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“So does the mask come off, or did they glue it to your face?”
“If you’re jealous, you need only say so,” Connor says, neglecting to spare a glance for his companion. His gloved hand runs across the chipped wood of a handrail and old stairs creak beneath his boots. Hank follows only a few steps behind, his hound lumbering up the stairs at his heels.
“I’m sure that’s in violation of some stricture somewhere.”
“Seventh. I’m contractually required to report any violation of the strictures directly to the High Overseer, of course. The quicker you confess, the more lenient the punishment.”
The man behind him clicks his tongue. “Second Stricture, Overseer. Should I compose the letter myself?”
“The Watch taught you to write? Consider me impressed.”
“The City Watch taught me how to turn my letters into rat scratchings,” Hank says. “Now that I’ve got my own practice, I could write novels.”
“Third.” Connor stops before a door and knocks thrice.
“You know, if I stand out here, you can’t accuse me of breaking the Fourth.”
Connor hums. He can’t hear any movement from the other side. “‘Cowardly Hank’ does have a certain ring to it. Sumo, heel.”
The hound comes to his side, sniffing at the door before looking up at Connor expectantly, tail wagging. He’s a big, shaggy wolfhound, like he hasn’t quite lost his winter coat, and his temperament is milder than most. If he were grey, Connor would say he had a remarkable resemblance to Hank.
The mood shifts as the two of them prepare to work, Hank drawing his dagger and Connor his pistol. Connor unlocks the door with a key provided from the landlord and Sumo darts inside, nails clacking against the wood floor while he sniffs and explores the apartment, the two humans following warily behind.
The place is typical for Dunwall. The man who lives here is a tailor of no particular note, but one of his business competitors made sure to file a complaint with Hank on suspicion of black magic, trusting the former lieutenant to come through where the Watch could not, stretched thin as they are with a recent spike in petty crime. Given the nature of the complaint, the Abbey had to dip in its fingers, and so sent one of their own. Connor was the natural choice, having already built up a rapport with the bearish detective.
Connor feels the charm only moments after stepping into the room, the mark on the back of his gloved hand warming as it senses its kin just feet away in a nearby cupboard. He absentmindedly rubs his hand, stepping past the desk Hank is investigating to check the kitchen area.
“Ledger looks clear,” Hank says, setting a thick book back on top of the desk while Connor passes over some tinned fish without really looking at it. “Do you think this guy will have any spells?”
“Spells require more than just dedication. It’s more likely he possesses an occult artifact.”
“Whalebone, you mean.” Hank flips through a couple more papers. “Business is slowing down. You think suspicion of heresy is enough to bring someone down?”
“I know it is,” Connor says, a little too quietly. “Given time for rumors to fester, a man’s life can be turned on its head. Second Stricture: ‘It is such a little thing, yet from one spark an entire city may burn to the ground.’ Whispered speculation turns to lying tongues and the voice of the Outsider joins the chorus.”
Hank nods absently, thumbing a letter, then he begins shifting through the drawers. “You and your Outsider, huh.”
The heat on the back of Connor’s hand feels like a brand. His gifts are as much a blessing as a curse, and he doesn’t know if he’d rather be subject to the whims of the black-eyed bastard himself or the leash of Overseer Perkins. “You would be surprised how many people seek him out,” Connor says, meandering over to the cupboard he knows the charm to be in. “And the havoc he wreaks.”
Hank chuckles. “Spare me the chant, Connor. I’ve heard it too many fucking times.”
“As you wish.” He opens the cupboard, finding it filled with linens. The charm is nestled at the back, beneath two towels, and as he runs his fingers along the inscription on the bone, he can feel the magic imbued within. Just the contact makes his fingers feel quicker and more dexterous, and it’s easy to see why a tailor would make use of such an enchantment.
As dark magic goes, it’s a fairly innocent enchantment. Connor could leave the charm where it is, offering the poor tailor the chance to squirrel it away. He could take it and dispose of it himself, saving anyone else the hassle and heartbreak it would otherwise bring.
But if he’s found out, that’s it. He could run, but the Abbey would have evidence and witnesses to his crimes, and the word of Perkins, who has himself well in the Vice Overseer’s favor. As long as Perkins lives, he can send word to have Connor’s brothers executed as accomplices. No one would doubt him, not with the silvergraph he has of Connor, clearly showing the mark on his hand.
He grasps the bone charm. His brothers can’t have more than an inkling of why he left or where he is now, and he wishes terribly that he could send them a letter.
“Connor?” Hank asks. “You find anything?”
Connor stands up and sets the charm on top of the cabinet. “We need to bring him in.”
