into his veins bit by bit, as he staggers back down the stairway, boots squeaking over the slick, wet metal.

He almost slips into Corvo, where the man’s leaned on the railings around the corner. Daud had assumed he’d fled the rain, gone inside.

He’s flipping a small, golden key through his fingers, presumably pickpocketed from Havelock, either during their fight or before. Wet hair obscures most of his face from this angle, water dripping from the strands onto his shoulders as he peers below.

“Seems like your lot were successful.”

Daud leans beside him, exhaustion gradually catching up, creeping into every inch of him as the adrenaline from before ebbs away. “I said, they’re good at making trouble.”

From the subtleties Daud spots in the way Corvo holds himself, he’s in much the same state. No shifting feet or impatient shuffling, his normal restlessness subdued.

“You didn’t have to defend my honour like that, you know,” Corvo says, a little dejectedly. Daud frowns, before remembering that sounds had carried to this spot, from the ledge. Corvo had heard him. “I know I’m not like them. Him and Burrows.”

Daud finds he can’t regret it at all, despite Corvo’s vaguely disapproving tone. “Well, you went off here to sulk, I had to say something. It was either that, or kicking him back over.”

Corvo snorts, amused, so Daud assumes his interference is forgiven.

The sky is clearing, the rain finally taking pity on the both of them. The thunder’s angry rumbles are rolling on toward more distant skies.

“How the void did you make it up here, bodyguard?”

Corvo arches a brow, bemused. Like he thinks Daud’s the insane one for asking. “I rode the elevator with you, I was up top. Obviously.”

So he had been shadowing Daud throughout the fort. Outsider’s eyes, if Corvo had decided to sneak into Rudshore after all, intent on killing him, Daud would have had no chance at all.

(He ponders this with no unease, now. Only a slight wistfulness, for a time before he’d known Corvo better.)

“Of course, obviously.”

(Strange, he thinks too, that he can be wistful about such things at all. Not long ago, Daud thought the man was after his head, void-bent on revenge. And now here they stand, at one another’s side, sharing a victory. The Outsider has certainly had his fill of entertainment lately. Daud can’t bring himself to feel all that bitter about it, for once.)

“Out of curiosity,” Corvo adds, “how did you think I got up here?”

“I supposed you were stubborn enough to sprout wings and fly, if you had to.”

Corvo snorts again, mouth curving at one corner and eyes alive once more, just as the shrouded sky opens and a speck of sunlight peeks its way through to reach them.

Chapter Text

Any one in the day’s chain of events could have led him here, to finding Corvo Attano asleep on his bed.

In a daze, Daud finds himself wracking his brain for which it may have been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first is finding Havelock’s audiograph player in the lighthouse.

Daud spies the recording card lying beside it, and doesn’t dare assume it could be that easy.

But it is.

He and Corvo are stunned into bemused silence for several moments after the recording ends.

“These things are going to get a track record for exposing Regents,” Corvo muses.

“Or perhaps all Regents share an obsession with hearing their own voices.” Daud doesn’t mention his own habit of using them. It feels a little embarrassing, in that moment.

“I’ve got déjà vu.”

“From Burrows?”

“Hm. Man lost everything thanks to his confession. You’d think Havelock might have at least learned something from that fuck up.”

“Apparently not.” Daud slides the recording free. “I can get it to the Tower,” he suggests, tucking it in his pocket and looking to Corvo for his agreement, “once we’re done here?”

Corvo nods his accord. “I’ll get–” He cuts himself off, glancing down at the small key in his hand. He aims a sharp, cautious look at Daud. “I should… explain things to her. Before I bring her down.”

Daud hears the warning clear in his words. Leave me the fuck alone with her while I explain why I’m working with her mother’s murderer. And he sees it in the man’s posture; suddenly defensive, strung taut, like he’s ready to fight Daud on the matter if he has to.

If Corvo wants a fight, he’ll have to look elsewhere. Daud can acknowledge an awkward situation when he’s in one, and he was about to make himself scarce anyway.

“The men and I will lend Curnow our aid at the fort. Keep any of Havelock’s guards and the cultists under control.”

Corvo’s shoulders relax a touch, and he nods again.

They part ways. Corvo down the hall, Daud to the elevator.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daud wants to tell Corvo to cut his damn hair. If only to stop the urge he keeps having, to move it out of the man’s face.

Daud sees him absently run his fingers through it sometimes, but there are always tangles. It’s that unruly, dark Serkonan hair, the kind you don’t see often around Dunwall. Any aristocrats hailing from the south use creams or tonics to try and smooth it.

Corvo’s is falling across his face, obscuring half of his slumbering glare.

“C’mon then, choffer,” he mutters softly, at whoever is giving him trouble in his dreams, “try it.”

Daud’s chest feels indescribably tight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next event is that elevator.

Daud doesn’t take it back down to the fort. With the music no longer holding his Mark in restraints, Daud stubbornly traverses down the elevator shaft instead. He considers it a symbolic middle finger to the contraption, surely doomed to one day snap and plummet to its destruction, taking any unfortunate passengers with it.

Daud will not be one of those passengers.

When he checks in with Thomas and Feodor in the control room, Daud peers out the slats, pleased to see the rest of his men have put in their work today. Any conscious guards or overseers – and Daud spies Officer Brenneck amongst them – have been rounded up in the staging area, put on their knees and stripped of their weapons, all marshalled by Daud’s people and Curnow’s squad.

Havelock, Martin and Pendleton kneel captured on the battlements above, guarded closely by Curnow, Rulfio and Rinaldo.

The Loyalists make a wretched-looking trio; Havelock’s forehead purple and swollen from the blunt of Corvo’s sword; dried blood covering half of Martin’s face from the smashed tumbler; Pendleton bent over stiffly, wound from Havelock’s stray bullet eased by Curnow’s compassionate interference, some makeshift bandages and several elixirs. He’ll live to regret aiding the pair beside him.

(It feels good, to see them defeated so utterly. As good as it had felt after Brigmore, knowing no lives had been taken, and that a young girl had been saved.)

Curnow’s retinue stand dutifully behind their Captain, looking a little dishevelled from fighting beside Daud’s men.

(Not a surprise, really. Not counting Fergus and Walter’s brief stint in the guard, none of his people have had the prim, strait-laced training the Watch get drilled through. Daud’s trained them to be brutal and resourceful, no rules and no holes barred. Be it knocking someone’s teeth out with a bottle or their bare fist, if it will save their life in the moment, then Daud’s taught them to damn well do it.)

“Your orders, Sir?” Thomas asks from his side.

“Gather the prisoners. Escort them down to the barracks, and make sure they’re secure.”

They get to work.

Curnow’s squad helps them deal with the batch of prisoners. They lead the captives in small groups down to the fortress’ barracks, and haul any unconscious bodies down there too.

There are far too many of them to be moved off the island at once, so they’re being kept inside the fort, under the watch of Curnow’s squad and a handful of Daud’s people. Just until the right authorities – those Corvo and Curnow are certain can be trusted – can come for them.

Daud’s attention strays to the elevator whenever he passes it by. Unease and frustration build, waiting for the doors to open and Corvo to exit with his charge.

He distracts himself, orders his men to pick the fort clean of anything useful. Daud irritably discards his borrowed officer’s coat somewhere between ordering Zachary not to just toss the sprigrazors into a pile, and barking at Javier to stop flirting with Curnow’s guardsmen and do some work.

As an afterthought, Daud pulls Quinn aside and asks them to fetch the boatman from wherever he’s hidden himself.

It’s the right decision, it turns out, when the elevator at last arrives. At least the young Empress is met with one more familiar face that day.

“Samuel! You’re here too!”

The boatman bends down to scoop her close, and Daud decides he’s already lingered too long, already stood too near, he doesn’t know exactly how much Corvo has told the girl in the time between unlocking that door and waiting for the fort to clear out.

So Daud avoids the staging area entirely, busies himself with briefing the men he’s keeping stationed here, making sure they all know their assignments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The young Empress is curled beside Corvo, head in the crook of his arm, a book lay open and unfinished under Corvo’s fingers.

Daud edges closer, silent as though he were back in Timsh’s apartment among a dozen of the guard. He peers at the title.

The Eradication of Black Sally.

He stifles a scoff. It’s probably the closest thing they could find resembling fiction, in his office. Daud imagines the girl had been after something about pirates.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next is his disagreement with Lizzy.

When he’d left the control room, Daud had seen The Undine in the distance from the battlements, edging closer to the island. Lizzy, bored of waiting, come to see what’s taking them so long now that the watchtowers are powered down.

No matter, Daud had thought. She could damn well wait for them on the sand, then, if she didn’t want to stay put on board.

(He had found himself thinking back, then, to when Lizzy’s ship had crested the horizon in Rudshore, and Corvo had accompanied Daud to the Refinery to meet her. Daud had despised how well they’d got along, but he also wasn’t surprised. Both snide.

“Just so y’know, pretty boy, I was Daud’s first business partner.”

“Technically this isn’t a partnership,” Corvo had said, aiming that shitty, self-satisfied smile Daud’s way. “He works for me.”

“That right?”

“Haven’t even paid him one coin.”

Lizzy’s answering cackle had echoed from the Undine’s deck to the waterfront.

“Attano doesn’t seem all that bad, y’know,” Lizzy had said to him some moments after, eyes lazily aimed at Daud. Corvo had darted off somewhere, as he’s prone to do. “Guy doesn’t hold himself like a snot-nosed noble. He’s actually coming along, goin’ after this Havelock himself? Not just payin’ you to do all this shit for him?”

“Hm.”

“Well, I’ll be a weeper,” Lizzy had chuckled her approval. “Never heard of any royal gettin’ their hands dirty before.”

“He’s the reason Burrows was exposed. Took him down alone.”

“No shit. That was him? Well, as long as he gives me my money when this is over, that smart bastard’s alright in my book.”

The smart bastard’s alright in Daud’s, too. More than alright, and that fact is starting to trouble him.)

“Sir!” Leonid hurries over to him inside the fort. “We were all prepared to take the Admiral and the other two to Stride’s ship, but now she is refusing to let us on board until she speaks with you. She’s on the eastern shore.”

So Daud finds himself on the eastern fucking shore, haggling once again with Lizzy over the cost of a return trip to Rudshore.

“You never said nothin’ about bringing any prisoners,” Lizzy points out, hands on her hips. “The Regent Admiral whatever, his overseer hussy, and Lord shit for brains? This is gonna cost you double.”

She’s trying to pull one over on them. Daud is pissed off at the fact that it’s even surprised him.

“My price covered the trip here and back, not any extra passengers.”

“Don’t be smart with me, Stride,” Daud says through gritted teeth, his men at his back and the Eels at Lizzy’s. “You knew damn well what my terms were when we struck the deal.”

“Well, my price has gone up anyways,” Lizzy argues, scowling. “Since there’s probably gonna be extra security to get around Wrenhaven now that another Regent’s gone down the shitter. I should be gettin’ coin to cover the trouble.”

Daud feels his nostrils flare. Galia cracks her knuckles at his side, and Ardan shuffles restlessly behind him, sensing a scuffle.

(They’ve just stormed a military fortress and they’re all still up for another fight. It has Daud feeling no small stab of pride.)

“Lizzy,” he warns, “if you don’t cut your ox shit–”

“The Crown will cover your price. As we agreed.”

Corvo approaches them, Samuel at his side. His gaze is sharp as he challenges Lizzy to argue any further, and he stands like a sentry behind the Empress. The girl is staring between Lizzy and The Undine in awe.

“Your teeth are so sharp! Is that your ship? Are you a real pirate?”

Lizzy snorts, but her expression visibly softens. It’s like watching a shark suddenly soften, and Daud’s a little disturbed at the sight.

“Sure, a pirate, why not. You like pirates, kid?”

Emily nods vehemently, “Uh-huh! I’ve read so many stories about them! Callista wants to be a pirate, she told me.”

“A sailor,” Corvo corrects, amused. “Callista wants to be a sailor.”

“Well, they both explore the ocean, don’t they,” Emily says, and then she points towards The Undine, “What’s your ship’s name? It’s huge! How many people can you fit on it? How fast can it go? Does it have a horn? How loud is it?”

The girl has no fear, Daud credits her, as her questions continue firing and she bounces to Lizzy’s side.

“What a sweetheart,” Galia says as Corvo draws closer to them. “I’m glad you found her alright, Mister Attano.”

Corvo hums, the sound a little thin as he keeps a trained eye on Emily and Lizzy.

(There’s a new focus about him, here, something even sharper than usual now the girl is with him. She’s his daughter. Daud is sure, she must be. It isn’t only rumour, this isn’t merely a charge and her protector, not with the way Corvo watches her. It’s much deeper, much fiercer than that.)

“You wanna come for a ride?” Lizzy is offering. “If you can reach the horn with those skinny little legs of yours, I’ll even let you pull it.”

Emily’s eyes come alight with excitement, but then she turns a considering look to Samuel. “No, that’s okay, I’ll go with Samuel this time. Thank you, though, miss pirate,” and she returns to the boatman, taking his hands and assuring him that the Amaranth is just as good as any pirate ship.

(‘She has a good heart, despite everything.’ Corvo’s voice comes unbidden to Daud’s mind, quiet and vulnerable in his affection for the girl. The memory of it claws just as deeply and just as violently into Daud’s chest as it had done in the moment itself.)

Emily comes tentatively to Corvo’s side. A cautious glance in Daud’s direction has him meeting her gaze for a split second. Both of them snap their eyes away like they’re afraid they’ll be blinded.

Daud wants to know exactly what Corvo told her, how much or how little. He won’t ask, because it’s absolutely none of his business. But however much it had been, it has at least kept the girl’s alarm at bay, faced with Daud and his people once again.

“Corvo? Can we go see Callista now?”

“Of course.”

“Is she still at the Hound Pits? I don’t think I want to go back there.”

Corvo looks to Daud, a silent question in his eyes. They haven’t discussed where he’d be taking Emily in the meantime.

It should damn well go without saying.

(What part of my life and my men are yours hadn’t make it into Corvo’s head, Daud wonders. Did the man think that hadn’t included the sanctuary of his District?)

“I’ll meet you back at Rudshore.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl looks like her mother.

Though there’s a little of Corvo there, too, now Daud is close enough to see it. Sharp jawline, a slight duskiness to her skin.

But Jessamine Kaldwin is prevalent, her hair, her features.

Daud is abruptly relieved when he remembers he’d scrapped the target portraits from the office downstairs. As if the girl hasn’t been through enough, she sees her mother’s face with a cross scratched over it in black ink.

There will be no more target portraits. Daud doesn’t want to do this anymore. He hasn’t wanted to do this for a long time. No more coin for blood, no more killing. Daud wants no more of it.

They had done something different today, fighting for Corvo’s cause. Like Delilah, this had been something better. Something that had, for once, felt worthy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next is taking Havelock’s confession to the Tower.

Samuel ferries Corvo and the girl to Rudshore. And now that her desired price has been promised, Lizzy delivers the rest of them.

Before they ship out, the Loyalists are marched down into The Undine’s cargo hold by Rulfio and Rinaldo. On Daud’s orders, the brothers aren’t allowing them out of their sight until they’re properly detained in the Flooded District.

“Not opposite Cullero’s,” Daud orders, granting Rinaldo a stern look. Someone’s already broken out of that cell before, under his watch.

Curnow had initially suggested handing the Loyalists straight on to Coldridge, but that hadn’t been good enough for Corvo, who has had the rug pulled beneath his feet enough times by those he thought he could trust.

So, until things seem to be moving forward in the right direction, the Loyalists are being held in Rudshore, under Daud’s guard, under the watch of his own people, who’s loyalty Daud trusts without question. Whose loyalty he has sworn by extension to Corvo.

Daud returns to the fort once The Undine gets underway, to the group he’s keeping stationed on the island. He enforces to them that Galia and Ardan are in charge and are to be obeyed at all times while they’re here.

“We got things covered here, boss,” Galia assures. “You go give them higher ups at Dunwall Tower the word.”

“Just don’t get yourself or Thomas arrested on sight, yeah?” Ardan adds.

“We’ll do our best,” Daud says dryly.

He, Thomas, and Curnow take the guard skiff across the water, and the Captain is bid up through the waterlock once they reach the Tower.

Daud splits off from them before the water begins to rise, Havelock’s confession secure in his fist as he transverses up to the gardens. He heads across, unseen, and bypasses the gazebo entirely.

He’s only stood beneath it in the void, since that day.

But he doesn’t have time to waste wallowing in his regrets, there’s a damned job to do. And since Corvo has entrusted Havelock’s recording to him and him alone, Daud is going to make sure the job’s done himself.

Corvo had offered a tip, too, about the Tower’s propaganda officer, someone he trusts.

The man barely even seems surprised when Daud makes himself known. Daud suspects this isn’t the first time a mysterious stranger has appeared in this section of the Tower, in recent weeks.

The officer feeds Havelock’s confession into the loudspeaker device, and flicks the switch.

The Admiral’s voice echoes out into Dunwall, the truth of the Loyalists’ corruption and paranoia and hunger for power reaching every ear in the city.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daud spares a glimpse to the roof, or what little remains of it as Corvo enjoys needling him about.

The girl is dressed in thin, fine clothes, nothing functional. She’s shivering a little.

Daud clenches his jaw in annoyance, curses The Outsider or whichever bastard bestowed a conscious upon him, and carefully shucks down to pull a blanket from under the bed.

If he hears Corvo so much as stir, he’s gone. He’d rather not have a repeat of their first meeting in Rudshore. He’s had enough knives to his throat, since Corvo’s arrival here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next is making Thomas his second in command.

Following the Loyalists’ city-wide exposure, and after gruffly thanking the propaganda officer for his assistance, Daud moves to shadow Curnow and Thomas, as the Captain deals with formalities throughout the Tower.

Fortunately, Curnow is well-trusted and well-respected among the higher circles, and he knows the necessary steps to take following a situation like this. No one seems to question Thomas’ presence at his side, either too distracted by all the information being thrown at them, or uncaring altogether, considering the amount of work that’s lying ahead.

To his credit, Thomas has always been good at blending into places he isn’t supposed to be. It’s one reason Daud had chosen him for this.

“I’ll keep the Captain in check, and make sure everything is in place, Sir,” Thomas assures him. “You can trust me to–”

“Don’t give me that shit, Thomas,” Daud dismisses, squeezing his shoulder. “I’d expect nothing less, from my second in command.”

Thomas doesn’t smile often, but when he does it’s a nice sight. This has been a long time coming, and they’ve both known it. There’s no replacing Billie, what she was to him, but Daud knows that in her intuition, in her capabilities, Thomas has always been her equal.

So Thomas and Curnow will, for now, be working together at the Tower, as Corvo’s representatives. They’ll make sure things move ahead smoothly and that the right preparations are made, for when Emily herself is brought forward.

(Corvo doesn’t want anyone else seeing the girl, not yet. And with good reason. She’s fallen into the wrong hands too many times. They’re waiting until things are calmer, until word of the Loyalists’ betrayal and Corvo’s innocence has circulated the city for long enough, before bringing Emily anywhere near Dunwall Tower.)

“I won’t allow things to go astray,” Curnow vows.

The light of day is long behind them, and now that Daud’s satisfied Thomas and Curnow have the Tower under control, they’ve found a quiet moment to meet, in a secluded part of the gardens, before Daud takes his leave.

“Too much has been getting lost in translation, lately. Poor Corvo being one such example,” Curnow adds, looking shamefaced, but newly determined. “You can count on me to do my part, this time.”

“Thomas will be watching,” Daud reminds him, and it isn’t an outright threat. Just a thinly veiled one. “Until Corvo brings the girl here.”

Curnow doesn’t argue it. He likes Thomas well enough, from what Daud can tell.

“You did well, Captain. At the lighthouse,” Daud grudgingly credits him, to balance out the threat. “Thanks to you, we had the time we needed.”

Curnow rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, “I got angry, with the drink. How unlucky does a man have to be, to almost get poisoned twice.”

He studies Daud for a moment, expression pensive. It makes Daud a little wary, makes him want to start shifting his weight on the grass.

“You and Corvo, I think, were the true saviours of the day. When you collapsed after… whatever you did, I feared the worst. That overseer, Martin, came straight for you. But Corvo kept him back. Let Havelock slip right past him.”

(Well. What the void is Daud supposed to do with that information?)

Thomas is watching him, in that careful, quiet way he does, and Daud doesn’t know what his own face is doing, so he growls something along the lines of ‘piss off back inside and don’t screw this up under any circumstances’ to both of them before he turns to leave. Only he hopes it had been a little more articulate than that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As quietly as possible, Daud shakes the blanket free of its folds. Though Corvo honestly seems dead to the world.

Makes sense. The only sleep Daud’s seen the man get is being knocked unconscious by the poison, which doesn’t count, and the couple of hours he got at Daud’s desk.

It’s strange, seeing him so still. Corvo’s normally a whirlwind, always alert, always moving. Though considering all he’s done, it’s no surprise he’s passed out on the first relatively soft surface he’s come across.

So Daud doesn’t fault him his rest. Perhaps it means he feels safe, here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next is returning to Rudshore.

After a long afternoon of crumbling a conspiracy, dealing with very official business, and getting everybody’s shit in order behind the scenes, Daud can’t remember ever being so relieved to see the Flooded District’s familiar rooftops and general ruin.

But he doesn’t take time to breathe just yet. Still work to do, always work to do.

Daud drops in on Rulfio and Rinaldo, to make sure their prisoners are secure. He’d expected nothing less, of course, when he arrives at the Refinery to find them caged and uncomfortable.

And transversing into Central Rudshore, Daud is reassured to see the Commerce building still stands. A part of him had feared the chance of one of the physicians blowing the place sky-high in his absence. The pair were experimenting with Kent’s variety of tonics, the last he’d seen.

Daud is greeted by Callista and the novices, almost the second he steps foot inside the Chamber.

“Sir! Sir, the Empress is here! She said hello to me!”

“Is that right.”

“How did’ja get that Admiral and those others? That overseer had blood all over his face!”

“Corvo smashed a glass into his head.”

“How big was the lighthouse, Sir? Rapha said you summoned everyone at once! Is it true? That musta been a load of magic, I bet that took it outta you!”

“Got knocked on my ass,” Daud confirms, though he switches his focus when he catches the anxious, unspoken question in Callista’s eyes. “Your uncle is at the Tower, with Thomas. They’re keeping things under control. He did well,” he adds, figuring she should be told if Corvo hadn’t already said something. “Got us where we needed to be.”

Callista’s shoulders sag, relieved. “Corvo told me some of it, when he returned with Emily. I’m glad my uncle made it safely to the Tower. You won’t have to worry, he’ll keep things running smoothly there,” she assures firmly. “His loyalty has always been to the Empress. He’ll make sure everything is ready, for when Emily can finally be taken home.”

“Boss! Callista’s been teachin’ us how to bow. Well, me to curtesy,” Fisher jerks her head at Cleon and Dodge, “them to bow, since they’re boys an’ all.” She performs the gesture, terribly off kilter.

Daud restrains a snort, feeling merciful. “You’ll make an aristocrat of her, yet,” he says dryly to Curnow’s niece.

Fisher scrunches her nose. “Gross, no thanks. I don’t wanna be no noble lady with frills and jewels and shit. Sorry,” she says quickly to Callista, when the woman shoots her a disapproving look. Fisher aims a chastised look back to Daud, “Callista says we gotta mind our language, now we got an Empress hangin’ around.”

Daud does snort at that. “Good luck,” he warns Callista, turning to resume his route across the hallway. “I’ll bet every coin I have that they won’t remember to mind shit, whether an Empress is here or not.”

Fisher’s cackle echoes after him, and Daud hears Callista shushing her, ordering them all to bed.

“We don’t really sleep normal time, miss, if you ain’t noticed,” but Fisher’s voice begins to fade down the corridor. Evidently Callista isn’t giving them a choice in the matter.

Daud checks in with each of his men, assigns patrols and sends the others to rest until it comes time to switch out with one another.

He hasn’t caught sight of Corvo or the Empress anywhere yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He places the blanket over them both, making sure the girl is covered from the chill.

Neither of them so much as twitch. Daud lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. He tests his luck further, and gently slides the book out from under Corvo’s hand.

He’d been watching Corvo’s hands, now and again, during their spar. They had been far too occupied at the time, either twisting his practice blade around or flipping the handle left to right between his palms, too quick and too dexterous to focus on for more than a few seconds.

Daud focuses now.

They’re a testament to his proficiency, to the grace of his blade-work; elegant fingers, long and slender. Daud vaguely wonders if he plays an instrument.

Some scuffs and cuts along his knuckles have healed, and some are fresh from the lighthouse.

From keeping Martin from killing Daud, while he’d let his true target slip by.

Why, Daud thinks, and the question feels strained, urgent. Why did you do that, bodyguard.

Because you’re his means to an end, a crueler, surer voice answers for him. You’re another useful tool to wield, just like that clever sword.

Daud stops, where he was reaching to brush the hair from Corvo’s eyes. He pulls his hand back in a fist, jaw tight in frustration, and turns away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next, and final event, is Samuel Beechworth.

Daud needs a cigarette. He’s exhausted, and everything still feels slightly surreal in the wake of their victory, and he’s on edge wondering when he’ll run into that damn girl every time he turns a corner.

When he catches sight of Mr Beechworth down by the floodwater, the smoke that swirls up from his own cigarette turns Daud’s craving into an outright itch.

So he joins him. Why the void not.

Cordial as ever, Samuel merely bids him a smile at the disturbance. Man even offers his lighter, but Daud waves him off, snapping open his own.

“Congratulations on today, sir,” Samuel says warmly. “I can hardly believe my own eyes, what you and Corvo have done. I think the whole of Dunwall’s reached a turning point. This city owes you two a lot.”

Daud doesn’t point out that he’s somewhat responsible for its ruin in the first place. It’s a nice night, cool and clear from fog, and he’s feeling oddly loosened from the shackle of his regrets, which doesn’t happen often.

“You, as well.” One of the wolfhounds creeps close, jutting its head under Daud’s hand. He gives its ear a scratch. “You’re a braver man than most, boatman. Escorting Corvo around the city.”

Samuel chuckles, “Well, it’s always an adventure, I’ll say that much. No fear, that man, Outsider’s eyes. The places those Loyalists had him walking into, and he barely even blinked.”

Daud watches as the hound slinks to Samuel, curling around his legs once, before stalking along the wall and back into the darkness. Samuel Beechworth, Daud scoffs to himself, beloved by Corvos and hounds alike.

“Its been good, if I may say so, sir,” Samuel begins, a little hesitant, but clearly determined to say his piece, “to see someone finally having Corvo’s back in all of this. He’d had a rough go of it, before you all came into the picture.”

He’s had a rough go of it because I came into the picture, Daud wants to say, and there it is, those shackles clamping back on him in full force. It was nice while it lasted.

“He was doing just fine by himself, I’m sure,” Daud retorts, dry as he can manage. “Man thrives on spite.”

Samuel chuckles again. “Not always, sir. He won’t admit it, I don’t think, but he respects what your good people have done for him. And he’s been real glad of all your help, too, I can see it.”

Daud nearly crushes the cigarette between his fingers. “His respect is what he’d have for any fine set of weaponry. My people are at his disposal. As am I.” He doesn’t quite sneer it. But he can feel some bite behind it, some sharp teeth sinking through the words. “And no help I could give will repay what’s been taken from him. What you see isn’t gladness, it’s what Corvo knows he’s owed.”

“I won’t claim to know exactly what it is you’ve done, but I can see it’s been eating at you. I’ve also seen Corvo around people he doesn’t trust and doesn’t respect, and you’re not one of ‘em, I’m certain on that,” Samuel replies, far too gently. “So whatever it is you think you need to make up for, I’d say you’ve done it tenfold, after today–”

“You don’t know anything about me, boatman,” Daud snaps, snarling and unsteady.

He forces his breathing to slow, as Samuel studies him.

“I didn’t mean to overstep, sir. I apologise.”

They stand in silence, only interrupted by the distant, intelligible chatter of his patrolling men and the gentle sloshing of the floodwater near their feet. Daud forces himself to stay put, anger and shame and remorse sloshing at him in time with the water. He wants to shrink into the darkness with that hound.

(He wants there to be truth in Samuel’s words. He despises himself, for even entertaining the notion that there could be. Daud knows there’s no redemption, no turning back, no matter how many Corvo Attanos he offers his life to or how many Empresses he saves.)

“Something else, sir, and I hope you don’t mind this either. But Lady Emily was hoping to find some story or other to read, so I mentioned there were some books in your office. Corvo was with her, though, so I doubt he let her touch or move anything around in there.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t know exactly which instance it was, that may have led him here; turning away to retreat from his own bed, when a small hand darts out to grab his wrist from behind.

“Mister Assassin?”

Daud doesn’t dare turn around. He freezes, like one of Delilah’s hideous statues. Cold marble and blank, unseeing eyes.

Nothing is in focus, apart from that grip of small fingers around Daud’s skin.

“You’ve helped Corvo. Haven’t you? You helped him come and get me.”

He swallows. Forces out an answer, even quiet and hoarse as it comes. “Yes.”

A considering hum. The hand on his arm remains firm. “Corvo said that… people can do bad things, make really bad choices, but not be bad people, on the inside. Not if they’re sorry for the bad things, and they try hard to fix them. Not like that nasty spymaster. He was bad all the way through.” There’s a pause, a timid stretch of silence. “Corvo says you’re sorry, and that you’ve been helping him try to fix things. Is that true?”

His voice doesn’t come, because his breath is half lodged in his throat. A stiff bow of his head, a poor semblance of a nod, is all he can manage.

“I’m not going to forget what you did. Not ever. I don’t think I can.” It’s said with the certainty only a child can possess. “But Corvo trusts you. He told me so. So I’m going to trust you, too.”

He’s released, and Daud flees the office.

Chapter Text

They aren’t on borrowed or stolen time anymore. Though they are in a lull, after Kingsparrow Island.

A lull is to be expected, of course. Following Havelock’s exposure and rumour of the true Empress’ return, the entire city is in a strange transition period.

Information is circling, any further corruption is being ferreted out, and Daud has all his contacts with their eyes open and their ears to the ground, keeping him firmly in the loop during this tentative beginning of Dunwall’s new age.

Thomas is updating him daily. Things at the Tower are running smoothly, and preparations for Emily’s arrival are well underway, thanks to Curnow’s involvement.

The Watch Captain has overseen the personnel change in Coldridge personally, so Daud at last has the pleasure of removing the Loyalists from his District. They, and anyone who’d aided them at the lighthouse or the Hound Pits, are now awaiting their trials behind official prison bars, guarded by men and women who Curnow has assured them are dependable.

Daud had done his own background checks, anyway. Just to be sure.

Campbell’s black book wasn’t found on Martin’s person. No guard or overseer knows what fate it found. Only Daud and Corvo. It’s lying at the bottom of the refinery, in place of Corvo’s gear several weeks past; its pages searing in whale oil and any official word of the whalers singed beyond recognition.

Callista has been overseeing Emily’s education in Rudshore, just as she had at the Hound Pits. Even in somewhere as derelict as the Flooded District, Curnow’s niece is determined to drill proper manners into the girl. Though with Corvo Attano as her influence, snide and smart-mouthed as he is, Daud doubts the governess is having much luck with her lessons.

Emily seems more interested in learning how the wristbows work than learning propriety.

With Corvo’s blessing, Sokolov has been escorted back to his home on Kaldwin’s Bridge, dragging Piero with him by the scruff of his coat. The physicians are close to finding a cure for the plague, from what Daud and Kent had pieced together from the bizarre concoctions the pair had left strewn behind in Rudshore’s infirmary.

(At Sokolov’s request and with Daud’s go ahead, Rickard’s been reluctantly delivering jars full of river krust slime across the Bridge; apparently a vital component in their experiments. Since there’s no end of the things growing in the District, Daud hadn’t seen the harm in it. Though he’s sure Rickard was hoping he would say no.)

There’s even word of the blockades being scrapped. The Tower will need Emily, or her inner circle at the very least, to approve anything like that, of course. But at least it’s being considered.

There’s a strange new life to the city, during this lull; a quiet sense of something tilting, gradually, in the right direction. It all seems to be the start of a long road to peace, and peace is a prospect Daud hasn’t sincerely entertained since Burrows had first expressed interest in his services.

But thanks to Corvo, Dunwall is now rising from its darkest hours, and they seem to be headed for the dawn.

This is good news, without a doubt.

However. His men have never been easy, during any kind of lull. The stillness doesn’t agree with them.

“Sir, Killi just got his face smashed again.”

Daud breathes in slowly through his nose, trying to summon patience. “Ardan?”

Cleon nods vigorously.

Daud stands and rounds the desk. “Mess hall?”

Cleon nods again.

A dozen of his men are rioting, when Daud reaches them. Circled around Ardan and Killian and chanting like Bottle Street thugs. Jenkins has a chair wielded above his head, raring to tap in if the brawl gets any worse. Tynan, to her credit, is attempting to separate the pair, but from the angry red in her cheeks she’s close to breaking both their noses, Killian’s a second time.

Daud only has to give a sharp whistle, and they’re stood to attention, Ardan and Killian snapping away from one another.

“Children,” Daud addresses dryly, and they all collectively cringe at his tone. “Put the chair down, Jenkins.”

Jenkins does so, sheepishly.

Daud says nothing more; waits to see which of them breaks first.

“Sir, he was beggin’ for it this time–” Ardan.

“Trip in a pile of rats, you fucker, I wasn’t begging for shit–” and Killian.

Daud raises one hand calmly, silencing them. “You two need to learn how to play nicely. Or I’ll sic Corvo on you.”

It’s become his favourite threat, in recent weeks, just to see the dread shudder through each of them. He’s never followed through on it, though Corvo would probably find it hilarious. Daud vaguely wonders whether the man would actually play along, if he asked.

“I’ll remind you we have a training room and a hundred other spaces if you want to spar. Spar,” Daud repeats firmly, “not beat each other like Butchers.”

Ardan and Killian mutter their excuses, and Daud catches a subtle, vile scowl exchanged between them. He was going to be nice and offer to spar outside with them, give them a challenge, work off some of the tension. He reconsiders.

“Killian, fix your nose and go past the Gate, relieve Yuri from his patrol. Ardan, join Javi in Drapers Ward. Don’t,” Daud warns quickly, sternly, when they both open their mouths to argue. “If I have to separate the pair of you, like actual children, then so be it. Go. All of you,” he bites out, watching them scurry.

Tynan mouths a ‘sorry’ as she passes him, and they share a world-weary look of two people who have been privy to the same incident too many times to count.

Daud steers Cleon back into the corridor, “You’re supposed to be training with Rinaldo.”

“Thought I’d come grab you when I heard ‘em scrappin’. No one else could’ve scared ‘em out of it.”

“Hm.” True enough. “Go on,” Daud orders, giving Cleon a gentle push, “get to it.”

When the boy is out of his sight, Daud pinches the bridge of his nose and sags against the wall with one shoulder, letting some of his frustration bleed through as he sighs.

All the men are agitated, itching with too much energy and not enough to do with it. It always happens after a job. They’ve all been swept up lending themselves to Corvo’s aid, spoiled for purpose, thriving in the rush of the Hound Pits, the lighthouse.

The aftermath is slow and disorienting in the wake of everything they’ve accomplished, and his people are all rowdy and restless.

And Daud – much as it pains him to compare to mudlarks like Jenkins – is no different. He may have a touch more discipline than the rest of them, but he feels it too, the restlessness, just as sharply.

He’s kept them all busy, as much as possible. Kept himself busy, too.

Daud’s met with contacts and scouted out every District personally, following Havelock’s fall; scoping and stamping out any word of lingering support for the Admiral, or for Burrows. Or any threats to Emily.

And when he’s required to stay on home turf, Daud’s been finding any outlet that keeps him occupied, keeps him from standing idle. He’s been taming the wolfhounds, at least to the point that they no longer snarl whenever the men approach. And crafting new, more powerful bonecharms. Daud hasn’t managed to make one that doesn’t have inconvenient or uncomfortable side effects yet, but he’s getting there.

And he’s been sparring with Corvo. Often.

It’s a daily occurrence, now. Either Daud will seek him out, men driving him plague-mad and needing to blow off some steam, or Corvo will slink to his side, a sly look in his eyes; snatch Daud’s lighter or pluck a book from his hand, meddlesome and needling, until Daud draws his sword and lunges for him.

(It’s not malicious, as Daud had thought the first few times it happened. It’s playful, and Corvo always perks up when Daud takes the bait, eyes alight with a mirth Daud hasn’t seen in him before.

Having the girl close, seeing her safe, has done him wonders.)

“Who’s got themselves in the shit.”

“Ardan.”

Daud’s come to him, this time, and he must look as frustrated as he feels for Corvo to ask. The man had barely needed to glance at him.

“And Killian. All of them,” Daud grits out, “void, they can all fall dead in a plague cart and rot, for all I care.”

“You care,” Corvo shoots back dismissively, but his eyes are teasing. “Want to get knocked on your ass here or at the Chamber?”

“You can rot too, bodyguard,” Daud decides, shrugging off his coat. “Here’s fine.”

Daud had tracked him down opposite the Refinery, where he’d been blinking hazardously over the far gaps between rooftops. Corvo has been restless as any of them. Daud would wager the man knows Rudshore’s routes as well as himself, now, the amount he runs them.

Corvo discards the whaling coat he’s claimed, draws his blade with a practised flick of his wrist. “Everything on the table?”

Daud nods his assent. Allowing witchcraft is always a welcome challenge. “But if you summon those damn rats–”

“As long as you don’t summon yours,” Corvo retorts, and blinks behind him without warning.

(Daud wonders how peaceful his life would be, had he been able to summon rats instead of his men. He doubts that Corvo has to break up scuffles or gets any backtalk from his swarms of rodents.)

Daud dodges, Pulls Corvo’s arm off course with his Mark and parries his strike, and they fence and feint and transverse undisturbed, which is a pleasant turn of events.

The men have taken to intruding on them, lately. They either loiter close by to watch, pretending they aren’t, or they gather openly, taking sides and betting coin on who they think will be the victor.

Daud and Corvo remain on equal footing, however, and from what Galia’s mentioned, the stakes have cashed high. Andrei’s got two hundred coin riding on Daud now, which is touching, and Rulfio’s bet three against him, which has motivated Daud not to lose under any circumstances, just to spite the choffer.

And when he and Corvo pause for breath, muscles shaking and adrenaline calming, they talk. Sometimes a question or other will flit through Corvo’s head, and he’ll ask about bonecharms or jobs or the years that Daud’s been marked by the Outsider.

Corvo’s probably learned more truths about him than most people in the last seventeen years. Daud hasn’t lied to him about any of it. He suspects Corvo would know, if he did.

In return, he knows more of Corvo. Daud is gradually adding to his list, every day, with new and useless facts about the man.

He knows Corvo was born in Karnaca, and lived in the Batista District.

He knows he had an older sister, with the same wild, dark hair.

He knows Corvo’s Serkonan accent bleeds through when he’s particularly pissed off about something. Daud hears him start rolling his Rs, just slightly.

He knows Corvo can’t beat Ardan or Rulfio in an arm wrestle, but he can knock four of Daud’s men flat while unarmed and without witchcraft.

He knows Corvo never used to thieve, before Coldridge.

(Daud theorises, from what little the man’s spoken of it, that deciding not to kill those who’d wronged him had taken so much self-control, Corvo needed another outlet. Another way to let the control slip, to balance it out in his subconscious.

Or maybe he’s always been a petty, thieving bastard and just doesn’t care to hide it anymore. Daud hopes it’s the latter, because the former breaks his heart.)

He knows Corvo has been finding time to teach Tynan how to sign. The two of them have taken to gossiping, eyes mischievous as they glance Daud’s way, in a language known only between them.

Daud knows Corvo can play an instrument. The man won’t tell him which; just gives a shrug and shoots Daud a vague smile, like he’s saying work it out for yourself.

(Daud suspects the piano, though he’s not sure why. He prefers the sound of it, to strings or brass.)

He knows Corvo does stupid voices when he reads a story to his daughter, and that he never lets Emily win hide and seek, when the girl asks him to play.

He knows that Corvo is clever, and vicious, and funny, with a humour dark and dry as Daud’s, and that he can curse as creatively as any of his men.

(Daud becomes more endeared, with every small thing he learns. Remaining focused and impersonal is a folly far behind him, now. Corvo’s company is fast becoming something he craves.)

Most of the time, they talk about nothing of consequence at all. They bite at each other, riling and prodding until one of them strikes at the right nerve and the fight inevitably resumes.

“If I asked you to put the fear of the void into my men, give them a good chase around the District,” Daud finds himself actually asking, when they agree to a temporary truce.

He leaves the question hanging, and finds that he was right.

Corvo snorts, amused. “Think you have me confused with those hounds of yours, killer.”

“You possess the things enough.”

“I’m testing something.”

“Testing something,” Daud scoffs. “Testing what? How many rats you can eat or fleas you can attract?”

“I’m working up to possessing people for longer. Hounds are good practice. Might come in handy, in court.”

“To what end? The most you’ll do is cause an unfortunate courtier to cough their guts out once the possession’s over.”

Corvo glares at him, evidently no longer keen. “Killjoy.”

“Stick to hounds, bodyguard, they suit you better.”

“Four legs are faster than two,” Corvo considers. “Well, if you really insist, I suppose I could snap at a few ankles around the Chamber. Keep Ardan and Killian on their toes.”

(There are a few stray strands of hair, hanging over Corvo’s eyes. The urge to tuck them back stabs through Daud so violently for a moment that it nearly makes his knees give.)

Corvo’s attention is suddenly caught by something below their rooftop. He peers down over the edge, with a fond and slightly chastising gaze. “She’s supposed to be in a history lesson.”

Daud peers down, too, and spies the young Empress sloshing along beneath the Refinery, the smallest pair of whaling boots they could find splashing through the murky and luminous floodwaters.

“Don’t let any get on your hands, remember, Lady Emily,” Fisher is instructing, leading her to sneak behind a cluster of river krusts growing at the edge of the crumbled dam. “We gotta always wear gloves. Otherwise your fingers’ll be itchin’ bad for days.”

“Always wear gloves. Okay,” Emily promises, serious and focused on their task. “So what do we do?”

“You gotta get behind ‘em and give ‘em a good bonk on the top.” To execute her point, Fisher slams a fist down on the closest river krust. It gives a warble of surprise, a violent shudder, and then opens obediently. “Most choffers approach ‘em from the front, but that’s how you get acid spit all over you. Give it a try, Empress.”

The girl makes a little fist, determined, and slams it down.  Her eyes shine as that krust creeks open, too, revealing a large pearl and oozing slime from its center. “I did it!”

Fisher gives her a hard, proud smack on the back, and then they get to gathering the slime.

“That loud physician with the beard is one weird fella, wantin’ this stuff,” Fisher says, popping open one of the infirmary’s glass jars and scooping her prize inside. “It’s usually the pearls folks are after.”

“How did you know how to open them like that?”

“I used to go fishin’ with the other kids ‘round by the slaughterhouse, ‘fore Daud found me. Workin’ gutting them whales didn’t pay the butchers so good, so my ma got me learnin’ how to fish for pearls. And she learned it from my grandpa Mayhew when she was little.”

Emily’s eyes are wide with awe. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Maybe a little,” Fisher admits, waving her off, “but you’re real safe with me, Lady Emily, I know how to be careful ‘round ‘em. It’s why everyone ‘round here started callin’ me Fisher, ‘cause they saw I was good at gettin’ the pearls.”

Emily frowns, “Fisher isn’t your real name?”

“No, Empress,” Fisher laughs with a toothy, lopsided grin, “it’s Alexi. C’mon, let’s fetch all this slime to Rickard. I know a way ‘round that’ll keep us away from where Miss Callista can see.”

Daud stands at Corvo’s side as the pair scram, giggling with glee at a job well done, with jars full of green ooze clutched to their chests.

“She’ll get her back to the Chamber safely,” Daud assures, as Corvo watches them go. “I’ll have a word with Fisher, if you’re concerned–”

“No,” Corvo cuts him off. His eyes are still agonisingly soft, as he paces from the edge of the roof, stretching out his shoulders. “No, Fisher’s been kind to her. There was no one near her age at the Tower, so,” he gives a shrug, “it’s good to see she’s made a friend.”

(The young Empress believes he and Corvo have become friends. Daud overheard it, after spotting father and daughter together in the archive room. He had paused at the door against his better judgement.

The girl was drawing, lay on her stomach, Corvo twirling a red crayon through his fingers at her side.

“Are you and that assassin man friends?”

“Friends?” Corvo had considered. “Not sure.”

“I think you are,” Emily had decided. “You laugh at each other all the time.”

Corvo had frowned, but there was a slight smile there. “I don’t think Daud can laugh.”

“He does. In his own way.”

An insightful one, that girl. Daud hadn’t lingered any further, at the risk of being caught eavesdropping.)

Daud had never considered what kind of childhood an Empress would have. Lonely, apparently. The girl’s a strange one. She isn’t spoiled or pampered like the rest of her ilk.

Corvo’s influence, he imagines.

Emily’s taken Rudshore in her stride, as her father has, and with no complaints considering what a difference it must make compared to the comforts of Dunwall Tower.

“If you’d rather she didn’t shirk her lessons–”

Corvo huffs a laugh, levelling him with a wry look. “Rich, coming from a man who only managed a winter under Sokolov’s tutelage.” His eyes glint under Daud’s unimpressed expression. Corvo knows what mood the mention of the academy puts him in. “Shirking lessons is healthy, from time to time. She’ll need more than manners and lectures to get by.”

“Her governess may disagree.”

“Callista takes her job very seriously.” Daud sees the restlessness begin to seep back into him, as Corvo starts twirling his sword over his knuckles and back into his palm. “But Emily needs balance. I’m not opposed to her being taught to handle a sword properly, if that’s what she wants.”

“An Empress versed in sword-play?” Daud finds he’s also not opposed to the idea. “A wise choice, perhaps, considering–”

He stops himself immediately, cursing his own tongue. It goes without saying that it would be a wise fucking choice. It’s a wise choice because it may stop someone, someone like Daud, from trying to shove a blade into another Empress some day.

In the following silence, Corvo’s watching him, expression calm and carefully blank.

“What.”

“The Tower,” Corvo begins, “when Emily returns. There’s something I’ve been considering–”

“Boss!” Killian’s materialised on the rooftop. “There’s a situation–”

Daud rounds on him with a fierce growl, “‘Go past the Gate’ was an order, Killian, or would you rather I put you in the cultists’ back yard?!”

“I know, I know, Sir, sorry,” Killian winces, pulling his mask free and scuffing up his hair as he does. “But I just ran into one of Slackjaw’s boys bleeding out in the sewer way, which is a damn long way from home for them.”

Daud frowns. Bottle Street never come this far east, they know better. Have they caught wind of Corvo’s presence in Rudshore? Of Emily’s?

“Was he alone?”

“Seems so, I did a quick check ‘round. Guy was sayin’ some shit about Slackjaw and that Granny Rags and a weird ritual going on, like those lot were doin’ at Brigmore.”

Daud clenches his jaw and shoots the man a hard look, warning him to say nothing more. His orders were clear to them all; to say nothing to Corvo of Delilah, of any of it. Corvo doesn’t need to know.

(Daud doesn’t want him to know. It wouldn’t change anything, if he did. Daud’s not going to pander, to try to endear himself, to fawn to the man that he saved his daughter from a mad witch. Daud didn’t do any of it for that.)

Corvo’s eyes spell nothing of suspicion, just their usual sharp focus. “Granny Rags? She disappeared from Bottle Street a while ago.”

He shares a look with Daud, and Daud’s a little disturbed by how proficient he’s become at reading the man’s subtleties; the slight shift in his expression, the silent question in his gaze.

“We’ll go and scope it out.”

“I left Slackjaw’s boy where I found him, in the tunnel,” Killian tells them. “He’s not happy, though, so watch yourselves.”

Somehow, by the end of that same day, Daud unwittingly finds himself in business with Slackjaw and Bottle Street. He knows he has three distinct culprits to blame for this.

The first culprit is Slackjaw’s injured gang member, who points them the way.

“You!” The man’s spits out the word, balking when he lays eyes on Corvo. “You’re that bastard what swindled us! Slackjaw almost had our heads because’a you! That art dealer’s safe was ours, you thieving rat! Ours!”

“Should’ve been faster about it, then,” Corvo says, looking terribly pleased with himself. “Not here for me, are you?”

“And I’d think carefully about your answer,” Daud warns, making a show of loading a bolt into his wristbow.

“We ain’t here for no one but that crazy old lady,” the man says, shuddering, “that witch what used all the rats, flooded the whole distillery with ‘em somehow. I ain’t never seen anythin’ like it.”

“Rats, too?” Daud mutters Corvo’s way.

“Our mutual friend isn’t the most creative, is he.”

“We chased her all the way here, and for what.” The gang member coughs, hand clutching his side, which looks like it’s been gnawed through by tens of little teeth. “I barely crawled out.”

“You’re all that’s left?”

“I ain’t seen nobody else for hours. Slackjaw cornered that hag, further down the sewers, but he never came back out. If he managed to kill ‘er…. I dunno.”

Corvo hums, considering, then kneels down and hands the man an elixir from his belt. “Consider it an apology, not that any of you are owed one. We’ll find out what happened to your boss.”

Daud leads them deeper through the tunnel. He grants Corvo a look over his shoulder as they go. “That was kind of you,” he says, disapproving. “Bottle Street don’t deserve your compassion, bodyguard.”

“Compassion pays, killer,” Corvo retorts, and he tosses up the gang member’s pilfered coin pouch, at whatever point he’d swiped it, and snatches it back out of the air triumphantly.

(It’s a lost cause. In that moment, out of everything, Daud truly realises it. He’s been adamant, not to let himself grow any fonder. Then Corvo pulls some petty, devious shit like this. Daud’s just wasting time, fooling himself. It’s a lost cause.)

The second culprit is Granny Rags, who scares Slackjaw so shitless that he seems to forget how badly Corvo humiliated him.

The old woman’s got him in stocks, wrists and neck restrained, ready for boiling. She’s tending a bathtub full of bubbling, black liquid and cooing odd things to herself, and Daud wishes it was the weirdest scene he’s ever walked into, he truly does.

It’s not.

And all Corvo does is cock his head, looking like a tall, curious crow. They’ve transversed to the crag of rocks above the clearing, disputing how to go about the situation.

“Let him cook,” Daud says irritably. “Man’s got it coming.”

“Bit extreme, killer. What’s he done to you?”

“Existed.” They’ve had no end of trouble with the gang leader, over the years. It’s gratifying, Daud admits, to see Slackjaw caught at last, bargaining for his life and struggling in his shackles. “If the bastard’s choices have led him to becoming stew, who are we to stop it.”

“And you accuse me of being petty,” Corvo mutters under his breath, eyes on Granny Rags as she totters back and forth by the bathtub. “I can try talking to her. She was alright with me, last time.”

Daud grumbles something unintelligible, but agrees to watch his back. “I give it five minutes before things go to shit.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

It takes about two minutes, by Daud’s count.

Slackjaw starts pleading for Corvo to free him the second  he appears, so Corvo’s attempt to talk in relative peace is soiled from the beginning. This pisses Corvo off, and then he manages to piss Granny off, and then the rats start appearing.

Everything after that is hazy. Slackjaw squawks something about a cursed cameo and fire while Corvo tries not to get his ankles devoured, so Daud works on that. Corvo takes refuge with him inside Granny Rags’ small shack, keeping the rats off Daud while he dashes to find the damn thing and burn it. Corvo’s a second away from letting off a grenade to thin out the never-ending swarms, when the hag suddenly disappears and the rodents scurry away.

“I’m never summoning another fucking rat again,” Corvo vows, grenade still in hand, hair in disarray and teeth-marks nibbled into his boots.

When they step outside to free Slackjaw, Daud’s never seen a man more relieved. With some mild threats from Corvo, some menacing standing around from Daud, and the distinct lack of Bottle Street Boys for protection, Slackjaw agrees to put the past behind them with very little convincing.

Daud sees Corvo’s eyes narrow, a scheme forming.

The third culprit is Corvo, who makes the deal himself.

“You got’cha self a deal, my friend,” Slackjaw says, shaking Corvo’s hand. “Long as I get a decent cut, you just give the word when your physicians are good and ready, and ol’ Slackjaw’ll get their product out in the city.”

Corvo wants it guaranteed that the plague cure, once refined, reaches the poorest areas of the city first, those who have suffered most. The politicians, aristocrats, and all those noble breeds have coin enough to make them the priority, and Corvo’s been hunting for a way around it.

Slackjaw has been successfully pushing his bootleg elixirs in every shady corner of Dunwall, so he has the means and the reach.

And since Daud and his men are in business with Corvo, this new partnership now puts them in business with Bottle Street. Daud says nothing of his thoughts on this, but he suspects Corvo can work it out for himself.

“My friend here will make sure you get safely back to the Distillery,” Corvo offers, and Daud wants to smack that thin, shitty smile off his face.

(He wants to run his thumb along the curve of it.)

So Daud goes to the Distillery District, and reluctantly works out distribution routes with Slackjaw along the way. His men will be aiding in this, of course, so between them and Bottle Street, the plague should be flushed out from the poorer Districts quickly.

Corvo’s gone to relieve Rickard from his river krust delivery duty, since he’s heading to Sokolov anyway. He’ll let him and Piero know to be expecting Slackjaw’s boys in the near future, and not to panic and call the guard on them. Or disintegrate them with arc mines.

Daud meets him on Kaldwin’s Bridge, as they were bound to cross paths on the return trip anyway. Corvo hadn’t said where, but Daud heads for the very top on a hunch.

“Are you and Slackjaw the best of friends now?”

“I’ll tell people you fell,” Daud shucks himself down at his side, “after I push you off this bridge.”

Corvo’s eyes shine with humour, looking red as embers in the evening sun.

They perch right at the edge, on the metal planks that make up the bridge’s highest point, Wrenhaven running far beneath them and splitting the city in two.

“It’s time to move Emily to the Tower.”

“I know.” Everything is in place. It has been for several days, now. They have no more excuses to delay. “My best can shadow you both, when you go. And my men remain in your service, as per our agreement.”

Corvo gives a short nod, looking out over the river, but he says nothing in return. Daud doesn’t like it, when he finds he can’t read the man’s expression.

“Will you stay in Rudshore, then?”

Daud glances at him. My life is yours, he’d said. It was no empty, half-hearted offer. Daud had meant it with every fibre of his being, knowing full well the cost may be his freedom to leave Dunwall.

“As I said. We’re at your disposal, bodyguard. You’ll know where to find us, should you have need.”

“Rinaldo mentioned you’d considered leaving, before I came. To Serkonos.”

Rinaldo needs to shut his trap, before someone shuts it for him.

“Before, perhaps. Yes,” Daud corrects. He doesn’t want to lie, not to Corvo. “You said you’d wanted me running scared, and I was. But I’m done running.”

He truly is. A certain peace came with his oath to Corvo, with swearing himself to something worthy, something so different to Burrows’ contracts, to his corrupt and cowardly schemes.

Daud was planning on running, from all those regrets of the past.

He can stay, now, for whatever a future in Corvo’s service may hold for him.

“What would you have done in Serkonos, out of curiosity.”

“Void knows,” and Daud gives a chuckle, rough and genuinely amused. “I didn’t exactly have a solid plan, when you began your rampage.”

Corvo considers for a moment. “Miner?”

Enclosed spaces, no view of the sky. “Void, no.”

“Guardsman?”

“Yes, because the law agrees so well with me.”

“Whaler?”

“You aren’t funny, bodyguard.”

Corvo knocks his leg against Daud’s, and the sense of contentment that settles over him, in the darkening dusk with the city spread out before them, is something Daud hasn’t felt since he and Billie used to sit alone together, quiet and content at one another’s side.

“Are you going to miss me?”

(Terribly.)

”No.”

He says it so quickly that it startles a laugh out of Corvo, quiet and delighted, and it makes his nose scrunch up at the top. Daud knows he’s well and truly done for when he thinks that no food or music or sun-bathed warmth in Serkonos could compare to it.

Chapter Text

Six weeks into the reign of Emily Kaldwin the First, and the rat plague is eradicated from Dunwall. Many are speculating how the cure made it so quickly down the ranks, to the poorer citizens.

Slackjaw may look like a half shaved hound, but Daud can’t deny he and his Boys are efficient.

From what Thomas has reported, there are now discussions of dismantling the city’s blockades and reopening trade routes across the Isles. Serkonos’ Duke has already made contact with the Tower. The Jewel of the South is willing to offer its commerce and support to the Crown once again.

Corvo’s doing. He had spoken little of his past in Serkonos, but he did mention his fondness for Duke Theodanis. Said he was a good man.

(Daud knows all of it is Corvo’s doing, really. Emily Kaldwin may be Empress, but she’s also ten year’s old. Any decision on what to do and how to do it is coming from Corvo. He must be working himself to the bone, with all there is to do. Is the man even sleeping?)

They’ve heard nothing from him, in the six weeks following his departure from Rudshore.

If he has need of them, Daud supposes he’ll make it known.

It was quiet without Corvo’s presence, for a while. But business has resumed in Rudshore, as business always does, with plagues and tyrants and Corvo amongst them or not. No rest for the wicked.

But there have been no assassinations, no abductions. Daud has made it clear that his word on this is now law.

No matter how wealthy or insistent of a client they find themselves with, they kill no one.

If there is another way to meet the contract’s requirements, they find it.

And if not, they refuse, whatever the coin.

The men have taken to the new way of things well, overall. Though there was confusion at first. A few grumbles. Talk of Daud going soft.

“Any time you think I’ve gone a little soft, you’re welcome to come by my office,” he’d offered as he passed them, just to watch Yuri and Jenkins flinch. “Bring a blade.”

Daud’s heard no more hushed doubts, following that. They should know better than to whisper around the Chamber.

Their new path has made them all more clever, more resourceful. A little spiteful, on occasion, with some of the methods they undergo to carry out Daud’s new orders.

(He thinks Corvo would approve.)

Javier’s patiently been blackmailing a lawyer into giving away half his monthly wages. A poor family were cast to the streets, thanks to his false testimony in court. Daud’s learned from Javi’s report that they’ve now been able to afford a small apartment, thanks to the lawyer’s penance.

Quinn spent a week sneaking into a corrupt overseer’s home. They’d written ‘I know what you’ve done’ in his book of strictures every night, until he believed The Outsider himself was haunting him. By the seventh day, he’d confessed every one of his crimes to the Abbey, and was banished.

Galia exposed a lowly physician for offering vials of the plague cure to some of Madame Prudence’s girls, in place of real payment. The vials were spiked, heavily. Galia had forced the physician to drink one, and then handed him off to the girls themselves, to choose their own punishment.

A taste of his own medicine, as Galia put it.

When she asks Daud to accompany her to collect the payment, he consents, cutting his training with Fisher short.

“Form’s better,” he credits the girl, ruffling her sweaty hair. “Keep an eye on that footwork.”

Fisher tries to hide her pleased smile, but Daud catches it a split-second before her sullen expression returns.

She’s pissed at him. Misses the Empress. Daud had snapped at her to stop moping around a few days ago, and then had decided to start training her on more advanced blade-work himself, as a grudging apology.

(Nevermind that Daud’s been moping around, too. He’s a grown man, he can do as he pleases.)

At the Golden Cat, Betty and Loulia have scraped together two hundred coin.

Galia looks to Daud, eyebrows scrunched in sympathy for the girls, and she gives a small nod of agreement with whatever she must see in Daud’s own expression.

“Keep your coin,” Daud concedes. “Consider it a favour. This once.”

Loulia hugs Galia close, and Betty grabs Daud’s hands in a tight squeeze. “You really are a doll, y’know. Thank you.”

Galia bumps his shoulder with hers before they head back to Rudshore, empty-handed. It doesn’t matter. Galia’s smiling, and Daud feels lighter than he has in years, without the weight of that coin.

It’s not the first time they’ve done this. Not the first time, in these six weeks, that it’s felt abruptly wrong to claim coin for these contracts. And Daud’s sure it won’t be the last.

(With Daud’s approval, Javier had taken nothing from the lawyer job, from that poor family who could barely afford a loaf of bread between them. And Leonid’s mission, tracking down a pilfered wedding ring for a widower, husband lost to Burrows’ plague carts, had equally earned them nothing.)

Conscience and good deeds pay poorly. But Daud will make sure they all get by, somehow. He always has, and while their methods may have changed, that certainly won’t.

When he returns to the Chamber, he receives the first letter.

Well. Calling it ‘a letter’ is generous. It’s little more than a hastily scratched note, sealed with dark wax.

Thomas greets him just outside the office. Hands him his report from the Tower, as normal, and then rushes off to tend to whatever additional duties he’s assigned himself that afternoon. Overseeing training or taking stock of supplies with Kent and Hobson.

The man’s taken his promotion damn seriously, to the surprise of no one. Thomas has always been a stickler.

Daud glances over Thomas’ breakdown of the day; guard chatter in the gardens, formal discussions in the meeting room, talks of dismantling the blockades and which Districts should take priority. Callista Curnow officially being given the title of Emily’s governess.

Standard. Dull. Nothing of consequence.

(Nothing of Corvo.)

Daud tosses the papers on the desk, and the folded parchment slides a little further from the rest. The black seal catches his eye.

He takes it, frowning; plucks Billie’s knife from inside his coat to slice the wax, and scans over the paper.

I need anything you have on Byron Alderdice. If you have anything at all.

- C

Daud scoffs. Corvo’s handwriting is terrible. Legible, but obviously written swiftly, like the pen had run as quick as his thoughts. Errant. Erratic.

As it happens, Corvo’s in luck. They’ve done business with Lord Alderdice before.

Daud notes down what information he has off the top of his head, then calls Thomas back to recall anything he may be overlooking.

He pens down an additional note at the end.

More context would benefit, bodyguard. Parliamentary threat or something more serious? If you require ammunition for blackmail, he has relatives in Morley. If you require further investigation, my men are at your service.

Do let me know, in another of your eloquent and riveting missives if you must.

Daud hands it off to Rapha, instead of Thomas. His second’s been running himself ragged across Wrenhaven lately. A pitfall of leadership; always on the move, always something to get done. Man’s earned himself a break, though he initially refuses when Daud tells him to get some rest.

Daud tries a less polite approach. “Get some fucking sleep, Thomas, your eyes are redder than a weeper’s.”

Thomas doesn’t attempt to argue again.

Corvo’s response arrives the next morning. Daud almost careens into Leonid when she appears, where he’s running their two largest hounds along the floodwaters to abate some of their restlessness, and his own.

“This got passed along from Fergus in Drapers Ward,” Leonid tells him, handing over the letter. “He says Attano caught him on his patrol. I think he was taking Stride her payment while the Empress is doing lessons.”

“Are Andrei and Killian watching the girl?”

“Yes, Sir, they have their eyes on the Tower. They are due to switch with Nico and Zachary soon.”

(As long as someone’s on watch. Corvo hadn’t asked him to place his people on guard, but Daud suspects he knows there’s always someone around. Corvo wouldn’t leave the girl unsupervised unless he knew she was protected.)

Daud dismisses Leonid, gently shoves one of the hounds’ snouts away when it makes a playful snap for his hand, and opens the letter.

(It’s longer than the last by far, and Daud’s chest restricts in an absurd, adolescent surge of anticipation.)

Information appreciated, no further investigation required. It’s nothing serious, for now. Just Alderdice running his mouth in court. Mentioned something odd about ‘needing a war to reset the economy’. Decided it was best to cut that short before he gets cocky and says something he’ll actually regret.

Corvo’s penmanship is better, this time. Like he’d had chance to be still and write in relative peace.

So glad to find you riveted by my correspondence.

Forgive the haste of the previous note, I thought it best to make contact while the idea was fresh in mind. A lot to focus on at the moment, no privilege for one thought at a time.

I’m sure Thomas understands. Are you letting the poor man sleep? I almost offered him a vial the other day, he looks like a plague victim.

Fine work distributing the cure, by the way. Have you considered making Bottle Street a permanent partner to Rudshore? You and Slackjaw are clearly made for each other.

“Eat shit, bodyguard,” Daud chuckles.

Emily requests you pass along a message to Alexi, at your convenience. ‘Don’t forget the old bones we found and stashed for Black Sally on the causeway.’ ? If that means anything to you. I have no idea.

I hope you’re keeping everybody out of trouble. Yourself, too.

- C

He can hear Corvo’s voice in the words, wry and clever, bleeding through the flat ink. The hound gnaws at his glove again, and Daud gives its ear an absent scratch, eyes still caught on the paper.

(He doesn’t recall missing many things so fiercely. His mother. Billie. And Corvo fucking Attano, as fate would have it. The man’s only a damn river width away. Ridiculous.)

“Old bones?” Daud questions aloud, raising a brow down at their darkest hound. He’s heard Fisher call the beast Black Sally before, though it had probably been the Empress’ doing. She had named them all, while she’d been here.

He relays Emily’s message to Fisher, who’s mood improves greatly.

“She ain’t forgotten ‘bout me!”

“Who could forget such a pest.”

Fisher sticks her tongue out at him, so Daud assumes he’s been forgiven for biting at her before.

They go together to Ebenazer Causeway, to retrieve the bones. They’re cracked and disfigured throughout their time in the waters, and Fisher tosses the largest one high for Black Sally to catch.

(That strange sense of peace spreads. He feels Corvo’s letter sitting in his pocket, crinkling against his shirt, the rest of the day.)

Regarding Alderdice, if you find he does get cocky and would rather go down the blackmail route, I can look further into Morley. His cousin’s far more agreeable, and has always wanted a seat in court.

If you’d rather just rough him up, I can send Ardan. Might be a laugh, if nothing else.

Regarding Thomas, I’ve had to threaten him into taking some rest. Nothing short of that would work.

Regarding Slackjaw and Bottle Street, you can eat shit.

Regarding Her Majesty’s message, it’s been settled. Fisher Alexi passes along her greetings.

Regarding yourself, I’m not above threatening you, too, bodyguard. Are you finding time to sleep, amidst your many focuses?

If you aren’t, then I’ll say it again: myself and my men are at your service. I doubt many, if anyone, can know how much may be weighing on you. If you come to reality at some point and realise you need to ease your workload, all you need do is swallow your stubbornness and ask. Order it, if you must. If it makes your pride feel any better.

Just don’t burn yourself out, shouldering this alone. You have no reason to.

Corvo’s reply comes two days later, after Daud returns from a job in the Legal District. The letter’s waiting on the desk, beside Thomas’ usual report. Apparently Sokolov and Piero are being honoured at a formal dinner that night.

Daud can think of few worse things than a dining room full of nobles. Though he imagines Sokolov’s brash manner will at least sap some dullness from the evening.

If you can spare Feodor, or anyone, Alderdice’s home will be empty tonight save for a few servants. I need anything involving a Nels Jefferies – letters, transactions, affairs.

The pair have been up to something. I suspect it’s more serious than I’d initially thought. Overlooked it and I shouldn’t have, it was stupid.

Can’t go myself tonight. Sokolov and his fucking dinner. But it means Alderdice will be distracted.

If you can’t spare anyone, I’ll go tomorrow.

- C

The writing is scratchy, unsettled, etched in frustration. Daud mutters an equally frustrated curse under his breath. Corvo’s clever, why does the man not seem to understand what ‘at your service’ means?

We’ll have everything you require before dessert is served. I’ll send Thomas direct to you, once it’s done.

Stupid, indeed. Void forbid you let something slip you by, with a monarch to guard and the whole Empire to run.

Self-pity doesn’t suit you, bodyguard. Enjoy your fancy dinner and try not to break anyone’s nose. I know what you’re like.

Daud goes to Alderdice’s manor himself, and unearths a scheme still in its early stages. Something about Nels Jefferies getting in contact, and the two conspiring to profit their businesses off a potential insurrection. Something further about Alderdice using Emily’s age to their advantage to misguide her in court.

Good fucking luck to them, with Corvo there. He saw through Alderdice enough to know something was amiss, even preoccupied as he’s been.

Thomas informs him that Corvo demolishes their reputations five minutes into the following court meeting, thanks to the information Daud provided him.

Then Thomas passes along another letter.

(This one makes his breath come heavy, makes something clutch and compress behind his ribs; makes him realise he’s been crushing Thomas’ report slightly in his other hand.)

I imagine Thomas has filled you in. Alderdice is ruined.

Found myself disappointed you weren’t in that meeting. I think you would have enjoyed it. Something tells me you’d be a natural in court. Or you’d just sit and scowl and scare everyone shitless. Either way, I wanted you there.

I hadn’t expected

I realised, recently, that I never

I want to thank

I won’t thank you. I know you don’t want me to. But I will acknowledge all that you and your men have done. Before and after the lighthouse. I’m not saying I couldn’t have done it alone. I could have.

Daud can just imagine him saying it, with the stubborn certainty of someone who truly knows they could have.

But know you and your people have made things immeasurably easier. And I am grateful.

- C

Daud weighs up an appropriate response. Comes up short, several times.

Lord Protector,

Your gratitude, or acknowledgement, is appreciated but unnecessary. I owe more than I could ever

He scraps that one.

Attano,

Choke on your gratitude. I said my life is yours, do you think I offered it in return for your gratitude, are you so

That one, too. He’d started getting angry.

Corvo,

If I could put into words what I would give to return all I’ve taken from you. Knowing you as I do now, I wish

No.

Since you’re waxing sentimental, I’ll presume you’ve either contracted the plague and become deluded, or you are severely sleep-deprived.

Get some fucking rest, bodyguard.

Their correspondence doesn’t stop. Though there’s a few days’ pause, during which Daud hopes Corvo has done as he’s bid and finally allowed himself to sleep.

Daud’s men are always the go-between, passing along the missives from one hand to the other over the following weeks. Both he and Corvo are kept far too busy to meet in person; Corvo at the Tower, making sure Dunwall and the Isles at large continue on a straight keel; Daud in Rudshore and out in the city, as word spreads from their clients and jobs become more frequent.

And Corvo swallows his pride, eventually, and begins requesting their aid with more regularity. The man seems to have at last accepted that he’s only human and can’t possibly be expected to do everything himself.

Certain you’ve already heard – Jack Ramsey is taking over Rothwild’s slaughterhouse. He seems legitimate and isn’t employing those Butchers, but I know the normal workers have been screwed before.

Need a clearer idea of the situation.

Also Emily wants to know the whales aren’t being tortured. Sokolov mentioned something about the previous owner allowing him to experiment on one a while back.

- C

Done some digging. All is well.

Jack Ramsey is respectable, unlike his brother, if a little austere. And his number two, Abigail Ames, has the workers’ best interests at heart. They’ll be paid what they’re owed and treated fairly.

As for the whales, tell Her Majesty to rest assured. Ames won’t allow Sokolov within a mile of them.

Most of the time, however, they don’t discuss business at all.

(They spar with ink on paper, since they can’t spar in person. It becomes a near daily occurrence once more. Daud finds himself growing restless throughout the mornings, terse and impatient during jobs, until word from Corvo finds him.)

In theory, could a charm be crafted to cause time to move faster? I fear it’s the only way I’ll make it through this week’s court meetings without maiming someone.

Any information you have on the matter would be appreciated.

And may be vital to Officer Ramsey’s survival.

- C

You find me at an impasse, bodyguard.

I’d share the trade secret, on one hand. On the other, the notion of Mortimer Ramsey losing a limb is far too appealing.

Work the charm out for yourself.

Ramsey keeps his limbs, from what Daud hears. Though apparently Corvo does lose patience in one of the meetings, and quite viciously cuts down the officer’s argument regarding keeping some of the blockades around the Estate District.

If I hear from Thomas one more time that you’ve been using your Mark, broad daylight, in the heavily patrolled gardens, I’m going to come and cut off that hand.

I’m not going to Holger Square if you get yourself condemned as a heretic. I’ll leave you to rot in your own stupidity.

Bold of you to assume I’d need your help with the overseers. I broke out of Coldridge, if you remember.

Tell Thomas he’s a traitor, if you see him before I do. I told him to keep his mouth shut.

- C

At least wrap your hand. Damned idiot.

All of you watch yourselves around the North-east docks. Overseers doing a sweep in the next few days. Can’t talk them out of parting with those music boxes.

- C

I’ve pulled the men back. Appreciate the warning.

You owe me that fifty coin.

It’s been Andrei stationed here all week, I’m certain.

Killian smiles more, and keeps looking at Anthea from the kitchens.

Told you I’d figure them out.

- C

Well spotted.

Some here still can’t tell the pair apart. Andrei’s always been the more serious of the two.

I’ll have a word with Killian, make sure he doesn’t get himself in trouble with that kitchen maid. It wouldn’t be the first time the man’s been bludgeoned with a frying pan for being too bold.

Fifty coin, as promised. Though I doubt Lord Attano, thieving bastard that he is, is in true need of it.

Keep your coin, killer. I’m only teasing.

I’m not so cruel to take coin from a man who can’t even maintain his own roof.

- C

Trade routes are due to resume this month.

Rulfio tosses his report, a separate letter, and a small bag down on his desk. Daud doesn’t know how to take the man’s shitty, knowing smile. He has nothing to look so smug about, so Daud growls at him to scarper.

We’ll have access to Serkonos again soon. Theodanis sent some goods ahead of time.

Enjoy the coffee. I know you hate the Gristol stuff.

Regards from the Tower,

C. Attano

Daud frowns, bemused by the sign off and initialling. It’s a far sight more formal than usual.

Though the coffee is sublime.

The fact that you are at liberty to call the Duke of Serkonos by his first name sickens me.

The coffee was unnecessary. You have my thanks for it.

Regards from Rudshore. ?

Daud receives the slightly embarrassed response the day travel restrictions are lifted across the seas.

Ignore the odd send off in the last letter. Force of habit. I’ve been approving no end of shit lately, and I have to sign it all off the same way.

Don’t suppose you have anyone who can forge signatures?

- C

Cry me a river, bodyguard.

Do you know how many reports find their way to my desk? You may request again when you can decipher Jenkins’ handwriting with any measure of success. It’s been four years and I still can’t make shit of it.

Now that stability is being restored, the subject of Emily’s coronation has been raised. Corvo trusts Curnow, and Daud has begrudgingly admitted that he, too, respects him; the Captain has worked miracles, disciplining the Watch these last two months.

However, no amount of security his guards can provide will match that of Daud’s men, their gifts and their experience.

He and Corvo already have a security plan in place, whenever the coronation date is decided upon.

Emily’s coronation.

I know we’ve discussed security to the void, so I won’t bore you with any more details about that. This is purely personal.

Emily wants to extend a formal invitation to Alexi, to stay with her at the Tower for the evening of the coronation. With your permission, of course.

- C

Fisher will be ecstatic. How can Daud refuse her that. Though he’s unsure if Corvo has fully considered it. Fisher’s no well-bred playmate of royalty.

As long as you’re willing to expose the Tower to her. I doubt she’d cause you a scandal, but she’s no noble if you recall.

Noble or not, Emily doesn’t care. Nor do I. Alexi is her friend and will be treated as such.

She’ll be safe while she’s with us. You have my word.

- C

Daud wants to see him desperately, in the moments after reading that.

Too much to do. Always too much to do, for both of them, worlds apart as they are now.

Esma Boyle’s nephew starts attracting attention, spreading sneering propaganda, false rumour regarding Waverley Boyle and Burrows and the plague, and slandering Corvo’s name as the villain of it all.

Daud naturally expects Corvo to deal swiftly with it, vicious as he is when it comes to his rivals.

But Corvo does nothing. Lets Ichabod Boyle debase his name for all to hear.

It pisses Daud off for the first few days. Then when Corvo continues to do nothing, just sits back and lets Boyle bleat, it starts to infuriate him until he can no longer bear it.

Daud goes to the Boyle Estate himself, to set the man to rights.

Galia mentioned you were in the Estate District two days past. We must have just missed each other.

I suppose I don’t need to ask why you were there. Nice work with Ichabod Boyle. He didn’t look me in the eye for the entire visit.

- C

Daud closes his fist around the letter and casts it somewhere on the floor, still seething.

I took the liberty, since you clearly weren’t going to sort it out yourself. Have you heard the ox shit he’s been stirring amongst his circles?

Don’t answer that because I know damn well that you have.

Ichabod Boyle hails Waverley as a martyr while condemning you for her death, for their family’s fall, for everything.

Were you truly not going to defend yourself against his claims? He’s an ignorant rat, believing his family were  victims of the plague, of Burrows.

You may have decided to stand idle under his slander, but I don’t have to. I didn’t take you for a coward.

Now who’s waxing sentimental.

Peace, Daud. His words were empty and don’t matter to me.

Waverley’s death was a necessary evil. I know it, Emily knows it, and that’s enough.

You don’t need to defend my honour to the whole city.

You defended it to Havelock.

That mattered to me.

- C

A week passes, and Daud doesn’t offer a reply. Nevermind the ache Corvo’s words cause in him, nevermind how quietly mad with longing their letters have made him, Daud’s still angry, still thinks Corvo’s a cock, still resents the man’s indifference about Boyle.

Someone handles a couple of whale oil tanks too roughly at the Tower. The explosion takes out a portion of the kitchens, and can be heard across Wrenhaven. From the Refinery, Daud sees the rising smoke and runs.

He’s never made it so quickly over the Bridge, and they see each other for what must be thirty seconds, at most.

The Tower grounds are in disarray. Daud immediately catches sight of Thomas and Curnow, assigning orders and trying to keep everyone calm. Guards are shouting, kitchen staff are huddled together in the lower plaza, scorched and scared and clearly in shock, the fire looks like it’s only just been put out, and Corvo is at the center of it all, eyes sharp, focus honed on trying to contain the chaos.

“Lord Attano! The flames are out, but the smoke–”

“Fucking get everyone further away! I’m not employing an entire new workforce today because they all choked to death. Move!”

“Lord Protector, we’ve done a head count, and besides the three closest to the blast, all staff and guard are accounted for.”

“No other casualties?”

“No one, Sir.”

 “Corvo,” Curnow comes quickly to his side, “if this wasn’t an accident–”

“Then it means it was planned.”

“We’ll need to do an internal sweep, once the smoke clears, find out whether–”

“Whether it was an attack.” Corvo’s glances up, spots Daud. “Give me a minute. Help your squad move everyone to the waterlock.”

Corvo jerks his head toward the roof of the guard barracks, and Daud moves to meet him there.

That charged blue flash brings him up. When they reach one another, Daud catches the thick scent of smoke clinging to his clothes, to his hair.

How fucking close had be been to the blast?

“The girl.”

“Saferoom. Galia’s with her.”

Daud gives a nod. “If this was an attempt on–”

“It looks like an accident,” Corvo credits, sparing a glimpse to the smouldering corner of the Tower. “But there’s always a chance it wasn’t.”

“I’ll find out.”

Corvo gives his own nod. His hair is longer, hanging past his jaw, and the ends of one side are singed, blackened from flames.

Daud’s gaze is drawn to his hands, and he snatches them closer before his mind catches up to him. Corvo’s fingers are scraped red, the skin seared, where Corvo had no doubt pulled people from the burning wreckage of the kitchen.

“You–”

“It’s not as bad as it looks–”

Voices carry from below, urgent and harried.

“Lord Attano!”

“Where is the Lord Protector?”

“Did you see where Attano went–”

And Thomas materialises on their rooftop. “Master Daud–”

The man stares at their hands and immediately, respectfully, averts his gaze.

Corvo’s expression shows nothing. His eyes hold an apology. “I have to go.”

Daud loosens his grip, still not entirely aware what he’s doing.

Corvo tightens his fingers around Daud’s slightly, before he slips from his grasp and disappears.

Reality returns the moment he’s gone, and Daud barks at Thomas to stop loitering. “With me. Let’s see if this is an innocent mistake or if someone’s about to lose their head.”

It was an accident.

The three kitchen staff who perished in the blast had tried to relocate a batch of oil tanks themselves, instead of asking the guard as instructed.

Daud and Thomas investigate late into the day to be certain, while Corvo swiftly gets the Tower back under control. They don’t cross paths again.

Before he departs the palace grounds, Daud sends Thomas to relay the information to Corvo and Curnow. Daud checks in with Galia and the girl in the Tower’s saferoom.

“You should’ve seen the blast, boss.” Galia shakes her head, where she’s braiding what she can of Emily’s hair, as per the girl’s orders. “I’ve never seen Mister Attano move so fast. Man managed to get the rest of those poor folk outta the kitchens.”

“Corvo’s good at keeping people safe,” Emily chips in proudly. “It’s his job. It’s sad about that cook and the other two, but I don’t think Corvo could have helped them. I’m really glad everyone else is okay.”

A good heart.

Emily blinks up at Daud, who is pointedly stood as far from her as possible. “I think it’s good you’re here, too, Mister Assassin. It’s your job to keep Corvo safe now, isn’t it?”

It most certainly isn’t. And if it were, Daud would fucking resign. Keeping Corvo Attano out of trouble is a lost cause to anyone.

“He burnt his hands pretty badly, so I think you should tell him to not do that again. He might listen if it’s you.”

“As you say, Empress.”

Daud is convinced that Corvo listens to no one but himself. He isn’t about to argue with the sovereign of the Empire, though, no matter how young she may be.

“You’re welcome to stay, I suppose,” the girl adds, admiring the small, dark braids Galia’s managed to weave into her hair. “It’s getting pretty late. And I’m sure Corvo would like it if you didn’t go. He smiled more back with you and Alexi and everyone at your home. I don’t think he minded that it was all flooded.”

Daud takes his leave.

The coronation gets pushed back further still, following the mess at the Tower. Repairs need to be put into place, and more stringent training of staff is evidently required.

Thomas brings him an update a few days after the incident, letting him know all is well.

A letter, too.

I know you’ll growl like your hounds at any thanks I offer, but I don’t give two fucks.

Thank you.

For looking into the matter, and for checking up on Emily while I was indisposed. That may seem a small thing to you, but it isn’t to me.

You may continue ignoring me now. I apologise for interrupting your disregard with an unforeseen explosion.

- C

Since your most insightful daughter believes my job is your protector, an explosion seemed worth my regard.

It would be a little embarrassing to hear you’d perished saving your ignorant kitchen staff, considering everything else that should have finished you off by now.

It was good to

Cut your damn hair, bodyguard.

    - Daud

Chapter Text

They run into each other due to careful meddling and a well-timed job.

Daud finds himself in the Legal District that day thanks to word from Rinaldo.

“The barrister’s niece?”

“The very same.” Rinaldo leans a hip against the desk, “Says there’d be coin as good as last time, for your trouble.”

Daud shrugs back in the chair, running a hand over his face, “But how much trouble.”

“That’s the snag. She didn’t give much detail. Just got in contact, saying she had another job if you were interested. Mentioned the name Marley. I can only imagine she meant barrister Marley. Maybe a rival?”

Daud hums roughly in agreement. A rival, certainly.

Thalia Timsh has been looking to take over her uncle’s affairs since the arrest. Daud imagines most of those in business with the barrister are high-born men, with old blood and values in tradition. They mustn’t be too pleased at the potential change in ownership. Outsider forbid, Daud can almost hear them saying, a woman in legal matters. Fools.

Thalia is young, too. No doubt someone will try to convince or force her away from heading the family business. They’ll probably think it’s going to be easy. Daud’s not so sure about that. The niece had a way about her, grit and an intelligence that far surpassed her age. Grit enough to contact an assassin for hire. Twice, now.

“You don’t want to take it? Or your brother?”

“Rulf’s heading to the Tower. Miss Timsh asked for you personally.”

“Did she.”

“Mm-hm. Might keep you from moping around here for a while, waiting for another letter,” Rinaldo sees fit to add. Daud takes the nearest book and smacks the man’s hip off the desk.

He’s not wrong, though. It was Daud’s foolish oversight, leaving Corvo’s latest letter open near the reports. It sits there, still, awaiting an answer.

Samuel finally caved. He’s officially Royal Advisor to the Crown, though no one is allowed to use the title to his face. He gets all flustered.

Just need a Spymaster now. I have a man in mind, but void knows what it’ll take for him to agree. He’s a difficult bastard.

That friend of Samuel’s has almost finished renovating The Hound Pits. It should be open for business again by next month, so let Rulf and Rin know they won’t have to cross half the city for draught beer anymore.

I’m sure Thomas has already spread the word, but in case he hasn’t, Geoff has chosen the pub as a rendezvous point before it opens publicly. A celebration for ‘the real loyalists’, as he says, ‘to commemorate our efforts in putting Havelock behind bars’.

The man likes a party, apparently.

I told him where to stick the idea, but Emily is insisting on it now, so it’s out of my hands.

5th Day this month. You are all invited.

Know you don’t drink, but if you want to go anyway and sit and judge all the drunkards, I may be tempted to join you. Misery loves company.

- C

Daud agrees to meet Thalia, in person as requested. Doesn’t see the harm. They could do with the coin; the niece is wealthy and can afford the payment with no fallout. And Thalia was tolerable, as far as high-borns can be. She hadn’t fussed about Daud’s methods before. The Barrister’s arrest had gotten her the will, either way.

It turns out the job’s nothing so dramatic this time; no familial drama, no friend of Hiram Burrows to remove from the picture, and no crazed witch at the center of it all.

“Just blackmail.”

“As I said,” Thalia confirms, taking a delicate sip from her teacup. She hadn’t offered Daud one, thank the Outsider.

Feels strange, being back inside Timsh’s Estate. Daud knows how to skulk and step unnoticed through these hallways, but had felt a jolt of unease when Thalia cordially bid him to sit in one of the armchairs.

Daud had sank into it, is still sinking into it, the fabric plush and pliant. He has to keep shifting himself back upright. He wants to stand; despises the sensation of laxity the chair has against his back.

“I don’t require him dead. It’s much more gratifying, don’t you think, to see a rival ruined than killed.”

(If Daud could get through a day without thinking of Corvo Attano, he’d be grateful. There’s been no escape. Thalia’s spiteful, familiar words summon the image of Corvo’s wry smile to the forefront of his mind.)

“Horace Marley is a tired old man, much like my uncle was.  He always envied the success of our family, our clients and connections,” Thalia explains boredly. “Now the business has been handed down to someone as young as myself, he’s trying to shame me into stepping down and giving him everything. I know I have nothing to hide.” Thalia offers Daud a thin smile, tipping the edge of her cup his way, “Besides requesting your aid in my uncle’s removal, of course. But I trust I can count on your discretion, Daud.”

“You don’t get far in this line of work, without discretion,” Daud reasons gruffly. “So you’re after dirt on this Marley.”

“I am. If he’s going to try and tarnish my reputation, then I’m going to return the favour in kind. Any untoward detail regarding him or his family name will do nicely.” Thalia has a calm, quiet confidence about her, and Daud finds he has to respect it. “Return to me with what you find, and I’ll compensate you handsomely.”

Marley lives across the Legal District. Daud doesn’t know much about the man, other than he’s in his sixties, a barrister, and has a son he’s tutoring in legal matters.

His apartments are humble, less to navigate compared to the Timsh Estate. It’s not in an ideal spot for infiltration, however. Crows Court is open and was always well guarded before the plague. And now, after the Regent’s fall, it’s gradually returning to what it once was; busy and bustling throughout the day, kids running in the streets, the Watch patrolling in pairs, barristers and lawyers on their way to important meetings.

Daud is subtle when he surveys the Court, the rooftops, the shadows between the buildings. He sees nothing of consequence, but he feels eyes on him. He can’t shake the instinct, whispering a warning that he’s being followed.

Marley’s second storey has a balcony, at least. The only other entrance is the front door, down on street level, and Daud can’t say he feels tempted to try that in broad daylight.

The balcony door is locked, when he tries it the first time. But when he nudges it again in irritation, it opens. Daud puts it down to a fluke seeing that there’s no one on that floor, other than a lone rat scampering about.

He finds the required dirt with little trouble. A series of letters dating back thirty years. It would seem the barrister’s son isn’t legitimate. Marley’s wife was, and still is from the contents of the letters, having an affair. With someone at the Tower, of all people.

The rat gives a warning squeak when a particularly quiet maid comes too near the doorway. Daud, from the shadows, eyes the creature warily as it cleans its whiskers.

He keeps to the rooftops back to Timsh’s Estate.

But there is still someone, somewhere, watching him. He’d know, were it one of his own men. Only Daud has work in this District today. If it’s a stray witch from Brigmore, thinking she’s clever, she’ll soon learn she’s mistaken.

Thalia is satisfied, and Daud leaves four-hundred coin richer, and no less distracted or less bored out of his skull.

When the commotion of the streets becomes distant behind him, Daud hears little patters on the guttering running along his roof. The rat halts when he does, mirrors him when he tilts his head. Daud narrows his eyes, trying not to let a smile nudge its way to his mouth as he continues on his path.

He reaches Kaldwin’s Bridge, glancing over his shoulder in intervals, making sure he’s still being followed. He doesn’t slow his steps; keeps the sly bastard scurrying on those little paws to match pace with him.

Daud passes Pratchett’s–

S o m e o n e   b e h i n d

An impulse screams at him, and Daud snatches the wrist reaching for his coat, other hand on his sword, but he loses his grasp, his assailant blinking to safety a few paces further along the rooftop.

Corvo’s laughing at him, caught, hands raised in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

“Fucking idiot–”

“I know–”

“I could’ve–”

“I know, you could have killed me. Ambitious to assume so.” Corvo’s gaze flicks down to Daud’s hand, still gripping his blade hilt, and his mouth curves in amusement. “Are you considering killing me anyway?”

“Yes,” Daud bites out, though he pointedly relaxes his fingers. “Let it be known I prefer you as a rat. It suits you.” Then reality hits, that Corvo’s actually stood here with him.

(He had seen him during the Coronation, of course. Dressed fine, hair braided back. The man hasn’t cut it, probably just to spite Daud’s insistence for him to do so. Though there is now a rich, deep blue bind wrapped around his left hand.

At least he took Daud’s advice on something.)

“What are you doing here?”

Corvo snorts, tossing Daud’s lighter up in the air and catching it in his palm. “Nice to see you too.”

It’s more than nice, but it doesn’t answer Daud’s question. “You’re not at the Tower. Is it still standing?”

“Far as I know. Has anyone told you that you tend to be quite pessimistic, at times,” Corvo teases, and that tone doesn’t help Daud‘s concentration in the slightest. “I had the rare chance to escape and I took it. Rulfio kindly offered Emily a fencing lesson, and Thomas has taken all my paperwork.”

“So you decided on an afternoon jaunt to the South City?”

“It’s lovely here this time of year,” Corvo says wryly.

No, it turns out Corvo found himself in the Legal District today thanks to word from Rulfio, of the same job.

“This morning Rulf mentioned there was a barrister called Marley who might be worth investigating. He didn’t seem interested, so I took him up on it, since I found myself with the time.”

Daud breathes a frustrated sigh through his nose. Those brothers, always meddling. He feels a traitorous stab of gratitude for them both.

“Noticed you trying the balcony. Looked like you could use a hand. I assumed you were there to investigate, too.”

“Should have been a detective, with that power of observation” Daud praises dryly, watching Corvo’s smile curl further. “Palace life is wasted on you. Rinaldo mentioned the job to me.”

“And now we’re both here.” Corvo peers past him, to Pratchett’s residence, bouncing slightly, restlessly, on the balls of his feet. “I have a little more time. I wonder if he’s changed his safe code…”

“Focus, bodyguard.”

Corvo cocks his head at him, “Four-hundred coin really won’t get you very far. Pratchett has plenty to spare.”

Daud scoffs, snatching his lighter back when the man tosses it up again. “Let free for one day and you result to petty theft. Void, aren’t you supposed to be protecting these nobles now?”

Corvo gives a mild shrug. “The decent ones, maybe. But Pratchett’s begging for comeuppance. Those jellied eels of his are fucking awful.”

It’s pettiness bordering on childish, and no reason for the renowned Lord Protector to rob a man.

Corvo cants his head up at the apartment, a silent invitation to join him, and Daud can deny him nothing.

Pratchett hasn’t changed the code, going by the pleased glint in Corvo’s eyes as the safe creeks itself open. He has no interest for any coin inside, so Daud takes it as permission and pockets it himself.

(It’s not what you steal, it’s how you steal it, as the old thief’s saying goes. Daud suspects the reward for Corvo here isn’t in the riches, but in the silent slinking through the doors, the mechanical rattle of turning the right numbers, the triumphant clinks of the safe‘s locks springing apart.)

“How do jellied eels earn a man this much coin?”

“Gristol needs to get its shit together. Never saw the like of it in Serkonos.”

“I don’t know, do you remember those candied beetles they used to sell at the markets?”

Daud grimaces. “Don’t remind me.”

“Beatrici and I added them to honey cake once, and when I say it was the worst decision–”

They have to scramble like rats when they hear footsteps on the stairs, and Pratchett comes around the corner. Daud withers slightly at the safe, left ajar in their hurry. The nobleman idles about, whistling to himself, utterly oblivious.

From his spot hidden above the bookcase, Daud’s jaw clenches in exasperation as he scowls across at Corvo. The man’s perched atop Pratchett’s grand clock, stifling his laughter behind his sleeve, because the shit apparently thinks it’s funny that they’re trapped there, crouched and cramped, heads brushing the ceiling.

(He puts it down to the unexpectedness of Corvo’s presence, catching him off guard after so long of just ink on paper. But Daud adores him in that short moment. He hasn’t known himself capable of adoring anything. Billie, perhaps.

Though not like this. Not to the point where it dazes him, where it has made something inside him weak with wanting Corvo near.)

A chance comes when Pratchett sidles into the hallway to admire a painting, and they make a break for it. Though not before Corvo evidently spots something on the man’s person that he wants; blinking down to Pratchett’s turned back and deftly plucking whatever trinket caught his eye from the pocket of his tailcoat.

Corvo’s clearly been cooped up for far too long with prim high-borns and stuffy officials. He allows his laughter to break free when they make it to the rooftops, low and delighted

“Fucking child,” Daud mutters, despite how deeply hearing the sound again pleases him.

Though it spurs bitterness, too. He knows this chance rendezvous cannot last. Corvo is needed elsewhere, as is Daud.

Worlds apart, both of them.

They part ways at the Bridge, Corvo’s passage back across the river and to the Tower, where countless responsibilities await him. Does he miss the freedom of the Flooded District, Daud wonders; running Rudshore’s perilous ruins and rooftops, and relentlessly terrorising the hounds and his men.

“Will you be there?”

Daud grants him a thin look. “Your ability to have a conversation without me is inspiring, bodyguard.”

“And your penchant for sarcasm doesn’t make you sound clever, killer.”

Being under Corvo’s sharp scrutiny isn’t any less disarming than it once was, even given time and the familiarity they now share. Only now it makes Daud want to edge closer, not away in caution; reach out, instead of reaching for the solace of his blade.

“The Hound Pits. Geoff’s invitation. Will you be there?”

Daud can deny him nothing. “I’ll consider it.”

Corvo’s eyes gleam in the semblance of a smile, and he gives a short salute over his shoulder, blinking from the roof.

Daud forgets to check his pockets. The thought only occurs to him when he crosses into the Old Port District, the blockades there almost eradicated, and the months of dust and decay being swept from the streets.

He curses himself, rummaging through his coat. His lighter remains, as does everything else to his surprise. Though Daud produces a silver cigarette case from his left pocket that definitely isn’t his.

It’s Pratchett’s. Small and sleek and silver, and worth two-hundred coin at least.

Exactly when Corvo had slipped him that, Daud has no clue. He stares at it. Considers tossing it into Wrenhaven to make a stubborn point.

He tucks it carefully back into his coat.

There’s a fact about crows and other such birds that comes to Daud’s mind, when he passes through Rudshore’s rail station. Intelligent animals, playful and petty. They remember who’ve wronged them, and they remember who they can trust. And those who earn their trust, they tend to gift with shiny trinkets as thanks.

‘Corvo trusts you. He told me so.’ Those had been Emily Kaldwin’s words to him. Daud hadn’t been in the most concentrated headspace, at the time.

If he has truly earned the trust of a man like Corvo Attano, he must be on a better path now than he has ever been.

(To have Corvo’s trust, after the man has endured so much betrayal. Daud feels like the richest of men.)

“That’s not yours,” Rulfio comments that evening, raising a brow as Daud snaps Pratchett’s case closed.

“No.” Around his cigarette, Daud shoots the man a raised brow of his own, “Though seeing as the Marley job wasn’t yours to discuss with Corvo, this isn’t my business to discuss with you.”

“You’ve been in a great mood since this morning, in our defence. You really can’t blame me and Rin for–”

“I can blame whoever the void I wish,” and Daud knocks his ankle off balance with a boot, contentedly watching Rulfio stagger and slosh into the knee-deep floodwater to catch himself.

Offer along my condolences to Mr Beechworth, for being saddled with you officially. I wish him luck. He’ll need it.

As will your Spymaster. Give me the name, if you’ve truly decided, and I’ll do some digging.

Curnow must have even more fortitude than I’d thought, extending his invitation here. I hope you aren’t expecting anyone to dress up for the occasion.

Pratchett filed a complaint with the guard about a robbery. Second one he’s had in as many months, apparently.

You’re a child.

His cigarettes are excellent.

- Daud

The day of Curnow’s invitation comes around swiftly. Daud waits until the last possible moment to mention it to Fisher, while they’re in training, because he knows what will happen.

“We‘re all really goin’? Cleon an’ Dodge, too?” The girl turns wild, shaking with excitement at the prospect of seeing the Empress that night. “Can I go, Sir, can I really? Lady Emily really asked me to come? Please don’t say I ain’t allowed, Sir, I’ll be real good, I promise–”

“You may go,” Daud says, watching her bound from mannequin to mannequin in the training room. “If you manage to disarm me,” he adds as motivation, and Fisher’s face suddenly hardens with intent.

She doesn’t manage it; she’s nowhere near skilled enough yet to even come close. Daud sees a moment, anyway, and counts it as her win when he allows her to knock him off balance.

Void, maybe he is going soft.

“Daud? You comin’?” Galia pokes her head around the office doors at sundown. “District’s gonna survive a night without you, y’know. You gotta join us! It was a really nice idea of the Captain’s, everyone gettin’ together to celebrate.”

“Man likes a party, apparently.” Daud scans over Domenico’s report of the latest on Clavering, another of a Hatter sighting in the Tower District from Misha. He’s been keeping Corvo up to date, since the man hasn’t yet offered even a half-decent prospect for a Spymaster. “You go on, and don’t let Killian within ten feet of Ardan. That’s the last thing we need.”

“You got it, boss.”

Anyone not inclined to crowds or general celebration are permitted to stay in Rudshore. Hobson looks relieved when Daud says so, Kent barely looks up from his experiments, and Vladko and Yuri take it as permission to work on Piero’s nitpicks for their new hook mines.

Several more of his people decide to stay put, and naturally some are stationed at Dunwall Tower that night, in Corvo and Curnow’s absence. Thomas is among them, at the man’s own insistence.

“I don’t think he’s ever cut loose in his life. Born with a stick wedged right up his ass,” Rinaldo elegantly words it, upon Daud’s arrival at the Hound Pits.

“At least we know the Tower’s in good hands.” Daud has to defend the man. Thomas may be uptight to a fault, but he’s never once put his loyalty, his work as a whole, to question in Daud’s mind. “Let Thomas do as he pleases.”

This friend of Samuel’s has done a good job. The pub is almost unrecognisable from the wear and tear during Burrows’ reign. The bar area is awash with low, warm light; rich reds and greens patterning the chairs and drapes; his men and Curnow’s squad reunited in revelry, clinking beer glasses and whiskey tumblers and laughing loudly.

Curnow himself is sat talking with his niece, though he excuses himself when he spots Daud and rises to shake his hand. The Captain reiterates how seriously Thomas has taken on his role at the Tower these past weeks, not that Daud needs to be informed.

“If I could have a hundred more like Thomas, I’d never have to worry about another thing,” the man chuckles. Daud understands the sentiment.

Someone tugs on his sleeve.

Daud peers down at the young Empress. The hand not plucking at Daud’s coat is clutched in Fisher’s. “Hello, Mister Assassin.”

“Empress.”

Emily points firmly to the end of the bar. “Corvo’s over there,” she says without preamble, and then turns and pulls Fisher back to the booth they’ve claimed, table laden with paper and pencils and open books on anatomy.

Corvo’s leaned against the bar, all long legs and quiet fondness in his eyes as he nods to Daud in greeting. Samuel is pouring pints behind, and he slides a pair to the brothers, then a pair of whiskey tumblers to Ardan and Jenkins, who already look well on their way to merriment.

“Easy, you two,” Daud warns them as they pass him.

The pair nod solemnly. They’ve already been ordered not to make a scene tonight. Daud’s still hasn’t forgotten the chaos they caused Bottle Street, after one too many in Clavering. That was four fucking years ago, and Daud knows the story is still told in Slackjaw’s circles.

“I’ll keep an eye on ‘em, sir,” Samuel assures, granting Daud a warm smile as he approaches.

“Royal Advisor,” Daud greets, just to watch Corvo wither and Samuel’s face turn beet-red.

The man excuses himself, flustered, to serve some of Curnow’s men further along the bar.

Corvo gives Daud’s ankle a sharp kick when Samuel is out of earshot. “You can’t do that to him, he runs at every opportunity.”

“He’ll need to get used to hearing the title sooner or later.”

“I’m easing him into it, you fuck. Otherwise he’ll get in that boat from nerves and we’ll never see him again.”

Daud snorts at the prospect. “Man’s here to stay, bodyguard, take my word for it. Fancy title or not.”

Samuel’s devotion to Corvo is undeniable. The boatman clearly knows a worthy cause when he sees one.

Corvo’s gaze is on him, expression inscrutable. But his eyes are pleased. “You came.”

“Misery loves company.”

They don’t leave one another’s side.

Now and again, Emily scampers to her father, eagerly holding up her pictures for him to inspect, or they are joined by Galia or the twins or Samuel once again. But mostly they’re left to each other, stood together near the corner of the bar.

They smirk and bite and judge their companions, talking in low voices and aiming wry gazes across the room to their chosen target of discussion, Corvo glaring away one of Curnow’s men when he comes to offer Daud a whiskey.

Samuel does slide them some bottles of pear soda, however, when Curnow begins his toast.

“I’ll make it quick, folks, and let you all enjoy the rest of the evening.” The Captain has his arm tight around Callista’s shoulders, beaming with pride. “Thank you for joining me tonight, where it should have all happened. Where a mad and brilliant idea was born, but was lost sight of in greed and cowardice.”

Corvo’s eyes flash briefly. Daud uses the excuse of passing him the soda bottle, to brush a finger over his hand.

“But now, thanks to everyone here, thanks to these strange and unlikely alliances we’ve found, and thanks to Corvo,” Curnow tips his glass Corvo’s way, “Dunwall’s future looks bright as ever.” He raises the tumbler, “To the true Loyalists.”

“And to that mad bastard, Corvo Attano,” Ardan jeers loudly, and everyone toasts to that.

Corvo eyes his pear soda with a sharp, familiar unease. Daud takes a sip from his own, and pointedly switches their bottles. It earns him a much gentler nudge of Corvo’s boot to his ankle.

There’s another tug on his sleeve.

Emily holds a drawing up for Daud to take. “For you, Mister Assassin. You must tell all your hounds that I hope they’re doing well.”

It’s a crude likeness of Black Sally and the rest, snarling and red-eyed. Before he can summon an answer, the Empress has already returned to her seat at Fisher’s side.

(No, perhaps it’s then, surrounded by his fool mudlarks, under Corvo’s soft gaze and with his daughter’s shitty picture in his hand, that Daud feels like the richest of men.)

“There’s a matter we should discuss. Not really something for a letter.”

Well, doesn’t that sound foreboding.

“Outside?” Corvo tilts his head slightly to the doorway, and they slip away into the cool darkness of the courtyard and the orange glow of the pub’s windows, leaving the cheer muffled inside.

When Daud goes to light up a cigarette, he finds his lighter missing. Corvo shoots him a grin, backing off across the yard, knowing Daud will give chase. They blink and transverse until they reach an overlook on the side of the hound cages, Corvo relenting and tossing the lighter back to him.

They lean over the metal railings, shoulder to shoulder, Wrenhaven deep with black and blues, and glimmers of silver from the moonlight.

Corvo nods towards the Hound Pits’ small dock, at the littering of rusted wreckages peeking out above the water. “Fell in the river there, when I first got this,” he stretches the fingers of his bound hand, Mark flickering for a moment in show. “Twice. Misjudged the distance.”

Daud breathes a laugh. He can’t help himself, it’s too easy to picture; Corvo Attano, waist deep and soaked like an angry cat in river water. “Graceful. It takes some getting used to, at first.”

(It’s like breathing, now. Transversing, contorting time, feeling the magic connecting him to his men. Daud can’t remember how it felt, before. Simpler, he imagines. He doesn’t regret accepting the Outsider’s gift. Only what he’s chosen to do with it.

Most of what he’s chosen, he amends. Some good has come of his more recent choices.)

“Was that what you wanted to discuss?” Daud ribs. “You flailing in river mud?”

When silence answers him, he glances sidelong to see the Corvo’s face set in focus.

“No.” Corvo frowns slightly, as though he’s deciding how best to word it. “I’ve come to a decision, recently. And I wanted to discuss it with you first, because...”

He pauses to huff an irritated sound, like he can’t grasp at the right reason, like he can’t find the exact thing he wants to say.

“Because you have my respect,” Corvo settles on. “As a person,” he adds, sharp and specific, expression something close to what it had been in their early days, shrewd and on edge in Daud’s company. “Not as an assassin, not as Burrows’ bloodhound. But, you. As a person. You are someone I’ve come to respect. Deeply.”

Daud nods slowly, waiting. He doubts any input from him would be appreciated at present. Corvo looks ready to tear into something in discomfort, eyes hard, fingers grazing against each other restlessly.

“I have to ask how long you worked with Burrows.”

Something in Daud’s chest clenches and curls in unease. “Why.”

“Just–” Corvo goes to snap, but he visibly reins it in. “Just answer. Please.”

How long had he been cloaked in Burrows’ dank and bloody shadow. Daud knows it down to the day, but rounds it up to the year.

“Three years,” Daud almost snaps it, too. “Ending with your–” your Empress. “With your arrest.”

“He was at his most efficient during those three years. We all noticed.” Corvo nods to himself, “I thought so.”

“Then why ask,” Daud bites.

Why should Corvo want to know the details of this? Why bring Daud here and corner him about something he claims he already knows?

“I have to ask,” Corvo repeats absently, before forging ahead. “Did Hiram even lift a finger after you started working for him?”

Daud grits his teeth, grating out the word, “No.” Where the void is Corvo heading with this? Burrows is gone–

“So you knew his work inside out, what his position at the Tower involved down to the small details?”

“Yes, all of it.” Anxiety is coursing though him now. “Corvo–”

“Did you help him in any way to bring the plague here?”

The question renders Daud silent for a long moment. He stares hard at Corvo, and feels a stabbing, ruinous sting of betrayal. Does Corvo truly think that of him? Has he learned nothing of Daud, as Daud has learned of him?

“Ask me that again, and I’ll shove a blade in your eye. I knew his work. I knew nothing of his schemes. He gave me contracts. Targets to kill or abduct or threaten for information. Not a fucking plague that could chew through my men, through Fisher and the kids in seconds. Had I known of it, I would have been done with him long before that day.”

Corvo’s watching him, gaze sharp. “Would you have been?”

His tone sounds suspicious, accusing, spiteful to Daud’s ears. Daud has been mistaken, evidently, for thinking he had even an ounce of Corvo’s trust. It hurts more than it has any right to. “You think you know best, Lord Attano, clearly. You tell me whether I would have.”

Daud believes he knows where this is going. Corvo is back in a position of relative power, now, and must surely abide by laws to a degree. It explains this little rendezvous, certainly. Does the man think he’s doing Daud a courtesy, by discussing his sentence, his arrest, with him first?

Daud suddenly wants to run, wants to gather his men and flee after all, his word to Corvo be damned.

My men are yours.

It had been a desperate plea, from a desperate man. And Daud would bargain it now. Corvo can do as he wishes with him, for everything he had done under Burrows’ clever threats and promised coin. Arrest him. Have him executed. Send him to work the silver mines with Custis and Morgan shitting Pendleton, if that’s what Corvo wants.

Not his men. Daud will even claim the Arcane Bond takes their minds, their will, if that’s what it comes to; claim that they had no autonomy is any of this. But Daud won’t let Corvo sentence his people for his crimes.

“Peace, Daud. I believe you–”

“If you lay a hand on my men, then my oath to you is void.”

Corvo blinks. “What?”

“Have me arrested for all of it, if you must. But if you touch them–”

“Arrested? Daud, I’m–” Corvo’s staring at him, bemused. “I’m offering you the Spymaster position.”

And then Daud is staring. They’re both staring at one another, like empty-minded imbeciles.

“Not very well, apparently,” Corvo adds after a long moment, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve been my choice for weeks. I just needed to clear some things up, before making the offer official. Curnow’s orders. He wasn’t sure how much you knew of Burrows’ work, how involved you‘d been. Geoff insisted on a formal hearing, or meeting about it, at least. I knew you couldn’t stand that, so I–”

“Cornered me here instead. Kind of you,” Daud spits out once his head clears a little. He feels justified for it, being this angry. Feeling this fucking betrayed. Corvo’s approach to this, his questions, his mistrust, his tone, all of it, has Daud’s hackles and shame and savagery hoisted up higher than he thinks it’s ever been. “My answer is no.”

Corvo gives him an exasperated look, and that only makes more fury simmer inside him. “Geoff needed a compromise, I had to ask those questi–”

“Good for you, you had to ask. Job done. You’ve asked, and I’ve said no.”

Disappointment flits across Corvo’s face, though it’s quickly smothered by a glare. “Why?”

“Nevermind why–”

“Tell me why–”

“I don’t have to tell you ox shit, Corvo–”

“If you think I’m expecting you to say yes out of obligation, you’re wrong. I’ve gone about this wrong.” Corvo sighs, trying to pull together his words through the frustration Daud’s clearly causing him. Good.

Daud watches him collect his thoughts, errant and erratic, and usually he’d have patience enough to allow him the time he needs. But Daud enjoys seeing Corvo struggle through them now, takes a bitter sort of pleasure in seeing him fumble for what he wishes to say.

“Spit it out then.”

“Alright, alright, I’m… Let me say this better. I want you to agree because you want to, not because you’re obligated. You’re not, not in this. But you’ll have a place at the Tower, if you want it. Or you’re free to stay in Rudshore, it doesn’t matter. The role calls for keeping covert, so it would be a smart call to have a base elsewhere. It will be what you’ve already been doing, just… more official. The men, too. There’d be regular pay, protection, jobs to do, contracts. We’d keep you busy–”

“You’d keep us all spited, at your beck and call in the confines of your Tower.”

“I’m not trying to spite you,” Corvo bites, but in his eyes, void, there’s something pleading, desperate to be understood. “I want you with m– I want you at the Tower. I’m trying to offer you a chance to–”

Daud scoffs, though in the distance he feels his heart stubbornly seize at the admission. “Touching.”

The answering confusion, the discouragement, is something Daud has never seen on Corvo’s face. Before all that shitting on his trust with those questions, before Corvo’s empty talk of respect, Daud probably wouldn’t have abided the sight of it.

At that moment, he relishes it.

“I don’t fucking understand you. You’ve been Spymaster for weeks, Daud, longer. You’ve been doing the job since Emily and I left Rudshore–”

“Under no title, and certainly not in Burrows’ shoes–”

“I’m not comparing you to Hiram–”

“Do you wish me never to forget, is that it?” If Corvo is going to turn his trust into an insult, then Daud is going to return the favour in kind. “Always in Burrows’ shadow, unable for the rest of my life to escape how I helped him? Is that your plan for me–”

“That’s not–”

“Another one of Corvo Attano’s petty little games, like Campbell? The Pendletons?”

“No, it’s not like– you’re not like them, I’m just asking–”

“Haven’t you asked enough of your questions tonight–”

“Don’t be a fucking child!” Corvo snaps, eyes flashing.

“I’m the child?!” Daud realises he was can’t have been angry before, because now he’s fucking angry. “Who here snatches any shiny thing he wants, damn the consequences?! Who cannot stomach any drink offered to him just because he made a poor choice of friends?! Their betrayal is no wonder, when you use whatever ally you’re able to cling onto as a tool to spite everything that’s gone wrong in your life!”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Daud knows it’s the wrong thing to say, and he says it anyway. He enjoys saying it.

The pain on Corvo’s face is brief, and devastating, and soon replaced by a sharp and horribly calm hostility.

“Alright,” Corvo relents. “Go, then. Take your men and run to Serkonos, far away like the coward you are. Go and waste your life and start killing again or whatever you’d prefer to do over staying here and giving yourself a chance to do more of that good I’ve seen you capable of.”

Corvo steps close, eyes dead, and his voice is quiet as he says, “Forget your oath. Consider it void. If I see your face again, I’ll do what I should have done in Rudshore and carve your throat until you choke.”

Daud leaves, vision swimming in red. He curses the man, curses every decision he himself had made that hadn’t ended with Corvo Attano lying dead at the bottom of that makeshift cell opposite Cullero’s.

He’ll go, then.

(He doesn’t want to leave.)

It should take him no less than a week to get affairs in order, bribe Lizzy to take them out of this shithole city, leave Gristol and its dank grime and jellied eels and Lord Protector far behind them.

(Worlds apart, even further, Daud doesn’t want that.)

He snags a bottle of Old Dunwall when he reaches the Chamber, snarls something when Hobson comments on his return, though he has no idea what. Daud locks himself in the office, the Empress’ drawing crinkling inside his coat. Daud crumples it in his fist and discards it somewhere beneath the desk.

He takes a swig, another, shoves an audiograph card into the recorder because he has a lot to say and had he stayed and said it to Corvo’s face, one of them would probably be dead.

“Serkonos then, if it pleases you, Lord Attano. Maybe there I’ll forget how much time I’ve wasted on you and your pettiness. You’d have done me a favour had you stayed put in Coldridge and gotten your head hacked off after all.” He gulps down another mouthful, “Fuck your Spymaster position. I hope whoever else you choose puts you back in a cell in the end, or smothers you in your sleep because they realise they can’t fucking stand you and your tiring fucking ways–”

He spits his venom for a while, bottle in hand, pacing and prowling to try and stop the adrenaline from fading, needing to keep the rage going, the anger burning, before the sight of Corvo’s dead eyes slinks into his mind.

(Dead eyes.)

The regret sets in when Daud shrugs off his coat, and Pratchett’s cigarette case slips from his pocket and clatters to the floorboards. He has to steady himself on the back of the chair as the anger begins to quell.

He stops, silent at last, to lean over the desk, palms flat to its familiar surface, head bowed, breathing heavy through his nose.

Corvo’s latest letter is laid open beneath him.

Pratchett can file all the complaints he wants. If he was smart, he’d spend less time griping to the guard and more on coming up with a new safe code.

He hid (and I use the term loosely) the numbers in his paintings. The seven is larger than me. Might as well scream ‘looters welcome, help yourselves’ through the streets.

I’ve done all the digging I need on the Spymaster candidate. Trust me. He’s the right choice.

As for Geoff’s little gathering, no dressing up will be required. I’ll take you as you are, killer.

- C

“I’m the only fucking choice,” Daud mutters. Who else could do ox shit with all his information, all his contacts? Daud runs a hand over his face, “Why didn’t you just ask me, without the damn interrogation?”

(Daud knows why. Rules and regulations and Curnow wanting to be thorough. Corvo has to play by some rules, he imagines, with so many eyes on him day and night.)

Curnow’s orders, Corvo had said.

“You volunteered to question me yourself, did you? Instead of allowing the Captain to drag me into any official hearing on the matter.”

I knew you couldn’t stand that. That knowing voice, tinged with fondness.

(Corvo has learned that much about him. Has earned the right to know more than most people ever have.)

“You were right. I would have fled at even the thought of being shackled into a meeting like that. Had your intention tonight been mercy, then?”

Peace, Daud. I believe you. There was no distrust. Daud can hear it all far more clearly now, far too late.

“You could have approached it with more fucking tact.” Anyone knows it’s not wise to push him into a corner like that. Daud bites back, without necessarily intending to.

He switches off the recording, stares at the bottle of Old Dunwall for a long time.

Their betrayal is no wonder.

He deserves nothing less than a slit and bleeding throat for that.

Daud leaves the bottle be, retrieves the cigarette case instead. Something solid he’s taken as proof that, while he may have butchered any ounce of affection after tonight, he at least has Corvo’s trust.

He transverses to the Commerce roof, pouring what remains of the whiskey over the edge.

He doesn’t sleep.

He organises his contacts obsessively, thoroughly re-reads any reports Thomas and the others have brought him from Dunwall Tower, mutters curses at the parliamentary volunteers – imbeciles – currently serving as the palace’s temporary spy network.

Any anger Corvo had unwittingly summoned is transferred to Curnow, and Daud ambushes the man the next morning, at the Tower itself.

“Captain.”

Curnow flinches as Daud snarls the title.

They’re in an empty corridor on the upper floors, the walls draped in Emily Kaldwin’s crest and the carpet beneath his boots rich blue and lined with gold. Daud supposes he better get used to these sights.

Curnow’s surprise at seeing him there is evident, as is his unease as Daud stalks closer. “Daud. Thomas didn’t tell me you were–”

“The next time you wish to interrogate me, be a man and put yourself to the task. Or has Corvo not done enough of others’ dirty work,” he bites through his teeth, savouring the slight fear he sees surface in Curnow’s eyes.

He doesn’t give the Captain a chance to respond. “I–”

“Now, while my people and I sort out the excuse your Tower has for a spy network, let the Lord Protector know he’ll have to tolerate keeping my throat uncut, if he wants an able Spymaster.”

Chapter Text

Not much changes, following the title. 

It’s almost precisely what he was doing before; scouting out information, squeezing contacts, sniffing out secret after secret. 

Only now, he has the Tower, its resources, and all its support at his back. 

“We’ve gone legal!” Jenkins keeps jeering, because he’s an idiot. 

The legality of it all means little, to be honest. The role calls for an absurd amount of leniency from the law. 

Serve the Empress, spy on the state is the Royal Spymaster’s overarching decree. Outside of that, there are few rules and regulations that Daud actually has to abide to do his job. 

Suits him just fine. 

There’s no formal recognition of the Spymaster position being filled. Daud merely shows up one day in court, and when one official remarks on his presence with a snivelly, snide comment, Corvo just says “Nevermind him,” and Daud continues his silent scrutiny of the session unimpeded. 

The previous, temporary spy network had consisted of volunteer officials who squabbled amongst themselves, and courtiers who squawked their supposed secrets for all to hear. It was pulled apart like flimsy ribbon in less than two days. 

Daud had had them gather in the Tower’s billiard room, and proceeded to expose information about them that even their families didn’t know, as any spy worth their salt should have. 

They all stepped down the next day, with their tails tucked between their legs, to go back to the comfort of their manors and the leisurely life better suited for them. 

Good riddance. 

Curnow had been impressed. 

(Impressed, and ever-so slightly uneasy, as he always is in Daud’s presence after their brief meeting in the hallway. The Captain had it coming, in Daud’s defence, putting both he and Corvo on the spot as he had.) 

Thomas had been relieved. He’d had to work with them since the day Daud first sent him frequenting the Tower. Daud feared the man was soon to lose his mind, if he were saddled with them any longer. 

“Hm,” was all Corvo had said on the matter, but the hum held a tinge of approval. It was the most emotion Daud’s heard from him, since the Hound Pits. 

They haven’t spoken since he accepted the offer, two months prior. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. They have to speak, their paths cross so often. Their roles require synchronicity, require them both to be on the same page at all times. But it’s all strictly business. Terse words, spoken briskly. They barely look at each other. 

Daud’s disregard is fuelled by shame and stubbornness. And Corvo’s, of course, is only out of spite. 

Notes are passed more often than words are exchanged, equally curt. 

Primshall suspicious. Search the manor.  

Dealt with.  

Daud can work with it. 

(It’s unbearable.) 

It doesn’t bother him. 

(It bothers him immensely.) 

There had been a moment, a temporary truce, around a week ago. 

Daud had uncovered the early stages of a very poor – embarrassingly poor – assassination plan targeting Emily. He had snorted within his office at the Tower, and Rulfio had to smother his own laughter on Daud’s shoulder while reading through his breakdown of the information. 

It was so doomed to fail, Daud had considered not even informing Corvo. But even the whisper of a threat to the Empress needed to be passed along. 

There are rules and regulations to be followed on that. 

Daud had found Corvo in the gardens. Emily begged to be taught to fence, following the coronation. 

It’s one of the rare times Corvo looks truly himself around the Tower, where he lets that mask of rank and indifference fall; blade in hand, feet moving freely, the hint of a smile in his eyes. Daud catches glimpses of him running the ramparts sometimes, when palace life becomes too stifling. 

(Daud misses sparring with him.) 

“Lord Protector.” 

Corvo’s eyes ice over instantly. Though Emily grants Daud a little wave, hair sticking to her forehead from exertion. 

“A moment.” 

Corvo cants his head in a short nod, telling Emily to work on her form. Galia and Rapha are already near to watch the girl, so Corvo follows Daud inside the Tower. Both of them are itching to simply transverse and blink across the spaces, through the corridors, it would be faster by far. 

(But, rules and regulations. Might be awkward, if both the Royal Protector and Spymaster were exposed as heretics. Particularly with the candidates for High Overseer being presented next month.) 

Daud stands at his desk, indicating the information laid on top, giving Corvo permission to read it at his leisure. Corvo does, eyes narrowed, silent and intrigued. 

And then bemused. “What.” 

“I know.” 

“Is this real?” 

“I wish it wasn’t, it’s an embarrassment.” 

Corvo leans near, brushing Daud’s shoulder, to read the paper in his hand. “This is mortifying. Are they even trying? I almost want to see how far they manage to get.” 

“They’ll get nowhere. Private Reid in Curnow’s retinue could stop it if he wanted to.” 

“Private Reid…? Remind me.” 

“The one who holds his sword like it’s a fucking pencil.” 

Corvo snorts, mouth curling, and he shifts his gaze as Daud turns his own slightly, their faces close. There’s a moment of warmth, of something, before Corvo’s eyes harden, before Daud swallows any apology clawing up his throat. Before they both stubbornly step away. 

“Deal with it.” 

“Consider it done.” 

(Daud misses their conversations.) 

Despite this rift between them that seems determined to endure, the work in an official capacity has suited Daud well so far. 

More than well. 

He thrives. 

Corvo was right, he and his men are always kept busy; never stood idle or wanting for a task, never left craving purpose or grasping for an outlet for their restlessness. 

(His first week at the Tower, Daud tries to imagine Billie following him here, on this path, to this destination. But he can’t. He knows she wouldn’t have. Too much anger, too much resentment for palaces, for the kinds of people inside their walls. 

She told him little about Duke Abele’s son, and even less about her Deidre. She wouldn’t have stepped foot inside Dunwall Tower, not even if Daud had asked her to.) 

Rudshore still stands as their base of operations, for now. Some of the men remain, though most, Daud included, move daily between the Flooded and Tower Districts, gradually inching out into the light, out of hiding, their faces becoming familiar on the palace grounds. 

No one asks where they all come from or how they were recruited. The Royal Spymaster may chose his own retinue, and with Daud’s reputation swiftly circulating the Tower, now on par with Corvo’s for stirring fear and stopping questions, no one dares to ask. 

“Sir!” Fisher still doesn’t fucking knock, even living in a palace. “Sir, did’ja hear? There’s gonna be a ball!” 

“Don’t remind me.” 

Fisher and the others are permanent residents, on Corvo’s orders and with Emily’s eager agreement. They now live in comfort; warm, clothed well, and always fed. If nothing else had come of Daud accepting the offer, it would be worth it for that alone. 

Apparently it’s protocol, for the Empress to have a playmate or two, and for the choice of whom to be solely Emily’s. Some high-borns balk at Fisher’s common tongue, or at Dodge’s tendency to sneak silent through the halls at odd hours, or at Cleon’s penchant for sprinting everywhere. Corvo’s glare soon silences any cross word about them. 

Alexi is her friend, he had sworn in writing, and will be treated as such.  

Though a few years older, and now in training with Curnow’s squad for the guard at her request, Fisher is rarely far from Emily’s side. 

Callista has her hands full with them both. They like shirking their lessons, pretending to be pirates, playing sword fights with sticks, climbing to the rooftops. 

Daud always has someone stationed up high, keeping an eye on the pair of them. 

“Miss Callista says I gotta wear a gown tonight.” Fisher wrinkles her nose as she says the word. “The shit is a gown, Sir?” 

“A dress.” 

“Cleon and Dodge don’t gotta wear nothin’ like that! I don’t wanna wear no dress.” 

“Don’t, then. Tell Miss Curnow I forbade it, if you must.” 

Fisher bounces on her toes, overjoyed. “So are you comin’ too, Sir? Emily said there’s gonna be food and dancin’ and music, it sounds so fun!” 

“To the void with Her Majesty’s fun,” Daud mutters under his breath. 

To usher in the Month of Seeds, the Tower’s inner circle has been pressured by parliament into hosting a celebration. For morale, is the excuse. 

Daud sees through it. As normality has gradually returned, nobles and courtiers have likewise returned to making their ridiculous fancies known; their evident desperation for an excuse to dress up and be seen, to flounce and gossip and hoist their reputations.  

(This month now ending, the Month of Earth, had brought with it the anniversary of Jessamine Kaldwin’s death. It had been decided there was to be no commemoration this year. The city’s recovery is being put first, everyone insisting that’s what the previous Empress would have wanted. 

Daud had stayed far from the Tower that day, and no one had seen Corvo or Emily until the following morning.) 

Corvo had argued what he could on the celebration, obviously no keener than Daud on the idea. The ball is a humble gathering by the Tower’s standards; no more than a select hundred people, including security. 

(A handful of Daud’s men – Thomas, Rulfio, Rinaldo, Galia, and a few others – are technically guests of the Crown, though Daud knows they’re the real security. Even Curnow’s hand-picked guards can hardly compare.) 

“Piss off and get ready for your party, Private Mayhew.” Fisher always beams whenever someone uses her new title. “And gown or not, bring your wristbow,” Daud adds. “What does Rulf always say.” 

“If a prissy noble’s askin’ for a bolt in their head, it’d be rude not to oblige ‘em,” Fisher recites. “Now that’d be a party. ‘Specially if that hagfish Ramsey’s there.” 

Mortimer Ramsey is there, in garish silver trim amongst the snake-pit of his peers. 

The Tower’s foyer is awash with splendour that night. Daud vaguely wonders if this is what the Boyle Party had been like, inside the Estate. 

(He wants to ask Corvo. Wants to know whether he ever found the Boyle cameo. Thinks Corvo would tease him, if Daud admitted to almost shooting Lord Shaw during their duel all those months ago.) 

Two long tables, adorning a banquet of delicacies from across the Isles, stand at either side of the room, leaving the centre open for dancing or mingling or whatever takes people’s fancy; garlands of blue and gold are draped across the stairway’s railings and hang down from the upper floors; musicians are docked in one corner, strings and keys in harmony; the guests are bejewelled and swathed in their fineries, prattling aimlessly. 

“This is their idea of low key?” Rinaldo murmurs from his side. 

Daud just gives an uninterested shrug. Let these highborns ponce the night away in their suits and heels, if it pleases them. He only hopes the alcohol will loosen a few tongues and let slip something useful, so this farce will have been worth the trouble. 

“Just stay alert. This many wealthy rats in one place, someone’s bound to get cocky.” 

Rinaldo smirks, amused, when Corvo passes them by. “Enjoying yourself, Attano?” 

“Fuck off, Rin,” Corvo warns through gritted teeth, steering the Empress to greet yet another eager, brown-nosing noble couple. 

(He’s adorned in black and deep blues, ornate enough to pass for finery. But any trained eye knows it’s more for function than fashion. His hair is tied half back, the rest loose on his shoulders. He’s shaved. 

He’s a vision, and Daud is quietly furious every time his eyes traitorously stray towards the man.) 

Corvo’s been making the rounds with Emily for the past hour, offering expected welcomes and feigned gratitude for attending the celebration. He stands a tall sentinel behind his daughter, sharp eyes flitting to hands that stray too close or move too quickly to their pockets. 

Though once it’s done, Emily scurries off to one of the banquet tables where Fisher awaits her. Gown-less and grinning, Fisher is head-to-toe in guard regalia which Daud assumes she’d pilfered from the barracks. 

“It’s practice for when I’m older and a Captain,” she says to Corvo proudly. “Tonight, I can be an assistant Lord Protector!” 

It earns her an indulgent almost-smile. “Since my charge is in good hands, does that mean I can leave?” 

It does not, and the evening moves onward. 

The girls shove a tart each into their mouths, chattering and spitting crumbs. 

Pratchett is raving to the Royal Physician and Ramsey’s much more agreeable brother about the robbery. “It was two months ago, Pratchett,” Sokolov barks. “Get a grip, man!” 

Curnow’s niece chastises Cleon and Dodge for running amongst the guests, after Dodge knocks an elbow and a wine glass spills. 

Corvo storms over to Daud at one point, tugs the lapel of his collar straight without a word, and then storms off again. 

Thomas is being harassed by a circle of very interested courtiers, two of whom are lamenting the fact they aren’t yet married. 

Mortimer Ramsey aims a glimpse Corvo’s way, and then examines the array of champagne flutes. 

Rulfio and Rinaldo are blocking Piero’s exit from the foyer. “No, you both don’t understand, I have a grand idea, I must write it down!” 

Galia looks bored shitless. 

“I don’t know how many times I can keep telling those boys.” Callista is pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. 

“They’re kids,” Corvo points out, not unkindly, “they’re going to run.” 

“Not during a ball, Corvo.” 

Corvo wraps a consoling arm around her shoulders when she draws nearer. He says something quiet, close to her ear, that makes her laugh. 

Daud feels his lip curl in irritation. 

“This is dull as the void, boss.” 

Galia’s made her way over, and slumps against Daud’s side before swiftly straightening to grant a respectful nod at a passing noble. 

“Don’t suppose it’d be right to start spreadin’ a rumour,” she whispers from the corner of her mouth, “and watch Shaw and Thornburrow go at each other with butter knives?” 

Daud nudges her shoulder with his, “Don’t tempt me.” He spares another glance at a flustered Thomas, and decides to take pity. “Keep an eye on this side of the room.” 

After fending off Miss White, the most eager of Thomas’ attackers, Daud procures a glass of Orbon rum from the banquet table and hands it off to him. 

“Just one. For your courage,” he offers wryly, and Thomas downs it in a single gulp. 

“Why me.” 

“Take it as a compliment, Thomas. They’re a picky lot, and you’ve taken their fancy.” 

“They can take it back.” 

Daud snorts. Then he sees Mortimer Ramsey approaching Corvo across the room, with a champagne flute in each hand. There’s a suspicious air of innocence about him. His steps are sure, loaded with intent. 

“Lord Protector! A pleasure to see you grace us with your presence this evening.” 

Corvo’s answering smile is thin and doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “Mm.”

Ramsey should be used to Corvo’s cold reception by now, but he still blinks, visibly offended. “Aah– yes,” the officer clears his throat. “I must congratulate you on your latest victory in court. Most impressive, the way you dealt with Primshall. He certainly won’t be showing his face in public any time soon.” 

“We can hope.” 

“Ah hah, indeed, indeed.” Daud watches a smirk twitch at Ramsey’s mouth. “Why don’t we toast to the occasion, then?” 

He holds out one of the flutes, bubbling gold. He might as well be pointing a pistol, the way Corvo’s eyes flash to it. 

“What’s the matter, Lord Attano?” Ramsey may be a hagfish, but even he catches it. “A little champagne won’t hurt anyone. You’re not going to publicly offend a man by refusing a toast with him, are you,” he coaxes, eyes darting around to make sure they have an audience. He clearly hasn’t forgotten the belittling Corvo had given him in court about the blockades. “Oh, but I forgot. I heard a little rumour, that you don’t even let the maids bring you tea. That’s quite odd, isn’t it.” 

(Daud will need to threaten the kitchen staff, evidently; ferret out whichever rat has a brash tongue, warn them off discussing matters that don’t damn well concern them.) 

“You aren’t afraid, are you?” 

The slight flicker of fear in Corvo’s eyes has Daud’s Mark flickering in kind, poised to bring time to a halt if he must. There are a lot of eyes on the pair, now. 

“Surely the great Corvo Attano isn’t scared of a little something to drink? Come, join me in a toast, the same as everybody else!” Ramsey smiles freely now, gleeful and gloating. “No? Well, if I am to drink alone, then–” 

Daud watches Corvo snatch and swallow the champagne in one go, looking a horrified Ramsey in the eyes as he does. 

“Never liked champagne.” Corvo places the empty flute back into the nobleman’s outstretched hand. “If you’re finished with your little shit fit, Mortimer, there are people I actually need to talk to.” 

Ramsey is left gawping, flushed with embarrassment and disappointment. 

Daud watches Corvo like a hawk for the next half hour. No one else notices, no one else is looking, but Daud knows him, knows his small tells. 

His jaw is tight as he speaks to Sokolov, shoulders too drawn as he shadows Emily while she tells Mrs Blair about her sword lessons; his fingers are stock-still at his sides where they’d normally be restlessly fidgeting with something. 

His eyes glaze over, sometimes, like he’s concentrating hard on something no one else can see. He starts breathing quickly in brief moments, before he refocuses. 

(Daud wants to drag him off so he can be alone, get him away from all these people. He can fucking see the idiot losing his grip, clear as day. Surely someone else will clock it, sooner or later.) 

Daud loses him near the stairway. Curses Crawford under his breath when the man blocks his view for too long, and when he finally moves, Corvo’s gone. 

He scans the crowd in vain, becoming a little desperate, but then Fisher catches his eye and jerks her head toward the north-east doors, upstairs. 

(At least someone’s paying attention. A fourteen-year-old, more in tune than the entirety of Curnow’s squad tonight. For shame. The girl will make a fine Captain yet, and Daud will credit it to her, but first, Corvo.) 

Daud trails him to one of the balconies. The door leading there is left ajar in Corvo’s dash for air, evening breeze making the drapes inside the corridor sway. 

Leaned over the edge, vast view of the Tower District lit up before him, he’s struggling for breath, knuckles white and hands shaking, gripping the balcony’s stone banister. 

Daud closes the door behind him, quiet as possible, but it still makes Corvo flinch. 

He’s breathing far too fast, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to gasp whatever bursts of air he’s able to. 

(Daud  knew the man couldn’t keep a handle on it, he could fucking see it, stupid spiteful bastard just had to prove a point.) 

Daud takes a step– 

“Fuck off,” Corvo snarls at him over his shoulder. 

It’s how the hounds in Rudshore snap their teeth, when they’re afraid. Daud knows an empty threat when he hears one. 

He treads closer, as Corvo continues to shake with his back to him. Daud takes a calculated risk – a damn high risk, considering Corvo’s blade is sheathed close against his hip – and lays a hand on his arm. 

Corvo whips around to him instantly, Mark flashing, “Stay the fuck away from me, I don’t want your hel–” The warning breaks mid-word, another panicked breath cutting him off, and when Daud takes the other arm in hand, Corvo surges forward, grasping Daud’s coat and burying himself close. He shoves his head hard into Daud’s shoulder with this frustrated, scared sound, “Fuck, fuck, what if he– the drink, what if it was–” 

“It wasn’t.” Daud realises he’s frozen, with Corvo’s face smushed against the rich red fabric of his coat, and he silently bites at himself to take some damn control of the situation. He brings one hand to card into Corvo’s hair, firm against the back of his neck; the other grips tightly around one of Corvo’s wrists, two fingers on his pulse, holding the hand against his chest as the man clutches at his collar. “It wasn’t–” 

“You d-n’t know th-t,” Corvo tries to snap again, but it’s stifled by Daud’s shoulder. He presses himself closer, as though he’s trying to hide from something, somewhere, as though Daud can shield him. “H-he wants me gone, like th-they did, and Emily–” 

“Nevermind Emily, Thomas and the others are with her.” Like they did, the Loyalists? Where does Corvo think he is? “She’s safe, you’re in the Tower–” 

“I fucking know where I am,” Corvo hisses. “I can’t fucking think–” 

“You’re breathing too quickly–” 

“H-he tried to–” 

“Ramsey did nothing.” Besides humiliate himself .  

“He c-could– he could have done something t-to it–”  

Daud tightens the grip on the back of Corvo’s neck to ground him, to bring him back from whatever reality his mind is trying to trap itself in. “I was watching him, I would have seen it–” 

“But it–” 

“It wasn’t poisoned.” 

“You don’t know that–” 

“Then I’ll stay.” It’s the right thing to say. Corvo falls silent, pressed into Daud’s chest; breaths still coming too fast against the side of his neck. “I’ll stay, until we’re certain.” 

He’s done this for his men, so he can damn well do it now. Billie, once, years ago. Andrei, after Killian was thought to be captured by overseers and taken to Holger Square, before he’d made his miraculous return. Tynan, after the music. 

Daud’s no fucking good at comfort, but to the void with leaving someone he cares for to weather such a storm alone. 

And there’s so much reliance, so much trust in the way Corvo clings to him, that Daud’s legs are going weak; inside his chest, something constricts, winding tighter and tighter until it’s desperation, until it’s a need to provide whatever comfort he can; his fingers keep threading themselves in Corvo’s hair before he remembers himself. 

(Were it someone other than Daud who followed him here, would Corvo have let them bear witness to this? Surely not. Knowing him as he does, the only answer Daud can find in any scenario is a clear, resounding no. 

Corvo would have told them to fuck off, and then made them fuck off. He’s let Daud remain here with him. Because Daud has his trust. If this doesn’t prove it, Daud doesn’t know what would.) 

Corvo’s breaths become less strained minute by minute, and Daud feels the tremors gradually subside under his hands, the man’s pulse calming under his fingers. 

Though a knock on the balcony’s doors startles them both. Corvo flinches as Daud does, jolting in his arms and ready to bolt, before Daud tightens his hold on him. 

“Corvo?” Emily, voice tinny and muffled from inside the corridor. “Are you out here?”  

“Get rid of her,” Corvo orders, another shuddering breath blunting the sharpness of his words. “D-don’t– please don’t let her see.” 

Daud draws away after another firm squeeze to the back of Corvo’s neck, and strides silently to the doors, making sure they stay closed. “Empress.”

"Oh. Mister Assassin, you’re here?” She sounds pleasantly surprised. “ Are you two talking again? That’s good. Corvo’s been sad since you stopped being friends.”  

Excellent, as if Daud needed another reason for his heart to crack close to shattering entirely. 

“I just wanted to make sure he was alright after talking to that slimy old officer. Father doesn’t usually drink anything other people give him. But if you’re becoming friends again, then I’ll leave you alone. Callista hasn’t noticed how late it is yet, and I promised to teach Alexi to dance before we have to go to bed.”  

Her footsteps trot away down the hall, and then fade. 

Daud turns back, and Corvo’s slumped over the balcony’s edge again, breaths slower, stance less prepared to fight or flee at any given moment. 

“Sees far too much, that girl.” 

“I didn’t realise she’d noticed.” 

“She’s vigilant. Not a bad thing.” 

“No.” Corvo’s shoulders tense up, as Daud walks carefully to his side again. Daud catches the man’s cold, embarrassed expression, half obscured behind his hair. “You don’t need to stay anymore, I’m fine.” 

Daud hums. So that’s still how it's going to be. He doesn’t rise to it. “You’re in no condition to threaten me away, I’ll take my chances.” 

Corvo’s gaze slides sidelong to him, and whatever he sees on Daud’s face makes him turn his head away, stubborn and ashamed. “You don’t have to tell me how childish I am, you did that already–” 

“I don’t think that of you, I never could.”  Daud snaps it harshly, cutting Corvo off because he’s decided he’s done with these regrets; done with the stubbornness and the shame and the spite of both of them. They’re not worlds apart anymore, and yet it’s felt like it for weeks, and surely that is the childish thing.

Daud wants it finished with. 

“Can we be done with this,” he says aloud, and its gruff, and irritated, but it’s a plea all the same, and he hopes Corvo can hear it. 

He doesn’t know how to say it any softer. He’s not sure Corvo would believe it, if he offered his apology any other way. 

“I misunderstood you that night. What you said, what you asked me, I thought you were putting your trust in me to question, and it made me angry, foolish. It was my pride, my failure. You deserved none of what the Loyalists did to you, and I meant none of what I said. I was ashamed, and I lashed out, as you know I do. I’d take it back, if I could.” 

Corvo is still, now; no more trembling, no more harried breaths or panic. He’s listening. 

And Daud watches as a hundred snide replies flit through Corvo’s mind, all undoubtedly cutting and clever. 

Corvo shakes his head, dismissing all of them. “I didn’t say anything how I wanted to, at the Hound Pits,” he admits quietly instead. “I couldn’t figure out how to word it–” 

“I didn’t give you the chance.” 

“I approached it badly–” 

“I handled it badly.” 

Corvo‘s eyes finally settle on him, and the corner of his mouth pulls up in amusement at Daud’s pointed interruptions. “I should have just asked you. Ignored what Geoff wanted–” 

“You had rules and protocol to abide,” Daud cuts him off again, allowing some stubbornness because he’ll not let Corvo apologise for a mistake that was wholly his own. “I know that, now, I understand after being here. I didn’t, at the time. You know my men and I,” he adds dryly. “No rules.” 

Corvo hums. “Criminals.” 

“Utterly lawless.” 

“Worse rabble than Slackjaw and Stride’s gangs combined.” 

“Low blow, bodyguard.” 

Corvo knocks Daud’s ankle gently with the toe of his boot, and Daud thinks he himself breathes easier than he has in two months. 

“Can we be done with this, now?” he asks again, and it does come softly, more softly than he’d ever expect himself capable. He’s missed this more than he’d realised. Daud may as well say it, he’s said all the other difficult shit already. “I’ve missed our conversations.” 

Corvo glances at him again, and Daud considers it a record; to have surprised Corvo Attano so many times in the space of one evening. 

“So have I,” Corvo says, clearly pleased by Daud’s admission. It’s in his eyes; warmth and fondness lightened by the glow of lights from the District beneath them. “Thomas isn’t as fun.” 

“Because he’s too polite to attack you when you pickpocket him?” 

“I have so much of his coin,” Corvo says, and Daud shakes with silent laughter. “I don’t actually think he can tolerate another day, I’m convinced he’s planning my death in secret.” 

“He’ll make it look like an accident.” 

“Probably push me off something.” 

“Or resort to poison.” 

“Low blow, killer.” Corvo lets himself sink sideways, head falling to rest on Daud’s shoulder. “I hate feeling that way.” His voice comes both bone-weary and relieved at the same time. “That panic. Not being able to breathe, thinking you’re going to die. That’s what it feels like while it’s happening, anyway.” 

Daud wants to rest his head on top of Corvo’s, in the face of this rift between them at last being bridged. He resists. “It’s happened before?” 

“Hm. When I was younger, after I came here and my mother… And one other time, recently. Samuel made tea and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I thought I could handle it.” Corvo snorts at himself, self-derisive. “I couldn’t, obviously.” 

Daud’s resolve crumbles, and he allows his head to tilt. Corvo’s hair is soft under his cheek. “Did he see?” 

“No. I made some stupid excuse and ran.” 

“I doubt your boatman would poison you, bodyguard.” 

“I didn’t say it made sense. I’ll be the first to admit there’s no logic behind it.” 

“I suppose it’s not as though your fear is entirely unwarranted. Though, if I have to taste every one of those damned teas, you’ll have worse things coming for you than Thomas.” 

Corvo breathes a laugh, low and delighted, pressing his grin into Daud’s shoulder. 

“Spare me that, and switch to coffee,” Daud says against his hair, “like a respectable fucking Serkonan.” 

They stay there a while, shoulder to shoulder, biting at one another in the dim evening light as they haven’t done in weeks. 

When they return to the party together, they remain hidden on the floors above for what remains of the night. No one sees them enter. 

No one except Emily. She smiles when she spots them, satisfied, and then her attention is all Fisher’s once again as she leads her through a waltz. 

Chapter Text

The year following the rat plague is a long one, and Daud finds a peace he hasn’t known before. 

Perhaps he had, once, in his earliest days; in the heat of Serkonos, with his mother’s soft voice and her sure, clever hands.

With his men safe, paid by the Crown and secured as the Spymaster’s retinue, Daud had grown content with his situation at the Tower, and his choice to stay in Dunwall, during those first few months. 

Following the evening with Ramsey and the champagne and the rest, contentment begins to shift, however gradually, into something more. The rift with Corvo is healed, their alliance reinstated once again, and Daud would be a fool not to acknowledge the correlation between those facts and that gradually growing feeling.

Daud would accuse it as happiness, perhaps, if he were a less pessimistic man. Though whatever sentiment he is capable of, however shrivelled and disused it is, he keeps coming back to that word. Happiness. He’s convinced it isn’t possible, for someone like himself. 

But still. The months roll on. That feeling only becomes more steady, more sure in itself.

The Month of Seeds brings politics from the Abbey into play, and widespread fear among the courtiers whenever the Royal Protector and Spymaster grace a parliamentary meeting together. 

They work as well together in court as they do anywhere. Corvo is sharp while he speaks, shrewd and insightful while he listens, and Daud, of course, watches everything. Knows everything. He has every courtier’s secrets in his deck, and he plays them ruthlessly. 

(Mortimer Ramsey, he ruins. The man leaves the next gathering with his reputation shattered. Daud makes sure he knows it’s his comeuppance for the little show he’d put on at the celebration. 

Corvo doesn’t say a word in that meeting. Lounges back and lets Daud talk, eyes narrowed in satisfaction like a cat lazing in the sun.) 

They meet to deliberate the best option for High Overseer in Corvo’s quarters. There are no more notes, now, no more passing glares or cold, brisk words. 

Corvo bids him entry when he knocks, though he cocks his head, surprised, when he sees who it is. “You knock?” 

“Apparently I’m the only person in this palace who does.”

Corvo smirks, then motions him over, eyes flitting over the papers in his hand. “Be warned, we have so much shit to get through.” 

“Let’s get it over with, then.” 

They go over the candidates, Corvo perched on the edge of his desk, Daud sat behind. They narrow it down to two; Yul Khulan, and a Giles Windham. 

When Corvo returns from the kitchens with a coffee in one hand and the shittest tea known to man in the other, Daud says, “Not Windham.”

Corvo doesn’t question him, doesn’t mention the overseer’s seemingly spotless reputation. Just hands off the coffee and asks, “What have you found on him?” 

“He’s been having an affair with a Watch officer for the past two years.” An officer Darion. “There are letters.” 

“A little in violation of the sixth stricture, then.” 

“A little,” Daud repeats dryly. “Khulan is clean. I found nothing.” And Daud can always find something. “He’s your man.” 

“So it appears.” Corvo places his tea down on the desk and snatches up a pen and blank piece of parchment. He doesn’t use the desk; instead he perches once more, resting the paper down against his leg. “Guess I’ll compose some congratulations, then. Do you think it’s ironic?” 

“Can’t say. Because I haven’t been looped into whatever conversation you’ve begun in your head.” 

Corvo smiles down at the paper, amused. “Two heretics, choosing the next High Overseer. It’s ironic. Funny, when you think about it.” 

“Your humour is appalling. Write your congratulations and think less, bodyguard, you’ll do us all a favour.” 

Corvo’s smile only curves further. It warms Daud far more than the dim heat of the fireplace nearby. 

(Corvo in firelight is a sight. The flames flare orange in his eyes; the flicker casts shadows along the sharpness of his jaw. Daud wants to trace the shape of it with his fingers.) 

He flexes his hands to stay off the thought, and takes the opportunity, with Corvo distractedly scratching pen to paper, to examine the quarters around him. Daud had been too occupied investigating Khulan, he’d not glanced up from the desk long enough to indulge in a proper look. 

Dark drapes and bed a mess of rumpled sheets, unmade. Coat tossed over the back of a chair near the door. The room is cluttered with useless oddities; expensive trinkets and strange keepsakes, things made of whalebone displayed atop cupboards and glimmering crystals of blacks and blues and purples dotted about shelves. 

“How much of this junk is stolen, bodyguard?” 

Corvo aims a wry look his way, and pointedly doesn’t answer. The man is evident everywhere here; the more Daud looks, the more he discovers, and the more fond he grows of the space. More shiny, useless crap scattered here and there, definitely pilfered. Some of Emily’s drawings pinned proudly to a board. 

Daud wanders to the bookshelves, which are stacked to the brim. He examines the titles. Fiction, all of them. The book lying open near the bed is something about pirates and a lost voyage. 

Daud can see now where the young Empress has inherited her love of ridiculous stories. 

(Daud prefers books of logic, practical and informative. His mother used to tell him stories, though; tales of witchcraft and piracy and voyages to far off places, full of danger and magic. He thinks he could never stomach fiction, never concentrate on the words, without his mother’s low and gentle voice.) 

There’s a piano slotted in one corner. 

(Plays piano.) 

“Guessed right,” Daud mutters to himself.

Corvo gives an inquisitive hum, though his gaze remains on the letter. 

“Nothing,” Daud dismisses, and gives a couple of the keys a triumphant, if off-tune, skim as he passes. 

The Month of Nets brings the beginning of colder days in Dunwall, and with them, Corvo’s birth date. 

Khulan’s ascension is a small and humble affair, at the overseer’s own request. Daud is still reluctant to admit that he likes the man, but he does. Khulan has an easy humour that isn’t often found in his kind; is fair with his followers, and down-to-earth around those not of the cloth; doesn’t preach the strictures at any given moment, which puts him a step above the rest of his lot. 

Still, Daud keeps his Mark covered in the man’s company, and makes certain Corvo does the same. Can’t be too careful around cultists, however agreeable they may prove themselves to be. 

Daud savours what he can of the season’s remaining warmth. Spars with Corvo and trains with his own men as often as he can, on the Tower’s grounds and in Rudshore, to keep them all sharp for the colder, more challenging months to come. 

“Fall is where politics starts to get complicated,” Corvo warns him, when they disarm to catch their breath on the rooftops opposite the Refinery. “You know when those Pandyssian bears go into hiding and sleep during the cold?” 

Daud gives a hesitant, bemused nod. 

“Courtiers do the opposite.” 

Daud withers. “Wonderful.” 

He mentally prepares for that pleasure, alongside weighing the pros and cons of potential new turfs for their base away from the Tower. Rudshore will be drained and reclaimed as the Financial District eventually, though no one’s mentioned it aloud as of yet. It’s only expected. It has to be repurposed sooner or later. 

(Daud finds himself strangely calm about the prospect. It’s merely a place, a shelter sought when they lived in the shadows that’s held a myriad of fond and miserable memories alike. Daud has his troupe of idiots, who are now safe and thriving. A place matters little in comparison to that.) 

Midway through the month, Emily finds him sparring with Rulfio in the palace gardens. She waits patiently on the sidelines until she’s noticed and granted a bow from each of them. 

She approaches Daud. “It’s the Month of Nets.” 

Daud raises a questioning brow. 

Emily looks at him in pointed silence. “Corvo’s birth date is the twenty-fifth day.” 

“I’m aware.” 

Emily nods, satisfied. “He’s going to need a gift, then.” It’s more a threat than a suggestion, and the girls turns her back without another word and strides away. 

(Same stride as her father, cold and sure-footed. She’s going to be tall, Daud finds himself thinking. She’s slowly growing into those long legs, becoming less scrawny and more lithe as she continues her training. She’s looking more like Corvo, day by day.) 

“I’m just thinking out loud,” Rulfio says at his side, “but I reckon she was hinting at something there.” 

“Behold. The Spymaster’s best and brightest,” Daud replies dryly. He swipes his blade out and knocks Rulfio’s from his grip, as well, just to be petty.  

They both watch it clatter to the floor. “Well that was just a bit petulant, wasn’t it.” 

Daud does spare a thought for the date, though, later that evening with a pile of his men’s reports in front of him.

What do you gift a man who just steals anything he likes the look of? 

The idea comes from Feodor’s report, regarding the building acting as Dunwall’s temporary commercial bank. An old courthouse in the Legal District, high security, a few of Sokolov’s inventions installed. Feodor has caught word of forged documents and an illegitimate fortune being deposited there by a Kenneth Doyle, who has risen up in society with alarming and suspicious speed. A stolen fortune and forged lineage could explain it, but they need proof. 

“Can’t spare any of the men,” is Daud’s excuse, when he offhandedly mentions Doyle and his inexplicable fortune to Corvo on the morning of the twenty-third day. It’s a white lie, of course. Both Feodor and Leonid were preparing to infiltrate the bank, but Daud has dismissed them. “I know it isn’t exactly a job for the Lord Protector, but I’d appreciate–” 

“When do you need the proof by?” Corvo cuts across him, almost bouncing on his toes with excitement. The man’s been cooped up inside the palace walls far too long, evidently. 

Daud takes Corvo’s duties the next day, while the felon otherwise engaged. He finds Doyle’s forged documents, the legitimate papers, and letters detailing the lineage forgery on his desk that same afternoon, all immaculately organised. 

He’s heard nothing of any alarms ringing in the Legal District, so he assumes it was a success. 

There’s a note placed beside the evidence. 

Everything should be there. Should we expose Doyle publicly or pay him a visit at home? Choice is yours.  

If you hear of Estermont’s vaults being emptied, that was someone else.  

 - C  

On the twenty-fifth day itself, Daud’s men think they’re subtle. No one openly acknowledges the date, instead handing off small gifts to Corvo throughout the day with progressively more ludicrous and feigned excuses. Corvo indulges each of them, amusement glinting in his eyes. 

(Daud’s people are pack animals, and it’s clear now that Corvo has been wholly embraced as one of their own. It’s no longer guilt or Daud’s orders or an oath that guides their devotion. It's an earned loyalty, a fierce affection for both Corvo and his daughter. Though it’s possible they’ve only followed Daud’s lead on the matter.) 

When Daud joins Corvo in his quarters that evening, as has become their daily tradition, he spies a half-open scroll on the desk. He gives it a nudge to roll it apart, and sees it’s an intricate, hand-drawn map of the Isles. Beside it lies a letter.  

Corvo, my boy!  

The happiest of returns to you this year! Aramis and I wish every happiness upon you, and hope your future is far kinder than the recent past has been.  

Please pass along our regards to your most excellent daughter, as well! May she grow to be as wise and capable as her father before her – and as quick with a blade!  

Regards from the South,  

Theodanis  

Daud glances at Corvo, where the man’s reclined across one of the chairs, a book open in his hand and long legs resting over the arm. 

“How well do you know the Duke, bodyguard,” Daud asks, reeling slightly at how familiarly Serkonos’ sovereign addresses him. Daud can boast a vast number of connections, but none of them are a damn Duke. 

“Very. He sends a gift every year,” Corvo shrugs, far too casual for someone who, by some easy guesswork, is considered near a son to Serkonos’ ruler. 

Daud inspects the gift once again. “Beautiful map.” 

“One of his hobbies. Much better than Sokolov’s gift.” Corvo shoots the gauche portrait of himself, discarded off to the side, a disdainful glare. “Don’t suppose sticking it with an incendiary bolt and claiming it just caught fire would be so believable, would it,” he withers, and Daud snorts in sympathy. 

The Month of Rain has always been Daud’s least favourite of the year. 

It brings the Empress’ eleventh birthday, which is a much smaller, more intimate affair than Daud had expected. 

It also brings exactly what it says in the title. Torrential downpours that last days on the go. 

Since Rudshore’s dam broke, the District is never unaffected. Daud had learned that the hard way, first year they’d settled there. The makeshift metal walkways had been his idea, and at least keep their boots dry as the floodwaters rise. 

“You really never considered fixing the roof? Haven’t you been here for years?” 

“Hm.” 

“So you just live like this all year around,” Corvo concludes, unimpressed, watching water drip throughout the office from the broken rafters of the Commerce rooftop. “You and your men are savages.” 

“Let whoever repurposes the building deal with it,” Daud grunts. “Not my problem much longer.” 

“Don’t sulk, killer.” Corvo’s eyes are laughing at him in that way they do. Daud doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the sight. “We’ll find you a nicer place. With no rot and less holes.” 

“I’m honoured,” Daud replies, deadpan. 

(He’s far from as bothered as he’s making himself out to be. Like he said, the decision to drain the Flooded District is entirely expected, and Daud had known about it weeks before today, where Corvo’s come here personally to break the news to him. 

Daud’s playing it up. He enjoys Corvo’s teasing.) 

“Have you considered Drapers Ward? You could go shopping with all the nobles,” Corvo says thoughtfully, “see Stride every day…” 

“Kill myself at the thought of any of that, ” Daud finishes for him. 

“How about the warehouse quarter near Clavering? You and Slackjaw can be neighbours.” 

Daud’s head snaps up in horror, and it earns him Corvo’s actual laugh, low and delighted. 

“If you dare–” 

“I won’t,” Corvo holds his hands up in surrender, “I won’t. But I’m the only one offering suggestions here, I’m ready for your input any time.” 

Daud already knows where he wants. “I want the Old Waterfront.” 

Corvo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. “Consider it done.” 

The peace he finds at Corvo’s side isn’t actually peaceful, as contradicting as it sounds. Life inside and outside the Tower is fast-paced, always moving, errant and erratic as Corvo himself. 

The Month of Wind brings word of an odd ritual, the return of Granny Rags to torment them, and hounds running rampant through the palace. 

“Sir.” 

Thomas waits to be motioned closer, steps over the threshold of the doors when he is, and joins Daud on the balcony he’s retreated to for a cigarette and a much needed moment alone. 

Corvo’s training with Emily that morning, so Daud has faced the day’s meetings alone. He has more to go yet, and knows if he doesn’t snap open Pratchett’s cigarette case at least once today, he’s going to shoot a courtier. 

“Forgive the interruption.” 

“Forgive the cold reception,” Daud retorts. “What dire news do you have for me today.” 

“I have word from Galia about some sighted witchcraft in the Trawler District.” 

Daud pauses with the cigarette halfway to his lips. Even rumour of witches isn’t something he cares to scoff at, considering his last encounter with a coven. And if it is a coven, there may be the possibility, may be the risk, of another conspiracy against the Crown. 

He stamps out his cigarette irritably, turning back inside the Tower and gesturing Thomas to walk with him. “Tell me what you know.” 

One of their contacts in the Trawler District has come across several circles of strange markings in the last week, remnants of fish guts and whalebone left behind at each of the abandoned sites. 

Residents there have also started going missing. 

Daud orders Galia off the scent. He’s going to investigate himself, on the off chance it’s something more dangerous than some lone witch practising novice spellcraft. 

“Where are you slinking off to.” 

Daud curses, coat in hand where he’s snatched it from his desk chair, readying himself to leave. Corvo’s leaned in the doorframe of his office, arms crossed and gaze taking in the belt and bonecharms strapped across Daud’s chest. 

His eyes brighten, intrigued. “Want some company?” 

Daud, still, can deny him nothing. 

He fills Corvo in on the way, the mention of witchcraft clearly piquing the man’s interest. 

“Shouldn’t Khulan deal with this kind of stuff?”

Daud scoffs. “Overseers are good for rat shit when it comes to witches. They either get scared off, or get themselves cursed.” 

“Besides Granny Rags, I’ve not had any dealings with witches.” Corvo glances sidelong to him, when Daud remains silent too long. “Have you?” 

Daud schools his expression into passivity. Gives a shrug. “Now and again.” 

They come up on their destination before Corvo can decide to interrogate him. 

The air is thick, heavy with a brewing storm, the sky grey and darkening minute by minute, gusts of wind whipping rain into their faces as they reach the docks and markets of the Trawler District. 

Daud’s never liked this corner of the city. It stinks of fish, and its dwellers are all suspicious and judging, with cold, sunken eyes and weathered skin. Carcasses of sharks and hagfish hang from the market stalls, their blood running back into the river through divots carved in the streets. 

They find Daud’s contact, Triss, hacking up a shark as tall as Corvo around the back of one of the stalls. She points them away from the docks, to a sewer tunnel leading back toward the Tower District. 

“Through there. Crazy old witch keeps collecting the whale blood,” Triss says. “Uses it to draw those circles all over the walls. You and your friend be careful with her, Knife. She’s not as frail as she looks.” 

As they creep through the sewer tunnel, Corvo is quiet for about a minute, until, “You don’t suppose she meant Gr–” 

“Don’t tempt it, bodyguard. It may not be.” 

It is, of course. Daud blames Corvo entirely, for opening his mouth and sealing their fate. 

Granny Rags totters about a crossroad in the tunnel. Blackened whale blood is smeared on the walls, trailing down onto the floor to make a curving ritual circle bordered by candles, rotting whale eyes, animal innards and sharpened bits of bone. 

There’s a collection of live creatures crammed into makeshift cages; alley cats and wild hounds and birds with scraggy, split feathers. 

The trio of missing residents sit back to back in the centre of the circle, tied together with a fishing net. 

“I’ll distract her, you untie them?” 

Daud grants him a look dry as possible. “You recall your last attempt at speaking with her.”

Corvo glowers. “You distract her, then.” 

“If she summons a single rat, I’m using those hostages as a pile of bait and leaving .”

Granny Rags doesn’t attack Daud on sight when he makes himself known. Just asks for his assistance in completing the ritual, which Daud obliges, slowly; he keeps her pacified and preoccupied while Corvo quietly cuts through the fishing net.

It goes well long enough for the hostages to scurry to safety through the tunnel, and then Corvo decides to free the animals as well. 

One of the birds panics, starts squawking, and gives them away. 

Hordes of rats scurry from shadows that weren’t previously there, and any sleep darts Daud and Corvo fire at the old woman are about as effective as their plan to begin with. 

Daud draws his blade, a last resort, and Corvo disappears in a muddy yellow cloud, slipping into the form of one of the freed hounds. 

Daud lunges for the witch, gets blasted away violently, and then Corvo darts forward, managing to sink his fangs into her arm. Granny Rags blasts him off, too, teeth marks oozing blood into her ragged, moth-bitten coat. 

“Such savage creatures, my, my, my, you both belong in cages, too. That body suits you better, dearie.” The ritual circle ignites, casting the crossroads in a fiery, blue glow. The whalebone scattered around begins singing faintly as Granny Rags’ Mark lights up, and she points a finger at Corvo, still in wolf-form and snarling from the centre. “Let’s make the change a little more permanent, hmm? Won’t that be nice .” 

The light flares, blinding, and Daud fires off a string of bolts from his wristbow whereabouts the witch was standing. When the fire extinguishes all at once, the space falling dark and still, she’s gone.  

Daud catches his breath, and Corvo shakes himself off; snaps at Daud’s fingers playfully at first, but then he starts padding about in circles with increasing anxiety, beginning to whimper when the seconds continue to pass and he doesn’t emerge human. 

It takes Daud a moment, considering Corvo can’t tell him, but he can put two and two together. 

Corvo can’t end the possession. 

He’s trapped in the hound’s form. 

“Fucking witches,” Daud curses under his breath, looking down at Corvo with a mixture of exasperation and sympathy. He’s all black, matted fur and pointed ears. Only his eyes are the same copper, looking up at Daud with the utmost concern. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps, heart aching. “We’ll fix it.” 

(Somehow. Though at present, Daud is at a loss. He can carve powerful bonecharms and he has his Mark, but spellcraft and curses are beyond his knowhow. They’ll need an outside source for this mess.) 

Corvo just huffs, fed up, in reply.

Once the hostages are retrieved and returned to the Trawler District, shaken and confused, but otherwise unharmed, Daud returns to the crossroads in the tunnels. He had told Corvo to sit tight near the ritual site, in the hope that perhaps the spell would wear off with proximity to the circle. 

But Corvo awaits him unchanged. Apparently he’s still able to glare with fur and a snout. 

“Rudshore, then,” Daud decides gruffly. “You’ll be safe there, until this is figured out.” He goes to lead them through the southbound tunnel, but Corvo barks sharply at him and he turns back. “What.” 

Corvo makes a noise, low and disagreeable, and pointedly stalks toward the west tunnel instead. The tunnel leading back to the Tower District. 

“Don’t be an idiot, bodyguard. You can’t go to the Tower like this.” 

Corvo snorts through his snout, an obvious try me, and takes off in a sprint through the dank passageway. Daud looks skyward, hands curling to fists in frustration, before he follows. What the void else can he do. 

They quickly discover Corvo has no access to his Mark and all its favours while in this form, so trying to sneak a waist-high, wild-looking wolfhound through Dunwall Tower on foot is a struggle. 

Daud makes it covertly through the gardens with him and as far as the entrance hall, before Corvo’s nose catches scent of something too tempting to withstand. He bolts off to the kitchens to snag a row of fresh blood sausage. Daud has to drag him away from the startled kitchen staff by the scruff of his neck, while Corvo looks terribly pleased with himself, a pair of sausages dangling from his jaw. 

The next scent that has him darting off is Emily, though that actually turns out to be a help rather than a hindrance.  

Daud considers lying to her for about five seconds, as Corvo spins in delighted circles under her attention. 

Then she asks, while scratching beneath Corvo’s chin, “Mister Assassin, why is father a hound today?” and Daud dismisses the idea entirely, instead escorting her and Corvo to the royal chambers.

He explains their ordeal, and he spares no detail. The girl’s as insightful as her father. Perhaps more so. Daud is as loathe to lie to her as he is to Corvo. 

They come up with a plan together. Daud silently, uneasily acknowledges it’s the longest time he’s been alone with the girl. 

(He discounts Corvo’s presence on this occasion, seeing as the man – hound – is sniffing at each nook within the room, and getting alarmed by his tail every few seconds; snapping at it in warning whenever he spots it over his shoulder.) 

“Don’t worry, father,” Emily says, patting Corvo’s head. “Mister Daud and I won’t give up until you’re all better.” 

Corvo licks her palm in thanks. 

Emily orders Rudshore’s hounds to be brought to the palace. The overseers are permitted their own, so why not the Spymaster’s men? Corvo’s presence will at least arouse less suspicion with some fellow creatures around. 

The Royal Protector is officially on a leave of absence, an excellently forged letter, if Daud does say so himself, detailing Corvo’s orders for Thomas, Rulfio and Rinaldo to oversee any duties in his stead. 

No one in court or the Tower questions it. Corvo’s station is far too high for anyone to risk voicing their confusion or doubt aloud. 

(“I can do it,” Fisher insists at the news, eyes large and green and terribly dejected. “I can stand in for Corvo until he’s a person again. I’d be a real good Royal Protector, Sir, honest.” 

Corvo rubs his snout against her hand in agreement, but unfortunately the decision has been made. And as much devotion as Fisher has toward her friend – Daud’s certain she’d give her life for Emily’s sake, if it came to it – a child cannot be responsible for another child. Fisher nods her understanding sadly, when Daud explains this.) 

With their cover in place, Daud can focus on a way to break the damn spell. 

He has his best eyes scouting for sign of Granny Rags. One thing Daud does know about curses is kill the source, kill the spell. But he suspects, much like their last encounter with the witch, she won’t crop up again for several months, if at all. They need a more immediate solution than just waiting, twiddling their thumbs, for her next appearance. 

That first night, Corvo scratches at the door to his rooms until Daud wrenches it open, narrowly repressing the instinct to kick an intruder back as Corvo slinks past his legs and into his quarters. Daud withers and watches him dart around the space, darting from the bed to the desk to the balcony in hyper, rapid succession. 

(D’you reckon he’s fully himself, like that, or d’you think his brain is half hound, Rulfio had pondered to him, back in what seems like another lifetime now.) 

“Brain of a hagfish,” Daud bites aloud, snatching his gloves from Corvo’s jaw when he gleefully snaps them up. 

He calms, eventually, and joins Daud in front of the fireplace. He keeps sighing wearily, sorry for himself now that he’s apparently through with any fun this form has granted him. 

Daud has the devastating realisation that Corvo has come here for comfort, to be close to something familiar in this unfamiliar situation. He knew Daud may grumble and complain, but wouldn’t turn him away. 

“I said, we’ll fix it,” Daud placates, nudging the toe of his boot against Corvo’s side where he’s lay at his feet. “Curses don’t last forever.”

As far as Daud knows. 

(Delilah’s may have, had she succeeded. A cold spike of dread skirts through Daud at the thought. Though, she was a different calibre to Granny Rags. A different calibre to anything. But that’s the past. Daud wants to remain here, in the present, for the first time since he can recall.) 

“I have someone in mind who may have insight. I’ll track them down, get in contact. Assuming you haven’t chewed through all my stationary by tomorrow,” Daud adds dryly, and it earns him an affectionate nip of teeth to his fingers. 

Corvo stays by the fire when Daud at last retires, though when the embers fleck out and fade the room into darkness, he’s woken by a dip at the end of the mattress, and has to forcefully remind himself not to go for his knife. 

Corvo curls over his feet, and Daud has the most restful sleep of his life. 

He has Rapha track the turncoat; the witch who had betrayed Delilah’s plan to Daud at Brigmore Manor in exchange for coin and his word the coven would remain unharmed. 

It’s a risk, a potentially stupid risk, and Daud admittedly has a long moment of indecision over it. But he swallows his pride, and pens down a request to meet and a generous offer of coin for any knowledge she can provide. 

This situation regards Corvo, and Daud silently deems any risk worth the potential reward. 

(No oath can be blamed for his feelings on this. It’s been one day of this curse, and no vow made of guilt or desperation on the ruins can excuse the way Daud already misses Corvo’s voice.) 

The former Brigmore witch agrees to meet. Daud takes the coin and Corvo with him, since her reply indicated she’d need to inspect the curse herself to make any kind of judgement. 

Their initial reunion is cold and cautious. Anything that had happened at Brigmore thankfully isn’t discussed, though Daud hadn’t expected it would be. This is purely business. 

Beneath the Boulevard, under the bridge connecting Clavering with Holger Square, Corvo stalks toward the witch, back arched and teeth bared in warning, so she can assess whatever spell has been placed upon him. 

“It was a spiteful curse, but not a dangerous one. And not permanent, either.” She shoots Daud a curious, slightly amused look. “I believe the spellcaster may have merely wanted to teach someone some manners.” 

“How do we end it,” Daud grinds out, as Corvo returns to him and curls up beneath his palm, a low purr in the back of his throat. “Is there a counter spell? A charm or other we need to be rid of it?” 

“Nothing can be done,” the witch answers, crossing her arms. “It will end in its own time. Whoever cast it had power, but as I said, they weren’t intending to cause harm. I doubt it will linger past the month.” 

It lingers past the damn month, until late into the Month of Darkness. 

To Corvo’s credit, he adapts to his circumstances with little complaint, and keeps the actual hounds in line around the palace, for the most part. They seem to recognise him for what he is; perhaps it’s his scent or general air of authority, but they obey him, and don’t cause too much havoc. 

Corvo causes havoc, as Corvo is prone to do. He heckles Daud’s men and the staff relentlessly; chases a joyful and squealing Emily and Fisher around the gardens and through the hallways; hounds Daud with playful snaps of his jaw, and brings him useless objects held gently between his teeth, tail wagging furiously. 

He’s violently ill when the spell finally breaks. Daud’s in court when Tynan edges into view around one of the doors and catches his eye. 

Her hands move quickly now, thanks to the time Corvo’s devoted to her learning. 

‘Corvo’s back. Not good.’  

(Daud doesn’t even excuse himself. Just stands and strides out, nevermind that Estermont’s mid-argument and gaping at his crass exit. The man can cry him a damn river, his point was going nowhere anyway.) 

Daud heads for Corvo’s quarters, and finds him in a pitiful, human-shaped heap on the bathroom tiles, slumped at the edge of the tub, shaking and sweating. 

“I’m never possessing another fucking thing as long as I live,” he breathes in an attempt at a laugh, before losing his guts over the side. 

The Month of High Cold brings Corvo back to them, the first snowfall of the year, and another garish celebration to usher in the winter season. 

“This weather can fuck off,” Corvo decides, glaring at a snowflake as it makes its slow descent from the sky to the path before them. 

Daud could point out that Corvo didn’t have to join him out here. The man doesn’t smoke, Daud had only intended step outside for a moment. But Corvo had grudgingly slipped into his own coat to follow him, and now it’s turned into a stroll around the frosted gardens. 

Daud could point it out, but he doesn’t. What reason would he have to shun Corvo Attano’s company these days?

“Never gotten used to this weather.” 

“Never been tempted to see Tyvia?” 

“Void, no. What if they’re all like Sokolov.” 

Corvo snorts, then scrunches his nose and sneezes, shakes himself. “Fuck this.” 

(Doesn’t like the cold.)  

The Royal Physician pays an obscene sum of coin to be the house to host Dunwall’s winter tiding celebration for that year. 

“Can we pay him to not,” Daud mutters, sidelong to Corvo as discussions for the occasion commence. 

Corvo’s mouth curves in amusement, before he leans in close to Daud’s ear, “See, this is where I could possess him and cancel the entire thing, killer. And you said it wasn’t a good idea.” 

“Thought you were done with your possession nonsense.” It takes Daud an absurdly long moment to get his thoughts in order, with Corvo’s lips ghosting near the crest of his jaw. “I’ll consider whether a cancelled party is worth seeing Khulan condemn you as a witch.” 

It’s all in jest, of course. There is no stopping the celebration, and there’s no stopping Sokolov once his decision has been made. 

The day of the celebration is to be the thirteenth. No one but Billie has ever known Daud’s birth date. Daud forgets himself most years. 

With snow frosting the windows and falling thick onto the streets, at least the foyer of Sokolov’s house is aglow with warmth; candelabras and fireplaces lit bright, and guests in their winter fineries with mulled wines and warm ciders cradled in their palms. 

The first familiar face he sees is Samuel. Daud paces straight to his side, avoiding the crowd of nobles like the plague. 

The Royal Advisor is dressed well, as he usually is these days. Though he keeps tugging uncomfortably as his cravat. 

“Really not sure why I’m here,” Samuel admits. “Not much to advise on at a party.” 

“Not much to spy on, either. Shall we two just make a break for it,” Daud adds in a gruff whisper, making Samuel chuckle. “Leave them all to their inane evening?” 

“Oh, don’t tempt me, sir. I promised little Emily I’d be here, I can’t do that to her.” 

“No,” Daud agrees grudgingly, catching sight of Corvo at the Empress’ side. “No, I suppose we must remain, then.” 

The man looks infuriatingly good tonight, neatened up and adorned as he is all in black, tailcoat tapering his hips and trailing his long legs. His hair is braided, hanging down between his shoulder blades.  

(Daud wants to unravel it, run his fingers through the length.) 

‘You could at least try and look happy to be here,’ Corvo signs to him, amused, across the room. 

‘I’m thrilled,’ Daud signs back, and gives him the finger for good measure. 

He is accosted by Adele White early on in the evening. Apparently she’s realised Thomas is a lost cause, and for some inexplicable reason has chosen Daud, of all people, as her latest target. Probably due to his station.

Though she seems to have fixated on his scars. It reminds Daud of the way onlookers fawn over those stuffed heads of feral Pandyssian creatures put on display in conservatories, just because they know they can’t get their hands bitten off.

“That’s a most interesting scar,” Miss White says avidly, squeezing far too close for Daud’s liking, and reaching an invasive, unwelcome hand to touch his face. “Wherever did a thing like that happen? It must be such a fascinating story, do tell!” 

“Miss White.” Corvo catches her wrist before she makes contact, pleasant smile not reaching his eyes in the slightest. “I believe our Royal Physician wants your input on his latest painting. If you’d care to oblige.” His tone brooks absolutely no argument. 

He offers his arm and blessedly leads the woman away, subtly cupping a hand to Daud’s elbow in comfort as he passes. Corvo must have clocked Daud’s unease, from wherever he had been watching. 

Daud provides a rescue of his own, when Jack Ramsey, giddy with booze and revelry halfway through the night, sloshes his way to Corvo with a friendly offer of warm wine. 

“Come, Lord Protector! I haven’t seen you indulge in a drink,” he chuckles, whacking Corvo jovially on the back. “Surely you’re permitted a night off from your vigilance. Come, man, you’ve earned it!” 

Daud intervenes the offered glass and pushes his own into Corvo’s hand, which he knows the man has seen him drink. “Not to my taste,” is Daud’s brisk excuse, though mulled wine hardly appeals to him either. 

Ramsey, oblivious, only gives another hearty chuckle. 

(Corvo’s expression is soft and grateful, and Daud’s foolish heart decides he’ll drink bottles of the wine if he must, as long as it keeps Corvo looking at him like that.) 

“How easy was this place to infiltrate,” Daud finds himself asking, when they’ve done the rounds and are at last left to one another’s company. “When you abducted your physician?” 

Mischief sparks in Corvo’s eyes. He makes certain Emily is in good hands, that Galia and Ardan are watching over her, before dragging Daud away to retrace his steps during the conspiracy; transversing to the rafters above the party, sneaking unseen by the guests to the upper levels of the house, before they reach their destination outside Sokolov’s greenhouse. 

The snow has ceased for now, and the musicians inside begin another set, soft and sultry strings drifting up to them. The sound has Daud imagining Serkonos’ bright streets and bars along the seafront, as music from the South always does. 

“Thought Sokolov only paid them for Tyvian waltzes,” he muses. Daud’s listened to nothing but dull, Northern tunes all evening.

“My mother used to play this,” Corvo says, a slight smile curving his mouth. Then he turns to Daud with more mischief in his eyes. “Do you dance?” 

Daud could have twenty pistols pointed at him and feel more steady than he does at that question. “Why would I know how to dance, bodyguard.” 

“And you say I’m not a respectable Serkonan.” Corvo steps back from the railings, scooping up Daud’s hands as he goes and tugging him with him. “Come on, I’ll teach you.” 

“The void you will,” Daud argues, but he doesn’t even attempt to retrieve his hands. “Enjoy having your toes stepped on.” 

“I’m sure I can bear through it, killer.” 

Daud is taught little, to be honest. He keeps biting harmless insults in his embarrassment, and Corvo laughs at him far too much for Daud to learn more than two distinct things. One, that Corvo’s as graceful in this as he is in anything else. And two, how desperately weak-kneed it makes Daud feel whenever Corvo draws him close. 

It’s not the worst way to end one year and usher in another, Daud supposes. 

The Month of Ice brings possibly the most hectic few weeks of Daud’s life thus far, which considering his track record up to this point is certainly saying something. 

The weather is shit, the street gangs are restless and stupid, parliament is a nightmare, courtiers whine over matters important and unimportant alike, and then there’s a conspiracy in Morley discovered so far along in its plans that the King and Queen are urged to request Imperial aid. 

They have to send Daud. No one else can look into it as swiftly or as subtly as the situation requires. 

(Except Corvo, Daud suspects. But the man is currently running the Isles, and his duty, first and foremost, is Emily.) 

Daud takes Galia and Feodor, and leaves Thomas in charge. 

“Don’t get yourself killed,” is Corvo’s heartening farewell to him at the docks. 

Though when Stride ships the Undine out over Wrenhaven’s glazed, icy waters, Daud discovers his knife has been replaced by Corvo’s clever, folding sword. And there’s a dark, steel wristbow tucked in his coat pocket alongside Pratchett’s cigarette case. Daud recognises Piero’s work; it’s fitted with a hidden blade, and the reload, when he tests it, has been enhanced. 

“Fucks sake,” Daud mutters, Dunwall’s shores already becoming distant in the frost-heavy fog. 

Wynnedown is tolerable, the Constabulary is accommodating, and the threat to the King and Queen is dealt with. The conspiracy is intriguing, to its credit, and cleverly schemed. Daud certainly isn’t bored for the duration of his time there. Galia and Feodor are excellent, and they preen, pleased, when Daud tells them so. 

Queen Ariss insists on granting them all medals of valour. Daud refuses, cordially as he can. He uses the excuse that any public acknowledgement of their actions rather defeats the purpose of a spy network. Truthfully, he just doesn’t want the attention on them, nor any of the pomp a reward may bring. 

By the sixth week, Corvo’s letter finds him, and Daud has a longing to return home so fierce that he feels physically unwell for a moment. Homesick, for Dunwall of all places. 

Heard it was a success.  

You have my sincere congratulations for doing your job.  

Now get the fuck back here and relieve me from my solitude in court. Estermont is on thin ice and I actually don’t know how much longer I can go without letting rats chew through him.  

Thomas is outdoing himself in your stead. I don’t think he’s slept these six weeks. I have threatened him with sleep darts, but you were right, it didn’t work. Tyvian chokehold, maybe? I’m sure I could sneak up on him if I tried.  

Emily wants to let you know Alexi punched a guard in her retinue so hard that she has broken her hand.  Don’t fret, she’s fine. And the guard has been dismissed, permanently. I saw to that myself.  

Emily also orders your safe return.  

Her father requests the same.  

Yours,  

- C  

Daud looks at that for a long, long time. 

The Month of Hearths brings an end to the chill in Dunwall, and Daud’s return home. 

He’s greeted by the frenzy of Black Sally and her pack near the Tower’s waterlock. Fisher is among them, and she waves a greeting with her tightly bandaged hand. 

“Hallo, Sir! I’m lookin’ after Emily today,” she says proudly as the Empress joins them, their smallest hound, Rat, trailing her. “Mister Corvo trusted me ‘specially with it.” 

Daud’s gaze doesn’t stray across the grounds, but he knows Rinaldo and Javier are near; the real eyes on the Empress. He decides not to shatter Fisher’s illusion. “And why is it that you’re filling in on the Lord Protector’s duties?”

“‘Cause Mister Corvo’s fillin’ in on Thomas’ duties. Well, your duties, Sir,” Fisher corrects, threading her good hand through Emily’s. 

Emily bids him a nod. “Welcome back.” 

“Empress.” 

“If you’re wondering why father is filling in for Thomas, Corvo told him last week that if he does any more work until your return, he’s fired.” 

Daud scoffs. He supposes if there was ever a way to stop Thomas from overworking himself, it would be the threat of being fired. Genius. 

“Thomas did look very tired. He works very hard, I hope he’s gotten some rest,” Emily says, patting Rat’s head at her side. “Father’s in his study. I’m sure he’ll want to know you’ve returned safely.” 

The Empress bounds off without warning, as Corvo himself often does, the hounds charging after her. 

Fisher lingers when Daud asks, “How’s the hand?” 

She wiggles her wrist, and almost manages not to wince. “S’alright.” 

“What did the choffer do?” 

“He was bad-mouthin’ Mister Corvo to the squad.” 

“Did you break his nose?” 

Fisher grins. “And three of ‘is teeth.” 

“Nice work,” and Daud ruffles her hair before heading to the Tower’s upper floors. 

The door to Corvo’s balcony is usually unlocked. Neither he nor Daud tend to enter from the hallways anymore. 

Daud transverses up there with an aching familiarity, the path instinctive by now. 

Corvo says nothing as Daud enters, doesn’t even stir at the click of the door. He’s asleep at the desk, hair tousled over his face, a half-completed pile of reports meant for the Spymaster discarded off to his side. 

“Corvo?”

The man doesn’t wake at his name. Just glares, shifting slightly atop his own arm. “Don’t throw the tank,” he warns irritably in his sleep. “Won’t end well.” 

Daud steps closer, not wanting to startle the man. “Corvo,” he tries again. 

“You have to cook it first. Stupid rat.” 

(He’s the most ridiculous man in the Isles. Daud thinks he’d do anything for him.) 

He isn’t really thinking, as he reaches out to brush the hair out of Corvo’s eyes–

That wakes him and Corvo rears up, head smacking against Daud’s mouth and reeling him backwards. 

“Fuck–” 

“Ow–” Corvo rubs the back of his head, on his feet and glaring just as fiercely in the waking world as he was curled at the desk. “The void is wrong with you?!” 

“With me?”  Daud growls, gesturing irritably to his bleeding lip.  

Corvo narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Were you watching me sleep?” 

“Believe it or not, bodyguard, I have better things to do than watch you sleep.” Daud did watch him, though, didn’t he. If only for a few moments. “I came to relieve you from that ,” he sweeps a hand toward the paperwork, “not be violently attacked.” 

“I’ll show you a violent attack,” Corvo threatens, but he does fetch Daud an elixir for his swollen mouth.

(“You have a beard,” Corvo sees fit to notice, after Daud’s lip stops bleeding.

“And you have eyes,” Daud shoots back, “evidently.” He’s picking at the meal Corvo had brought him from the kitchens, not realising how long the journey back had felt until he’d taken that first mouthful.

Though, now, he’s all awareness of Corvo’s gaze on him, where the man is leaned with folded arms by the bookcase, apparently taking him in.

“You find time to shave, trying to ferret out that nonsense in Morley,” Daud adds pointedly, a little defensive, when the man says nothing more.

Corvo only grants him an indulgent smile. ”I wasn’t criticising,” he says, head tilted as his eyes take another lazy route around Daud’s face. “It looks good.”

Daud’s proud of himself, for not choking on that next bite. He shaves the next day, stubbornly, because the compliment keeps hounding him on loop in his head, like a damn audiograph busted to repeat itself.)

The Month of Harvest brings the beginning of Corvo’s lessons in crafting bonecharms, and a portrait that takes Sokolov weeks to complete. 

It’s a fortnight after Daud’s return to Dunwall before all the information regarding Morley is organised to his satisfaction. He corresponds with the leaders of the Constabulary, providing advice on security going forward and recommending some personnel changes to the King and Queen’s inner circle. 

Once the final report on the matter is signed and sealed, Daud feels an odd mixture of exhaustion and accomplishment; relief for it all to be done with at last, and an eagerness for normality to resume. Sick of the sight of his rooms within the Tower, he takes refuge at the Old Waterfront. 

The District is now his, and it’s perfect. 

In the north city, close to the palace and completely deserted, it’s bordered by tall, abandoned warehouses, and the Estate District’s clock tower looms overhead. The area spans a long portion of Wrenhaven; a complex web of spaces to run, and train, and slink through its myriad of shadows. 

There’s not a puddle of floodwater or a broken roof in sight. 

Corvo is a frequent visitor, and today is no different as Emily attends her lessons with Callista. 

Corvo tries to hook his legs around Ardan’s far larger shoulder to twist him down, only for the man to pick him up by his shirt like he’s a sack of feathers.

“Attano, where the fuck are you trying to go?” Rulfio jeers.

“I don’t know!” Corvo snaps in a panic, before Ardan hoists him higher and then slams him onto the ground, abruptly ending their spar. 

The audience of Daud’s men hiss in pain or cheer Ardan, Rinaldo stifling his laughter against his brother’s shoulder, before Daud dispels them all and strides to Corvo’s beaten form. 

“Don’t know why you still bother,” he says in greeting, offering a hand. “You’ll never beat him hand-to-hand.” Corvo’s built for speed, agility, where Ardan’s built like a damn blood ox. 

Corvo winces as he’s pulled to his feet, glaring at Ardan’s smug, retreating back. “I’ll get him down one day.” 

They remain in that yard as the men resume their business around them, keeping themselves sharp in blade work or target practice or traversing the District. 

Daud continues telling Corvo about Morley and the conspiracy, while he fulfils his promise to teach the man the basics of crafting charms. 

“This is difficult,” Corvo admits during a lull in conversation. His brow is furrowed, focused, and his usually sure fingers fumble in this venture, as he scrapes at the chunk of whalebone with the edge of Daud’s knife. 

“You’re doing fine,” Daud says, and he clears his throat against how gently the assurance comes out. “Considering how shit you started off,” he adds. “Have you considered the effects you want it to have?” 

“To make Estermont mute in court,” Corvo suggests wryly. 

“If that were possible, I’d have done it a long time ago. Keep your stance wide, Cleon,” Daud barks across at the boy, “you’re leaving yourself open.”

Dodge and Cleon are sparring in the yard’s main space, and Daud mutters a curse when Cleon gets tripped down again.

“If that were a real fight, kid would get himself skewered on a blade,” Daud gripes under his breath. 

“Good thing you’re here to snarl at him, then.” Corvo glimpses up to watch Dodge dart past Cleon’s left and aim a kick to the back of his knee, sending him down into a kneel. “That’s my move.” 

“You haven’t heard, bodyguard?” Daud jerks his head Dodge’s way, “He’s your biggest fan.” The boy has been watching Corvo train whenever possible, memorising his movements. “Rulf’s been calling him Cuervito for months,” Daud adds with a scoff. He glances up when Corvo doesn’t respond, and finds the man staring at him, intrigued. “What.” 

“Your accent was good on that.” 

“I am Serkonan.” 

“I am aware,” Corvo argues, attention honed on Daud entirely, half-carved bonecharm forgotten in his hands. “I didn’t know you spoke it.” 

“Of course I speak it.” 

(Corvo’s gaze, when it’s heavy on him like this, makes his ears feel warm, makes Daud feel achingly aware of every inch of himself.) 

“Hmm.” Corvo says nothing more on the matter, resuming his awful carving. “Is there anything you’d like me to teach you, in return for these lessons?” 

The question throws Daud further off guard than he already is. “Anything but more dancing.” 

The answering, fond, “Como quieras, asesino,” that rolls from Corvo’s tongue has Daud chastising Cleon’s form again, just for an excuse to turn away and hide the flush he can feel spreading up his neck. 

(Corvo offers to teach him piano. Daud picks it up far quicker than Corvo does crafting, to both their amusement.) 

Towards the month’s end, Corvo skirts into his office and slams the door behind him, jolting Daud’s nerves beyond belief. 

“Morning,” he greets shortly, keeping his back to the door, expression alert as a hunted animal. “You haven’t seen me.” 

“Haven’t I.” Daud remains carefully still behind the desk. “Why?” 

“Because Sokolov wants a portrait.” 

Ridiculous man. Daud smirks. “Outsider forbid.” 

“He wants one of you, too.” 

The smirk drops off his face in a second. “Absolutely fucking not.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Corvo’s Mark flickers, eyes flashing ink-black as he uses his Vision to scan the hallway outside. It must be clear, since the man deserts his post and strides into the safety of the room. 

“But now Emily’s caught wind of the idea, and she’s insisting.” 

“I refuse.” 

“So do I.” 

“Should we go into hiding?” 

“Why do you think I’m here?” 

“Serkonos?” 

“I’m ready whenever you are.” 

They can’t do that, of course. They lie low in Daud’s quarters and merely entertain the notion instead, Corvo taking half his reports.  

“Do you think we met before?” 

“You seem to have started another conversation without me, bodyguard,” Daud says dryly. “Met before when?” 

“In Serkonos. Do you suppose we ever met? As kids?” 

Daud considers it. There aren’t many years between them, and he ran through the streets in his younger days, same as anyone else; played with his peers, pretend sword fights and climbing the cliffs along the beeches. 

“It’s possible.” 

Though as he considers it further, Daud decides they probably hadn’t. He would remember, surely, a boy with copper eyes and a sharp smile. 

When their respective duties can no longer be put off, Emily eventually hunts them down. She orders them to sit for Sokolov, as long as the portrait takes. 

“The Two Hands of the Empire. The Royal Protector and Spymaster,” Sokolov ponders under his breath, gaze alight with inspiration beneath his thick brows. “Yes, this will be my best work yet, I think.” 

He marches out from behind his easel to try and smooth Corvo’s hair down, and becomes increasingly pissed off as the strands merely snag and spring back up against his efforts. 

Sokolov has commandeered the Tower’s music room, after Emily offered the space while the Royal Physician attends to his work. Daud and Corvo stand on either side of an arm chair, which Daud assumes is supposed to represent the Imperial throne in Sokolov’s finished piece. 

“Damn it all,” Sokolov gives up on Corvo, and returns to his seat. “Now, stay still, both of you,” he barks, eyes beady and dark in concentration. “I require absolute silence. This is a delicate and precise process.” 

“An unnecessary process,” Daud mutters, making Corvo snort and Sokolov scowl. 

“Silence,” the Physician insists, and he begins swirling his brush, dabbing colours to the blank white canvas before him. 

Corvo makes it around five minutes before he starts fidgeting. To his credit, it’s far longer than Daud expected his stillness to endure. 

“Well,” Corvo sighs, shifting foot to foot as subtly as he can get away with. “This is fun.” 

“Thrilling.” 

“Bet you’re glad you accepted the position, now.” 

(Daud is glad, deeply.) 

“It’s my biggest regret to date.” 

Corvo snorts again, mouthing a ‘sorry’ when Sokolov fixes him with another, fiercer scowl. He asks, in a hushed whisper, “Was he so stern the last time you sat for a portrait?”  

“I believe age has soured him further.” Daud glimpses Corvo side-on, admiring the deep blue of his coat, the cut of it his around his shoulders. “What did you do with it?” 

“With what?” 

“That portrait.” 

Corvo tries to stop his mouth from curving, Daud can see him biting on the inside of his cheek. “Sold it. Needed the coin. I had a conspiracy to fund, you know.” 

“How much did it fetch?” 

“Three-hundred.” 

“Void, that’s nothing.” 

“Don’t let it get you down, killer. We can sell this one for double, since there’s two of us.” 

It’s Daud who snorts this time, and Sokolov’s knuckles turn white around his paintbrush. 

“Behave, you two! Honestly, I’ve worked with children who’ve had more restraint.” 

“Touchy,” Corvo murmurs, and they manage another few minutes in silence. 

“We may be able to barter for triple,” Daud muses, “if you pawn it off to Bunting. The man may still be desperate for work after your visit to his apartment. Finding half of Slackjaw’s men snoring in his safe can’t have been good for business.” 

“That was admittedly maybe a step too far.” 

“And stealing his invitation to the Boyles?” 

“In my defence, I actually needed that.” 

“There are three other entrances into that estate, bodyguard. None required a damn invitation.”

Corvo fucking knows it, too, if the slight, self-satisfied look on his face is any indicator.

“Did Bunting go anyway?” 

“Go where?” 

“The party.” 

“He did.” Corvo meets his eye, grinning. “Guards wouldn’t let him through. Think he got fined, too, for trying to impersonate a guest.” 

It has Daud chuckling quietly, and when Corvo joins him, laughter infectious and delighted, it only worsens from there, until Daud’s doubled over the side of the chair and Corvo’s cackling like he’s never heard before. 

“Children!” Sokolov throws his brush down in exasperation, and gives up on them entirely for that first session. “Imbeciles! Get out and compose yourselves! To the void with you, Heads of the State indeed, you’re both a disgrace to the Crown! Out, I say!” 

In the Month of Timber, the Flooded District is drained, and repairs begin on the broken dam. It won’t be a swift process, with all the years Rudshore has been left soaking, rotting in disrepair. But it’s a start. 

The Month of Clans brings a heatwave to Dunwall the likes of which hasn’t been recorded for decades. Poor Gristolians suffer under the sun, whereas it’s Empress - Serkonan blood in her veins, Daud supposes - spends as much time outside as possible; training with her father, playing with Fisher, making visits around the citizens of each District to make her presence known. 

Even Daud begins to struggle in the heat one of the weeks. He and Corvo have to keep taking breaks amidst their spars, slumping down in any shady spot on the Tower’s roof, hair sticking to them and shirts damp from their exertion. 

“Beatrici and I climbed Shindaerey Peak in heat like this once,” Corvo says, scraping his hair back from his forehead. 

(He has the charm he’s crafted hooked on his belt. It has a twin, crafted by Daud and fashioned as a broach for Emily, with a property similar to the Arcane Bond. The charms are linked, and should the Empress be in danger, she can summon Corvo to her side. With it, there’s no chance they will be separated as they had during the plague. 

It’s the most powerful charm Daud has crafted to date.) 

“Did you make it to the top?” 

“Of course,” Corvo says, like it’s no mad feat for a child to climb Karnana’s highest mountain. “Took us three days, though. Our mother was furious when we came home,” he adds, breathing a laugh. “Never seen her hands move so fast, it was terrifying.” 

“You kept her on her toes often, I imagine.” 

“All the time. We were shitty kids.” 

“You’re a shitty adult,” Daud grants. “I can’t speak for your sister. But if she’s similar to you as you say, she must be terrorising some poor soul like myself somewhere.” 

Daud’s expecting a kick, or perhaps an insulted jab of Corvo’s elbow to his ribs. 

Not the brief, pleased nudge of Corvo’s nose to the side of his cheek, the way Daud sometimes sees the hounds do, when they knock each other gently in greeting. 

Corvo doesn’t seem to notice he’s done it. He just springs to his feet and twirls his sword free, raring to move once more. 

Daud loses the next round of their spar. He blames the heat. 

The Month of Songs hosts the first Fugue Feast since Burrows had opened Dunwall’s doors to the plague. 

Thomas offers to remain in the Tower, so Daud himself can enjoy the festivities. 

Daud’s having none of it. “Don’t trouble yourself.” 

“I’m happy to stand in for you, Sir.” 

“You’re willing to stand in for me,” Daud corrects, not unkindly. “Go and join the rest of them. It’s been a long year and you’ve earned it.” 

“Sir, truly I–” 

“Go and enjoy the evening with your Captain, Thomas,” he says with more force.

When Thomas chokes out a sound in response, Daud shoots the man a thin look over his shoulder.

“I’d make a poor Spymaster, if I hadn’t noticed. Go on,” he dismisses. 

(Thomas is always professional, stoic as they come. But Daud would be a fool, as he’d said, not to have clocked the way Thomas and Curnow have stood an inch too close in recent months, gazes lingering a second or so too long.) 

Corvo looks confused when Daud rounds the corner leading to the royal chambers and they bump into one another. “You’re not going with the others?” 

“No. Unless I’m not permitted to stay,” Daud adds, unsure. Is he supposed to leave the Tower? Even the Crown doesn’t seem to have stringent protocols during the Feast, he isn’t overly familiar with the procedures yet. 

“No, you are.” Corvo’s eyes are bright, pleased. “I just assumed Thomas would be staying.” 

“It was a near thing. I had to order him gone.” 

“Has he gone with Geoff?” 

“You’ve noticed, too.”

“Of course,” Corvo scoffs. “They think they’re subtle.” 

The Tower’s saferoom is locked tight, Emily and Fisher secured inside for the evening courtesy of Sokolov’s clever lock. Only the Lord Protector possess the means to open it – a ring fashioned by Piero, the sole key to fit the door – and it’s Corvo’s self-appointed duty to remain at the palace, close to his daughter, for the duration of the festivity. 

Though, in reality, there is very little duty to attend to. Dunwall Tower has withstood a century of Fugue Feasts without incident, and it lies hushed and empty tonight; staff and guards and inner circle all out in the city to join the celebration in whatever manner they wish. 

For a tradition with an Isle-wide reputation for chaos, this Feast brings Daud an unfamiliar and welcome serenity, the likes of which he hasn’t known in decades. 

His Feasts used to pass in a blur of restless heists, flitting between Districts, brutal street fights. 

This year, the night passes in Corvo’s company, with conversation after conversation; sat close together on the floor before a glowing fireplace just down the hallway from Emily’s saferoom. 

Daud talks about his time at the Academy, and Corvo laughs at him relentlessly, fascinated and delighted as he listens. Corvo reads aloud from the book of ghost stories Daud had come across in Morley. Daud finds himself admiring a work of fiction for the first time in years, Corvo’s voice low and soothing at his side. 

(Daud had hesitantly gifted the book upon his return. He’d spotted it in the library within Morley’s palace and swiped it without really thinking. He doesn’t thieve in practice, doesn’t share the same temptations as Corvo on the matter. He’d merely had an inkling Corvo would like it, since he and his daughter share a fondness for ghost stories.) 

When Daud wakes, Dunwall’s dull early morning light does its best at brightening the room. His back is aching from being propped against the sofa, and Corvo’s head has drooped against his arm, and he’s muttering nonsensical things in his sleep.

On the Eighteenth Day, Month of Earth, Daud stays far out of Corvo’s way, as he had the year before. 

Nothing Corvo has said or done warns him to keep his distance. 

Daud does so anyway. 

The anniversary of Jessamine Kaldwin’s death – Jessamine Kaldwin’s murder, at his hand – passes fast as Corvo’s  transversals, swift as the blink of an eye. 

It’s a clouded, dreary day, as most of Dunwall’s days are, and there’s a city-wide commemoration, this time. Citizens line the streets of the Tower District with white flowers and children wave flags printed with the Empress’ crest at the passing parade. 

Emily makes the speech herself, over the loudspeakers. 

Daud does his duties as normal, barely speaks a word to anyone the entirety of the day, and then retreats to the familiarity of Rudshore when sundown finally comes. 

The floodwater is gone, leaving the District dry and barren in the midst of the repairs. It’s still abandoned, the buildings nowhere near safe enough to begin housing citizens again. The Commerce building still stands at the heart of the District, though it, too, lies empty, quiet; the rooms raided, Daud’s old office sparse, everything theirs now safely at the Old Waterfront. 

Corvo’s on the fucking roof of the Chamber when Daud arrives. How the void he’d gotten here before him, Daud has no idea. He’s decided to stop questioning how Corvo manages to do half the things he does. 

“Avoid me now,” he challenges, shooting Daud a wry smile where he’s perched at the edge. “Come here, killer. Sit with me.” 

Daud does as he’s bid, scowling. He doesn’t like being taken by surprise, it’s not a wise thing to do. Daud gets an itchy trigger finger. 

Corvo smacks his hand, where it’s gone to tighten his wristbow on instinct. “Quit that. We both know you’re not going to shoot me.” 

“Might shoot you,” Daud grunts under his breath, earning him a jab of Corvo’s elbow. 

“Be a shitty thing to do today of all days.” 

Daud must have a visceral reaction to it, because even Corvo winces when the words leave his mouth. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Corvo shifts closer, leg and shoulder firm against Daud’s. “You don’t need to avoid me. That’s what I wanted to say.” 

“Out of respect, I thought it may be appropriate–” 

“Your respect is appreciated,” Corvo credits, “but it may shock you to know that I value your company, and don’t want you to feel like you should distance yourself. An anniversary doesn’t change that.” 

The admission doesn’t shock him. Daud knows Corvo values his company, as Daud values his. 

(Values is too a pathetic a word for what Daud feels. He relishes Corvo’s company, craves his attention. Their work together fulfils him, their conversations warm him. Corvo’s spirit, his intelligence, his restless antics and sharp humour, all has agitated something fierce and fragile to wake in Daud, something he had once scoffed at the thought of himself possessing. But he possesses it. Corvo has proven it.)

“May I tell you something?” 

(Anything.)

“I appreciate the illusion of having a choice in the matter. We both know you’re going to tell me anyway.” 

Corvo’s mouth curls, fond. “True.” 

He pauses for a while, eyes focused, mind working to find the words he wants. Daud waits patiently; lets him consider as long as he needs to. 

Eventually, Corvo nudges his head down toward the ruins, to the broken walls and rotting floorboards. “Do you want to know why I accepted your offer, that day?” 

What an idiotic question. Of course he does. 

Corvo must see it in his face, because his Mark gleams white, and that warped contraption of flesh and metal appears in his palm, beating steadily. Daud’s close enough to see it for what it is, now. A heart, stuck with wires and sharp iron, a small looking-glass slotted in its center and glinting in the evening light. 

“A gift from our friend.” Corvo says it bitterly, looking down at the thing with pity in his eyes. “It has her voice, but it’s not… her. I know it’s not.” 

It has her voice. Void, the cruelty of that… Daud’s chest twists painfully. “Why are you telling me this–” 

“I’m not saying this to cause you grief,” Corvo continues, and his voice is gentle, placating. “I want you to know because I think you deserve to know, now.” He turns the heart side to side in his hand, clearly taking care not to apply any pressure to it. “It tells the truth about people. Sees inside them, knows their secrets. I’ve only used it twice.” 

Daud swallows hard, trying not to fold under the urge to flee. Tense and unsettled as he may be, Corvo’s shoulder against his, the feel of it so familiar now, grounds him enough to remain where he is. 

“I needed to know whether Waverley was telling the truth.” 

Daud clenches his jaw in discomfort, still eying the distorted, beating thing in Corvo’s hold. “About what she knew of Burrows and the plague?” 

Corvo hums quietly. “It told me she was. And then, you, here. I needed to know.”

There’s an apology there, beneath the admission, which Daud finds entirely unnecessary. Corvo had known nothing about him, how the void was he to know Daud’s oath was genuine without any insight.

“Do you want to know what it said?” 

“No.”

Daud bites it out on reflex, defensive and uneasy. But Corvo waits, as patiently as Daud had waited for him.

Daud closes his eyes after a long moment, curses himself. “Yes,” he admits, almost a whisper. 

Corvo presses into him a little. “It told me you had a daughter. That you’d understand. And do whatever it took to help me save mine.” 

Daud takes a harried, unsteady breath. Tries to will his hands not to start shaking. 

Corvo rests his head down on his shoulder. “Two years ago, you had a part to play, Daud, because of Burrows. And I know you regret it. I listened to that audiograph,” he adds, utterly unrepentant.

He has no reason to be. The fact that he’d snooped for it doesn’t surprise Daud, doesn’t irritate him, in the slightest. 

“You’re a prying, petty rat.” It’s coarse and quiet, no teeth behind it at all. “I regret it,” Daud repeats roughly. “Of course I regret it. Emily’s mother, your arrest, all I did, my part in it all. I’d–” 

“It was a job,” Corvo cuts him off, repeating Daud’s words to him on the ruins. “That’s what you said. Not personal, just a job.” 

“It was.” Daud swallows again against the tightness in his throat, against the pressure clawing at the back of his throat. “But I know you now, bodyguard. I know you, and I wouldn’t cause you pain. Knowing that I have– that I had even a part in it–”

“I know.” Corvo banishes the heart, slips a hand under Daud’s. The other comes to cover it, holding tight against the shaking. “I know you now, too. Everything you’ve done for me, since then, and for Emily… I forgave your part in what happened a while ago. Alright? I want you to know that I’ve forgiven you. That’s what I came here to say.”

Daud hasn’t wept in years, and he does so silently, face pressed stubbornly into Corvo’s hair, hidden. Corvo says nothing; stays against his side until he calms, weathering his own grief or regrets or whatever he’s feeling that day in silence as well. 

“What’s her name?” Corvo asks, when the daylight has long fallen past Rudshore’s horizon. “Your daughter.” 

“Billie.” 

“Hm.” There’s a smile in the word when he replies. “Sweet.” 

“She wasn’t,” Daud chuckles. The sound is wet and rough, but it feels good, strangely weightless. “She was a pain in the ass. Snide, thought she was funny. She’d have liked you.” 

Corvo hesitates, but Daud knows what he’s going to ask, and is ready. “What happened to her?” 

“I failed her.” 

(He wonders, vaguely, in the distance of Corvo’s forgiveness and the comfort of his hands still covering Daud’s, whether he could be granted Billie’s pardon one day. Whether he has it already, wherever she is. It’s clearly a day of impossibilities, why not entertain the notion.) 

“She’s still out there, somewhere. Better off without me, in a new life. Wherever that may be.” 

Corvo perks up, shifting off Daud’s shoulder and up straight in his rapid onslaught of thoughts. “We have the resources, everything we need. We could try and track her down–” 

“No.” Daud refuses as gently as he can, because the man’s kindness makes that pressure begin to build again and he’s made quite enough of a fool of himself today, Daud refuses to allow any more. “No, I owe her this. A chance to start over without all the shit from the past.” 

A chance Daud himself has been given, against all the odds. A chance Corvo has given him. 

“I wish we’d had the chance to meet differently,” Corvo confesses, laying his head back down against Daud’s shoulder. “But, even still, I’m… Now I know you… I’m glad we met at all. Even after everything.” 

(You’re waxing poetic, bodyguard, is what Daud means to answer with.)

“As am I,” is what he says aloud. 

Corvo kisses him on the eighth day in the Month of Seeds. But that’s an entire story in itself. 

Chapter Text

They stand in front of the shrine for a while, deliberating; scrutinising the rune in silence at one another’s side.

Eventually, Corvo scrunches his nose and comes to a decision. “I can do without it.”

Thank the void, Daud sighs to himself in relief. “Fine by me.”

They’ve come across the shrine in Treaver’s Close, noticing the vivid purple glow when they dropped down into the alleyway. Daud had withered when they’d slipped beneath a boarded doorway and discovered the shrine bracketing a corner of a small storage room, a rune humming softly on the alter, awaiting them.

Thankfully Corvo seems similarly disinclined to chat with their mutual friend. Daud’s having a damn good day, it would be a shame to soil it with the Outsider and his ox shit.

And at least the old shop they’ve invaded has a stairwell up to the roof. They exit to clear skies and the sprawling white-stone buildings of the Legal District ahead of them.

“Does he do that thing with you as well? Where he,” Corvo tilts his head dramatically to the side, making Daud snort softly, “and looks like he’s condescending you?”

“Yes.” Daud marks a point atop the next building and transverses across, Corvo following in that blue charge of light. “Last few times I’ve been tempted to throw myself into the abyss, to spare myself the sight of that smug face.”

“I tried that once. Jumping off one of the islands,” Corvo clarifies. “Wanted to see what would happen.” His tone is much too casual for such an absurd claim.

“You’re a damned idiot.” Though Daud takes pause, curious. He’s never considered actually trying it. Who would be mad enough, besides Lord Protector Corvo Attano. “What happened?”

“You just fall back where you started. Wasn’t as interesting as I’d hoped.” Corvo peers back, like he’s scouting something out in the shadows of the chimneys behind them. “Puts me on edge, when I remember he’s watching.”

“He may not be, now. We can hope he’s lost interest in the both of us.” It’s happened once before. Daud got decidedly dull, in the black-eyes bastard’s opinion. Luck may be on his side once again in that regard. “The Outsider’s drawn to chaos, and nothing much has happened of late.”

“You don’t sound too disappointed by it.” Corvo’s words are tinged with surprise.

“I’m not.”

Far from it. Daud’s life before was chaos; constant uncertainty, killing for coin, surviving day by day. Despite the familiar levels of danger and intrigue that adjoins his role under Emily Kaldwin, the city and the Isles as a whole have descended into peace, and that peace has taken Daud along with it. He’s certainly not disappointed.

“Your penchant for chaos keeps me occupied enough, bodyguard, rest assured. I can live with that, if it keeps the black-eyed bastard bored shitless and looking elsewhere.”

“I don’t have a ‘penchant for chaos’.”

Daud looks at him sidelong. “Robbing the entirety of Holger Square. Everything that happened with Slackjaw and Bunting. The Boyle guest ledger,” he lists off patiently. “Granny Rags. You haven’t forgotten that month spent as a wolfhound–”

“You’ve made your point, killer. No one likes a smartass.” Corvo trips Daud’s foot with his own, blinking across another space before Daud can counter. “So you lose the Outsider’s interest and, what,” he continues, turning on his heel to face Daud behind him, striding backwards along the rooftop, “he just fucks off and you don’t see him anymore?”

“We can hope,” Daud repeats, countering then by Pulling Corvo’s next step off kilter, knocking him into the oncoming chimney stack he’s approaching in reverse.

“Have you always hated him so much?” Corvo asks, rubbing his shoulder and turning back to face their route.

“Not always. I used to vie for his attention like a fool,” Daud answers, chuckling bitterly at himself. “Void, the things I did to garner it. The shit I twisted myself up in.”

“How whorish of you,” Corvo teases, and he dodges the swipe of Daud’s boot towards his shin.

(He isn’t wrong though, harmless as his teasing may be. Daud had been young, the first few years he had been marked; had thought himself in love and unequalled, worthier than mere mortals under the Outsider’s dark gaze. How foolish he had been, in hindsight, knowing now how all that truly feels at Corvo Attano’s side.)

“Is he ever not cryptic? I don’t get a straight answer about anything.”

“Cryptic is one word. Take your pick of a better one,” Daud says dryly. “Tiresome. Arrogant. Grating.”

“If you want to call him a cock, Daud, just call him a cock. You’ll get no disagreement from me.”

“He’s a cock.”

“That feel better?”

It actually does. “Immensely.”

“I just think it’s disturbing. The void, the Outsider, all of it.” Corvo hops up onto the brim of their rooftop, teetering on the edge as he strides along. “He knows too much. No one should know that much without their head exploding.”

Daud raises a brow pointedly, and Corvo rolls his eyes when he catches his expression.

“Yes, you’re the Spymaster, you know too much, too,” Corvo drawls, “you’re very clever. Anything else you’d like me to say?”

“No, that will do fine,” Daud replies, intentionally self-righteous. “You forgot ‘master of the trade’, but I’ll forgive it.”

It earns him a grin; brief, but Daud catches it all the same.

He lives for glimpses like those, these days. Over a year of them, few and far between as they may be, has made Daud greedy for the sight, for Corvo’s sharp smiles.

(It’s not a cold greed, for coin or blood or recognition like all he’s known before. It’s something vastly warmer, something that aches somewhere deeper that those surface desires. Daud requires nothing in return but the knowledge that he’s responsible, whenever Corvo’s eyes brighten with delight.)

“Though, it’s a little disturbing with you, too,” Corvo adds, as he blinks across another gap between roofs. “I still don’t know where you get half your information from, it’s unnatural. And who under the stars has that many contacts.”

“The Spymaster,” Daud answers in a chuckle. “That is the point of having one, bodyguard.”

They reach an equipment cache, high above Fernsway Row. It’s an old reliable; Daud’s had it stashed here since long before Burrows and the plague.

“We’re going to need all this?” Corvo crouches to inspect the contents, twirling a bolt through his fingers. “I thought we were just infiltrating.”

“Preparedness pays.” Daud slots one of the remedies into a pocket, loads up on several more sleep darts. He pauses, a thought occurring. “Did you bring your mask?”

“Hmm?”

“Your mask.”

Corvo gives him a blank look. “Should I have.”

“Of course you haven’t, why would you,” Daud mutters, closing his eyes in exasperation. “The entire city knows your face, you–”

“It’ll be fine,” Corvo dismisses, irritatingly confident. “I’ve got a hood, look,” and when he flips it over his hair, tousled strands poking out beneath the brim, Daud feels frustration and adoration spike through him. “And I’m not planning on being seen anyway, am I.”

“You’re the cock,” Daud grinds out, though he draws his own hood up and foregoes the whaling mask. Fair is fair. “How the void you made it through that conspiracy without–”

“Stop growling,” Corvo pokes him in the back of the head where Daud’s still crouched over the cache, and then strides toward the edge to survey the boulevard below. “Where’s this office, then?”

“Corner of the Row, top floor.”

“And Marinos won’t be in?”

Daud straightens up, “Shouldn’t be. Not that it’ll make a difference,” he points out under his breath, shooting Corvo’s turned back a thin, unimpressed look, “if you’re not planning on being seen.”

“I can still hear you, killer.” Corvo blinks to him, playfully tugs Daud’s hood down over his eyes, and then blinks to the neighbouring roof.

Daud had swiped the job, a simple infiltration, from Marco. He’d needed a change of pace, something away from the palace. Fond as he’s grown of life there, he still feels stifled, constricted, from time to time.

(Rudshore, the Waterfront, Dunwall Tower, he knows it would be the same anywhere. It always has been. Daud avoids feeling caged at all costs, no matter where he settles.)

Corvo had inspected Marco’s report from behind Daud’s chair, chin coming to rest on his shoulder. “Alec Marinos?”

“An accountant, in the Legal District.”

Marinos has been swindling his clients, though all Marco currently has on it is word of mouth from several of their contacts. It will need investigating further. Having gotten away with it for so long, rumour’s been circling that Marinos has gotten cocky enough to consider offering his services to the Crown.

“Might as well cut it short, before it becomes annoying.”

“So he’s not a threat or anything. Just an annoyance.”

“Hm.”

“Petty,” Corvo had accused, nose brushing against Daud’s hair for a moment before he’d drawn away.

“Would you–” Daud had had to clear his throat. “Tomorrow,” he‘d grunted. “If you’re coming along.”

Corvo’s eyes had lit up, pleased. “I’m invited?”

“Not in the least. I only assumed you’d be bothering me to come anyway, and thought I’d cut that annoyance short as well.”

(Daud has noticed him growing equally restless these past few days. Best to get Corvo out of the Tower, before he starts possessing the poor hounds or pilfering courtiers or some other such nonsense.)

They enter the apartment from Marinos’ balcony. His offices are expectedly quiet this time in the morning, though Daud’s Gaze clocks several silhouettes milling around on the floor below. Maids or lower associates with the business, maybe.

Daud snatches a golden spyglass out of Corvo’s hand. The man’s been inspecting it, head cocked in temptation.

“Focus.”

“It’s much nicer than yours.”

Daud tosses the apparatus back down on Marinos’ desk, and jerks his head down the hallway, to the stairwell. “Go and find something of consequence to steal, thief. I’ll keep searching up here.”

“What counts as of consequence?”

“Business documents. Transactions showing clients have been cheated. Proof the coin doesn’t add up.”

“Just say anything dull-looking with a lot of numbers on it.” Corvo skirts around him, teasing as he passes, “So serious when you’re on the job.”

“Someone should be, else no job will get done.”

Corvo grins at him again, sharp and delighted, and then blinks down the hall where he’s been bid.

It goes spectacularly wrong from there.

Turns out Marinos had scheduled a morning meeting with his business partners at the office, and the maids downstairs had been prepping a small banquet table for the occasion; fruit, exotic fish, roast hare, all laid out in waiting.

Marco’s report had mentioned nothing of this. So when Daud meets Corvo on that floor and Marinos enters the room, the timing of it all catastrophically perfect, they all freeze like fucking statues and stare across the banquet table at one another.

Then Marinos opens his mouth to scream, “Guar–!” and Corvo throws the entire roast hare at him in a panic.

It gives them a brief window borne of shock enough to make their escape; transversing into the corridor, terrifying the maids, narrowly avoiding the trio of guards who were making their way upstairs.

(Thank the void for their hoods. As far as anyone will know, Marinos was accosted by a pair of unnamed rogues, and not the Royal Protector and Spymaster of Dunwall Tower.)

They take refuge back near the equipment cache, catching their breath above the Row and watching the chaotic aftermath ensue; the guards skittering around the offices to search, the maids sniggering behind their hands, Marinos gesturing furiously, suit covered in glaze.

“Stop fucking laughing,” Corvo bites out, though his embarrassed glare does nothing to shake the spell.

Daud laughs until he has to crouch down and support himself on the roof, until it actually starts to get painful.

(He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed like this at anyone.)

“You’re absurd,” he manages to rasp out. “The whole fucking hare, why–”

“I don’t know!” Corvo snaps, though the words break off as his own laughter bleeds through. “I panicked.”

Daud has to rub a hand over his face. “Not planning on being seen, void.”

“I should have just killed you in Rudshore,” Corvo says sourly, but that only starts Daud off again.

He gives Marco a stern earful about the report – missing information like that is amateurish, unacceptable, at this stage in the game – though there’s less bite in Daud’s reproach deep down than there is on the surface.

Corvo Attano, caught red-handed at last by a lowly accountant, throwing an entire roast hare at the man. Daud will be bringing that up in conversation for a while.

“In what other situations would you recommend throwing a hare at someone, father?” Emily asks during their training that afternoon, and Corvo shoots Daud, observing from the sidelines, a look so fierce it’s a wonder he doesn’t immediately ignite.

The Empress smiles, thin and satisfied, and Daud grants her a subtle nod of approval. He’s begun teaching her what he can of the world of espionage, at her request.

And if you can’t practise with information against your own father, what’s the point.

Marinos will be soon exposed, and his clients reimbursed. Corvo had at least found something of consequence before they’d been forced to make their brisk exit.

“When do you sleep,” Corvo comments that night, silent as always in his intrusion of Daud’s quarters. Where Daud’s sorting through several remaining reports, Corvo places a steaming mug down beside him. “Or is one of your gifts eternal wakefulness?”

Daud barely hears him. His eyes are blurring tiredly, straining down at the papers. He rubs at his temples, then notices the coffee and grunts a, “Thank you. The date?”

“Sixth day. Well,” Corvo peers at the darkness outside, “the seventh, now.”

Before Daud returns pen to paper, Corvo slides the report away from him and plucks the pen from his fingers, gently nudging him up from the chair.

“I’ll finish these off.”

“I–”

“Don’t make me sleep dart you, killer.” Corvo places the mug in his hand, steers him far from the desk, and pushes him down in a much more comfortable chair.

Daud passes out in minutes, thanks to the warmth of the fireplace and the coffee and Corvo softly humming to himself as he makes his way through Daud’s workload.

He wakes to find a blanket thrown over him, the reports signed off and stacked in a hazardous pile, and Marinos’ golden spyglass on his desk with a note lying beside.

Don’t bother looking for your old one. You’ll never find it.

I’m covering your meetings this morning. If I see you before noon, I’ll possess you and walk you back here.

Get some rest.

- C

“You can try,” Daud mutters to himself. He’s not certain Corvo’s possession nonsense would even work on another with the Outsider’s Mark.

Though, after a moment of consideration, he decides not to risk it. Corvo makes good on his threats, and Daud’s witnessed the unpleasant aftermath of those possessions on a human before.

So he heads for the Old Waterfront, rested enough and eager for the twisting paths and jagged rooftops of his District, the boisterous laughter of his men.

That’s where he hears the rumour.

He’s sparring with Andrei and Killian, both twins against him as usual, when Quinn pipes up across their yard, “When d’you reckon Attano’s gonna start courtin’ the governess?” and Daud’s parry slips at the last second, allowing Andrei to stagger him back a step.

“Shit–” Andrei freezes instantly. “Did I… Did I just get a hit in on you?”

“He ain’t already courtin’ her?” Jenkins is frowning across at Quinn, lowering his wristbow where he’s on target practice. “I thought they’d been fuckin’ each other since them Loyalists were still around.”

“Outsider’s balls, Jen,” Galia cringes, “you don’t gotta put it like that.”

“Did you actually just stagger him?” Killian chokes out to his brother. “Did anyone else see that?!” he calls around urgently.

Daud snaps back into focus when Andrei takes a step forward, and he knocks the man’s blade sideways to disarm him; trips Killian down in one movement as the discussion forges on around them.

“They ain’t never been doing nothin’ together, mudlark,” Galia adds to Quinn. “What kind of ox shit are you chattin’ about? They’re friends.”

“Friends can still be fuckin’,” Jenkins points out, but he’s ignored.

“Is Attano even into women?”

“He has a daughter, you dumb fuck. How d’you think that came about?”

“Nobles can have kids and still be bent to shit, Galia. You think Estermont likes his wife?” Quinn scoffs. “He’s got a litter of little stinkin’ highborns. Probably keeps his eyes closed and thinks of Primshall whenever him an’ his lady–”

“Don’t say it, Quinn, I don’t wanna think about that.”

“Attano’s Serkonan, ain’t he?” Jenkins pipes up again. “They ain’t all prissy like here in Gristol. Ladies, fellas, ladies what look like fellas, fellas what wear dresses, whatever floats their boat.”

“I reckon he’ll ask Callista tonight, make it official.” Quinn fires off a bolt and knocks one of Jenkins’ out of the mannequin. “It’s her birth date and all. Women love that romantic shit.”

“That kind of delusion is why you’ve never spoken more than five words to a woman, Quinn,” Galia scoffs. “Attano ain’t interested in the governess. They’re friends,” she repeats, dragging out the word slowly. “Men and women can just be friends, y’know.”

So it’s a rumour, nothing more. All conversation regarding it ceases there.

Daud is admittedly merciless for the remainder of the spar, in how quickly he continues to disarm the twins, and he takes an obstinate pleasure in besting them four-to-one when Akila and Yuri jump in.

He returns to the Tower in a foul mood, and tries to take it out on Estermont in court. His temperance for the nobleman’s ridiculous suggestions cracks enough to have Daud ripping into him across the meeting room.

Even Corvo, lounged in his seat at Daud’s side, is a little taken aback by his bite.

“I don’t think he needs a second asshole, stop trying to tear him one,” he leans over to whisper, though his eyes are glinting at the entertainment.

Daud doesn’t answer where he normally would. He seethes in silence, and feels Corvo glancing at him throughout the afternoon, gaze curious and questioning.

Would Corvo court someone? It’s not expected for his station. He and the governess are close, that fact has been evident since Callista was first discovered at the Hound Pits. Has Corvo shown particular interest in the governess? Daud hasn’t clocked it, if he has.

Though there is widespread interest in Corvo, that much is certain.

It’s no damn rumour, that Corvo Attano is desirable. No one with eyes could deny it, and no one with ears could miss word of it. Courtiers are always murmuring with half-narrowed gazes, always fawning. Guards admire him from the sidelines as he trains. The governess’ gaze does linger on him, when he’s near.

(Daud has eyes good as anyone’s. Tall, lithe, lean angles and sharp features, Corvo is indisputably desirable. Just because Daud doesn’t want to stick his cock in the man, in anyone, doesn’t mean he can’t admire the beauty of him. He can, and he does. Near constantly, like it’s part of his damn job.)

He cannot blame the Captain’s niece, should her desire for Corvo be more than mere rumour. Daud can understand the sentiment.

He blames her anyway, because Daud’s desire for Corvo is not rumour, and he is jealous, and covetous, and no amount of better choices or granted forgiveness have changed those inherent facts.

Corvo wanders about Daud’s office after court, prying and restless and infuriating, and Daud can’t ignore him. Can’t shun the sight of his shape striding around in the edge of his vision, long legs and dark, messy hair. Can’t focus on anything but the man drawing near, when he slinks behind Daud’s chair for a closer look at the task Daud is pretending to be absorbed in.

“Will you be gracing the Curnows with your presence later?”

Daud makes a noise, some grunt or other in answer.

Corvo comes to rest his chin on his shoulder. “You’re invited–”

And Daud surges up from the desk, stalking around it to distance himself, desperate for a respite from that urge to press closer.

“I need to finish this, leave me be.”

Corvo’s confusion is evident, though it’s quickly replaced by fondness. “So serious,” he teases, shooting Daud a grin and a short salute over his shoulder as he leaves.

(How much more can Daud take, before his chest decides to finally collapse in on itself? Surely no man can bear more of this.)

Emily has scheduled a small, intimate gathering for Callista’s birth date that evening. Curnow has offered his own apartment for the occasion.

And Daud knows he’s invited, because Emily has ordered his being there. He can hardly refuse his sovereign’s word, as much as he would prefer to on this occasion.

It’s cramped inside, the space humble even considering the small number of guests in attendance. The east window keeps tempting Daud’s escape into the open of the Distillery District. But Emily has already informed him how rude it would be for him to leave.

She’s caught him glimpsing the route one too many times. “You have to stay, Mister Daud.”

“As you say, Empress.”

“You can call me Emily, you know. It won’t hurt you.”

Daud peers down at her. “It might,” he says, just to make her smile. She smiles same as Corvo, more with her eyes.

An audiograph is playing music softly, and Emily trots away and drags Fisher to dance.

Across the room, Corvo offers Callista his hand to do the same.

“No, Corvo–”

“One dance,” Corvo coaxes, and the governess rolls her eyes. Slides her fingers into his when he gestures her closer. “It’s your party. You have to dance.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Lord Protector.” There is humour in her false refusal, a deep affection in her expression, and her hands come to rest high on Corvo’s arms.

They sway to the music. Talk closely in hushed voices. They look good together. They make a handsome couple, no one could dispute it.

Since Emily is occupied, Daud makes his escape. Curnow’s rooftop has a good view of the District, and Daud snaps Pratchett’s case closed with a little more force than necessary.

Cigarette held between his teeth, he gropes around his coat for his lighter. After a few moments, he grits his teeth in realisation.

“Give it back,” he bites over this shoulder.

The roguish look in Corvo’s eyes sobers at his tone, and he passes the lighter over obediently.

Daud snatches it. “Go back inside.”

“No.” Corvo comes to his side, and allows Daud to smoke in silence for a while, though Daud can feel him stealing more of those questioning glances. “Not in the partying spirit, I see.”

The cigarette doesn’t help Daud’s mood, as he’d hoped. “Am I ever?”

“Good point. At least there are no nobles.”

“Are we not classed as nobles, now.”

Corvo scrunches his nose in disgust. “Don’t say that.”

Daud wants to huff an amused sound, wants to curse his own foolishness. “To the void with the party,” he mutters irritably instead.

“You came anyway.”

“Our Empress ordered it. She may have vaguely threatened me.”

“She’s getting good at that.”

“She takes after her father.”

“Very clever?”

“Very spiteful.”

Corvo shifts closer and slips the cigarette free from Daud’s fingers. “You don’t have to stay, if you don’t wish to.”

“And risk my execution?”

“I’ll cover for you.” Corvo brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a slow drag. It’s more successful than his first attempt, bleeding and betrayed and pissed off in Rudshore’s ruins. Though he still grimaces, “You should find a new vice.” Corvo passes the spliff back, glaring at it. “Stealing doesn’t taste bad, try that.”

“Coming from someone who drinks that swill you call tea, that means very little.”

Daud expects a retort; a cutting, clever comment or other. But Corvo’s just looking at him, still with a hint of that confusion. “You’ve been oddly cold, today.”

(Far too insightful, he sees far too much. It raises Daud’s hackles; instantly puts him on guard.)

Daud scoffs. “I’m not always?”

“No. I know you. You’re not usually that way with me.”

Daud suspects he’ll never grow used to the feeling those kinds of words bring; the vulnerability, the familiarity. The intimacy of it.

Normally, it warms him. At the moment, it makes him want to swing at something.

“Go back inside and ask your governess for another dance,” Daud says gruffly, wanting done with the conversation. “I don’t wish to keep you from–”

“Don’t do that,” Corvo snaps, a little of his viciousness peeking through. “Don’t brush me off. I’d rather you tell me, if I’ve done something–”

“You’ve done nothing,” Daud snaps back. He itches to be alone, to have space to allow his thoughts to stop warping and coiling into something hateful the longer Corvo is near him. “Just because I don’t wish for your company right now doesn’t mean you’re the cause. Not every situation revolves around you–”

“I’m not saying it does, don’t put words in my mouth–”

“Then don’t assume I wish to discuss every small thing with you, you’re not owed my every thought–”

“I didn’t say I was,” Corvo says fiercely. Some of that desperation Daud had heard at the Hound Pits, that silent plea to be understood, is seeping into his tone. “I’m not your enemy, Daud. This probably won’t come as a shock, but you’re not the easiest person to read. I’d rather know if I’ve done something to–”

“I said you‘ve done nothing–”

“Then why are you acting like th–”

“I don’t owe you an explanation–”

“You don’t owe me one, but I’d like one–”

“This probably won’t come as a shock, Attano, but we don’t all get what we’d like. Yet the rest of us deal with it like adults, not whine about it like spoiled children begging for attention.”

It’s cruel, and it’s without reason, and Corvo’s done nothing to warrant his callousness. But Daud feels like a cornered hound; backed up and teeth bared, taking any opportunity to bully off an assailant.

“Piss off back inside,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a warning, like a threat. “Leave me be– for once in your life, take a hint, damn you.”

Where Daud expects a threat in return, some spiteful retort that he knows without a doubt Corvo is capable of, there’s nothing.

Corvo is silent, and then vanishes from the roof as he’s instructed.

Daud is left alone, as he had wanted.

And there, he finds he did require the solitude. He smokes another cigarette, slowly, savouring it, and this one does help his mood. Eventually he calms, and curses himself; curses Quinn and Jenkins and Galia, curses that entire day.

How familiar this feels, Daud thinks dryly. He may as well be standing on the hound cages’ overlook, with the muffled chatter of Curnow’s party inside and the distinct loss of Corvo’s regard.

Why Daud’s stubbornness insists on shunning the dearest things in his life, he cannot say. He’s been doing it for over four decades, so expecting that it could change, as so much else has, may be a fool’s errand.

And it was foolish, Daud concedes, to believe that these regrets were finished with. The expected bitterness and shame and remorse for his conduct descends down on him like a tidal wave from the Tyvian sea; cold and biting, wanting to drown him in its depths.

(Apologise to him, you fool. You know none of this is his doing.)

Daud finishes another cigarette, for courage if nothing else, and makes his return to the gathering.

He learns that Corvo has not made his.

“We thought he was with you, Sir,” Thomas says.

“Who knows where that man disappears to,” Curnow chuckles. His hand is resting low on Thomas’ back, indulgent and familiar, and the sight makes something bitter twist in Daud’s chest. “I’m sure he was just feeling cooped up. I know this place is a more humble size than might be convenient, for everyone here,” he adds sheepishly.

“It’s been a nice evening,” Thomas assures him, pressing just an inch closer to the man.

Daud leaves them to their nonsense, resentment ripe inside him.

(He doesn’t truly begrudge Thomas his happiness. Daud is glad for him. Though that doesn’t stop him firing off a vague threat to the Captain now and again, just to keep Curnow on his toes.)

Daud’s raring to escape again, to track Corvo down. But the sight of Emily yawning near the bookshelf, drooping with half-lidded eyes against Fisher’s side, has him staying put. If Corvo isn’t here, Daud supposes any duties to their Empress technically fall to him.

(It isn’t duty. Daud has grown fond as the void for the girl. He would see her safe, always.)

“Oh, Mister Corvo did come back, Sir,” Fisher informs him. “Only for a second, though. He asked Galia to keep an eye on Emily, make sure she’s taken back safe. Guess somethin’ came up and he had to scram.”

“We should take our leave,” is all Daud says in answer, aching to return to the Tower. “Our Empress is almost unconscious.”

“S’it time t’go?” Emily mumbles, rubbing a knuckle into her eyes when Fisher gently jostles her.

“It is.”

“Mm. ‘Kay.” Half asleep, Emily slots her hand into Daud’s and tugs him to offer their goodbyes to Curnow and his niece.

She falls asleep on his shoulder on the carriage ride back to the Tower District, Fisher snoring against Galia’s opposite them. Daud is restless for the journey, chewing over where Corvo may have retreated.

(Somewhere high, certainly. When he’s not darting around restlessly, the man’s always perched on something, like an overgrown bird. Daud doesn’t think he’s ever seen him take a seat normally, even in court he’s reclining or leaning with a long leg propped under him.)

“G’night, Mister Daud,” Emily bids him, and Galia scoops her up before she falls asleep on her feet.

“Got her?”

“I got her, boss.” Galia tucks Emily close and carries her inside, Fisher trailing them tiredly.

Daud traverses up to Corvo’s balcony, but his Gaze finds no one inside. He heads to the highest point of the palace, where Burrows’ gauche saferoom once was. They now use the space to spar, away from prying eyes, where they can use their Marks.

Though again, there’s nothing.

Daud finds no sign of him anywhere that night. He attempts patience and retires to his own quarters. Corvo’s the Royal Protector, Daud is the Spymaster; there’s no possibility they won’t see each other tomorrow.

Corvo is in none of their meetings. Daud becomes increasingly disgruntled as the morning dredges on.

“Where’s Attano?” Crawford grumbles on Daud’s left. “Could have done with someone talking sense this morning. It’s not like the man to be tardy.”

“Likely he doesn’t want to waste his time on this drivel,” Daud says in answer, scowling around at the squawking courtiers. “Who can blame him.”

He counts the seconds until the meeting closes, and is the first to stalk from the room.

Rulfio and Rinaldo are training with Emily in the gardens, where she’d normally spar with her father.

Samuel and Thomas are discussing overseas trade alone in one of the meeting rooms.

Daud catches Aeolos beating off Ardan and Jenkins in the kitchens, where the pair are snatching food. Seeing as there’s no clue of Corvo, Daud leaves them to it and moves on.

The pack of hounds prowl past him through one of the corridors, happily unpossessed.

There, though, Daud does catch a faint tune coming from further down the hall.

Piano. No one else in the Tower plays so proficiently.

Daud braces himself as he steps around the door to the music room. Any apology to Corvo Attano rarely goes smoothly. The man has spite at his centre, and repentance is an uphill battle with him, as Daud well knows.

Though Daud does take a moment to admire the way Corvo’s fingers grace over the keys. It’s a piece he plays often, one his mother wrote, and Corvo is clearly running through it on instinct; his eyes are distant, his focus elsewhere.

Daud paces further into the room and carefully takes a seat beside him, putting them shoulder to shoulder on the stool. Reluctant to interrupt with the inadequate apology he has prepared, Daud joins the arrangement instead.

He’s far less practised than Corvo, fumbling a few of the keys. Eventually his efforts make Corvo give a slight smile, mouth curving at one corner in amusement.

(The sight of it is a relief in the wake of the previous evening. Daud damns restraint for a brief moment, and brushes a finger against Corvo’s above the keys.)

Corvo’s movements slow, and he lets the tune taper off. “I think you’re getting worse.”

“No worse than your attempts at carving.”

“You said I was improving.”

“I was protecting your ego. You had to be shit at something, bodyguard, you’re maddeningly proficient at most other things.”

Corvo hums, and Daud thinks it’s meant to be agreement, but its a short, tense sound. There’s a visible tightness in Corvo’s shoulders.

“About last night, at Curnow’s.”

“That’s why I–”

“I owe you an apology.”

I owe you an apology? They’re words Daud can’t imagine have been often voiced. Corvo is hesitant as he says it, and looks adamantly down at the piano keys. Corvo owes him an apology?

“What are you–”

“You said you wanted me to leave,” Corvo cuts over off, clearly determined to say his piece. “I didn’t respect it, and that’s not okay. I recognise that. I‘m sorry.”

Blindsided by it, Daud falters for something to say. But Corvo surges on quickly, his concessions coming smoothly, as though the man had thought this out, slaved over his apology before now as Daud had.

“I know I was pestering you the whole day. I was overbearing.”

(Perhaps he could be accused of such, if Daud didn’t crave his attention any given second.)

“And I know I can be difficult to be around.”

(Difficult? Daud’s never known an ease like it with someone. When they talk, when they spar, when they share the silence together, it’s easy as breathing.)

“And I’m always stealing your things.”

(He keeps gifting Daud useless trinkets in turn, just because Corvo thinks he’ll like them, it makes Daud’s heart ache.)

“And I’m irritating.” There’s a laugh to the admission, but it’s self-derisive and discouraged and Daud dislikes it intensely. “I know I’m irritating.”

(He is irritating. He’s vexing, and petty. He’s also kind, and clever, Daud’s never met someone so clever or so ridiculous, he makes Daud laugh like he’s never done so in his life.)

“I can get carried away, I don’t always realise it. I just…”

Corvo pauses, visibly steels himself, stubborn to get the words out, and then he says it quietly. Not unlike a child admitting to something they aren’t sure they ought to.

“I like being around you.”

Void, why does that make Daud feel like he’s about to break apart.

“But that’s not an excuse,” Corvo continues firmly. He’s shifted away on the stool, further from Daud, granting him that space, that distance, that Daud doesn’t truly want. “I should have left you alone when you asked me to. I can’t always read you, I can’t tell if I’m intruding or if you’re alright with it, and I… I don’t want…”

He glares down at the carpet, trying to grasp for what more he wants to say, and Daud can’t abide it; the uncertainty on Corvo’s face or the hesitance in his voice.

“I couldn’t work out what I’d done to make you not want me there, you weren’t telling me–”

Daud takes Corvo’s hands before he really considers it, wanting to ground his thoughts. “You’d done nothing–”

“I don’t like it when you go cold with me, Daud. I don’t want to misstep again like I did at the Hound Pits, when Geoff asked me to–”

Daud draws his hands closer, against his chest. He needs the man to understand. “You’ve done nothing,” he repeats sternly. “I had a shit day. It’s that foolish of an explanation, I had a long, shit day. I took that out on you.”

Corvo frowns slightly. “Why.”

“Because you were there.” Daud says it plainly, because that’s the explanation at the heart of it. “It’s that simple.” And that cruel. “You were there. If it were Thomas, or Curnow, or anyone else, it would have been no different. You know me,” Daud adds quietly, also not certain if he ought to. It sounds painfully intimate, in the silence of the room.

“You tend to lash out.” It’s Daud’s own concession. Corvo says it like he’s reminding himself.

“I can’t promise it won’t happen again.” Daud can’t. He knows himself too well to swear otherwise. “But last night was my failure, not yours.”

Corvo searches his face, sees his sincerity, and then his fingers squeeze Daud’s gently. “Not respecting what you asked was my failure.”

Daud won’t argue it, if Corvo insists.

Though he couldn’t argue a damn thing right now, with Corvo’s hands laced through his and cradled against him. Void, they’ve never been this close before and it makes Daud hazy; dazed and distracted in the feeling of their fingers entwined.

“You know you can just tell me.” Corvo’s eyes have thawed to something softer. “Next time, just tell me outright to fuck off if you want some space. I won’t be offended. I’d appreciate the honestly, actually. Then I’ll know to leave–”

“I don’t want that,” Daud bites out, but there’s no edge to it, no teeth. The words sound coarse, frustrated, even to his own ears. “I don’t want your distance, that’s what I came here to say. I don’t… It’s…”

Daud doesn’t often need to grapple for his words. Ordinarily they come concisely, in good order and with good sense. How he’s supposed to conjure any sense with Corvo’s thumbs running gently along the ridges of his hands, however, Daud cannot say. And he certainly cannot think with any measure of clarity.

“I can’t think, when you’re near.”

He doesn’t mean to actually speak the confession aloud, the foolish trail-end of his thoughts, even quiet and rough as it comes.

Daud watches Corvo blink at his concession, surprised.

His gaze drops down to their hands, and Corvo pauses only briefly before he brushes his thumb over Daud’s knuckles. “I think clearer, when you’re near,” he says, and the paired confessions shift something between them.

Daud feels it, anyone could fucking feel it. Corvo’s turned more toward him, now, distance forgotten. Surely Daud is misreading this–

“That’s not me saying you have to tolerate my shit all the time, you know. You’re not obligated or under an oath to put up with me anymore,” Corvo says wryly. “If you ever do want me to go–”

Daud’s grip tightens, cutting off his teasing. “I don’t want that,” he repeats firmly, desperate not to lose trail of whatever is happening, whatever drive or pull or madness, as it may be, that’s keeping Corvo close and staving off thoughts of all else far from the two of them. “I…”

(Damn coward, just say it.)

“I want you near.”

Corvo knows him. Must catch onto the weight behind the simplicity of the words, because Daud watches his eyes melt, dark with affection, and he leans across the space, nudging his nose against Daud’s jaw, pushing close to him, and Daud presses back, he can’t stop himself–

The fucking clock chimes obnoxiously, announcing midday, and it startles them both. Daud could shoot the damn thing.

Corvo sighs, and draws back. “I’m so late. I’m meant to be helping Geoff train his recruits right now.”

His hands are still in Daud’s, and Daud can barely fucking breathe with how desperately he doesn’t want to release them. “I should be heading to another incessant meeting.”

Yet neither of them move, as the clock chimes on; Corvo still grazing his fingers just slightly against Daud’s, Daud’s grip on him bordering on clinging.

“I missed a lot of meetings, didn’t I.”

“There wasn’t much to be missed. Though you abandoned me to Crawford.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Spend the entire morning with him and say that again.”

“How will I make amends for something so heinous.”

Daud thinks it’s supposed to be teasing, but Corvo’s voice is still a little hesitant, his expression still etched with something open and vulnerable.

The clock chimes a final time, and Corvo swallows, his brows scrunched slightly in reluctance. “I have to go.”

As does Daud. He came here to say his piece and he has, and there are no excuses to delay Corvo further. “So do I.”

So he rises, his legs feeling heavy, like gravity’s clawing at him and dragging his coat toward the floor. He draws Corvo up with him, and their hands are still clutched together, their fingers still entwined, and Corvo gently bumps his forehead against Daud’s as he stands, nose nudging his.

They fumble into the kiss, like something’s tugging and stumbling them against each other, like it’s beyond their comprehension.

Daud acknowledges his own shock for about a second, and then he thinks he goes mad with it; fingers carding into Corvo’s hair, that damn hair at last, Corvo’s hands coming to bracket his jaw and keep him close, lips moving against his, eager and mindless, and Daud pushes him into the wall thoughtlessly, wanting to keep him, wanting as he has for months, a year, since he first fucking saw him drop down on Pendleton’s servant at the Hound Pits.

One of Corvo’s hands slides around, thumb under his ear, fingers digging through the hair at the back of his neck, and it feels good, absurdly fucking good–

A voice carries inside from the hall.

“Outsider’s– Where is that man, honestly– Corvo!”

Daud is abruptly shoved away. Corvo breathes hard, looks dishevelled, and horrified, and reality collides into Daud like a rail cart.

Mistake.

It was a mistake.

“For the void’s sake–” It’s Curnow. “Attano!”

Daud and Corvo stare across at each other, and then Corvo’s dismayed gaze darts to the floor. Daud wracks himself hard for something to say; an apology, an excuse, anything to keep from ruining this further, to keep Corvo from fleeing and never looking at him again.

“Corv–”

“Corvo Attano, I swear to the Outsider himself, you are not leaving me saddled with twenty damn recruits alone–”

Corvo blinks to the door, shoulders it open with haste, “I’m here,” and abandons Daud to the deafening silence of the room.

Daud staggers back down to the piano stool, drifting somewhere outside his own body, like some disoriented, abject thing gone astray in the void.

A mistake. A mistake that will change things, at that. Daud cannot put it down to the heat of the moment, not by any measure. Corvo’s too clever to buy that. This could spell the end for the trust they’ve found together. Daud may have just destroyed that one precious thing in his life, because he couldn’t keep a handle on it.

Corvo may never speak to him again.

Daud is numb in his thoughts for several, long moments. Then he’s ashamed for several more. And then he’s bitter and seething and his heart feels on the brink of rupturing or something equally ludicrous, and the remainder of the day passes in a desolate, self-despising blur.

(He’d rather not have known. He’d rather have dredged on in ignorance, maintained a safe distance and merely mused and wondered at it than be granted such a taste, and be spurned just as quickly.)

“Daud!” Crawford bays across the meeting room, when Daud finally makes attendance. “About time, man. We all thought you’d met a bitter end on the way here–”

“Spare me,” Daud snarls, dropping down at his seat and scowling at anyone who looks too long in his direction.

His fuse is cut an oceans length shorter than yesterday. His temper is ruthless. He doesn’t know how else to possibly be, with all that’s amassing inside him. No one is spared from it.

He terrorises a majority of the courtiers in that meeting; makes it personal without cause or reason other than he needs an outlet for his anger. In the palace grounds, he rebukes Galia and the brothers for something he can’t even be sure they’ve done, like they’re children. He outright refuses to spare an hour for Fisher’s training; reproaches her, too, for wasting his time.

He snaps at Thomas for bringing him a report he fucking asked for.

Daud is stubbornly hostile until late into the evening, until the guards, the maids and the staff, even his own men, all skirt around him anxiously, none daring to offer a passing greeting or risk even a glance.

(He can’t stop thinking about it. His mind is constantly elsewhere, drifting traitorously. During every stretched silence or brief pause in conversation, it strays to Corvo against him; deft fingers at the back of his neck, scraping into his hair– void, he’d rather not have known because he’ll never be able to forget it.)

On route to his chambers, irritable and desperate for the day’s end, Daud catches a hound – orange fur, it’s the one Emily’s named Oxrush – with one of his gloves clutched in her jaw, gnawed and torn beyond repair.

He snatches it harshly, and barks a reprimand so sharp that it makes her flinch, ears shooting back.

He goes to stalk past her, but then she lets out this sound in the back of her throat; a low whimper of guilt that has Daud’s heart seizing with regret.

Oxrush slinks forward, head bowed, butting against his leg for forgiveness, and the pitiful sight of her dissipates his fury.

Daud kneels to offer a gruff, quiet apology.

“Stop stealing my things,” he warns, and the hound’s tongue happily lolls out when he gives her a scratch.

She grants his fingers a nibble of accord, and then prowls past him to continue on her way.

Corvo’s voice comes unbidden to his mind, And I keep stealing your things, and the ruined glove creases in Daud’s tightened fist.

“Outsider free me of Corvo Attano,” he mutters through gritted teeth, once he slams the door to his rooms behind him. There must be an end to this torment eventually.

Perhaps it will be that afternoon. Perhaps this will be the brisk and brutal conclusion to his and Corvo’s strange story.

(Daud doesn’t want that. He wants–)

When he passes the desk, Daud doubles back to actually read Thomas’ earlier report; the one he’d snarled at the man for bringing. He skims the contents, and withers.

There are, apparently, additional documents to those Corvo had pilfered from Marinos’ apartment. Documents which are much needed if they want to prove the accountant’s corruption.

This is information Thomas would have certainly passed along in person, had Daud’s temper not sent him retreating in dutiful silence.

No matter. Daud will go himself, and he’ll go now, tonight. His tolerance for the Tower’s walls has been dwindling for hours, anyway. And it’s ludicrous to think he would have been getting any sleep.

“You off out, sir?” Samuel catches him in the west wing; Daud’s typical escape route from the palace. “A little late, isn’t it?”

“No rest for the wicked,” Daud answers gruffly. “Mislaid some information.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Corvo mislaid some information,” he corrects.

“Ah.” Samuel chuckles, fond. “That I can believe. Distracted at times, is that Corvo.”

“The cost of an errant mind.” Daud sounds fond, too, even to his own ears.

If he’s ruined this, if he’s truly driven Corvo from him, what then? Would it be possible to salvage this? Would Corvo–

“You’ve both seemed a little out of sorts today, sir.” Samuel’s watching him in that way he does on occasion. Like he’s seeing straight through him, like he too has the ability to gaze through the void. “You and Corvo, I mean. You in court, and then Corvo’s barely said a word to anyone this afternoon.”

Daud snaps his gaze away stubbornly, lest his expression give too much away.

Is it ruined, then? Corvo has elbowed his way so firmly into Daud’s life, he’s at the heart of it now. Daud doesn’t want that to change, whoever the man courts, whatever the man wants, it’s of no concern. Not if Daud still–

“Sir? Is everything–”

Daud holds out a hand when Samuel steps forward, staving the man off gently as he can. “A foolish matter,” he claims as his excuse. “It’s of no concern. I’ll…”

Daud will what, precisely? Fix it? Hardly. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Whatever it is, you’ll work it out, I’m sure.”

Samuel sounds so certain. Daud doesn’t fault him his optimism, as misplaced as it may be. Samuel without optimism is akin to Gristol without a dull, grey sky. Damn strange.

“Two sides of the same coin, the two of you. You compliment each other, most of the time, but sometimes you see the same situation so differently. You end up misunderstanding each other, I think.”

Is that how it is between them? He and Corvo are similar in many ways, it’s true. Different, in many others. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve misunderstood one another’s intentions.

“What would you recommend, Royal Advisor,” Daud says dryly. Though underneath lurks an actual question, and deeper still, Daud wants to beg for an answer he can use. Anything to rectify that afternoon, to spurn the possibility that he’s lost Corvo altogether after this.

Samuel, to Daud’s surprise, gives another soft chuckle. “Honesty.” The boatman comes past him, giving his shoulder a kindly pat as he does. “Be honest, sir. Best advice an old man can give. If you want to hold onto something, leave no room for doubt.”

Daud watches him amble down the hallway, head reeling a little.

It’s the aftereffect of any insightful conversation with Samuel Beechworth. Daud shakes off the spell after a few moments; allows the advice to play over in his head. It’s harmless, of course, as any word from Samuel generally is. But Daud doubts this can be put to rights with any honesty he could offer.

Honesty is what got them into this disaster in the first place.

So Daud dismisses it, as the well-meaning nonsense that it is, and then takes his leave.

The night is cool and clear, and it helps to banish some of the grim fog clinging to the inside of his skull. He breathes easier, his thoughts come clearer, and he takes the route to Kaldwin’s Bridge in no hurry; at liberty to take his time, savour the familiar sights of Dunwall that, without the ruin and decay of the plague before, have endeared themselves to Daud in the past year.

Though when he reaches the Bridge’s peak, he sights a dark shape in his peripheral. The bird has been tailing him from the palace, this is the third time Daud has glimpsed it. He knows then that it isn’t a coincidence.

“Outsider free me of Corvo fucking Attano,” he mutters again.

Chapter Text

Daud steels himself, and halts along the topmost walkway of Kaldwin’s Bridge. His pursuer, currently possessing some poor seagull, is circling overhead.

“Stop hovering,” Daud says irritably. “Before I put a bolt in one of those wings.”

He receives an insulted screech in reply, but Corvo does as he’s bid; sweeping down and landing despicably smoothly in his human form.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t I.” Daud watches the gull shake itself, flapping in confusion above them. Then it squawks indignantly at Corvo and soars from the bridge to safety. “I don’t take being stalked lightly, bodyguard. You remember what I once did for a living.”

“I didn’t shoot you once when you stalked me during the conspiracy.”

“Because you didn’t know.”

“Hm. If that’s what you want to believe.”

“I want to believe there will be a night you don’t pester me incessantly.”

“I didn’t come to pester you, I’m here on a job.”

“A job,” Daud scoffs, “at this hour?”

Corvo grants him a thin look. “Good point, killer. Who would be insane enough to be around at this hour. I wonder who would possibly–”

“What job,” Daud grinds out, instead of bending to the urge to kick the snide bastard to the river far below.

“Marinos. Thomas mentioned my information wasn’t enough to expose him,” Corvo answers. “I take it that’s where you’re–”

“Of course it is.”

So Thomas decided to sic Corvo on him, did he. Daud has to admit he’s impressed. It isn’t like his Right Hand to be scheming, let alone petty about it.

(Daud assumes this is revenge for dismissing him so curtly that day. Or perhaps it’s for embarrassing him about Curnow on the Fugue Feast.)

“Go back to the Tower, Corvo.” Void, he sounds tired even to his own ears. Daud makes the decision brusquely, to dismiss the man. He turns away to continue to the south side of the city, because he doesn’t know where to fucking go from here. Stood head-to-head with Corvo once again… where do they stand with one another, now? Daud has much he’d like to say, but no idea where to begin. “I’ll deal with Marinos–”

“Wait–”

“You don’t need two people to infiltrate.” They had both known it on the first visit to Marinos’ offices, and they both know it now. “It’s my responsibility–”

Corvo catches his hand gently, and Daud has such an intense recall of his touch and his retreat that afternoon that it has his Mark instinctively flashing. He Pulls Corvo’s wrist down and away from him in a sharp jerk, surprised the force of it doesn’t snap a tendon in the man’s arm.

It takes them both by surprise; makes them both freeze and stare at one another like spooked animals.

Daud remains carefully still while Corvo’s gaze flits over him. The man’s trying to discern any danger, Daud can see it. The tense silence stretches, and Daud starts to itch with the need to either fight or flee.

“What do you want,” he bites out before he thinks better of it, because he’s still wrought with every emotion under the fucking stars, and Corvo is somehow both the last and the only person Daud wants to see at this moment.

The man left him standing there like a fool, so why has he come here?

“If you’re here to torment me further, then you may take your leave again.”

Corvo’s expression tightens like a drawstring at his tone, and Daud’s certain if he had ears like Oxrush, they’d have shot back as hers had at his reprimand.

Daud sighs through his nose, trying to summon patience. “What can I actually do for you, Lord Protector,” he tries again, still a little strained, still a little bitter. “And don’t belittle me by insisting you’re here for that job.”

If he has come to inform Daud he wants nothing more to do with him, then Daud wants it over with quickly. Or as quickly as Corvo’s skewed sense of mercy will allow.

He watches Corvo come forward slowly; his strides tentative, eyes still fixed on Daud guardedly. Daud stubbornly stands his ground, where every instinct is telling him to back away.

(Corvo’s hair is tangled from his flight, and now Daud knows how it feels to have the strands snagged between his fingers.)

When Corvo reaches him, Daud stumbles back a little as the man pushes close and drops his head against Daud’s shoulder. Like a guilty hound, asking his forgiveness.

“I shouldn’t have left like that.” The words are hushed against his coat. They come guilt-ridden in a way Daud has never heard in Corvo’s voice before. “It was awful of me– truly, I’m sorry.”

Corvo Attano, apologising twice in the same day? Daud feels adrift elsewhere again.

Corvo sighs a frustrated sound, and says, “We keep hurting each other. I don’t think we even mean to do it anymore.”

Daud has noticed, too. He certainly doesn’t intend Corvo harm.

“I don’t want to hurt you, killer,” Corvo says into his shoulder. “I wanted to come and break the cycle, to apologise. I was looking for you when Thomas mentioned where you might have gone. You’re… I don’t…”

He falls into an internal struggle, and Daud feels him growing agitated against him; muddled in his thoughts.

Daud brings a hand up, hesitates, and then gently slides his fingers around the back of Corvo’s neck. “Serkonan,” he offers, far more calmly than he feels.

(There’s something about the language that settles Corvo’s words. Daud’s only noticed in more recent months; the man seems to find whatever he wants to say with more ease.)

Corvo presses even closer against him. “No quiero perderte. Me importas.”

I don’t want to lose you.

I care for you.

Daud feels a tidal wave of relief, and dares to hope that perhaps this can be rectified. Perhaps that afternoon can be forgiven, and moved past. It’s not as though they haven’t manoeuvred through a lifetime of regrets before today.

“I had a bad, stupid moment earlier,” Corvo is saying. “I panicked–”

“I’m not interested in an apology.” Daud wants it fixed, wants it forgotten here and now. If that’s what it must take for this… thing, this peace, this bond they’ve found with one another to endure, then so be it. “It’s alright–”

Corvo shakes his head vehemently against him, “No it isn’t–”

“I don’t hold it against you.”

“I shouldn’t have just–”

“What happened was a mistake.”

(But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a mistake.)

“It was a mistake. You don’t need to explain yourse–”

“No,” Corvo draws back fiercely. His eyes are suddenly sharp, almost offended. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t a mistake. When I left, yes. But that– what happened wasn’t a mistake.”

Then he pauses, and scrutinises Daud’s expression.

“Was it?” he asks, something horribly vulnerable surfacing behind his gaze.

Daud has made a thousand mistakes, but no, he cannot claim that as one of them. A regret, perhaps, if this hard-earned trust and regard between them is to be threatened, to be laid to rest, because of it.

But no. A mistake it certainly wasn’t.

(He‘s never lied to Corvo. Honesty. Let it be known he’ll be holding Samuel Beechworth personally accountable, if this all goes to shit.)

Daud confesses it. “No. It wasn’t,” and he feels weak, unworthy, when he finds he can’t meet Corvo’s eyes.

“Well thank the fucking void for that,” Corvo says under his breath, relieved, and he draws close again and presses their foreheads together. How the void that feels more intimate than the kiss from before, Daud has no idea. But it does. He feels every ounce of frustration and bitterness seep from his bones at the contact.

Corvo takes his hands, the grip of his fingers under Daud’s grounding and resolute.

“Please let me explain myself, then,” he says, shifting back to carefully search Daud’s face again. “If that’s alright. I know I’ve ambushed you here, and I’m sorry,” and he touches his head to Daud’s again, just briefly, but Daud swears this time it nearly fucking brings him to his knees. “But I don’t want any more misunderstandings. If you’ll hear me?”

This repentant Corvo is one Daud hasn’t met before. It’s unexpected, it’s strangely and painfully endearing, and Daud is lost for any answer other than an extremely unhelpful jerk of his head, which could be a yes or a no or anything other than a coherent answer.

But Corvo knows him, and Daud has no idea what his face is doing but the man must recognise some semblance of agreement in whatever he’s seeing. Corvo gives his hands a tug and leads them both to the border of the Bridge, until they’re sitting together at the precipice.

(Once they’re there, Daud appreciates that they are left to one another, with no threat of interruption this far above Wrenhaven. Is this why Corvo had revealed himself here? He can make himself a spectre when he puts his mind to it, as the conspiracy showed. Had Corvo not wished him to, Daud’s certain he wouldn’t have known he was being followed.)

“I realise what it looked like when I left,” Corvo says, and he hasn’t yet released Daud’s hands. “But what happened wasn’t a mistake. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to.”

Surely Daud is misreading this. Surely this is not truly heading where it seems to be. He has earned his place at the Tower, yes; his place at the Crown’s side, at Corvo’s side. But Daud cannot have earned the right for this, among all else that’s come of this new path he’s chosen.

“Can I be honest?”

(Has Corvo been speaking with their Royal Advisor, as well? Is Samuel Beechworth playing both sides in this, crafty as Thomas–)

“Daud?”

“You’re requesting such a thing now? You’re always honest, brutally so.”

Daud would certainly prefer it. He despises convoluted talk and skirting around subjects. Corvo can always be counted on to get straight to any point, uncaring of how blunt it may come or of any offence he may cause.

“I can try and be less so–”

“No. No, I’d expect nothing less from you.”

Anything less would be an insult. That brutal honesty is something Daud has long come to appreciate.

“Then, to be honest, I felt guilty,” Corvo admits, but he adds swiftly, before doubts can begin to form, “I felt guilty because I didn’t feel guilty. If that makes any sense,” he adds, clearly a little irritated by it. “I know it sounds insane, but I’m not sure how else to say it. I expected to feel… disloyal.” Disloyal to who, Corvo knows he doesn’t need to say. “But I didn’t. I don’t,” he corrects. “It surprised me. I didn’t deal with it well in the moment. Clearly.”

Daud acknowledges, distantly and distractedly, the implication in that. That Corvo has spared thoughts for this situation, enough to weigh how he may feel about it.

“I’m not making excuses for the way I left. I ran away, I won’t defend it. I was a coward–”

“No,” Daud cuts him off, a little sharper than he intends. The last rat who accused Corvo of being a coward was Ichabod Boyle. Daud hadn’t tolerated it then, and he won’t tolerate it now. “I can’t fault you for it. No one can deny our situation is…”

“Complicated?” Corvo suggests.

Daud huffs an amused sound. “Tactfully put,” he credits. “Yes. Complicated.”

Corvo draws his hands close against him, as Daud had done in the music room. “Despite the complications, and despite the way I left, I know my feelings on this. I know what I feel for you.”

Daud tries to loosen his own grip on Corvo’s fingers, which in return is near clinging again.

“And I know I don’t have reason to question it or to feel guilt. You’re a good man.”

Daud is nothing of the kind. “Did you inherit the brain of that bird when you possessed it–”

“Disagree, if you like,” Corvo cuts across him patiently. “But I know you. I think I know more of you than you’ve allowed anyone else to, at least. Am I wrong?”

Daud feels stripped raw by that, all of a sudden. Exposed and centred upon. But not threatened, as he would if anyone else made such a claim. He feels safe in the knowledge that Corvo knows him. He realises he’s felt safe in it for a while.

“You know you aren’t wrong.”

“Then, I’ll swear to you that in all the time I’ve spent at your side, I haven’t come close to sharing your low opinion of yourself. Not even in the beginning.”

Well. What the void is Daud supposed to say to that. “I can’t account for your poor taste, then,” he mutters, and it earns him a chastising nudge of Corvo’s knee.

“Don’t shit on my taste, I have great taste.”

Daud snorts, and Corvo nudges him again.

“I’m not someone who can pretend they feel otherwise about this.” It comes as a warning. “I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.”

Brutally honest, Daud repeats in his head.

“But I’ve not been sure what you wanted, how you felt.”

Daud is surprised by it, until he isn’t. He may feel like an adolescent fool whenever Corvo steps near, but that’s beneath the surface. On the surface of things, Daud knows he is hardened, carefully so. It’s been a requirement, through most of his years. Of course Corvo hadn’t noticed.

“I’ve tried to ignore it, argue it, brush it off, all of that. No one’s understood me the way you do, or kept pace with me, or countered me in anything, and I didn’t want to ruin this, our… what we have.” Two sides of the same coin. Perhaps there was some merit in that, after all. “But I can’t keep pretending that my regard for you hasn’t become something more.”

Daud could pretend. As cold as it may sound, he could have carried on with relative ease, all want and desire pushed down deep enough to allow him to suffer in silence for a lifetime if he had to. He’d take that, over losing Corvo entirely; their alliance, their ridiculous conversations, everything they’ve built since the conspiracy, Daud wouldn’t threaten it by letting that grip on his own selfishness slip. He has more discipline than that.

(Does he? He had indulged, thoughtlessly, selfishly, even only for those few fleeting moments. Perhaps it’s arrogant to believe he could have done otherwise, when it’s as though someone had taken every thought Daud had ever had about a man, and made Corvo from the sum of them. Daud has discipline, more than most, but Corvo Attano tests it.)

“I don’t think you want to do that, either.” Corvo is searching his face again again, careful and questioning. “But if I’m wrong… If you’d prefer to carry on as normal, as though today hasn’t happened, I’d rather know. So I… So we can discuss it, I suppose.”

A reasonable request, to discuss it, and one Daud is every measure as desperate for. He tries to take a brisk sum of it all. It wasn’t a mistake. Corvo has ‘no question of how he feels’. Daud hasn’t misread this, as he had first feared. This, against all logic and reason, is happening.

So Daud must ask. He wants no more of these misunderstandings, either. “Your governess.”

Corvo cocks his head at the swerve of subject. Every bit his namesake, Daud always finds himself thinking, with the man’s ruffled hair and sharp features.

“My men mentioned a rumour.” Daud divulges it between gritted teeth, swallowing his pride and shrugging off the discomfort it causes him. If he doesn’t know for certain, if it remains a mystery, it will keep running circles in Daud’s head until it drives him to madness. “I’d have it refuted, or confirmed if that’s to be the case. If you… If you’re amenable.”

Considering the situation, Daud feels instantly idiotic for the formality. Void, it sounds like he’s in a damn court meeting.

“A rumour. About Callista? Wh–”

Corvo stops before his question has even formed, and Daud watches the realisation flash across his face.

“At Geoff’s.” He may struggle with his thoughts, on occasion, but never with that sharp insight. “You were jea–”

“Don’t,” Daud growls, feeling the flush creeping up his neck. “Just answer.”

Something terribly pleased flashes over Corvo’s expression as he recognises that yes, Daud was jealous; resentful to the point where even the thought of Corvo’s attention on another obviously affects him.

“Callista and I, you think–”

“I think nothing,” Daud bites. It’s a bare-faced lie, because he’s been thinking of nothing else since Quinn had propositioned it. “As I said, it’s a rumour.”

“Daud,” Corvo begins, with an undeniable note of sympathy. And no small tenor of amusement. “You’re the Spymaster–”

“I know I’m the damn Spymaster,” Daud snaps, feeling that flush burn hotter beneath his skin.

“Then you’re able to discern rumour from reality?”

“Spiteful prick–”

“You’re so smart, killer, how can you–”

“If you’re not going to give me an answer, you can fu–”

“I walked in on Callista in the bath at the Hound Pits, during the conspiracy.” Corvo says it from nowhere, unabashed in the confession, stopping Daud’s curse short. “It was an accident, and I made a joke about joining her at the time because I was grieving and embarrassed and you know better than anyone that I don’t think before I speak.”

Daud does know that much. That unchecked train of thought is something that first endeared Corvo to him so deeply.

“Luckily she realised all that too, I was forgiven, and afterwards we became friends. We still joke about it sometimes. Probably where the servants can hear.” Corvo’s hands squeeze his gently, perhaps to make sure he’s still listening, and Daud finds his gaze dropping to their laced fingers. “Callista and I are close, I won’t deny it. I care for her.”

Fingers find his chin gently, bringing Daud’s gaze back up to meet him.

“Not like I’ve come to care for you.”

Void, he says it so plainly; puts Daud’s mind at ease and the rumour to rest so effortlessly. Is it supposed to be so easy? There should be endless complications, and obstacles, and a myriad reasons for why Daud can’t have this, should there not?

But then, it’s Corvo, Daud reminds himself, and that has him reconsidering. Corvo, who is an impossibility in of himself, with no complications or obstacles in that blade of a mind, and certainly no rhyme or reason for why he chooses to do anything.

“If that’s answer enough for you,” Corvo continues, still a little wary in the face of Daud’s silence. “May I ask how you feel about this–”

“We were both there earlier,” Daud bites on instinct, because the hand still cupping his jaw is doing torturous things to his chest, and Corvo’s hesitant tone is maddeningly vulnerable and it keeps catching Daud off guard. “If my feelings on this aren’t evident to you, then the Empire is fortunate no one made you Spymaster–”

“Okay, void,” Corvo pacifies, but Daud’s reaction makes him relax immediately. “I’m confessing to you, not threatening you.”

“Are you.” It’s a dry retort, but Daud no longer feels like baring his teeth. The sight of that familiar, silent laughter behind Corvo’s eyes settles something in him. “I wouldn’t know the difference, bodyguard.”

“Between a threat and a confession?”

“Does that surprise you?”

Corvo chews on the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. “No, not really. You’re always on guard. Even when you sleep, I think.” His thumb grazes along the crest of Daud’s jaw, and then Corvo releases him. “But I hope you don’t doubt me, despite my shit handling of this afternoon.”

There’s a silent question in that, which Daud can’t possibly miss.

Do you want this?

With it, Corvo places all control of this in his hands. The man’s kindness never fails to astound him, in these rare, unspoken moments.

“I don’t doubt you,” Daud says, because he can’t.

Corvo has been forward enough that his words can’t be doubted. He has explained, reassured, everything Daud hadn’t expected and had found he’d urgently needed to hear. Should Daud not owe him the same courtesy–

No, he doesn’t owe the man in this.

Daud wants to give him the same. Wants to meet him halfway, as they seem to do with everything else between them. Two sides of the same coin. Daud wants to hold on stubbornly to that.

If you want to hold onto something, leave no room for doubt. It’s something to think about. Everything Daud has cared most for has slipped through his fingers in the past, at one point or another. His mother. Billie.

(And he had sworn his life to Corvo, resigned that his freedom and his people may be taken from him, too. But instead he’s here; vowed by his own choice to something worthy, an impossible forgiveness granted to him.)

Break the cycle. No more letting things slip.

“How could I not care for you,” Daud says, coarse and quiet, and it’s no grand or heartfelt concession. He wouldn’t know how in the void to give one.

But he hopes Corvo hears him. Hopes he knows all he needs to of Daud to recognise the weight behind such insufficient words.

And Corvo does, evidently. His eyes melt as they had before, warm and pleased, and he gives Daud’s fingers another, encouraging squeeze.

Though when Daud squeezes his grip back, Corvo winces slightly, his wrist flinching in Daud’s grasp.

Shit, he had done something to it. “Damn it–”

“It’s fine–”

“Outsider’s eyes is it fine,” Daud bites out while the guilt bites through him, and he digs through his coat until his fingers skim an elixir. Keep hurting each other, indeed. He shoves it irritably at the man, “Damned idiot.”

“Have you ever not put yourself at fault for something,” Corvo muses. And before Daud can remember to grab the vial back and take the first drink, Corvo absently swallows half of it.

Daud stares, and registers through the bewilderment that it’s the first time he’s seen Corvo thoughtless with it. The man doesn’t question it, doesn’t distrust it. Void, the trust in that is staggering.

“It was my fault,” Corvo continues, oblivious to Daud’s inner turmoil. He passes the vial back and gives his wrist an experimental roll, satisfied when it moves without complaint. “It was stupid to grab you like that. You bite back, I should know better.”

Daud watches Corvo closely, trying to track any sign of oncoming panic from the untested elixir, but there’s nothing.

And Corvo apparently takes his scrutiny as further uncertainty, because his gaze softens again, and his hands return to Daud’s.

“Am I forgiven, then? For being a complete shit and leaving the way I did.”

So Corvo isn’t about to crumble or otherwise succumb to his fears. Daud, wit running off his pride at that fact, passes off an indifferent, “For leaving, yes. For being a shit, perhaps not. It’s too much a common occurrence for me to forgive it.”

His feigned indifference makes Corvo’s eyes glint with amusement. The man knows he’s forgiven entirely. Likely he can read it all over Daud’s face.

“I appreciate your generosity. That’s not a word many associate with you, you know.”

“You swindled Slackjaw over a damn safe after he dealt with your targets for you, so that means very little.”

“I’m plenty generous.”

“Plenty petty.”

“I handed you and your mudlarks an entire District rent-free. I’d say I’m the definition of generous.”

“Yes, you’ll surely go down in history,” Daud credits dryly. “As the pettiest man in Dunwall.”

And that, apparently, is what settles it.

Corvo grins in delight and pulls him to his feet, wry once more and revitalised; says the remainder of the Marinos job is all his and he’ll leave Daud be to get it done.

“I’ve bothered you enough, I can tell.”

“Finally admitting yourself a bother. He can be taught.”

“I’m quick like that.” Corvo’s gaze is on their still adjoined hands, something satisfied in his gaze. “You were right, by the way. Thomas told me about the job, but I did come here to pester you. Wanted to know if you felt the same.”

And doesn’t that fall barely short of stopping Daud’s heart. “Devious of you.”

“Wasn’t it. Just don’t go getting caught.”

“Inspired advice. At this hour, there may not be a roast hare on hand to save me, if I did.”

Their farewell goes no further than another brief press of Corvo’s forehead to his, before the man releases him, bids him goodnight, and blinks from the walkway.

Daud is left alone on the bridge, dazed and aimless and wondering what in the void is supposed to happen now.

He does finish the Marinos job. Though he has little recollection of doing so.

He remembers reaching the Legal District, some time after Dunwall’s clocktower tolls midnight. He vaguely recalls getting inside through the balcony. Any fine details are hazy.

By the time clarity returns to him, he’s back in his chambers within the Tower, the required documents secured and stacked with those Corvo had found on their first visit.

Daud feels a sluggish weight dredging through his bones; rubs a hand over his face as he acknowledges how long that day has truly felt.

He feels adrift, as he had before. No longer lost or disoriented, but still coasting off somewhere, beyond the confines of his body. Exhaustion. Reverie, too, quite possibly. But that sounds melodramatic, and far too poetic for this damn late into the evening.

So Daud discards his coat and everything else somewhere on the floor in his weariness, and goes to sleep. And surprises himself by, actually, sleeping.

He wakes at dawn, which is a rare thing. He’s usually up at least an hour before the dreary sunlight. Daud grants it a mumbled curse as it filters into the room, and lets his head sink back down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes again seconds later in the void. Daud mutters another curse, scowling around warily for any sign of the gloating prick.

Instead, he thinks he catches sight of Corvo’s shape blinking between a collection of islands floating in the distance. Daud focuses on that spot a while longer, and yes, he knows those blue flashes as well as his own transversals.

Corvo takes an erratic path, quick as lightening, flitting here and there with no clear route as the islands and platforms, slices of reality, drift and roll his way.

Interesting. Is this how the man stayed sharp all those weeks of the conspiracy, the void his solace for bladework and transversals? Did this provide him his practice, with no equal to match him in the waking world?

Daud itches to ask, to join him perhaps; they haven’t come across one another in this place as of yet.

(They’ve pondered the possibility together, on occasion. Corvo, errant minded as he is, always has questions about the occult. Daud has seventeen years on him, with his possession of the Mark and all its black magic. Corvo’s attention never falters while he listens to Daud answer what he can of it all.)

But as Daud takes a step, eager to move closer, the ground beneath him crumbles to nothing, and into nothing he falls; all his weight sinking, rushing down, the Outsider’s laugh a whisper in his ears, swallowing him–

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

–His third curse is for the black-eyed bastard, and Daud grunts it as he hauls himself up, the morning light barely any brighter than before.

He shrugs on a fresh shirt and retrieves his coat from the rug, moving out to the balcony. His shoulder bumps into the doorframe in his drowsiness; he doesn’t typically sleep so many hours in a night, his head feels crammed full of cotton.

Daud fumbles for a cigarette until he realises Pratchett’s case has been pilfered. His lighter, too. At what point on the Bridge they had been plucked from him, Daud cannot say.

A fourth and final curse leaves him in a chuckle, “Fucking thief,” and he resigns himself to a frustrated, cigarette-less morning.

It’s not the first he’s had to shoulder since he settled at the Tower, and it won’t be the last. It’s the routine at this point; some animal or other with brown eyes striking and leaving Daud empty-handed and craving a smoke.

At least it’s confirmation he and Corvo have resolved yesterday’s differences.

Cigarette or not, Daud remains on the balcony for some time. It spares him chance to gather his mind, pull his thoughts together more concisely.

I know my feelings on this, Corvo had said.

Does he? The man acts so often on impulse. He is changeable, like quicksilver. Will Corvo merely reveal it all to be a brief and ill-considered inclination–

No. There was no room to misread it. Daud has to remind himself of it sternly, when those cruel tendrils of doubt begin to prod at him. Corvo left no room for his words to be mistaken. It would be poorly done, childish, for Daud to question the man’s intentions out of a weak attempt at denial.

(Daud knew he would be tempted by such a thing at some point today. He often is, whenever something too good to be trusted finds him. He was preparing to set sail halfway across the Isles after Corvo offered him the Spymaster position, after all, however early the plan was in its stages and however much it was due to that bottle of Old Dunwall. Daud recalls it dryly, but with no bitterness. He knows that denial is only to be expected. It’s part of him as much as his flesh or his blood, and Daud was ready for it.)

I know what I feel for you. Corvo was too plain-spoken to be misunderstood, and Daud bites at himself to put any stubborn doubt of it to rest here and now.

So the question remains of how to approach it. Daud considers.

Should he approach Corvo differently? Is that what the man expects?

Daud honestly has no idea. He has only brief experience to draw from the past, and he and Corvo have never discussed matters such as these.

He resigns himself, eventually, to the likelihood that he’ll merely have to take it as it comes. He’s attuned to Corvo’s behaviour in most other regards. Instinct may serve him in this, as well.

So Daud returns inside, briskly smartens himself out. With no appointments in the palace until that afternoon, he takes refuge at the Waterfront, eager for some normality to tide over the restlessness still thrumming in his veins at every uncertain prospect Corvo’s confession has brought.

He transverses to one of the main yards, nicks a cigarette from Rinaldo, and spends the morning in silent repentance as his men try their luck and begin tentatively approaching him again, relieved when they don’t get their heads bitten off as they had the day before.

Daud runs Fisher through her training, as well. She had suffered the brunt of his temper.

“Thought I’d done somethin’ to piss you off, Sir,” the girl admits when they pause to take a breath. “You were right nasty yesterday.”

Daud grunts an agreement. “No fault of yours.”

“Emily said Mister Corvo snapped at her, too. She threatened to arrest him if he did it again, and then she said I should threaten to arrest you if you didn’t apologise,” Fisher rambles, trying to flip her blade around as Corvo does. She catches it, barely, when it slips her grasp. “I figured I’m not an Empress, though, so I can’t really do that. Maybe when I’m a Captain.”

Daud snorts. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Some of the men dotted about them begin to tease and jeer as a scowling Quinn trudges past them.

“What’s got your face all sour,” Fisher ribs to them.

“Stuff it, runt,” Quinn snaps back. “I lost a hundred coin ‘cause of that Lord Protector of yours.”

“I’ve told you all to keep your coin close,” Daud points out, amused. “You know what he’s like.”

“Nah, boss,” Ardan calls across the yard. “Corvo ain’t stole nothin’ this time.”

“He’s done a damn load of nothing,” Quinn withers, “that’s the problem.”

“It’s this weeper-brained idiot’s own fault,” Javier claims, running through bladework on the sidelines. He jerks his head towards Quinn, “They made a bet against me and Rapha. We won that coin fair and square.”

“I owed those fuckers,” Quinn spits Javi’s way, “fifty each. All ‘cause Galia said nothin’ happened with Attano and the governess on her birth date like I said.”

“That’s because there ain’t nothing goin’ on with them,” Galia sings smugly, perched beside Killian on one of the chimney stacks above them. “Told you so, didn’t I. Teach you to mind your own business.”

“It’ll happen, choffer,” Quinn fumes up at the pair. “Bet you another hundred they’ll be courting by the end of the week, how about that.”

(An unlikely bet, Daud now knows.)

“You’re on,” Galia scoffs. “I won’t turn down easy coin just ‘cause you’re blind and stupid.”

“You’ll be putting that ‘easy coin’ where your mouth is, just you wait.”

Daud, in the mind for some devilry, nudges Fisher’s shoulder and goads quietly, “Raise them double.” Fisher shoots a confused frown up at him. “Spymaster,” he reminds her. “Trust me.”

“Raise ya to two-hundred on it, Quinn,” she says, bouncing on her toes gleefully at the mischief. “Bet’cha that it ain’t gonna happen.”

“You better be darn good for it, Fish,” Quinn warns. “Two-hundred, then. Corvo and the governess, end of the week.”

Quinn stalks off, and Daud smirks at their retreating form. “Uneducated bets make for poor pockets.” He ruffles Fisher’s hair, and gives her sword a gentle knock with his own. “Back in position.”

“We don’t gotta get back to the Tower soon?”

“We still have time. In position.”

Fisher starts bouncing again, pleased. “Quinn’s thick as a hagfish,” she says. Her common accent is fading gradually, with so much time spent in the Empress’ company. Daud’s heard Emily use some colourful choice curses, in turn; those only heard among his novices. “Corvo’s always sayin’ Miss Callista would end up stabbing him with somethin’, if that rumour ‘bout them was true.”

“Is that so.”

“Uh huh. He don’t reckon she’d be able to handle him, y’know.”

“No?”

“Nah. And Miss Callista said Corvo’s too… what was that posh soundin’ word she said,” Fisher mutters, before her eyes light up. “Oh, maniacal. That was it. She said Corvo was ‘too maniacal for her tastes’.”

Maniacal. Good word. Corvo certainly can be. Less so these days, without any regencies to topple or targets to humiliate. But the felon still has his moments.

“I think it’s just a fancy way for sayin’ he’s crazy as rat shit.” Also a fair description. “But Miss Callista said it nice like,” Fisher adds quickly, “not in a nasty way or nothin’.”

The governess is strait-laced and serious. A little sour, on occasion. And Daud, when he gives it clear thought, cannot actually imagine her tolerating Corvo’s antics, unpredictable and spiteful as they can be. He feels foolish, immensely so in that moment, for considering it a possibility.

“How d’you reckon Quinn’s gonna scrape together all that coin?” Fisher asks. “I know for sure they ain’t got that much in their stash.”

“They’ll have to pay it off in unpleasant jobs, then. They know the rules.” Daud chuckles to himself, a thought occurring. “How would you like to be excused from cleaning out the guard barracks for a few weeks.”

“Really?” Fisher’s face splits into a wide grin. “I’d like that a whole bunch, Sir.”

“Then consider it done.” It’s an apology as good as any other he could give.

Another half-hour or so of running through the drills, a caw echoes from somewhere above. Daud peers up to the view of a raven hovering overhead. Corvo, come to remind him of that day’s court meeting.

Daud snatches his lighter midair when Corvo lets it fall from his beak, Fisher hopping back in surprise. Then the idiot dives and sweeps past them, wing brushing Daud’s hair sharply before he circles back around to land on Daud’s offered arm.

“Oh,” Fisher breathes a laugh once she realises who it is. “Hallo, Mister Corvo.”

Corvo gives a trill in greeting, and when Daud absently runs a knuckle over the top of his head, the trill becomes lower, Corvo’s feathers ruffling happily.

“I suppose this is our cue to return.” Daud hands off the blunted practice blade to Rapha when she passes and offers to store it. “Though I don’t suppose you have my cigarettes on hand, too,” he adds, the edge of his finger moving through the soft feathers beneath Corvo’s chin.

Corvo pecks his hand, a resounding no, and then pointedly fucks off, swooping back towards the Tower District.

“Wish I could make myself some wings, too.” Fisher’s face falls into a pout as she watches Corvo soar away.

“Bastard doesn’t make himself anything. He possesses the things.”

“Still,” she grumbles, slotting her own blade into her belt. “He gets to fly anyhow. I think it’d be right worth it.”

“I’m sure Dunwall’s sewer rats and seagulls are grateful they only have the one assailant. Think of it that way.”

Daud knows he’s gotten soft when he challenges her to a run back to the palace, to rid her of her pout. Nevermind that he’s still desperate to quench whatever dredges of adrenaline still linger after the Bridge.

(It’s not openly acknowledged a race, because that would be childish. Daud wins, though.)

He’s accosted in the gardens by a hound with copper eyes, and Corvo curls around his legs in another greeting. This is part of the routine, as well, and the familiarity of it is comforting. It works to soothe a good deal of the tension in the pit of Daud’s stomach.

“If you’re considering abandoning me to Estermont and his hoard of rodents today,” Daud warns, “think again. Four legs or two, I’ll drag you with me if I must.”

Corvo just arches up under Daud’s palm, Pratchett’s cigarette case held carefully between his teeth.

Though when Daud goes to take it, Corvo darts his snout away, teasing.

“Menace,” Daud scolds, managing to snatch it on a second swipe.

Corvo nips at his fingers, and then bolts toward the kitchen entrance. Hopefully he remembers to end the possession before he reaches the meeting chamber.

“Don’t think I’ll be defending you, if you’re caught by one Khulan’s fanatics,” Daud mutters under his breath.

He grants Black Sally a sympathetic pat when she staggers, dazed, through one of the corridors, mind and paws her own once again.

“Settle down, settle down, we’ll begin discussions shortly and then you can all get along with your afternoon,” Khulan is bidding, and he grants Daud a tired nod in greeting as he enters.

(Daud doesn’t envy the man, being head of that Abbey. He’d take his pack of boisterous, idiot mudlarks over having to keep Dunwall’s cultist hoard under control any day.)

The usual courtiers blanch when they notice Daud is in attendance, and Estermont squirms with particular vigour. Daud’s temper had truly outdone itself yesterday, then, to make them all this nervous.

Or perhaps their nerves are half due to Corvo, back to two long legs and already lounging in his seat like an emperor, with that quiet confidence he has. Those in the session know by now that no incompetent remark or lazy suggestion will be glossed over or excused, with the both of them there.

Daud takes his seat, and stores his cigarettes in the furthest coat pocket from the man at his side. “Have you considered discussing this penchant for theft with someone, bodyguard? Your physician, perhaps. He may recommend steps to take, and you’ll cease being such a pest.”

“No.”

“No, why would you.”

“Maybe your health is my utmost concern. Maybe I’m trying to help you find a better vice.”

“Or maybe,” Daud catches Corvo’s wrist, where the man’s made a valiant grab for his lighter, “this is shiny and you have no restraint.”

“It is shiny.” Corvo’s sharp gaze follows the trinket as Daud’s tucks it back away. Then his eyes are on Daud, and his mouth curves into that smile that never fails to coil around something in Daud’s chest and squeeze. “You weren’t caught last night, then.”

Daud can’t recall whether anyone was even home. “I was not. And the accountant was spared any projectiles from his banquet table, unlike your visit.”

“The ‘Shadow of Dunwall’ inspires fear and awe, as always.”

That afternoon’s routine introductions commence, and Daud spies their Royal Advisor watching them both across the table, expression softened by something Daud can’t quite define. Daud grants him a grudging nod, hoping that conveys his thanks for the advice.

(What would any of them do, he wonders dryly, without the wise words of Samuel Beechworth.)

Lord Amoss’ representative makes a ludicrous comment about introducing a curfew in certain Districts. It’s too damn early in the discussion for that level of idiocy, and Daud finds he has no more patience for it today than he does on any other. He stands to bite out his argument across the room, swiftly putting pain to the idea.

“You have less of a filter when you haven’t had a cigarette,” Corvo says quietly, apparently already bored with the discussions as Daud shucks back down in his chair. “If you’re wondering why I take them. That means less tolerance for these lot. They all shit themselves, it’s very entertaining.”

“I’m here for your entertainment, am I.” Daud glances to him, and sees his lighter being absently twirled between Corvo’s fingers, somehow in the man’s hand once again. “What an honour.”

“It’s the only reason I offered you the job. Didn’t I mention?”

“Did I say honour. I meant insult.”

Corvo grins sidelong, amending, “There are a lot of reasons you got the job, killer,” and he leans subtly closer until their shoulders brush. “Not just your void-awful temper.”

Nothing seems changed between them. It’s all routine, the way Corvo addresses him, touches him. It feels as it ever does. That fact is both strangely reassuring and maddeningly confusing.

The knowledge of everything they’d said to one another descends on him again, and Daud finds himself focusing on it fully, agitated. He does sense a freedom now, he supposes, to Corvo’s closeness. It isn’t casual or absent-minded, but intentional, pointed almost. That was never obvious before–

The answer comes to him, brutally, without remorse, while Thornburrow prattles on about the next inane subject.

With Corvo’s ankle hooked around his beneath the table, and his sharp critique of the courtiers close to Daud’s ear, Daud realises that nothing has changed.

Because it has been this way between them for weeks.

Longer, months.

Neither of them had noticed one another’s behaviour? Heads of the State, indeed. Heads of stupidity. Daud wants to strangle himself.

Or Corvo, perhaps, who Daud stubbornly decides is just as culpable for this embarrassment as he is. The man had been free to put Daud– put them both out of their misery and confess his wishes any damn moment. As though Daud, with every torturous shred of what he feels for the man, could have possibly spurned him.

Daud makes none of this revelation known, as the meeting closes. No need to exasperate both of them with the knowledge that they’re idiots. He feels a little smug, actually, for figuring it out first.

“So.” Corvo strides from the room, glimpsing to face Daud behind him. “Meet you on the roof? Might be smart to swing at something after that, killer, you looked ready to throw the nearest sharp object at Estermont.”

“I’m always ready to throw something at Estermont,” Daud retorts. “Aren’t we all. Though more often I’m ready to throw something at you.”

“Mierda, don’t compare me to Estermont.”

“You admitted it yourself that you’re irritating, amenaza. Don’t think I’ve forgotten it.”

“Yes, but I’m irritating in a quaint, delightful way.”

“Hm, delightful, to be missing all my worldly possessions on a daily basis.”

“A little dramatic, all your possessions.”

Daud itches for Corvo to join him now, on their sanctuary at the Tower’s peak. It’s customary, when Emily is in her lessons and neither he nor Daud have anything else to attend. They haven’t had the chance to fence for days.

But Daud knows they must delay. He may have nothing more to attend for the day, but Corvo has his own duties; no end of errands to run, be it in the Tower or elsewhere.

“Later, then?”

“Until you’re done with all that official nonsense you saddle yourself with.”

“Official important nonsense,” Corvo corrects wryly.

Then he draws close, and Daud has the mad notion, or the mad hope, perhaps, that Corvo is going to kiss him. But the man just presses Daud’s lighter into his hand, laughs silently for a moment at whatever is happening on Daud’s face, and draws away again.

“Give my regards to whoever is saddled with you for the next few hours.”

He strides down the corridor, giving a short salute over his shoulder. Daud shakes off the disappointment that settles over him, amused at himself.

Though a vivid blue flash keeps him from heading in the opposite direction, and Corvo does take his jaw and kiss him briefly, because he’s a shit, and Daud curses to himself when the man blinks back down the corridor in another charge of light. They have no onlookers, but it’s broad fucking daylight.

He wields witchcraft like it’s a game, the damn fool has no inkling of self-preservation. Why Daud couldn’t fall for someone with a scrap of sense to them, he can’t say.

(Fucks sake, he hadn’t even felt this weak-kneed when he was bleeding out in Rudshore, Corvo’s blade to his throat, certain of his own death. From one brisk kiss? Ridiculous.)

He’s moving for the library, perhaps to kill the time or perhaps to crack his skull between two large books, he hasn’t decided yet. Though Daud reroutes when he spies Thomas, in conversation with Curnow’s niece and the Empress down in the foyer.

Daud passes the trio by, and Thomas pointedly pretends he doesn’t see him. Still angry, then. Daud tries to quash his amusement, as he grants Emily a respectful nod.

“Empress.”

“Hello, Mister Daud.” She points up at the governess, “Can you please tell Callista that sword fighting is more important than grammar lessons? She won’t listen to me.”

Daud raises a brow. “History will tell you that more battles have been won with words than by a blade.”

“Thank you,” Callista sighs, “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

Emily scowls. “Neither of you are any fun. Father would agree with me.”

“That’s because your father is trigger happy,” Daud retorts.

“And can’t remain still long enough to say good morning, let alone attend an important grammar lesson,” Callista adds, her lips quirking to a smile.

The sight makes Daud wonder whether he has been needlessly cold with the woman, in the past. They have never really shared a conversation. Corvo evidently sees some edge to her, beneath that plain and occasionally sour demeanour. Perhaps she and Daud have more to talk about than he believes, and he has just never spared the time to test it.

He has some time now. “If Her Majesty isn’t opposed, perhaps I can provide your governess some support on the matter.”

Callista blinks, surprised, but she doesn’t offer any objections. “Two against one may help matters. Brace yourself, though.” Callista pokes a finger against Emily’s arm, making her grin, “She’s a stubborn one.”

If Daud has a handle on Corvo Attano, a punier version of the man is no concern, Empress or not. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Only if Mister Daud promises a sword lesson when we’re finished!”

Stubborn, indeed. “Don’t see why not.”

Though before they depart, he drops a firm hand down on Thomas’ shoulder.

“Sic the bodyguard on me again, and I’ll demote you to kitchen staff.”

Thomas’ mouth barely lifts. “Understood, Sir.”

The man knows it’s an apology for yesterday. Thomas has always been able to read Daud better than most.

Emily fidgets throughout Callista’s teachings, scratching absent sketches around her notes and tapping her foot under the desk, chin propped on her hand in boredom.

Though with Daud there, not hesitating to snap at the girl to focus, she does gradually begin to heed her lesson. And Callista, to her credit, is no-nonsense and concise. No wonder Fisher’s come as far as she has with etiquette.

When the hour is up, Emily darts from the study to fetch her blade, and Callista actually shoots Daud a grateful smile.

“I appreciate the effort. I think she’ll at least take something away in that head of hers today.”

“Doesn’t sound like it happens often.”

Callista’s smile turns wry, and Daud finds himself warm to her a touch further. “It doesn’t. Too like her father, I think.”

She goes to collect the books strewn about, but Daud intervenes; sliding them from the table and slotting them back onto the shelves.

Callista’s gaze follow him as he does, and her eyes lose some of that severeness. “Thank you. She’s incredibly intelligent, no one could say otherwise. But Emily struggles to focus, I’ve found, if she isn’t interested in the subject,” the woman continues. “She’s picked up fencing like she was born to it. But grammar and boring old dance lessons? I think she resents me for insisting she learn such things, sometimes. Her heart just doesn’t take to them.”

Daud sees nothing but sense in that. Why pursue something you take no interest in pursuing? But then he supposes he’s always been free to think that way. Emily is the sovereign of four nations. Daud knows, with no small stab of pity, that she has little choice in what she spends her days learning.

“She’s young,” he settles on saying. “Some day she’ll understand your insistence, and be grateful for it.”

Callista blinks again, taken aback. Then another, softer smile appears, and she fixes Daud with a curious look. “You have much more to you than you let on, don’t you. I think I can see why Corvo speaks about you the way he does, now.”

Daud badly wants to pry. Though self-restraint prevents it, and he instead asks, “What did you suppose there was to me?”

Callista pretends to consider. Her mouth keeps trying to quirk upwards again. “A savage, lawless brute?” she offers eventually, and the honestly of it makes Daud chuckle, surprised. “I apologise for the forwardness,” Callista adds, though she allows her smile to show.

“No. It’s a fair view, all things considered. We did have you take refuge in a desecrated ruin.” A crumbling and damp desecrated ruin. Savage and lawless are certainly two words that come to mind, at the state of Rudshore’s old Commerce building. “And I’m sure all the scars don’t help.”

“I have always wanted to ask how you got them,” the woman admits, and yes, Daud decides he could come to like her, given time.

Though Emily returns before they can discuss anything further, ready with blade in hand, fine clothes replaced with trousers and Fisher’s old whaling coat.

Daud parts from the governess with a newfound footing between them; the tentative beginnings of a clearer perception of one another, perhaps.

(Daud is at least determined to no longer dismiss her. And he is curious what precisely appeals to her about a sailor’s lifestyle. He’ll have a mind to ask, next time. Daud has many stories from his younger days sailing the Empire, and he certainly wouldn’t recommend it to any sane person. Too many creatures, looming down there in the deep.)

The Empress leads him out to the grounds. Daud discovers her form has come a long way since her early days of training, though she still has far to go. There are instances, few and far between, but certainly there, where some of her father’s viciousness shows; that same sharp, intuitive instinct guiding her to throw Daud off and almost land a hit.

Long as she remains staunch in her practice, Daud can’t imagine her level of skill when she reaches adulthood, with Corvo as her tutor.

But for now, she still stumbles and staggers. Daud has to keep reminding himself that she is only eleven.

(“Almost twelve!” she insists each time someone mentions it, “almost a grown up,” and she always sticks out her tongue, undercutting her point entirely. Her nerve makes Daud approve to no end, and he thinks, not for the first time, how she’ll thrive as Empress. She is not spoiled, not conceited or disdainful, despite her station. She doesn’t view herself a step above anyone. Her friendship with Fisher has proven that.)

Emily starts tiring, her movements becoming sluggish. Though when a bird dives past them, knocking Daud enough to surprise him, Emily whacks her sword hard against his arm. It wins her the point.

“Ha! I got you!”

Daud shoots an unimpressed glare Corvo’s way. The man is apparently finished for the day, then. He’s perched on one of the fence spires, innocently preening his feathers, and it may well be the same poor creature from earlier, victim to a second possession.

“So you did,” Daud grunts pointedly. “Though not without help.”

“Thomas actually says it’s very wise to take advantage of the allies you have. You should always use the resources around you,” Emily recites, and Corvo’s answering caw sounds suspiciously like a cackle.

Daud can hardly dispute the point, since it’s his own advice. “I won’t argue it, then, if Thomas says so.”

“Or if your Empress says so,” Emily says smugly, and the wry note beneath is every bit her father’s. “Let’s end it on my win, Mister Daud. I promised Alexi we’d explore the old attic above the music room before dinner. Some of the history books say it’s haunted! No one’s been up there in about a hundred years!”

Daud knows neither claim is true, because he himself orders very thorough sweeps of the Tower every few weeks. Many people have been up to that attic, and none have ever sighted a ghost.

“Take that wristbow Galia gave you, then,” Daud says, instead of voicing any of these thoughts aloud. Far be it from him to stand in the way of an Attanos mission. “And don’t bring that ghost back down with you. Last thing we need is Lord Estermont shitting himself in one of the hallways.”

It makes Emily giggle, and the pleased trill Corvo gives from above them makes the ridiculous conversation worth it, before the man spreads his wings and sweeps upwards, towards the rooftops.

Daud has had patience for Fisher’s occasional sloppy footwork and the lack of any deadly force behind Emily’s swings that day, but he feels that itch grinding beneath his skin, that fierce longing for a proper fight.

(And that longing for Corvo’s company, he supposes, which has been there less time than his desire for an equal opponent, but has certainly grown into something just as fierce.)

Daud joins him there, after escorting Emily inside to prepare for her ludicrous ghost hunt. Corvo’s Mark flashes the second Daud appears at the Tower’s peak and a sharp blast knocks him off balance. Daud Pulls the swing of his blade off-kilter in retort, and their fight commences as it ever does.

There, Daud finds that what has changed is Corvo’s nerve. By the man’s own admission, he hadn’t been certain how Daud felt on this matter between them.

Now he is, and he grows bold with it.

Daud has the upper hand in a grapple, forcing Corvo’s sword back with his guard; Corvo’s stance slipping and struggling to hold him off. And Corvo makes a sudden grasp for his collar and pulls him forward, until their lips meet over the lock of their blades.

It drops Daud’s defences enough for his guard to slacken, though as soon as his free hand is reaching to react, pull the man closer perhaps, Corvo drives the hilt of his sword around Daud’s wrist and jolts Daud’s weapon free, into his own grip.

Daud is disarmed; empty-handed and scowling in the face of Corvo’s smug smile.

And once Corvo has tested his shitty little theory, he keeps doing it; keeps grasping Daud’s shirt to press close when he’s about to lose, stealing a kiss just long enough to lower Daud’s defence, make his knees begin to weaken and his hands greedy to reach for him, before Corvo swipes a foot out to trip him or knocks Daud’s blade from his hand in the distraction.

It’s despicable, and a little spiteful because it’s Corvo, what the void else would it be. Daud grows immensely more frustrated; impatient for wanting the man to stay near, to stay still. But Corvo darts away each time with a sharp, teasing grin and Daud’s weapon in his clutches, before he tosses the blade back and their spar resumes from the beginning.

Daud decides to put an end to it, after the bastard staggers him to one knee; Corvo several paces away, self-satisfied and maddeningly out of reach.

Daud stands, throws his sword down to clatter onto the roof, and lays hold of one side of Corvo’s jaw to drag him close. And he feels the man smile against him, still fucking smug because this is evidently what he’d been after all along.

Daud’s convinced the entire world is just victim to Corvo Attano’s whims at this point.

Though he has little complaint to offer for it, when Corvo discards his own blade; pushing his fingers up into Daud’s hair, and that’s when Daud truly realises he gets to have this, then. Gets to know what it is to have Corvo pushed close, to have his hands moving along his jaw and over his shoulders, the eager press of his lips.

Though with Corvo distracted, Daud does decide to hook an ankle around his and swipe back, sending the man reeling backwards. It isn’t quite the desired revenge, because Corvo makes a panicked grab for Daud’s sleeve and they both crash down together in a cursing heap.

Corvo glares sidelong, head cushioned on Daud’s arm. “That didn’t go to plan, did it.”

“No,” Daud grunts, his leg trapped beneath Corvo’s. “It did not.”

“Teach you to try and be clever,” and Corvo hoists himself up onto one elbow to lean over him, his hair dangling in Daud’s face as he kisses him again, right there, crumpled on the floor.

They remain there, down on the cold stone, spar forgotten; their swords crossed together and discarded at the edge of the rooftop. And they speak as they ever do; easily, and biting out insults long into the evening.

Only now Corvo keeps catching Daud’s gaze on his mouth, and he grins and cuts him off mid-word by pushing near, both of them chuckling and giddy against each other in this new understanding, and Daud, well into his mid-life, feels somewhere in his early years; under a different sky, like he’s a fucking teenager.

One of the men must see them return inside; must see Corvo’s thumb trace over the corner of his mouth, just briefly, or Corvo’s hand slip from his as the man leaves him to spend the remainder of the evening with his daughter, as he promised her.

Daud hasn’t discerned which had seen, but he has narrowed it down to either Rapha, Galia, or Aleksander. Since none of them have the balls to look him in the eye when he stares them down.

Thomas, perhaps, too. Since the man’s apparently on a petty streak.

(Daud suspected Jenkins briefly, but knows the thick choffer would have jeered something down the corridor immediately upon seeing them. He discounts Galia as well, she has too much respect for privacy.)

And he knows someone had seen because by the next day, the Spymaster’s entire retinue is privy to the information. Daud is torn between being proud that they’re the finest spy network in the Isles, bar none, and being pissed off that his business in this regard is not theirs, and yet now it is.

Daud should have savoured yesterday’s lack of questions and sly, pointed glances when he’d had the chance.

Though he does take a thin sliver of pleasure from watching Quinn hand off what stash they have around the Waterfront. They wither a little more with each fat coin pouch they part with.

They send a particularly venomous scowl Corvo’s way, though the man only smirks in the face of it, slouched against Daud’s side. He’s no more offended than he is amused.

“What’s that all about?”

“You lost them a bet,” is all Daud says on the matter, and he brings a hand to rest low on Corvo’s back. Just because, now, he can.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to talk to Emily.”

Daud peers up from the desk at Corvo, currently sprawled over one of Daud’s chairs like he owns the thing. Daud supposes he does. Unofficially it’s his Tower, until the girl in question comes of age.

“Tonight. About this,” Corvo sees fit to specify. He gestures lazily between himself and Daud’s direction, “Us.”

Well. It’s been a good run. Daud’s had just over a week of relatively uninterrupted reverie; one foot in reality and one in a strange, dreamlike haze under Corvo’s open affections. It was probably about time it all came crashing down to ruin, given his rat plague excuse for fortune in the past.

“I’ll prepare myself for my execution.”

Corvo snorts. “Fuck, you’re dramatic.”

“I’m pessimistic,” Daud mutters. “Very different.” He returns pen to paper, though none of his focus is on penmanship now.

He’d been hoping to avoid this a little longer. Unrealistic. And damn selfish. Of course Corvo must tell her.

But Daud still tries to argue it anyway. Self-preservation, maybe.

“Do you believe it’s a wise decision,” he asks, not without some care. “Considering the complications.”

Corvo props himself up on one arm, levelling Daud with a look over the back of the chair; a half-smile, though his eyes hold some seriousness. “I don’t keep things from my daughter, Daud,” he says, simple as that.

(How different things could have been, had Daud taken such an outlook with Billie; had he not kept such a stubbornly tight hold of his secrets, his thoughts. Would she still have come to hate him, then?)

“Nothing of significance, at least,” Corvo adds, interrupting that particular regret.

“An honour, to be considered a significance,” he says dryly, though the admission pleases him to a near-giddy degree. His ears feel warm. “You can’t expect she’ll be happy about this.”

“No, I don’t think she will be.” Corvo adjusts himself to kneel on the chair, arms folding atop the back, his chin resting down on them as he regards Daud at the desk. “But it’s a lesson everyone has to learn, isn’t it.”

Daud raises an eyebrow in question.

“That the world doesn’t revolve around one person’s happiness,” Corvo clarifies. “And as much as I may want it to revolve around Emily’s, she has no say in what I feel. Or who I feel it for,” he adds pointedly. “Whether she’s happy about it or not, it won’t exactly change what I feel for you.”

These plain-spoken reassurances haven’t ceased since his confession on the Bridge. Corvo voices them often and easily, like their instinct. Is this what it should be like with someone, in this manner? Daud wouldn’t know. All he knows is that he desperately wishes for it to continue.

“But do you suppose she’ll understand.”

That gives Corvo pause. He frowns to himself slightly. “I honestly don’t know. I hope so.”

The frown turns to a glare as he considers further, and that angry little crease appears between the arch of his brows. The sight of it is enough for Daud to abandon the pile of unfinished reports.

Clearly a conversation such as this takes priority.

Daud rises, rounds the desk and comes to stand before Corvo. Another thought occurs as he reaches him. “You realise she may know already. She and Fisher are close.”

And Daud is certain Fisher knows about this. Despite her age, she is vigilant. If she hasn’t already caught word of it from Galia or Ardan or Quinn, then she won’t have missed even the smallest change in routine around the palace.

“Alexi’s said nothing.” Corvo sounds confident. “Emily would have brought it up by now. I think she knows something.”

“That girl misses very little,” Daud credits with a note of approval. “She’ll be a menace in court.”

“As long as she pays attention. I’ll need to prepare her for how fucking dull those meetings can be.”

Two of Corvo’s fingers give a little summon, a brief invitation for Daud to step closer. And when he’s near enough, Corvo stretches on his knees to full height, balanced on the chair.

He laces his arms around Daud’s shoulders, bringing their faces close. “Or maybe I’ll make you do that.”

Bold of you to assume you can make me do anything, is what Daud is about to say, but then Corvo’s fingers push up into the hair along the nape of his neck, and the retort never comes.

(Daud would probably transverse into the Abbey stark naked and unarmed, if the man asked him to.)

The thought makes him scoff, amused.

Corvo cocks his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Daud dismisses, realising his hands are still limp at his sides. Hopeless. He brings them to slide above Corvo’s hips, to the narrow taper of his waist.

(Daud’s palms can almost enclose him there. The man’s shape is as fucking absurd as the rest of him. Daud was informed, once Corvo had stopped laughing at him, that he’d clocked out of reality for a good five minutes or so, the first time he’d held him like this.)

“I can speak with her on the matter,” Daud offers gruffly, reluctant. “If you wish.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not. It’s an offer.”

“And it’s appreciated. However much the offer clearly pained you,” Corvo adds, teasing. “It should come from me,” he says, and that closes any further discussion.

Emily bids Daud to speak with her the following day. He answers the summons thinking the choice of location has blown things out of proportion. The throne room? A little dramatic.

Condescending, too, for a child to be passing judgement on the decision of two grown adults. Emily Kaldwin’s approval in this is unwanted and unneeded. Daud has no shame and no remorse for what he feels for her father; the bond they have now was built through hardship and an understanding known only in full by Corvo and himself. Daud doesn’t expect Emily to approve, nor understand it because no one but he and Corvo possibly could.

(But Daud does hope, perhaps foolishly, that she will accept it. He knows he’s only baring his teeth within his thoughts to calm the slight anxiety that’s been simmering since Corvo had mentioned it. He wants this over with.)

Daud says nothing when he reaches the girl, who has arranged herself neatly on a throne that has seated far wiser rulers than she. She looks terribly small.

At least they are alone. Emily has sense enough to have made this meeting private.

“My father has spoken to me, regarding you. And I asked you here to make something very clear.“

It’s obvious the words have been rehearsed. But the authority in her tone comes with a distinct air of ease.

“I do not forgive your actions,” Emily states. “Even though I know the reasons behind it all are not black and white, I cannot forget it. I believe I told you so once before.”

Daud gives a slight cant of his head. “I’ve not forgotten.”

“But I do trust you,” Emily says, as she had that first night in Rudshore; Daud’s wrist caught tightly in her hand while Corvo slept on. “And I trust that you care for my father very much. I’ve trusted that for a while, actually. I don’t think you would cause him any more harm, now that you’re on our side.”

Our side, as though it’s all been a game. Emily flits from sovereign to child so erratically, Daud is rarely sure how to address it.

“Never again,” he answers. Daud has sworn his life and gone through damn hard lengths for revenge against those who have caused Corvo harm. He would now better die than betray that alliance, that trust.

“Good.” Emily shuffles straighter, and the gaze she fixes on Daud then is all Corvo’s. Sharp brown eyes, fierce in their focus. “Because if you ever do cause him harm, be assured that I will call for your execution and see it carried out personally.”

Perhaps he had been wrong about her not fitting in that throne. Right now, she sits there comfortably. Daud feels a surge of admiration for her threat.

“If I ever do, I’ll load the pistol and hand it to you myself.”

Emily scrutinises him a moment. Then, apparently satisfied with his response, she grants him a short nod.

(It’s Daud’s own damn nod. She’s seen him use it to dismiss his men.)

He escorts Emily out and hands her off to Callista. Rinaldo falls into step beside him on the way to the grounds, peering between Daud and the throne room behind them.

“What was that about? Formal discussion?”

“Hm. Regarding my execution,” Daud says simply, and doesn’t elaborate.

It went as well as can be expected, complications considered. When he next sees Corvo, the man looks over him sharply, tension in his frame.

“I’ve been appropriately threatened,” Daud says in greeting, to dismiss the slight draw to Corvo’s shoulders. “Feared for my life.”

Corvo relaxes instantly. “Thank you for humouring her in this. I know it must seem unreasonable, her being so young and having any involvement–”

“You were right to tell her,” Daud cuts him off.

(He wonders at times whether Corvo can somehow slink into his thoughts. An unvoiced expansion on the man’s possession ability, perhaps. Probably not, but their thinking seems to overlap so often, it’s like sharing a damn mind.)

“Secrets build up and break trust, cause resentment. There’s safety in being tempted to keep silent,” Daud supposes, a little bitter. “But it isn’t worth all that.”

Corvo’s expression softens, and then he calls that little speech ‘really poetic’ or ‘so eloquent’ or something like that, in that shitty tone of his.

Daud may have to condemn himself obsessed after all, as Galia had once claimed. The urge to pull the irritating bastard close comes so abruptly that Daud actually does so, right there in the Tower’s open gardens, damn Ardan’s jeering and Rinaldo’s surprised curse from somewhere nearby.

That obsession has endured from Corvo’s busy first night in Holger Square to here and now, where Corvo’s teasing has become obvious for what it is. Intentional, and affectionate, and evidently determined to make Daud madder for the idiot than he has already become.

Though obsession, Daud comes to admit to himself, is no longer the word of the day. And it hasn’t been the word for a while.

Daud has not tried to deny it; exactly what it is he feels for Corvo.

He can deny alongside the best of them when it comes to theoretics and speculation. When it comes to his own emotions, however, he is not a man of denial. When it comes to cold, hard facts, Daud accepts things as they are and gets on with it, because what else can be done?

It comes upon two weeks since Kaldwin’s Bridge. And that word, that precise feeling; Daud doesn’t insult his own intelligence by trying to deny it.

Though he does question it. Daud isn’t entirely convinced he’s capable of such a thing. Romance? Love? The terms alone make him want to scoff. They sound distant, wrong on his tongue and in his mind.

He has nothing to compare this to.

He has never met anyone remotely like Corvo before.

Is it love? Could he be capable? Daud cannot say for certain. It’s been grating on him lately, and he has yet to settle on any sort of answer.

He attempts to simply let it be, and continues to exist in that odd, not entirely unpleasant state of the undecided.

The answer almost comes to him. While on the topmost floor of Luigi Galvani’s apartment, of all the places.

He’s there on an official investigation. Daud decided to look into it personally, which isn’t really necessary; a doctor hoarding old plague samples for experimentation is not so serious a rumour. Certainly not serious enough for the Spymaster himself to oversee a search.

But it was this or a meeting about trade routes. Daud had kindly volunteered Thomas for that, and he himself had headed promptly to Clavering Boulevard, warrant in hand.

Corvo had insisted on coming, for reasons he hasn’t yet divulged. It puts Daud slightly on edge, because Corvo is a menace at heart and surely his insistence can only forewarn trouble.

But still, Daud can deny him nothing.

(Is that love? If so, it is ridiculous and has no damn business chipping away at Daud’s resolve like this.)

Galvani answers the door to both the Royal Spymaster and Lord Protector, blanches until he turns pale, hastily pretends to look over the warrant, and then proceeds to afford them every courtesy.

Daud orders the doctor and whatever guards are stationed inside the apartment to wait on the lower floors, while the lab is searched.

“You have this specific kind of concentration about you, when you’re on a job,” Corvo pipes up, inspecting a blackboard covered corner to corner in chalked-down calculations.

“You’ve said so before.”

“So serious.” That tone informs Daud he’s being teased.

So he doesn’t afford the sly shit his attention. He keeps his concentration down on Galvani’s notes. “As I’ve said before, someone here ought to take a job seriously.”

Corvo gives a low laugh and skirts around the table, coming to lean an arm on Daud’s shoulder to peer at the doctor’s writings.

“I’m not criticising,” he continues. “Focus looks good on you. I’ve always thought so.”

Daud grunts in answer, though he’s lost track of where he was scanning through the notes. “I believe I’ve also said I can’t account for your poor taste.”

Corvo dips to press his nose against Daud’s cheek, “I have excellent taste,” and then he draws away, striding to a bookcase at the corner of the room. “And an excellent memory. The switch should be somewhere… here.”

He gives one of the books a little tug, and the entire unit jolts, shaking dust, before scraping just barely over the floorboards as it slides open.

Daud closes his eyes in exasperation. A hidden cabinet. Hardly original. Every highborn in Dunwall seems obsessed with installing these crawlspaces.

“Terribly clever.” Daud discards the doctor’s notes to join Corvo at the opened cabinet.

From a safe distance, they scrutinise the jars of fermenting plague rats stored inside, some whole and some diced into pieces; eyes and teeth and tails suspended in flasks of thickened, cloudy sludge.

“Griff’s rumour was on the money, then.”

“So it would seem.”

Corvo takes a tentative step inside, pokes one of the jars to watch the rat head bob in its own liquids, and then recoils. “Physicians are fucked.”

Daud makes an absent noise of agreement.

“Are they alright? Any of them? Do they need a hug?”

“They need a straight-jacket.”

Out of morbid fascination, Corvo pokes the jar again and shudders. “Ugh.”

“He’s getting fined,” Daud decides. “And all this shit is being confiscated.” He eyes the slowly rotating rat head, its eyeball protruding and staring ominously through the glass. “And burned.”

“Not as bad as the last thing he had stuffed in here,” Corvo reasons, backing out of the cabinet. “It was a plague victim, I think. Mutated and dissected, guts everywhere.”

“Lovely.” It had slipped Daud’s mind, that Corvo has been here before. “I’m shocked that excellent memory of yours hasn’t tempted you downstairs,” Daud remarks. “To rob his safe again.”

“No! No, no, no, no! Not again! How could this have happened again?!”

The doctor’s muffled voice carries through the floorboards under their feet, and Corvo sniffs innocently at Daud’s side.

“What am I paying you buffoons for?! What’s the point of employing guards if you don’t bloody guard anything?!”

Harried footsteps charge up the stairwell and Galvani bursts into the laboratory, his scolded officers tailing him.

“Lord Spymaster, Lord Attano, my safe– downstairs, my damn safe– again, it’s all gone! Some bastard has taken everything!”

Daud keeps his face carefully blank as Galvani continues to splutter. Though he spares a split second to grant Corvo the grimmest look he can.

(The man had only lingered downstairs for two minutes, at most, when Daud had made for the laboratory. Daud presumed he’d been searching that floor for evidence. Foolish. He knows Corvo, and should know better than to presume something so innocent.)

Daud holds up a hand to silence the squawking doctor. “We’re here to do a sweep of your lab, not investigate a supposed robbery–”

“There is nothing supposed about it! Lord Spymaster, I swear,” Galvani speaks across him.

(Daud feels his eye twitch in annoyance, though whether it’s more annoyance at the doctor’s simpering or at Corvo’s antics, he can’t say.)

“I swear, it must have just now happened!”

“By the void, just now?” Corvo repeats, intentionally dramatic. Daud clenches his jaw against the urge to either snort or throttle the man.

“Only just, I’m certain! Everything was inside this morning. I checked! I check every morning,” Galvani despairs. “After two break-ins, I must! The thieving villain is back, it must be him! He may still be here, hidden in wait to ruin me!”

Behind him, his guards shuffle, silent and uncomfortable.

“Well, you can rest assured, Mr Galvani. We have plenty of time to spare.” Corvo’s eyes glint viciously when they flit to Daud. “I’m sure our Spymaster can get right on the case.”

(That’s the moment. It’s absurd, Daud knows it’s absurd. But the question of whether he is capable, of whether he is in love with Corvo Attano, is almost answered for him then. Though he’s a little preoccupied to focus on it to any thorough degree.)

So Daud pretends to investigate the robbery; pulls some elaborate break and enter scenario out of his ass and ox-shits his way through an explanation; Corvo gleeful and smirking in the background as he watches Daud dance around revealing the true culprit.

The case is left open, with Daud’s grudging agreement to put one of his men onto the thief’s trail, seeing as it’s the third robbery in a row. Galvani’s old plague samples are confiscated, the hidden cabinet is ordered to be removed, and the doctor is subsequently fined. Two-hundred coin.

“Have you no restraint?” Daud grinds out, once they’re safely in a carriage and heading back to the Tower District.

Corvo’s mouth just curves slightly at one corner, where he’s lounged opposite. “You handled it beautifully.” His boot knocks against Daud’s, playful, and he’s twirling a silver pen between his fingers. There is a distinct L.G carved along its side. “I keep saying it, these nobles should change their safe codes.”

The robbery tells Daud two distinct things. One, that Corvo should be brought nowhere near an official investigation again, for Daud’s own sanity. And two, that if Daud is not in love with the man, then he’s evidently hooked around his finger.

Daud’s never been hooked around anyone’s finger. He’d balk at the thought, if it were someone else.

As it’s Corvo, however, it all feels about as distinctly and disturbingly right as anything else involving the man.

So, naturally, Daud suspects that disaster is imminent. Something will happen. It is bound to. And it will bring this regard that has grown between Corvo and himself to a swift conclusion.

There comes an evening where Daud is certain of it. That this brief span of peace he’s been granted has been doomed from the beginning; doomed as any short-lived dalliance he has staggered into in the past.

“You don’t have to leave, you know.”

Corvo says it several days after their search at Galvani’s, when they’re both running on fumes and Daud’s mood is dwindling the kitchen’s store of caffeine following a note Corvo had found in the doctor’s safe.

Galvani has been put off from tampering with Bottle Street and any other street gangs, it seems. Though the note had made suspicious mention of a new gang’s emergence within the city.

“That’s what Dunwall needs,” Daud had muttered, when he had sent Rapha and Dimitri scouting for information on these ‘Regenters’. “Another fucking gang.”

Daud would prefer if people pulled their shit together and got on with their lives, if they’d be so kind. If he’s managed it, these mundane citizens can damn well manage it.

But no, instead they decide to cause chaos and commit crimes and form shitty gangs to disturb the city’s hard-earned peace.

(Daud’s peace, too. Bastards.)

“You realise that you caused chaos and committed crimes and formed a shitty gang,” Corvo pointed out to him, when Daud had finished his ‘rant’, as Corvo had accused it, which wasn’t ‘childish’, damn what Corvo thinks.

It’s their third evening in a row of putting together information on the known gang leaders and tracking their routes for rioting. Both Daud and Corvo are working on perhaps five hours of sleep combined in that time, and Daud is convinced his men’s notes are now formed of no coherent language.

The words on the reports are foggy, foreign shapes, blurring in waves, Daud’s eyes are straining that badly. He’s so tired he can barely think.

Until Corvo offers his bed.

“You don’t have to leave, you know.”

Daud, where he’s about to get to his feet and retire for the night as usual, freezes. All of a sudden alert.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Corvo continues, though he adds, “You’re also welcome not to stay.” A note of laughter slips in, there. He’s likely noticed Daud hasn’t moved a muscle since he started talking. “I’d like you to, though. I like it when you’re here.”

Corvo’s tone is uncharacteristically gentle. It’s a tone used to settle unpredictable creatures, prone to lashing out.

(It’s the tone Daud’s heard him use with the Tower’s newest wolfhound; one of Granny Rags’ feral abductees from months back. Daud had spotted it terrorising the stall workers in the Trawler District for food, while out on a job with Rulfio.

It had taken a gruelling hour of coaxing and almost losing his fingers to the beast’s teeth, before Daud had gained its trust enough to touch it.

“Soft-hearted choffer,” Rulfio had chuckled. “Can’t resist taking in a stray, can you.”

Daud can hardly defend himself in that. He has forty strays at least, and that isn’t counting those with four legs.)

“I’ve been meaning to offer for a while, actually,” Corvo confesses, unashamed in the admission. “Lost my nerve the last few times.”

Reality tears into Daud, then, unforgiving as a blade.

Doomed from the beginning, a voice taunts in the back of his mind. They were always going to come to this juncture, sooner or later. Of course Corvo would assume they would eventually–

“Choice is yours–”

“I don’t do that.” Daud snarls it out, with far more sharpness than he intends, the bite of rejection in his tone. “I won’t.”

He despises the sight of confusion, dejection, that surfaces behind Corvo’s eyes. Am I not wanted? The subtleties in his expression may as well be screaming it. Do you not desire me after all?

Daud desires him, desperately. Just not like that. His desire is of a manner different to most people he’s known. He has rarely taken issue with it. He has rarely had cause to, he has never cared for someone deeply enough for it to come so distinctly under the spotlight.

(Daud has never wanted someone like this, with this much certainty, with this much urgency. But even so, he won’t compromise something he knows so clearly of himself. Not even for Corvo Attano.)

“Other people may have the inclination,” Daud continues roughly, because he must explain. He won’t deny he has been selfish, letting this carry on; fooling himself that they weren’t going to eventually have this conversation. “I do not. I’ve… It’s always been this way.”

He keeps his gaze stern on the papers beneath him. Daud hasn’t been fair to the man, to either of them. He should not have entertained this. He should not have allowed himself to get wrapped up in the folly that this could endure.

“Desire, it…” Daud dredges through his tired thoughts, and grudgingly settles on the simplest explanation he can. If he must resign himself to the end of this, he wants to do so swiftly. “It is something different to me, Corvo.”

“I know,” Corvo says. And he says it like it has never been in question.

It catches Daud so off guard that his gaze snaps back up to the man.

Corvo is looking across at him, curious. The dejection has dissipated, though some confusion still lingers. “I just want you to stay with me,” he clarifies carefully. “I wasn’t offering that.”

Daud’s face must be doing something, because Corvo’s brows arch a little, in that manner they do when he decides something is serious.

He stands and takes one long stride around the desk, coming to kneel in front of Daud’s chair; pulled near the desk’s edge so they could sit together.

“You didn’t realise I knew that about you,” Corvo concludes after a moment of searching Daud’s expression. “I’m sorry, I just assumed you did. We’ve known each other long enough, I had my suspicions since Rudshore. And Thomas may have threatened me,” he adds, an absent afterthought, as though any threat from Thomas is to be taken lightly. “When he noticed my interest, I think. He said nothing in detail, but that’s when I knew for sure.”

(Thomas knows this of him? They have never discussed it. Though, Thomas has always been among the more observant of his mudlarks. Daud shouldn’t be surprised that focus has been on him too.)

When Daud’s tense silence is still his only answer, Corvo asks gently, “Did you think it would bother me?”

“It bothers everyone, sooner or later.”

Daud turns his jaw away where Corvo reaches for him. He feels bitterly undeserving of his touch.

“I should have told you myself.” He feels the guilt crawling from the back of his throat, hear it creeping over his tongue and into his words. There’s safety in being tempted to keep silent, Daud had said. But it isn’t worth all that. What a hypocrite he has turned out to be. “Before the Bridge, before I let this–”

“Daud–”

“It was selfish to let this go on–”

“Daud.” Corvo doesn’t try to touch him again. It’s his tone that draws Daud’s attention down to him; no wry rejoinder, no note of teasing. “If I wanted to rut aimlessly between someone’s legs, I’d be courting Esma Boyle.”

It would probably make Daud chuckle, under other circumstances. Now, though, he just grants Corvo a thin, discerning look.

“I‘m serious.”

“And when I say I won’t, I am serious.”

“And that’s fine.”

Daud‘s teeth clench, irritated by the man’s flippant acceptance. He can say ‘it’s fine’ as often as he pleases. It will end the same way it always does. In disappointment, when Daud dashes whatever hope Corvo may have that he is different. In resentment, when Corvo realises that this will not change given time.

“You’re not an exception to the rule,” Daud assures him. Perhaps it is needlessly harsh, but Corvo must recognise he won’t be moved on this. He can’t be moved on this. “I won’t change my mind some day merely because it’s you.”

Corvo is listening intently, eyes still firm on him. “I don’t expect you to change your mind,” he says once he realises Daud is finished speaking. “I don’t expect to be an exception.” Corvo’s frown deepens in displeasure when he adds, “You shouldn’t have to explain that to anyone.”

Daud almost scoffs. His throat feels too dry for it. “I’ve found it requires explaining.”

“It requires respecting, not an explanation.”

And Daud cannot help but scoff at that. He forgets sometimes that everything can be so black and white Corvo’s head, so simple.

He thinks killing is too much a mercy for his enemies, so he finds another way.

He sees something shiny he wants, so he takes it.

Daud doesn’t want sex, so Corvo says he will not expect it.

(Daud adores him for it, in that moment. A moment of weakness, where he wishes he could change what must happen now.)

Daud sags down a little into the chair; rubs a hand tiredly over his eyes. He is relieved, in a way. That it has finally been voiced between them. He’s not relieved of what must come of it. He would not expect anyone to deny themselves their desires merely for his sake.

And Corvo deserves every pleasure he can ring from the world. Daud cannot give him that.

“Forgive me,” Daud says, weary and resigned. “If I’ve misled you. Should you wish to look elsewhere, I understand–”

“No.” Corvo snaps it, though it’s softened by the hands coming to move Daud’s left away from his face. “I don’t want to look elsewhere. That’s something I won’t do, and my mind won’t be changed on that.” That frown of his arches tersely into a glare, displeased. “Do you think I care for you so little?”

Hearing such a thing makes Daud suddenly feel akin to treading unknown waters; drifting far out from shores he knows, out of his depth.

“Do you think I care for you so little,” he bites back, “to keep you shackled to me, with what little I have to offer?”

This is not what usually...

What the void is Daud supposed to do with this?

“What little you have to offer? Is that really what you thi–“

“Don’t be stubborn,” Daud cuts him off, feeling anger begin to simmer. If this is to end, then let it end. He doesn’t want it dragged out when he isn’t certain he can bear it. “I won’t ask you to give up yo–”

“Nothing. You’re asking nothing of me.”

“I don’t expect you to–”

“Daud,” and the way Corvo says his name then is different. There is something slightly pleading, something deeper behind it that settles the rising anger, that makes Daud’s chest tighten in a surge of cruel hope. “There’s nothing to forgive. You haven’t misled me. I don’t care that you don’t… I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. If you ever did want it, then alright, that would be fine,” Corvo reasons. “But you don’t, and that’s fine too. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Corvo shifts closer where he’s kneeled, arms coming to rest over Daud’s knees. Affectionate. Familiar.

“Does it mean you don’t want me?”

Daud stares at him, because the question is ludicrous. Daud, not want him? Insanity.

Corvo meets his gaze, horribly calm. “Because you don’t want that,” he asks again, “does it mean you don’t want me?”

Daud realises then that it isn’t a real question. It’s the offer of an out, a chance to end things here. I won’t end it, Corvo is saying silently, so you have to. He is handing all control of this to Daud.

And Daud could lie. Say yes, put this to rest right now and never need to dwell on a possible future after tonight, never need to risk placing his faith in Corvo’s reassurances.

“No,” he says instead.

Because he has never lied to Corvo, he won’t begin now.

Because Corvo, thus far, has proven himself worth any risk.

Sleep-deprived and thrown-off kilter as he is, Daud thinks surely anyone would be a fool to waste Corvo’s acceptance of this, however brief it may still turn out to be. Thinks surely that having the man near is worth any potential devastation in the long run. It’s better to have loved and lost and all that shit.

But Daud no longer knows where this leads. The past has wrought this as a complication; one that has damned any prospect of something lasting beyond this conversation.

“You’re… I want…” The words come uncertainly, coarse and agitated; Daud doesn’t know how to voice it, the exact breadth of his want. How much he hungers like a fool for Corvo’s closeness, with no obligation, no expectation, for anything other than to have him near. “I want to be close to you, I–”

“We are close.”

“I want to please you–”

“You already please me.”

Corvo’s fingers do find his jaw, then, tentatively testing the waters, and the gentle contact, the man’s firm interruptions, his stubborn certainty, it all makes Daud want to laugh, or weep, or some ugly amalgamation of the two.

He settles for pushing his head down in the crook of Corvo’s shoulder, unsure whether he wants to hide from or bury himself in the depth of what the man makes him feel. The frustration and adoration circling each other like a pair of snarling hounds somewhere inside him.

The question still burns; where does this go from here, then, if not to that familiar disappointment and resentment?

“I told you,” Corvo says, “I like being around you.” The memory of the music room, Corvo beside him, glaring irritably and vulnerable in that quiet confession, has Daud’s hands clenching to fists against the urge to touch him. “This doesn’t change that.”

But Corvo may change his mind. Those before him had, damn any empty promises of acceptance that were made.

“You say that now, bodyguard–”

“And I’ll keep saying it. It doesn’t matter to me, Daud.” Corvo presses his nose against the side of Daud’s head, and says against his hair, “I’m not going to give you reason to doubt that.”

There is nothing but Corvo’s usual, maddening confidence, and Daud wants to tear into something at the unfairness of this. Corvo is gorgeous and desirable and would undoubtedly be as exciting as a lover as he is in everything else. He deserves more than what Daud can give him.

(Daud has lived too long to feel shame in this now, but just for a moment, he wishes things could be different; that he could find appeal or pleasure in something more.

He has never felt this way about anyone.)

“Don’t think that I don’t…” Daud breathes a frustrated sigh through his nose as he draws back a little, trying to sound less accusing, less defensive. “Please, don’t think you aren’t…”

He comes to take a hold of Corvo’s wrists, keeping his hands either side of his face as he tries to find the words he’s kept clenched behind his teeth for so long. He settles on returning Corvo’s own words to him. He can’t think of a better way to put it.

“Just because I don’t want that, it doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Corvo just looks at him with that familiar warmth. No disappointment. No resentment. “That matters to me. I don’t need anything more than that.”

Void, he makes this feel so simple. Like it’s supposed to be this easy.

Daud should have foreseen this, really. Corvo, unpredictable and stubborn, defying every expectation.

“I’ll take you as you are, killer,” Corvo says as he stretches up on his knees to press their foreheads together, pleased when Daud damns the restraint that’s been thread-thin since the man knelt in front of him; arms coming tight around him, dragging the man up further to hold against him. “I’ve been meaning to say so for a while. Lost my nerve there, too.”

(I’ll take you as you are. He wrote that once, did he not? In a letter, a lifetime ago.

Daud decides then that nothing can ache this much, bear down this fucking hard on his chest, and it not be something as senseless and grand and damning as love.)

Once Daud has regained more of a hold on himself, and the room and anything in it besides Corvo gradually comes back into focus, Corvo somehow knows he isn’t going to stay that night.

(Daud feels dangerously close to being crushed under the weight of all this; the tension, his dismal expectations, Corvo’s closeness and his reassurances, and now relief. Corvo can no doubt see it.)

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Corvo says, before Daud has even considered how to take his leave without it seeming like rejection. “For more of this amazing fun we’ve been having,” he adds wryly, shooting their scattered piles of notes on the Regenters a disdainful glare. “Won’t you just be counting the seconds?”

It makes Daud snort, and it makes him want to kiss the man stupid. He refrains from the latter. Too overwhelmed, too much has happened, he needs solitude, silence. He cannot think, with Corvo so near, with all he feels for the man threatening to drown him in its intensity after all that.

The silence and solitude of his own rooms doesn’t mean he sleeps, however. Daud shifts restlessly, exhaustion come full circle back to wakefulness. He stares at the ceiling and thinks of how he will question Corvo’s assurances in the future. He may deny Corvo’s claims, in turn cause fallout, and cause the man to come to resent him after all.

Or perhaps Corvo will merely grow frustrated in time, and begin to find it all too tiresome to bother with. Daud wouldn’t hold it against him.

Though Daud decides, some time before dawn, that he cannot seriously entertain that notion. Corvo is many things – spiteful, vicious, and he can resent as coldly as anyone – but becoming frustrated over a fuck of all things? Corvo wasting his disdain on something so trivial?

It sounds all at once ludicrous, and so unlike Corvo that by daybreak Daud banishes the thought altogether.

Things are comfortingly normal the next day. Their conversation the previous evening is not brought to light, nothing feels lesser between them, and it all puts Daud a little steadier on his feet.

Well, things are at least as normal as they ever tend to be. Corvo finds him at the Old Waterfront late morning, and he edges around the door to Daud’s makeshift office looking worryingly pale, a little shaken.

“Help,” he says simply, which immediately jolts Daud into high alert. Corvo pulls a horribly carved bonecharm from one of his pockets. “It has so many side effects.”

Daud slumps back and restrains a growl, stops gripping the edge of the desk with quite so much force. “Like what?”

Corvo makes a face and shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Daud gets it out of him in little time. He ate a rat. Whole. The charm had been so corrupted it had flooded him with a rampant hunger to do so.

“It restored some mana,” Corvo says in his defence, and Daud can feel his own disgusted expression contort further. “So it does… something.”

“What the void were you trying to make it do?”

“It was supposed to be for you,” Corvo fires back, haughtily crossing his arms.

(He is gorgeous like this, when he’s self-righteous and embarrassed by something. Daud tries not to smirk at him and risk the full force of that glare.)

“I thought it could be useful, considering certain issues in the past that we will not be addressing,” Corvo says firmly, “if we could at least communicate to some level while I was possessing something. A hound or a rat, I don’t know.”

“Thoughtful of you,” and Daud does smirk, just barely. Corvo catches it. The glare burns into him as predicted. “I’ll see what can be done.”

“At least I tested it first, you ungrateful dick,” Corvo mutters, tossing the charm over for Daud to fix.

It’s inelegant and buzzing with corruption and riddled with amateur mistakes. But Daud keeps the extent of the travesty to himself. Corvo’s consideration makes his knees a touch weak, and intending the charm as a surprise is disturbingly sweet and probably shouldn’t please Daud as much as it has.

By the time he’s stripped it back to its bare bones and reworked it properly, it does as originally intended.

It turns out to be a horrible idea.

In one of the abandoned yards, Corvo possesses their feral hound – named Crow, because Killian thinks he’s funny and claims the resemblance is uncanny – so they can test the charm out. The stream of consciousness that flows into Daud’s mind is not helpful in the least.

‘Run-run-run-turn-run-run-turn-tail-tail-tail,’ rings in a semblance of Corvo’s voice, as Daud watches him bound in circles, sharp teeth occasionally snapping for his tail. ‘Run-run-run-run-turn-run.’

At least the question of whether Corvo’s brain is half-hound during these possessions has been answered, Daud supposes dryly.

‘Run-run-run-run-RAT-RAT-RAT-FOOD-FOOD,’ and Daud darts forward to grab Corvo back before he swallows his second rodent that day.

(‘DAUD-DAUD-DAUD-DAUD-DAUD,’ starts exclaiming happily whilst he wrestles Corvo away from his prey. Corvo’s attention turns full-force on him, head butting into his hip, Daud’s own name chanting in his head with unabashed affection.)

Despite concluding it less than insightful, Daud keeps the charm. It was a gift, and entertained him if nothing else. Void knows what those thoughts would be like as a rat. Another due test, perhaps, when Daud next finds himself in need of a good laugh.

They part for their respective duties for a time, and meet again to track the Regenters that evening; their nights at the Tower dedicated to it as of late.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go scouting for ourselves,” Daud decides in greeting as he paces into Corvo’s quarters. He’s had enough of notes and desks and sitting idle. Time for some field work. “See what we can find that seems to be eluding my spies.”

Corvo, growing ever more restless as the days have dragged on, perks up at the prospect. “Fine by me. I can take the South side, find out what Slackjaw’s heard.”

Daud glowers, but doesn’t argue it. He may not like the moustached prick, but he can hardly deny his use. Corvo had insisted on keeping their alliance with Bottle Street ongoing, for good reason. The gang may be chock full of choffers, but they’ve proven themselves invaluable as eyes across the river. Slackjaw’s never passed along bad information.

“I’ll take Drapers Ward, then. The Eels could have crossed paths with these bastards, Stride may know something.”

“Look at us, on the case.” Corvo shoots Daud a grin. “If Dunwall Tower ever gets overthrown, we should go into business together,” he muses, spinning Galvani’s pen over his knuckles. “Start a detective agency or something.”

“You read too much fictional drivel.“ Daud pushes the plate of food he brought with him into Corvo’s chest when the man makes for the desk, directing him instead to sit near one of the windows. “Must be blissful, in your little fantasy world.”

“It is, actually,” Corvo replies, doing as he’s bid and taking the plate. “At least I’m not soured with all that logic that lives in your head. I’d get frown lines,” and he presses a kiss against the side of Daud’s head in thanks.

Daud’s taken it upon himself to bring the man food as often as he can get away with, otherwise Corvo simply does not eat. Errant as that mind of his is, the simplest of things seems to slip past Corvo’s focus. Meals are deemed unimportant, or perhaps merely forgotten altogether.

(And Corvo trusts nothing that anyone else may bring him. Only Daud has proven to be an exception to that rule. Corvo doesn’t question anything that’s put in front of him, as long as Daud is the one putting it there.)

Corvo tosses up a grape and catches it in his mouth as he sits, and Daud, because he can’t help himself, says, “They were out of rats.”

Corvo plucks another grape and throws it at his head, then kicks out the chair opposite for Daud to join him.

Daud has noticed, just sometimes, that Corvo eats like he doesn’t know when his next meal will come. It sounds ridiculous on the surface, because the man lives in a palace. There is an endless supply of food, readily available, more than Daud has ever seen in one place in his life.

Beneath that surface, Daud knows it is because of Coldridge. Corvo has known torture and starvation, caged in a dank cell, perhaps with no view of the sky to tell day from night. Few men could have survived it unscathed.

Daud doesn’t know whether Corvo was precisely as he is now, before Coldridge. Either way, he has emerged shockingly sane considering.

Daud watches him absently shovel the last piece of bread into his mouth. He stares at that faint mark; the brand of Burrows’ torturer, seared along the sharp edge of Corvo’s jaw.

(Six months, Corvo was caged there, at the mercy of Morris Sullivan. Because of Daud.)

“What?” Corvo asks around his mouthful, bringing Daud back up from his thoughts when he catches him staring.

Daud stands to clear the empty plate from the table, using the excuse to bend and press an unhurried kiss to Corvo’s forehead, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, the mark that will never fully heal.

Corvo allows it, bemused, but he says nothing. He never does, in these rare moments. He seems to understand, lets Daud do as he pleases; lets him settle whatever regret is clearly driving him to indulge in the intimacy, and just presses into the touch each time.

They work late that evening; notes on the Regenters’ activity from the men and rough scribblings of their own being organised and mulled over until they’re both slumping over Corvo’s desk and blinking hard to keep their eyes open once again, as their routine dictates.

When they agree where is best to scout, and there is little more that can be done with written word, Daud stands brusquely and pointedly heads for the door.

An unspoken challenge. For Corvo to prove he is as good as yesterday’s word.

Unoffended by the display, and clearly amused, Corvo just bids him goodnight from where he’s still pouring over his own stack of information.

The challenge backfires halfway through the darkened corridor. Dissatisfaction claws at Daud’s chest, when he realises he doesn’t want to return to his own rooms at all.

(That need Daud has, to try and remain in control when every bone in him longs to yield, is childish. And it could have done him a favour and fucked off before he decided to make a point of leaving.)

Daud shoves off his coat when he reaches his quarters. He paces, scowling at his own bed.

After ten minutes, he decides he’s surely proven it. That he can in fact deny Corvo Attano, and isn’t bound by some otherworldly nonsense to follow the man’s every proclivity.

He storms out and stalks back through the corridor.

Corvo watches as Daud barges back into his quarters and retakes his seat, scowling still and avoiding Corvo’s gaze like the plague.

“Get that out of your system?”

“Yes,” Daud bites, and he sees Corvo’s sharp grin flash in the corner of his eye.

(Frustration starts to bleed away, at the glimpse of that smile.)

“Make yourself at home, then,” Corvo offers, and his eyes stay focused down on the papers. Certainly for Daud’s benefit. “I have a little more to get done.”

Daud suspects he doesn’t. He suspects this is for his benefit, too. Corvo’s letting him scope out the situation, until he feels more settled.

(Daud’s never been known by anyone like this before.)

He moves warily to the bedroom, eyeing Corvo now and again to make certain his intrusion here is truly welcome.

Corvo doesn’t stir and doesn’t say a word.

Daud eventually snarls at himself to get a damn grip, and stubbornly readies himself as he usually would; shrugs off his shirt as he usually would. Once he’s laid down, the covers beneath him have Corvo’s scent faintly clinging to them, and then Daud finds he can care about little else than closing his eyes.

He thinks he sleeps, though it’s more a state of hazy consciousness, until he feels the covers being pulled up over his bare shoulder and distantly hears the comfort of Corvo’s voice.

“You’ll freeze, idiota.”

Daud gropes irritably until his fingers close around Corvo’s wrist, trying to tug the man down. He thinks he might grumble something that makes Corvo laugh; feels fingers gently move through his hair in return, and then Daud sleeps.

He sleeps like the fucking dead. Apparently a soft bed and Corvo combined have the same effect as sleep toxin.

Though Corvo’s leg nudges against his some time before dawn and Daud panics; lurching back, kicking away what his sleep-muddled instincts must assume is an attack.

Corvo flails off the bed, Daud topples over the other side, and the bed is left an empty mess of scrambled sheets, Corvo’s pillow tumbling to the floor to follow him. Corvo gives a pained groan, and Daud is suddenly wide awake and breathing hard, and then they both realise what happened.

Corvo proceeds to cackle long past Daud threatening to decapitate him, flushed and defensive and grateful he hadn’t had a knife under the pillow to grab for.

It takes a good half-hour of coaxing – Corvo pressing his lips together to try and stifle his smile, easing Daud back inside from the balcony like he’s some kind of wild animal about to bolt – for Daud to be convinced to return to the bed.

“If I kill you, it’s your fault,” he makes sure to warn this time, though Corvo just hums in agreement, pulling him back down onto the rumpled covers. “I mean it. I’ll have it announced to the city that you’re culpable for your own murder.”

“I think it’s technically manslaughter, if it’s an accident.”

“I didn’t say it would be an accident, bodyguard.”

Corvo grins as he lets himself slump back down at Daud’s side, delighted as he ever is by Daud’s empty threats. “I’ll take the risk either way, killer.”

Daud’s tension must be obvious, because Corvo starts talking utter shit to distract him. Something about the things he gets up to in the void; a floating manor house and clockwork eggs and hidden rooms, nothing of any sense. But bit by bit, Daud relaxes at the ramblings, at the low, familiar tenor of Corvo’s voice.

“You undergo heists in the void. Ox shit.”

“On my life, it’s true.”

The sight of Corvo beside him – at ease, with nothing to hone that sharp focus on, wild hair sprawled all over the pillow – it keeps working to snare Daud’s attention away from what’s being said. He keeps almost tuning out, embarrassingly distracted.

“There’s this guessing game, somewhere, too. In another mansion. There are always clues and you need to find the right target.”

“Void, he must be getting off on this,” Daud mutters. So the Outsider has been tempting Corvo through these ridiculous trials, ever since he got marked. Doesn’t play favourites. What a sack of shit. “You realise you’re just indulging the bastard.”

“You’ve never come across all that, in the void? The heists, the runs, the brawls?”

Daud raises a brow, bemused. “Brawls?”

“None of it?”

“I’d remember, if I ever had.”

“Hm. Maybe he likes me better,” Corvo says, giving him a shitty grin.

“You have my sympathies, if that’s the case,” Daud replies, decidedly unbothered by the notion. He doesn’t envy him the attention.

The conversation, as Daud expected it would sooner or later, turns to his inclinations. Or lack thereof, as it is. Corvo is curious by nature, so of course he has questions. Daud doesn’t begrudge him for it. He has no qualms in answering, now it is out in the open.

“It makes sense, in a way,” Corvo muses a little way into the discussion.

He’s shuffled into Daud’s space a little. Or perhaps it’s Daud who has shifted closer, unable to help himself.

“You’re a no-nonsense guy,” Corvo reasons, “and sex can be nonsense.”

Daud feels his mouth wanting to nudge into a fond smile. So simple, he finds himself thinking again, in that head of his. “I think you’re digging for logic where there is none, amenaza. It is the way it is. I doubt there’s any deeper reason to it.”

Corvo hums, considering. “So you’ve never…” He lets the question hang, and there is only curiosity there; no judgement, no pressure to reveal whether he has or hasn’t.

“There were times, when I was younger. Men, here and there. Thought I’d just get over it, with time. Start to want it, with repetition.”

“But it doesn’t work like that,” Corvo finishes for him. “It must have been frustrating, not to understand back then.”

Daud just grunts, reaching across the space between them to run his fingers through that dark mess of hair. In this, he doesn’t regret the past. He understands it now, due to those choices, mistakes, encounters, whatever they were.

“So, just men?” Corvo asks, swerving the focus slightly.

“Hm.” Daud knows many women worth his respect, but there has never been any attraction there beyond that. “And for you, both?”

“I suppose.” Corvo cocks his head as he considers, frowning at the ceiling. “I think it’s… more the person themselves than any of that, though. I can’t really say.”

(Daud wants to ask if there had been someone, anyone, before Jessamine. He doesn’t. He knows he has Corvo’s forgiveness, and they have come far with each other. But perhaps not far enough for questions like that. Daud doesn’t wish to chance it. Not with this tranquility between them now.)

“Wait,” Corvo says suddenly, that frown turning on him sidelong. “Billie.”

That’s a swerve off topic entirely, even for Corvo. Daud matches his expression, a silent bid to elaborate.

“But… if you’ve not…” Corvo makes a gesture, evidently confused. “You have a daughter…?”

Daud snorts when he understands. Void, and the thought he couldn’t get any fonder for the idiot. “Not by blood, Corvo.”

“Ah.” Corvo ducks his head in an embarrassed laugh, when he clocks it. “Should have known. She was one of your strays. You know, you have a bad habit of collecting them.”

“You sound like Rulfio. It’s a habit you should be thanking me for,” Daud points out. “You were among them, once.”

“Aren’t I, still?”

“Mm. Suppose you may be. You’re irritating enough to be one of mine.”

Daud’s fingers card a little deeper, and Corvo begins blinking drowsily at the feeling. “Would you tell me about how you met her,” he asks, terribly gentle. “Billie.”

Surprising himself, Daud does. From the moment he saw her, scrawny and hating the world, tailing him poorly back to the Flooded District, to taking her in and training all that anger in her into something more refined, something useful.

“I pitied her,” Daud says, “at first. It wasn’t care or kindness. I pitied her. She looked pathetic, lost, deathly so. She wouldn’t have survived, if I hadn’t agreed to take her. She was too angry.”

“But you grew to care for her.”

Daud had had no choice. “She was clever. Stubborn. Shittiest mouth.”

“This is all sounding very familiar, you know. I’m pretty clever. A little stubborn, maybe.”

“A little,” Daud repeats with a scoff. “Maybe.”

“I think there’s a pattern emerging.” Corvo’s eyes are narrowing bit by bit under his ministrations; closing and then opening again in slow blinks like a cat, his words becoming a little more slurred with each run of Daud’s fingers. “To your fondness.”

“At least I’m predictable with it, I suppose.”

Whatever Corvo replies is barely more than a mumble, and Daud chuckles when the man drops to sleep mid-word.

He shifts against Daud’s touch after a few moments, with a sound suspiciously like a tut, impatient and disapproving. “S’just manslaughter. Can’t arrest him f’that,” Corvo mutters sleepily. “Try it and I’ll skin you.”

(It makes Daud’s fingers reflexively push deeper into his hair. If Galvani’s or last night’s conversation hadn’t decided it, this may have. Corvo close and muttering threats at his own dreams.)

Daud lies awake pathetically long past dawn, and listens to Corvo’s inane mumblings, and tries not to think how much of a mistake this was, allowing himself to be here like this, because now he wants it for whatever remains of his life.

When he’s decided it’s dragged as late into the morning as they can get away with, he edges from the bed, resorting to bring the man tea as an excuse to wake him.

Corvo is still dead to the world when Daud returns; still curled under the covers, hair still sprawled like a leaked ink blot on paper.

The sight of him there, again; vulnerable, in a rare state where all his spite and sharpness is at rest, makes Daud’s heart do that thing it’s been prone to doing lately; something clenching without warning behind his ribs, making his chest feel unbearably tight.

It convinces Daud to indulge once more; placing the tea on the side and coming to sit, a hand carefully coming to sift back into Corvo’s hair.

The man stirs, frowning, and then shifts closer to Daud on the mattress.

“It’s almost nine, bodyguard.”

Corvo mutters something against the pillow, though Daud doesn’t catch it.

“What?”

Corvo stirs again, peeking an eye open to shoot Daud a tired, wry expression. “Have you come to kick me off the bed again?”

Daud shoves him onto the floor, intentionally this time.

He stays again the next night. And the next. And the next.