There were two recognized forms of sign language, Tyvian and Serkonan. According to the Abbey, the former was acknowledged as the "superior" method of signing. However, unless one was looking into a career of spreading the good word there wasn't a demand to master either form. Despite the volumes of books founded on the history and teachings in the art of signing, most members of the Abbey saw both variants as cumbersome and unnecessary. Even Tyvian sign language, which demanded less bodily expression, wasn't highly looked upon as a means of communication.
Martin once viewed himself as a man who would always remain loyal to the original intent of the Abbey, no matter how corrupt it became. Though he expressed little interest in working as a missionary, he knew that past High Overseers took up the practice. Perhaps the Cosmos was testing humanity's patience when it decided to pour out men and women who required the use of hands to speak. Martin didn't know, but the thought pervaded his mind for the two years he spent huddled in the archives, memorizing the alphabet, or in the washroom to stare at his reflection, trying to figure the appropriate amount of facial gestures he could make without looking too awkward. He practiced every night for at least two hours, even though he had yet to meet anyone outside the Abbey who knew the language.
"Corvo, might I have a word with you?"
It was the day after his rescue, the first day of freedom after being publicly humiliated and paraded around like a pariah. It was the accumulation of bitterness from the punishments he received the night before that lead Martin to approach Corvo, curious to know of last night's escapade.
Corvo stopped picking through the contents of his meal and offered Martin a smile. He politely gestured to the stool next to his. Martin stared at it with a hint of worry. He could hear the peasant girl sweeping behind him, and he knew Pendleton's manservant was just around the corner.
"If you don't mind," he began, giving a wave of his hand in order to catch Corvo's attention with it. He brought the hands together. He was nervous. He had never signed to another before. But he began the series of motions, starting off a bit shaky, but then developed to a smoother set of gestures. "I want to speak privately."
Corvo didn't mind one bit. If anything, he looked rather excited. Martin could easily imagine why. Earlier Havelock informed him that Corvo's vocalizations were limited to a few weakened grunts. Nobody at the pub knew how to communicate with their hands, so he was limited to answering simple "yes" or "no" questions. A five-minute stroll down the street wasn't a chore if it meant sharing a real conversation with someone.
Once the two were far enough from the pub, and Martin sure that they weren't followed, he began. "Corvo, I'm not going to pretend that you entered Holger Square with open arms. I saw firsthand how the Abbey treats potential threats…"
Martin could not help but look over Corvo's shoulder. He was wary of being caught. Of being judged.
"But those men that chased after you. Some of those men were my brothers." Martin watched as Corvo gave a slow nod. It almost looked convincing, but Martin knew better. "I need you to tell me, in your own words, how many lives were lost, and how. Given the circumstances, I promise to forgive whatever transgressions were committed."
He dropped his arms. Just as Corvo tried to appear understanding of his situation, Martin wanted to seem as compassionate as he could.
"All transgressions," he concluded. He was becoming unusually aware of his Adam's apple, and the pressure surrounding it. "Including theirs against you."
Surely morbid curiosity fell somewhere under the seventh stricture? Martin could have easily asked for a number. What good did knowing the method of killing do for him, other than provide him a strange sense of justice?
He waited for Corvo to lift his arms up, maybe even to take a step back. Serkonan sign language required more expressive movements from the arms and shoulders. But instead, he saw Corvo shake his head at him, hands never leaving his pockets.
"There's no need to worry, Corvo," Martin said. "I'm aware your job entails some violence."
Corvo shook his head again. It wasn't any less respectful, and this time Martin had to think about how to respond.
Was it impolite to assume Corvo was missing the point? Martin thought so, but it didn't stop him from raising his hands up to him and carefully signing out: "How many died?"
His movements were sharp and noticeably rougher than what he did before. Tyvian sign language wasn't known for its gracefulness, but this was embarrassingly bad. Martin was letting his anger show, and he knew it. The expression on Corvo's face suggested otherwise. He watched his hands rapidly flip over, from palm to back and back to palm, and give a slow nod in response. Martin knew it was out of politeness.
Corvo lifted his hand up to Martin, and then a single finger.
"One?" Martin asked. His voice hinted the slightest bit of discontent. Corvo learning about the heretic's brand and doing away Campbell in a nonlethal manner was quite the plight on its own. Now he was expected to believe Corvo achieved this while also managing to get away with killing only one man?
Corvo gave another nod, and then brought his right hand up to his head. Martin watched the middle finger press against the forehead, the remaining fingers raised up before Corvo snapped his hand forward, the movement so quick it brought a few strands of hair out of place.
"Sick of…"
Martin followed Corvo's right hand, watching it fall from the head and settle in front of his chest. His brows burrowed. He was looking for the right word. But then he motioned with his hands again, and he formed a pattern of letters. He let each letter settle long enough for Martin to recognize them before switching to the next. By the fourth letter Martin had the answer.
"The plague," he said. "An Overseer with the plague." He brought his finger and thumb to his face letting the feel of the worn leather rest underneath his eyes before dragging them down. "You…bestowed mercy on a Overseer with the plague?"
Corvo shook his head. Martin expected as much. He had an easier time believing Corvo got away with clean hands than he did imagining him inflicting a mercy kill on someone who, if healthy, would kill him at the given chance.
Corvo raised his hands again. "I watched him die."
"You watched him die," Martin muttered. His eyes fell to the dirty pavement. "That means he was killed by someone else."
He heard rumors spreading throughout the Abbey of members getting sick with the plague. Almost always the stories ended with Overseers turning against each other.
Martin returned his attention to Corvo. The man was being generous with his patience. Martin wasn't sure if this was out of kindness, or to get away with lying.
"Who killed him?" he asked. He already knew the answer, but curiosity had a firm hold of him.
Another difference between the Serkonan and Tyvian sign language was the slang. Tyvian sign language appropriated the gestures linked with the word "supervisor" to represent the Abbey. Serkonan signs language adopted another method, creating a new series of motions. The index and middle fingers circled the face, and then gestured towards the center, where it would then trail over the mouth and create a frown. Some interpreted the sign was merely using the mask to signify the Abbey, while others argued it was an act of defiance.
Corvo had begun with the fingers, but stopped midway with creating the circle. They changed position, turning into a modified "L" before coming down and resting on top of his less dominant hand, effectively changing the sign to "brother."
"His brother helped him. A mercy kill."
The signing was slow, but it all felt so rapid to Martin. Even after Corvo waved at him, and repeated the patterns, Martin found it difficult to believe. Why? Was it so hard to think the same men who locked him up in the middle of Holger Square also performed a mercy kill in the same night? Was it impossible to believe that Corvo completed his mission without harming anyone, other than the intended target? Or was it his thirst for vengeance against those who did wrong by him, and disappoint in learning there was none to be had?
Martin's eyes settled on Corvo's resting hands, and he saw the strange mark printed on the back of his left.
After a long sigh, Martin fixed himself back up and smiled at Corvo. "Thank you," he said. "You've put my mind at ease." He offered his hand to Corvo. "Keep up the good work."
Corvo took his hand with his left, and Martin was able to catch another glimpse of the mark. He understood what it meant. It meant Corvo was a useful asset to the Loyalists, but in the end he was not a man to be trusted. Martin no longer worried about his own morals.
He wished Corvo good luck on his next mission, and even went as far as slapping a hand over the man's shoulder, to show his appreciation. Corvo seemed to like that. He was just about ready to sign to him to when Martin came up with an excuse to leave. He explained that he needed time to mourn the loss of a brother, but in reality it was to get away from him. He had his hands tucked deep in his pockets by the time he reached Havelock's office. Martin had done his part, and after his conversation with Corvo he had no intention to sign again.