CONTENTS
Cover
Available from Titan Books by Adam Christopher
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
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3
4
5
6
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8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
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About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Available from Titan Books
by Adam Christopher
Dishonored: The Corroded Man
Dishonored: The Return of Daud
Dishonored: The Veiled Terror
Available from Titan Comics
Dishonored: The Wyrmwood Deceit
by Gordon Rennie, Andrea Olimpieri,
and Marcelo Maiolo
Dishonored: The Peeress and the Price
by Michael Moreci and Andrea Olimpieri
ADAM CHRISTOPHER
TITAN BOOKS
DISHONORED: THE VEILED TERROR
Print edition ISBN: 9781789090376
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789090383
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Editorial Consultants:
Harvey Smith
Paris Nourmohammadi
Special thanks to Harvey Smith, Brittany Quinn,
and everyone at Arkane Studios.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 Bethesda Softworks LLC. Dishonored, Arkane, ZeniMax, Bethesda, Bethesda Softworks and related logos are registered trademarks or trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
The night is cold and the air is heavy with moisture, just like it always is in this rat-infested city. No matter the time of year. No matter the season. Winter or summer; Month of Hearths, Month of Clans, Months of shit-stained Darkness—Dunwall, capital of the Empire of the Isles, the great and gray metropolis, largest city in the world, is cold and it is wet and it is miserable and life in it for those who call the streets their home is as hard as it is short.
This is a fact the girl knows only too well. Sometimes she can’t remember how long she has been on the streets, can’t remember anything more than flashes of her previous life, the life before the cold and the wet and the surviving.
Sometimes all she remembers about the life that was hers, once, a long time ago, are flashes of memory: an image of her mother, her features sharp and malnourished, her manner always cruel, always angry, her only true and constant companion the bottle of foul-smelling liquor that cost more than it would to feed herself and her young daughter for a week. Her voice as hard as her bony fists, the skin across the knuckles tearing red time and time again as she splits her child’s cheek. Time and time again.
The memories aren’t hers. She keeps telling herself that. They are a story, told around the guttering fire in the old whale oil drum at the back of the dark alleyway, a story that could have been told by any of those wretches, young or old, who gather around the smoky, stinking flames for warmth night after night after night.
But that memory is a truth. What is the lie is that she cannot remember. She knows this. She remembers it all.
No matter how hard she tries.
She is still a child, but only just—and she has seen more than any child should see. And there are others—the girl can count at least two more living on the streets of Dunwall who are her age. And then there are the gangs—the Hatters, the Bottle Street Gang. Some of them are the same age, or thereabouts, as she, but many are older, having survived the city by joining with others to fight against it.
It is a good plan. One day she hopes to catch their eye with her own particular skills. One day she hopes to find a home among them, perhaps even friends. The others, the ones who light the fires and huddle together and try to stay alive just one more night… well, they are not friends. Stories are shared but names rarely are, and the tales of past deeds are likely tall indeed, woven merely to earn a place at the fire and another night in the relative safety of company. Everyone is too focused on surviving to take any real interest, and anyway, the past is irrelevant.
All that matters is the here and the now.
All that matters is surviving. Each night is a battle to be won, sometimes quite literally.
Nights like tonight.
The three men are not in uniform but they all wear hooded tunics, and she can see the remnants of the earlier rainfall clinging in beads to the boiled wool of their cloaks. They looked like boys from the City Watch, and perhaps that is what they are. But tonight they are waiting. She can sense it. There is murder in the air, the potential for violence singing like arcane electricity through the night, as they wait in the alleyway and watch the bar on the street corner ahead.
Despite the hour, it isn’t dark. Far from it. With the passing of the rain the clouds have parted and the moon is full, bathing the city in a silvery monochrome.
She keeps to her hiding place as she watches the men. She is good at that, good at using the jumbled angles of this ancient city to make herself unseen, day or night. It’s a skill she had to learn, but also one that seemed natural, innate. Perhaps it was an unknown product of her upbringing, the need to hide from her mother evolving into an instinct from an early age without her even realizing. Or perhaps she was born with it, this gift for stealth and secrecy and subterfuge. A gift that has served her well on the streets of Dunwall these last few years.
She peers at the men across the street. She has been looking for them, even if she doesn’t want to admit this to herself, because if she did, she would also be forced to admit that she has no idea what she is going to do now she’s found them. But she watches. The men talk in low voices, teeth flashing and eyes glittering beneath their hoods.
Are these the ones? Were they the ones who stood by as that letch leered at Deirdre, his companion yelling, calling them wharf roaches? Were they the ones who watched, who grinned, as the fur-collared shit from Serkonos swung his silver-topped cane, cracking Deirdre’s skull like an egg, while his companion just laughed, and laughed, and laughed?
She wills herself to confront the memory, the horror of that night echoing loudly in her head. There had been the pair of dandies from Serkonos, and three officers of the City Watch, their patrol leading them to the scene of the crime.
Except it wasn’t a crime. Not in Dunwall, where the murder of a street urchin in front of officers of the law could be bought off with a few coin and a sly wink.
As
the patrol moved along, the dandy with the stick stood rocking on his heels, admiring his handiwork with a sneer she would never forget. His companion’s mirth didn’t die; he merely offered to buy his brother a new cane. Then the brother turned, and looked at the other girl—looked at her—and the leer returned all too quickly to his face.
He was soft. He died easily. The splintered end of one of the wooden gazelles that had decorated his coach made for an admirable weapon, especially effective when embedded in his eye.
The dead man’s brother dropped to his knees, trying to help his kin. She wanted to kill him too, but his cries for help would soon bring others, so she took her one chance.
She ran, leaving Deirdre. She had to. But she didn’t run far. She had to come back, to get Deirdre. She told herself that, even though she knew it was impossible.
She looped back around the cobbled streets, vanishing into shadows, until she was back at the scene. The dandy and his dead brother were still there. So was Deirdre. The patrol of the City Watch who had witnessed her lover’s murder had also returned, and were talking to the coachman.
She watched them. She memorized their faces, their voices.
One day, they would pay. One day, her time—and theirs—would come.
Tonight is the night.
Yes, these are the ones. Yes, she has found them.
She pads forward on the rain-slick cobbles, the noise from the tavern masking her movements. She reaches for the knife at her belt, and then—
Her foot catches in a divot in the street. She falls, her hands and feet sliding underneath her as she struggles to get purchase.
One of the men turns toward her, and says something. His companions laugh, but she can’t make out the words over the roaring of blood in her ears. Her heart thuds in her chest, strong enough to burst out.
He turns away. She hasn’t been seen; the fold of the man’s hood obscures his peripheral vision.
She stands and takes a breath. Maybe this isn’t the right moment. Maybe this isn’t the right night. It is three against one and she needs to be sure of her mission.
She runs to the alley. She climbs the thick iron drainpipes that crowd the wall, moving up onto the roof with effortless ease.
And then she sees him.
Black hood. Black mask. The knife gleaming in his hands. He is as still as a gargoyle and crouches on the edge of a nearby roof in much the same pose.
He jumps.
One of the men laughs, and then his laugh is cut short as his throat is sliced open from behind. Hot blood spurts out in front of him as his head is yanked backward, spraying his two companions. The attacker pushes the body sideways and turns his attention to the other two.
They don’t stand a chance.
She watches as he gets to work. He is efficient, and the only sound she can hear is the snick of his blade and the gurgling of throats freshly cut. A moment later there are three bodies cooling on the cobbles and a man wiping his blade with a rag, which he then tosses onto the corpses.
Who is he? And where has he come from? She moves forward, edging toward the edge of the roof, leaning out across it. Dunwall is full of gangs, but she hasn’t seen the like of him before. She is familiar with death at the end of a blade, but the way he struck, the way he handled his weapon, it—
She sucks in a breath. He has turned around, is looking at her. The moonlight is reflected in the two round goggle eyes, and as he breathes she watches the can-like beak of his mask rise and fall, rise and fall. What she can see of his hair is dark, and at the edge of his mask is a scar.
And then—
And then he is gone.
She stands tall. Looks around. She is alone on the rooftop and the three dead men are alone on the street, although she knows they will not be alone for long. High above, clouds scud across the full moon, the disc bright enough to make her squint. She looks away.
And she sees him. He is running across a rooftop on the other side of the street. With no alleyway on that side, he must have climbed up the sheer side of the building.
An impossible feat.
One she believes the masked man is entirely capable of.
She wants to know more.
She wastes no time. She races after him, skirting the street, jumping from building to building, all the while keeping him within sight. His agility and his speed are impressive, and there is no way she can even catch him, not from here.
She makes a decision.
She doubles back to the alley. She rattles down the pipes, races across the street—leaping over the three dead men—and makes for a side road. She is behind him now, and by a long way. But she refuses to give up.
She will never give up.
Another left, another alleyway, this one bounded by warehouses, the walls crawling with a complex lattice of steel ladders and stairs. An easy enough path. She only hopes she is not too late.
She climbs. The steel platforms rattle under her feet, but there is nobody around, and she doesn’t care anyway.
She has to reach him. Has to.
Because what she had a glimpse of was…
Was what? She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know who he was. Doesn’t know what she will do when she finds him. She is a witness to murder, and she knows what happens to witnesses.
Just look at the three dead City Watchmen on the street somewhere behind her.
But the stranger. There was something about him. Something she could see.
He is…
He is a way out. He is an escape.
She can sense it. The man in the mask had a purpose, a reason for being there, a rationale for killing those men.
Perhaps the same rationale she had.
Seeing him had stirred something inside her. A desire—a need—for a purpose. Not just revenge, but something more. Something… bigger.
The rooftops of the warehouses are flat expanses that shine wetly, the water that has gathered on them inches thick. She splashes forward, pausing only to get her breath, her eyes all the while scanning the surroundings for any sign, any movement.
Her breath steams around her face. Her muscles ache. Her head spins.
She is too late. There is nothing. She is alone on the roofs as the city sleeps beneath her.
The man in the mask has gone.
The factory roofs are interrupted at intervals by tall chimneys, their bricks black and slimy. She walks forward, almost staggering, clutching at the nearest for support. Her energy is suddenly gone, evaporating into the night air like the residue of the rainfall around her.
She has lost him. It hits her, hard, and she can’t explain why, not really. But part of her knows. Because for just a few seconds, she had a glimpse of something else.
Another life. Another future.
A future she might have had.
As her breathing slows, she slides down the chimney and slumps onto the rooftop. She closes her eyes, feeling the pricking heat behind the lids. She holds her breath, begins to count, tells herself to forget and that life, such as it is, goes on. The three men she wanted dead are just that, and she is safe, because she didn’t do it.
Somehow, that doesn’t make her feel any better.
And then she opens her eyes and she sees him, a few hundred yards ahead, crouched on the edge of the rooftop, looking at something below.
He pushes himself off into open air and vanishes from sight.
***
She finds him, at last. Their chase has taken what feels like hours, dawn breaking as she trails him to what is, apparently, his final destination, perhaps a hideout, a base. There, across the street, he jumps from a rooftop to a balcony and then slips inside the shattered window of a broken building.
This part of Dunwall, if not actually in ruins, is fast approaching that state, abandoned to the rats. It is not a part of the city she would normally venture into. Dunwall is a dangerous place, especially for one such as she, but this district is something else entirely.
This district is deadly.
Despite this, she doesn’t hesitate to follow him, taking the same path as she jumps down to the balcony and steps through the window.
The room inside is gloomy and damp. The carpet is rotting underneath lopsided, broken desks stacked high with moldering papers. An office of some kind, once upon a time.
She pauses, listens, hears nothing. The door ahead of her is open. She moves toward it and steps into a disintegrating hallway. She checks around her, then picks a direction and walks.
The rest of the building is in the same condition. Whatever business was run from here, it was a significant one. The hallways are hung with many large paintings, all warped, like the wood-paneled walls, by the incessant damp. A creeping wave of black fungus is eating the walls.
The building may be empty, but there are signs of life. Some of the rooms have been cleared out, filled with camp beds arranged in rows; others, converted into storerooms, are stacked with crates and barrels.
Her stomach rumbles as she looks over the contents of the room. There is food here, and plenty of it. Enough food, she thinks, for a small army.
She hesitates. Would anything be missed? The place seems empty—well, empty apart from her and the masked man, who lurked somewhere—but she decides it isn’t worth the risk, or the time.
She has to find her quarry. Has to.
She turns away from the room and returns to the passageway. She follows a stairwell down to more rooms on the lower floor of the building. The spaces here are larger; several offices have been knocked through to form one large rectangular chamber. There are several mannequins arranged around the room, mounted on swiveling stands, their arms stretched out to hold square wooden panels. Some of the panels have a bull’s-eye painted on them, and there are similar target marks painted onto the foreheads and chests of the dummies.
On a long, low trestle set up against one wall, she counts four crossbows—three small, single-handed models, and a larger version—laid out, ready for use. Beside the crossbows are a handful of bolts and a short dagger in a scabbard.
It was a training room. Perhaps she had been right about the army.
It wasn’t a sound that told her he was standing behind her. It was a feeling, a sensation of presence, the empty room suddenly occupied by someone other than herself.
Dishonored--The Veiled Terror Page 1