A/N: This is basically my version of a 'Tales from Dunwall' fic, though with a lot more words. Hmm, we'll see how it goes…
As stated before, there won't be canon characters much in this fic, just OCs. To me, the city of Dunwall IS the best character from the game, so if you look at it that way, I guess this story does feature a canon character after all.
On to the tale…
UPDATE: This chapter has been updated as of December 29, 2018.
Favors
Chapter 1
Desperate Times
The Twenty-fifth Day of the Third Month, the Month of Nets, 1837
The Tailors' District
16 months later
…
…
Desperation.
It was a sign of the times. The Rat Plague spread unchecked. Weepers roamed the abandoned sections of the city. Gangs ruled the dark alleys. Worst of all, the beloved Empress had been assassinated over two months ago by her own Royal Protector.
The old woman slowly making her way along the side-street practically exuded such desperation as she glanced furtively about the gloomy area. She was a small thing, perhaps in her mid-sixties and dressed in faded brown clothing. Strands of grayish hair poked out from under a small headscarf and uncertainty dominated her features.
She was obviously frightened; Bleetmore Way was dangerous after all - during the day an unsafe side-street, at night a place best avoided altogether. Rightly earning its nickname, Bleedmore, Bleetmore Way was a place that the Watch shunned, where criminals flourished, and the desperate came only when they needed. For her part, the old woman seemed to fit well into the latter category.
It was the middle of the day, and from her position on the north side of the quiet path, Etiennette Mersell observed the old woman making her way past some broken barrels. She examined the few signs that hung above some of the doors facing the weed-infested alleyway. She checked a red slip of paper clutched tight in her bony, weathered hand, then looked up at the signs again.
The courtesan stood, straightened her clothing, and opened a yellow and white parasol. Though out of place in such a grey part of the city, her bright umbrella coordinated well with her corset, bonnet, and lace finger gloves. With a measured stride that spoke of confidence, she moved toward the older woman. So distracted was the woman, she didn't notice the girl approach until she was practically on top of her.
"Hello, my love," the pretty blonde said in greeting. "What's your pleasure then?"
The elderly lady blinked in confusion.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Well now, one doesn't just wander down these backways unless they're looking for something." The girl raised an eyebrow. "You looking for something interesting?"
"Um, well, yes," the woman confirmed with some slight hesitation. "I am."
"Ah!" The courtesan grinned. "Looks like you found something interesting then, didn't you?" She tilted her shoulders back a bit to show off her 'wares'.
"I don't understand."
"Why me, of course, silly!" Etiennette chuckled lightly. "I prefer the gents myself, but a girl's got to earn her coin somehow you know. Times are lean hereabouts."
The old woman's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Don't you worry none, my love," the pretty girl continued as she laid a gloved hand upon the woman's shoulder. "I'll treat you right anyhow. Long as you got the coin to pay me for my time, that is."
She leaned in close to the old woman.
"You do have some coin, don't you?"
"I, what… no!" The woman turned to inspect a stuffed pouch hanging from the side of her belt, reassuring herself that the prostitute hadn't tried to pick her pocket.
Her target distracted, Etiennette took the opportunity to glance at the exposed slip of paper still clutched in the woman's hand. She noted an address for this very block and a familiar symbol of a triangle within a larger inverted triangle stamped on the left corner. She quickly leaned back as the old woman faced her again.
"How dare you?" the woman groused with a look of disgust. "Be off with you!"
"Here now, this is my block, don't you know." The girl quickly folded up her parasol and soundly rapped the tip twice upon the stone path. "You're wasting my time if you don't want my favors."
"I told you to be off, unless you want me calling the Watch!"
The girl threw her head back and laughed.
"Oh, that's a good one," she said, regaining her composure and fixing her gaze on the woman again. "Don't you know the Watch never comes 'round these parts? Not worth their time."
The old woman shook with frustration, not knowing what to say.
"Is there a problem?" called a voice from in front of one of the shops.
The two women turned toward this new interruption. Down a short flight of stairs, standing in a doorway, a besom in his hand, was a man in his early thirties. He was close-shaven, with green eyes, a dimple in his chin and dark hair parted neatly. Though dressed in simple attire - a white button-down shirt, brown slacks, and a brown vest - he held himself with composure, a look of calm authority upon his face.
"I- well, I-" the woman stammered.
The man smiled.
"I believe this is what you're looking for," he said as he indicated a small symbol carved into the wood framing the door to the shop. The symbol showed a small triangle within a larger inverted triangle.
The woman's face lit up and she nodded enthusiastically.
"Why, yes! Yes indeed!" She turned back to the young girl standing next to her. "You're with him then?"
"Go on now," the girl grinned. "He'll fix you up, right quick."
Relief crossed the elderly woman's face and then she headed down the stairs. The man held the door open for her as she entered the small shop. Once she'd crossed the threshold, he glanced back into the alley and gave a slight nod to the yellow-and-white-attired girl still standing there.
The girl curtsied with a smile. She reopened her parasol which she had used to signal him with the double-tap on the ground moments earlier. She then strolled back to her spot and lounged against the wooden bench from which she kept careful vigil up either side of Bleetmore Way.
Etiennette recognized the desperation so evident in the old woman's face. She'd had that same desperation over fifteen months ago after she'd barely managed to escape her pursuers. She'd hid then, frightened and alone, not knowing who to trust, who to turn to. Then they came, the men who were her patrons now. They took her from that frightful existence and gave her a chance. Gave her hope.
She'd sworn loyalty to them as they helped her back then and took away her problems, just as she knew they'd take away whatever problems the elderly lady might have. That was after all, what they did best.
"We have a visitor, Mr. Tuddleston," the dark-haired man announced as he placed the worn besom to the side of the entryway. He indicated for the elderly lady to head to a counter near the back of the shop. As she did so, he quickly turned the deadbolt on the door and drew down the shade, ensuring their privacy.
"Ah, yes, yes," came a quick response from behind the counter. "Do come in, do come in. Well now. I'm Albert Tuddleston, manager of this quaint establishment. Have a seat, have a seat, and pray tell us, in what way may we be of assistance to you?"
To say that the individual standing in the service area was a large man would be an understatement; a great rotund fellow, Tuddleston was five-foot-nine in height, but nearly five feet around the middle. Clean-shaven, he had brownish-red hair and hazel eyes that sparkled with an odd mixture of intelligence and levity.
The woman smiled in appreciation, then sat in a nearby chair before speaking.
"I need…" she began, hesitated for a moment, and started over. "I need help. Aid. I was sent to this address. I was told I could get…" she paused again.
"…a particular kind of service required for your problem from us," Mr. Tuddleston finished.
The woman nodded.
"Yes, sir. That's what he said."
"What else was said?" This time it was the dark-haired man who spoke as he approached the counter. He leaned against it, arms folded, and faced the woman.
"Sir?"
"What my dear companion is trying to solicit," Tuddleston interjected, "perhaps a bit too ineloquently, is that we do need to confirm that your need is genuine."
"I-I don't understand, sir. I have money if you need it."
"Mm, we'll worry about appropriate compensation later," the large man said. "What I need to know, and please note that this is a requirement of all of our visitors, who is the 'he' you referred to?"
"Uhm," the old lady seemed perplexed. "You mean Barrister William?"
"Yes, that would be the one!" His hazel eyes shined. "Now then, madam, I have an odd question for you, but have you ever heard the name Styverson before?"
"Styverson? Uh, no." She paused a moment. "There's Stimpson what fixes up the doors and such in the neighborhood. Reasonable prices, I'd say."
"Ah, no. Hmm, very well. One final question for you, my dear lady."
Tuddleston reached under the counter and produced a folded piece of paper. Opening it, he held it so the woman could see it clearly. In the center was an ornate blue rose, surrounded by a field of silver.
"Does this symbol look familiar to you? Please examine it carefully. It could be a crest, a heraldic symbol of some noble family, perhaps even a maker's mark or patent stamp."
The woman leaned forward and after a moment shook her head in the negative.
"Take your time if you need to," he said.
"No, sir, I don't," she replied, worry starting to show on her face. "Am I supposed to? Barrister William didn't say I needed to know anything of names or pictures of flowers to get help."
"You're fine," the dark-haired man interjected and indicated for Tuddleston to put away the paper. "Now, tell us of your situation."
"Yes, that," the lady said glumly. "My name is Emma Withers. As to my situation…"
She placed her hands in her lap and cast her eyes down. A tired, sullen look overcame her features.
"I guess," she started in a quiet tone, cleared her throat, and then spoke louder. "I guess, you could really say it's my own fault."
"Oh?"
"My husband, Teddy, um, Theodore and me, well we rent a spot near the Wrenhaven. We've had it for years, selling greens to some of the fishermen there. Trading for fresh catches and the like. Business'd be very good when the whaling trawlers'd show up."
She relaxed back into the chair before continuing.
"Theodore made a smart deal this past year. Set up a plan to get fresh fruit from Mr. Denbers and sell it at our stand along Copton Lane at the Schauke Dockyards." She smiled briefly. "It was a good plan; sales picked up even more."
"Yes, I can see that," Tuddleston blurted out and nodded appreciatively. "Men coming in from long tours at sea crave what they don't get on the treacherous waters, particularly the fresh fruit. I say, that was a grand scheme."
"Indeed," the dark-haired man agreed. His gaze wandered, as if a familiar memory briefly surfaced. It lasted only a moment though and he soon focused on the grey-haired lady again. "What has happened to change this?"
Their guest sighed.
"A gang came over. I think or at least I heard that they was from the Old Port District. But with curfews getting more and more common there due to the spread of the plague, they had to set up shop elsewhere."
"And these ne'er-do-wells chose your area?" Tuddleston put forth.
"Yes, sir." Another deep sigh. "Then of course, they made their racket. Let us common folk know they was there, as if it weren't obvious enough. Little bit later they started asking for protection money, so that nothing unfortunate'd befall our shops they said."
"The local Watch?" the dark-haired man asked. "They could do nothing?"
"No, sir," she said. "Too busy with curfews of they own and river pirates. There's even been mention of Weepers on Godderson Boulevard. Plus, this gang were careful, always keeping an eye out for the Guard."
"I don't see how you can blame yourself though, unless I'm misunderstanding you."
Her brow furrowed and the corners of her eyes glistened.
"Twenty coin a week they wanted. Twenty! We barely cleared that in profit on a good week. Most of the time it weren't even a third of that. After the first three months I'd had enough. I made…" she hesitated and her lip trembled. "Damn foolish woman I am, I made Teddy refuse to give'm any more. To the Void with'em I said."
She rubbed her temple.
"We'd been saving see? Had our coin stashed away. All those years of saving and we was gonna get a nicer place, nothing fancy mind you. Just a little something bigger'n we had before. Wouldn't have to rent no more. We'd earned it, I think." She took a deep breath before going on. "Teddy, my brave man, he listened to me. He refused to give'm one coin more."
"And that's when the problem started?" Tuddleston queried.
She nodded.
"Needed to make an example of'im, they said." A shudder went through her as she held back a sob. "Snatched'im and took'im to one of the docks where they unload the railcars. Beat'im something fierce. I-I tried to stop'em, but they bashed me, too."
A far off look was in her eyes and then she continued in a low, detached voice almost as if she couldn't believe what she was relating.
"They tied him down to the rails they use for the cars. They powered a rail car up, and they…" she paused and her face contorted in pain. "Ran over his arm. Right above the elbow. He screamed and bled everywhere. It was all I could do to stop him from bleeding out."
"My word," Tuddleston said aghast.
"They'd taken to the shop as well, had to let the others in the area know not to defy'em. I had to have everything repaired and new produce bought, and my poor Teddy. The doctor saved'im but everything cost so much. After everything was said and done, a bright chap with a fancy burgundy jacket shows up at our place. He introduces himself as Mr. Murlyn and says our protection money is being upped to thirty coin a week, and that if any other noise is made, it'll be Teddy's head that is run over next."
"If I may," the redheaded scribe interrupted, "how did you come to meet our friend Barrister William?"
"I had to have papers drawn to get the shop fixed up. During our meeting I was tired and talked a bit more than I should. He listened carefully and finally says he knew someone who might help. Then he gave me that little red slip of paper and sent me here. Truthfully I almost didn't come, but we're close to running out of money. What'll we do if we can't pay up one day? What'll we do?"
The dark-haired man pursed his lips as he rubbed a hand under his chin. A moment or two passed and finally he spoke.
"We'll deal with your problem."
Mrs. Withers' eyes lit up with hope, but hesitation soon came back.
"What if Mr. Murlyn finds out it was me that spoke again?"
"I'll take care of that."
"And payment? How much'll it be? I only have a little left now."
The man met her gaze.
"I'll need a favor. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't know what it'll be yet, but when the time comes you'll have to provide it. That's the terms of business I do with all my clients. My services for one favor. Do you agree?"
"What kind of favor?" she asked. "I'm not good at fighting, and I never killed another soul."
"Nothing like that," he said in a calm voice. "The favor will be something within your capacity to grant."
She paused and then reached around to grab her beltpouch.
"It seems awfully cheap, actually. I have a bit of money. One hundred sixty-eight coin. That's what's left after a lifetime of working and saving." She held the pouch forward. "But you can have it all for aiding me."
He shook his head in the negative and gently pushed the pouch back.
"Keep it."
A smile broke out on her face as she stood.
"I-I don't even know your name, good sir."
"You may call me James, Mrs. Withers."
"You are indeed a blessing, James."
A dark smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps."
"That 'er then, Mr. Tuddleston?" said the youth in the grey jacket and cap.
"Yes, Otto. See that she makes it off of Bleetmore alright."
The youth shifted the toothpick in his mouth and a grim smile lit up his face.
"As you say. Nobody'll touch 'er."
Tuddleston stood in the middle of Bleetmore Way and watched as his young associate nonchalantly followed Mrs. Withers who was making her way slowly away from the shop. The lad, Otto, was quick with a knife – the old woman would be safe. A gentle rustle signaled the approach of the look-out, Etiennette.
"Another client then for Master James?" she inquired in her lilting voice.
"Indeed," the large redhead replied as he turned towards her with a smile. "A woman in most dire need it turns out."
"That's good then," she said with a quick grin. She hesitated and the grin vanished after a moment. "Does she know the flower?"
"Alas, no," he admitted. "She's neither seen the symbol nor heard the name Styverson."
"Oh," the girl mused quietly. She shook her head and sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if it's just me. Maybe I was wrong. It's been so long now. This is what? His fifteenth client? And still no sign of the rose or the name. That horrid situation you found me in seems as a dream sometimes."
"My dear girl," Tuddleston moved close. "It was you who first put us on the path. You who gave James and myself the first clues we needed. Do not fear. Something will come forth. You'll see."
"I wish I had your faith, Mr. Tuddleston."
"Albert, remember?" he clasped his hands about hers. "No need to be so formal. You're too important."
"Truly?" Her eyes lit up and her bright grin shone once more. "You think so?"
"Indeed, you are a dear friend and valued member of our team."
Her grin lessened somewhat.
"Ah, right. We're all part of the team, then."
"Most assuredly." He smiled back at her, oblivious to the change in her demeanor. He released her hand, and patted her gently on the shoulder. "I need to make arrangements. We will chat later." He turned and went back to the shop.
"Right then," she muttered behind him. "Later."
From: Constance Dartley
71 Tanger Way
Tailors' District
Dunwall
To: James Dartley
Assignment: INV Guardian
Post: Master d'arms
Sanguine Dockyard #3
Dunwall Harbor
James Dartley leaned back in his chair, thumb under his chin and a finger across his lips. He stared at the envelope sitting alone on his desk, contemplating it as he had done so many times before. A memory surfaced, from a happier time two years ago…
…
…
The breeze blew in from the Wrenhaven as they leaned against the railing.
"When do you ship out?"
He turned to look at her.
"Two days," was his reply.
She smiled at him. She brushed a stray lock of dark brown hair from her face, and gazed on him with her pale blue eyes. They were full of hope and compassion.
Constance Dartley, his beloved cousin and most treasured friend. She was his companion and sounding board, sharing in his triumphs and comforting him during his failings. She was brightness in a world sometimes too dark.
And she had recently become engaged.
"Then we'll wait for your tour to end," she said quietly. "The wedding simply can't take place without you."
He reached over and took her hand in his.
"It will be nine months this time," he admitted. "I'll have some time, maybe a day or two here and there. You shouldn't wait that long simply for me."
She chuckled.
"We are the last of the Dartleys, you and I," she reminded him. "You will give me away and not just on a day or two of shore leave. We will spend time together, my dear James, as we always have. Neither the navy nor my new husband will interfere with that."
James knew better than to argue with her; once she was set on a path it was difficult to dissuade her.
"Just let me know if your beau gives you any problems," he said with a grin. "I'll come back and thrash him immediately."
She laughed again, and hugged him about the waist.
"If I need you for anything, you know I'll send word immediately," she said with a wink.
"And I will come immediately - the navy, the Ocean, and the Outsider be damned…"
…
…
The bell at the shop's entrance brought him back to the present as his companion returned. Heavy footfalls indicated when the redheaded gentleman neared the back office. He smirked. No stealth in that one.
"James?"
"In here, Mr. Tuddleston."
"Ah, very good, very good," the large man came through the doorway and paused just inside the office. The levity in his voice faltered as he saw the familiar envelope. "Yes well, Mrs. Withers is gone. Otto will keep an eye on her until she makes it off of Bleetmore."
"Good."
"When, ah, should preparations be made?"
James looked up at his comrade.
"Immediately. There's no time to lose."
Tuddleston nodded, his gaze lingering on the envelope, a grim reminder of Dartley's worst failure.
"I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again. It wasn't your fault."
James narrowed his eyes.
"That storm cost us three days," he replied. "Three. And when we made port finally, it was too late."
"I know. You've told me-"
"I was too late then, Mr. Tuddleston. She asked for my aid and I wasn't there to save her." He glanced briefly at the envelope before tucking it into his shirt pocket. He stood up, moved to a free-standing coat rack, and retrieved his jacket and sword scabbard hanging there. "I won't be too late to help another seeking my assistance."
"You can't save the world, you know."
James hesitated a moment.
"That was something I used to tell Constance during her time at the almshouse."
"And what would be her reply to you?"
The dark-haired man smiled humorlessly.
"'By the Void I'll try.'"
Tuddleston gave a resigned sigh and shook his head.
"Then how do you wish to proceed?"
James drew his sword, examined the blade clinically, and sheathed it again before looking over at his friend.
"I think it's high time that we gathered up the Undertakers again."