Chapter 10

The next morning, Callista took stock of what remained of her uncle's life.

Most of the apartment had been gutted. The walls remained, the wallpaper the same as it always had been, but the mattress had been taken, as had many of the shelves, most of the books, and all of the weapons he'd collected over the years. Some were bound to be in Abbey possession, and they could, in all likelihood, be retrieved.

But some would be gone forever. The sword given to him by the lover he'd lost at sea might pass into some rich noble's hands, its meaning lost. The pistol he'd received from the Duke of Serkonos in thanks for his service in protecting one of the larger cities from a several-months long assault by pirates might pass into a collection, or be melted down for its fine metals.

Callista had slept on the one couch that remained, the most worn and least impressive of all the furniture in the set of rooms. She'd left a note for Martin when she'd left for Timsh's, explaining that she had some affairs to attend to and would be back the following morning. Nobody had come for her, and for that she'd been grateful.

Now, though, she worried about her return. She would have to tell Martin what she'd done, if she were going to continue sleeping here. He'd back her, surely, but that didn't mean he'd be proud of her. It might close off a door.

But maybe that was a good thing; the other night, Martin had crossed a line he hadn't wanted to cross. She'd seen it in his face.

She walked through the rooms once more.

All the windows were intact. The house was dusty with disuse, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. And it was hers, as long as she kept the order signing it to her. She'd written it in such a way that it couldn't be superseded.

Timsh either hadn't noticed, or hadn't cared at the point where he'd signed it.

She tucked the order into the inner pocket of her jacket, then went about locking the apartment up.

The railcar didn't need to take her far; her uncle's apartment was only a short walk from John Clavering. But she enjoyed the ride, and she enjoyed the way she no longer had to ask questions or be stopped as she entered Holger Square. She found Martin in his office.

He looked up, faintly surprised.

"You were gone all night," he said, lightly.

"I took my uncle's apartment back."

His brow crept up. "How?"

She touched her breast, where the paper was kept. "I finished the order you were drafting."

"I don't recall signing it." His eyes glittered.

Carefully, Callista extracted the page from her pocket. She slipped it from its envelope, approached Martin's desk with slow, measured steps, then held it out to him.

He could tear it in two. She held her breath.

He unfolded the page and read over it. When he arrived at his signature, he chuckled. "Very nice, Miss Curnow. Where did you pick up that little talent?"

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn't see a trace of anger in him, either in the set of his jaw or the stiffness of his shoulders. No- he was only amused.

Maybe impressed.

"My uncle. It was so I could forge documents with his signature, if I needed to protect myself."

"A very, very useful skill. And Timsh's? He was making some noise this morning - quietly, privately - about his signature on a particular document of mine being faked."

He already knew. It was a relief. Callista slipped into the chair opposite Martin. "He signed it," she said. "I watched him do it. But it was a near thing. He... didn't appreciate you telling him what to do."

"Did you use a fist or a soft hand, Miss Curnow?"

"I left it open to interpretation. I told him he might find it beneficial to cooperate with you."

Martin's chuckle turned into a barked laugh. "And his paranoia twisted that, I'm sure, to the darkest threat he could imagine."

"He thought," she said, slowly, "that I was pathetic, and told me that we should re-evaluate what our place was."

Martin tapped the page with his finger, then folded it and handed it back. "So why did he sign it, then?"

"... Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Always," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Though quickly- we have an appointment."

"We?" Her brow furrowed. His schedule should have been open.

"I made the plans last night, at the dinner. Now, go on. He didn't sign it because?"

"A mood swing."

Martin reached for his cup of thick, bitter coffee, waiting.

Callista frowned, rolling the thoughts about in her head. "His voice changed cadence, just a little, and it was as if he'd almost forgotten he was angry. He was focused only on this painting of his. He said it was painted by one of Anton Sokolov's apprentices, and when it was brought into the room, it was like he was bewitched. And then he simply- signed the order."

"Did he say why?"

She shrugged. "He said that he'd changed his mind. That was it. Then he sent me away."

Martin sipped at his drink, frowning thoughtfully. "What do you make of it all?"

"I'm not sure," she confessed. "It's not as if I know the man. If it had been, say, my uncle, or you, I suppose- it would have looked suspicious. Like something unnatural was going on."

"Something unnatural," he repeated, then chuckled. "It would be a stretch, but we could make the argument. I've met the man before. He's usually quite pompous and sure of himself, and he doesn't equivocate. Neither does he go back on many decisions. You say he was transfixed by this painting?"

"Yes. It used colors I'm not sure I've ever seen before. It was brought to him just as he was sending me away. He was furious - the restorers had varnished it. He took it from the maids, ordered them to fetch the portrait of him - in the same style - from the restorers before they ruined that one, too. After that, his mood changed, and he was willing to sign the document.

"But I don't see how a painting-"

"In the right light, anything can be heretical, Miss Curnow. At least enough to justify an initial raid the place, possibly by a squad that lacks explicit directions from me to do so. Take the paintings he's so fond of. Maybe, if he keeps being an obstructionist ass, I'll do just that. In the meantime - can he take the apartment back?"

"No. I wrote in that bit of language we'd been toying with, that would allow me to keep the apartment until my death, of plague or otherwise."

"Good. I'm glad that's taken care of. Now," he said, draining the last of his coffee and standing, "we have our appointment."

"Where?"

Martin grinned. "Coldridge Prison."

They met the Lord Regent on the causeway into the jail. He stood surrounded by several guards, tall and narrow, his skin grey in the thin morning light. His eyes narrowed as they alighted from their railcar.

"I don't recall inviting your assistant, High Overseer," he said as they approached.

"Where I go, she may go, Your Eminence," Martin responded smoothly. "The High Oracle has approved of it."

"And if I don't?"

"It is an Abbey matter, alas."

Burrows' eyes narrowed still further, before he sighed and waved a long-fingered hand. "Of course."

Despite his dismissal, his gaze returned to her again and again as they passed through the front gate of the prison. She did her best to ignore him, following just slightly behind Martin. She mimicked Martin's posture, with his lifted chin and slightly narrowed eyes.

The tension was already threatening to strangle her.

It was unclear how much Burrows knew about Campbell's journal, or what Martin might know - but he was clearly paranoid, set to fear the worst. On the drive from Holger, Martin had laid out the situation for her. Burrows wanted Martin for an ally desperately - it gave him legitimacy and another branch of military support. It also closed off one very large vulnerability. If the Abbey were to oppose him, he would be unable to oppose it in turn without destabilizing the empire, and fracturing the city. If Martin opposed him, he would have to find a way to convince the people that it was acceptable.

The gifts, therefore, had begun arriving the night of Martin's installment.

There were whole cases of wine and brandy new to the Abbey cellars, and Burrows' symbolic contribution to the Abbey's coffers had been sizable. He had even mentioned, at the dinner the night before, that there were certain parcels of land outside the city and in Serkonos that might be signed over to Martin, should he want them.

Despite all the gifts, he'd still hidden his hand quite well. He was nervous, to be sure, but he hadn't mentioned the Empress's assassination, and when Martin had asked about visiting Attano, Burrows had agreed for the sake of the Abbey's support in securing his confession, but it had taken some convincing.

"What would have happened," Callista had asked, leaning against the inside of the railcar door, "if you'd told him that we knew? That we support him?"

"He's too paranoid," Martin had said. "He would have assumed it was a ploy. Which it would have been. Besides, then he would know we have a source - and he wouldn't know how much we could find out. He would have panicked. No, we need something - the heir, preferably - to protect us from retaliation."

"But he can't trust Attano not to talk to us."

"It's easy enough to write off the ravings of a condemned man," Martin said. "We just have to agree with the public story, until either he brings me into confidence - which he might do, for more support, if he feels that I'll agree with his decisions - or we find Lady Kaldwin. Even then, it might be best to stick to the official yarn. I wouldn't want the city to tear itself apart."

Now, Burrows showed no sign of trusting them. His posture was rigid as they were escorted by the warden to the interrogation room. They paused in an antechamber, where Burrows poured himself a finger of strong drink, barely remembering to offer Martin some in turn.

The two men drank, and Burrows' knuckles were white where he gripped his glass too tightly.

Martin was jovial. He made sharp, darkly amusing comments about how Coldridge compared to the Abbey's dungeons. Burrows didn't respond.

Callista cleared her throat. Burrows turned and glared at her.

"What is the current theory," she asked, "on why Attano murdered the Empress?"

Burrows regarded her with a barely restrained curl of his upper lip. "Given your uncle's recent deeds, I suspect a conspiracy was hatched on that diplomatic trip of theirs. I would have very much liked to get my hands on Captain Curnow. Tell me, how goes the Abbey's search for him? My men lost him somewhere east of Potterstead."

Callista bristled, lips thinning to a bare line. If there was a search on, Martin had kept her insulated from it. Her gratitude mixed with her frustrated anger.

She exhaled, remembering Timsh. She refused to need the intervention of a painting to turn this encounter around, and she went to the table, pouring herself a drink. "I haven't had time to help coordinate the search," she said, "given all the orders our office has needed to draft in the last several days."

Martin's eyes glittered with approval. "We believe Potterstead to be a red herring. I'm interested in this theory, though. Given the Captain's military experience, he did a very sloppy job of killing Campbell. It appeared to me more like a crime of passion than a premeditated assassination."

"The Empress and the High Overseer are violently murdered within three months of one another, and you don't suspect a connection?"

"I think the violence of the lower city has a tendency to spill over into the upper reaches during times of great strain. I've seen it happen before, in Morley."

"We are hardly a backwater country in rebellion, High Overseer," Burrows sniffed. "Do you have another theory?"

Martin shrugged. "I have never met the man. I defer to your judgment."

Burrows eyed Martin a moment longer, then swallowed down the rest of his glass and set it aside. "They should have him safely trussed up by now," he said, stalking past Callista and to the door. "I warn you, he has become bestial in captivity. And the lies he spits - sometimes I wonder if he's delusional, as well as violently unhinged."

The warden stepped forward to unlock the door, and Burrows said something too soft and quick for Callista to catch. Then he stepped forward into the room, and Martin and Callista followed. She was struck by the acrid stench of sweat and stale piss as she passed the threshold.

It was a room with a single function - the breaking of a man. In a chair bolted to the floor was Attano, haggard and pale. He was shackled in place, and his hair and beard had grown long and unkempt. He glared up from beneath his dirty brow at Burrows, then looked at Martin - and went still.

"Hello, Corvo," Martin said, smoothly. He didn't seem perturbed by the dried blood on the floor, or the implements of torture lined up on the fine desk beside an audiograph machine. He also hadn't acknowledged the hulking, grotesque man lurking behind Corvo, who seemed as if he belonged not at Coldridge but in an abattoir.

"Campbell?" Corvo rasped.

"Was unfortunately murdered just shy of three weeks ago. My name is Martin."

Corvo laughed, then, a weak but vitriolic sound, and he spat. He said nothing, made no proclamations or threats, but she saw something come loose inside of him.

It made sense. Campbell had been there the day Jessamine was killed, and had helped imprison Corvo and torture him for months.

The man was probably ecstatic. It had to be the first spot of good news he'd had since he saw his Empress murdered in front of him. One of her murderers - one of three - was gone.

Of course, Martin wasn't necessarily a welcome replacement.

"I would like," Martin said, leaning against the heavy wood of the desk, "to hear your version of what happened the day you killed the late Empress."

"I didn't kill her," Corvo hissed, but said nothing more.

"Yes, his excellency did mention you've refused to confess. But from all the evidence I've seen-"

"The evidence is wrong."

Martin's lips curled mirthlessly.

"As I told you," Burrows said, waving a hand, "the man is quite recalcitrant. Your predecessor agreed with me that putting him to the brand and lash was the most expedient way of reminding him of how desperate his situation is, and the value of a quick, full confession. Not only will it cut short his suffering, but it will put the city at ease, as well."

"I agree," Martin said.

Callista said nothing.

The interrogator - for that was the only person the hulking creature could have been - stepped forward without a word. Callista took a deep breath, and met Corvo's eyes. His gaze slid off of her; he barely saw her as he stared past her to where the interrogator lifted a twisted brand, freshly cleaned and warmed in a gas flame.

When the screaming started, Callista turned her attention to Martin and Burrows only. She gagged at the stench of burning flesh, and she retreated into herself at every fresh howl. Corvo refused to beg. He refused to crack. And for each breath that he didn't repent, and didn't fall in line with Burrows' plot, he was punished for it. The tang of blood joined the odor of burnt skin and hair, and Callista moved to the desk, closing her hand hard around the edge of it.

Looking up, she saw a gigantic reproduction of the painting commemorating Burrows' installment as Regent towering over her. She closed her eyes and made herself turn back around.

Twice, anger surged through her, and both times it was directed at Martin. He had talked Burrows into this visit, and there was no way it could have ended in anything other than pain and suffering. In a way, it was he who was holding the brand, the pincers, the blade. That he stood by and played his role perfectly only turned the wretched pit of her stomach molten.

But she played her part, too, standing still and watching Burrows for any hints as to his thoughts.

Eventually, Corvo could only moan. Whatever enjoyment Burrows derived from seeing him in pain - and he did, quite clearly - dropped off sharply as Attano began drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Only a little progress today," Burrows said, looking at Martin searchingly. Martin inclined his head, slightly, and reached over to shut off the audiograph machine. "But you see what I'm faced with? This was no crime of passion for him, or he would have caved from the guilt long ago. No, this was planned, coordinated. He is hiding something, or else why prolong his suffering so?"

Martin hummed, low in his throat. "Quite true. Might we talk privately? I have a few theories."

Burrows glanced up at the interrogator, and waved him away. The man - who had been silent the whole time - took up some of his tools and left through a back door.

Martin watched him go, then glanced to Callista and Attano. "I'd prefer this be just between the two of us. Might we go to the anteroom?"

Burrows lifted a brow in surprise and turned to look at Callista. She felt sure she must look drawn and green with disgust, but he seemed impressed with what he saw.

"Of course. Briefly."

"Miss Curnow, please write down your impressions of the session?" Martin asked, and Callista nodded, wordlessly.

They left.

Slowly, Callista made herself turn to Attano. The man's head lolled, and when Callista stepped forward and crouched in front of him, he didn't acknowledge her with even a moan of pain. She grimaced. Outside the room, she could hear Burrows and Martin speaking, but couldn't make out the words.

"Mr. Attano," she murmured, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

The man jerked, hard enough to make his bonds creak and groan, and she fell back, eyes wide. Attano lifted his head, eyes blazing but unfocused. She wondered if he could even see her.

Slowly, she crept closer again. "We know what happened," she said, softly, voice cracking as her throat tightened with fear. "The Abbey knows what happened. Martin's cruelty is a- necessary ruse."

I think.

His eyes focused on her, and his lips - cracked, bloodied - pulled back in something more snarl than smile. His teeth were cracked, a few missing with only bloody sockets where they had been. He spat, and she looked down to see blood-stained sputum splattered across the front of her coat.

"They've- always- known-" he heaved.

"Martin is not Campbell. Campbell is dead, Mr. Attano. The Abbey is changed."

He laughed, and it was a horrible sound. It made her flesh crawl.

If Corvo told Burrows that Martin was against him- if he sought power and vengeance the only ways he could get it-

"Kill Burrows," he hissed. "And then we'll talk about- changed."

She relaxed, soothed by his bitterness. But Burrows' voice was growing louder; they were returning. She swallowed, thickly.

"We know about Daud," she said. "We know Burrows paid him. Trust us, Mr. Attano. Please."

The latch groaned.

Corvo only glared at her, his hands - half-broken - curling into swollen fists.

"And don't tell Burrows," she added, quickly, before standing up and moving away from Attano, folding her arms behind her back.

The walk through Coldridge was largely silent, and Callista fought to ignore the sounds of all the other prisoners. Her mouth seemed filled with blood, her hands stained with it, even though her skin and uniform were still impeccably clean.

When she climbed into the railcar, she poured herself a tall glass of whiskey before Martin even shut the door.

The stench of Coldridge still clung to her the next day as she entered the halls of Parliament. She could catch traces of it when she turned her head too quickly, or lingered too long in one spot. It was pervasive and insidious, and, as she'd scrubbed her shoes and wore an entirely fresh set of clothing, she was convinced it had more to do with guilt and horror than any physical spattering of refuse. Still, the image of Corvo's swollen, vengeful face wouldn't leave her, and once or twice she thought she saw him in the milling crowds.

Treavor Pendleton was somewhere in the masses streaming from the chambers, but he wasn't making himself known, if he'd recognize her at all. She would only have been able to pick him out from the crowd based on Martin's description, and she didn't trust strongly in that, so she made her way up towards his office. She was stopped twice, both by guards who weren't entirely sure what to make of the signed decree of her position and authority she had to bring out on both occasions, or of how to feel about a woman in what was clearly some variant of an Abbey uniform, but without the mask or a snarling hound by her feet.

There was a thought - her own hound. It might have been useful to clear her way. It certainly would have made her feel more legitimate. Away from Martin, and without rage to propel her steps, it was difficult not to be the same careful, quiet, appeasing woman she'd been raised to be for her own protection.

Eventually, though, she made it to Pendleton's office. It was next to the larger office shared by his brothers, who held a disproportionate number of the family votes. She'd asked Martin if she was to stop by there, as well, and he'd laughed in her face.

They were Burrows' men, through and through. No, it was the younger, treason-minded brother they wanted.

They'd had a short debate, then, with Callista questioning the wisdom of publicly approaching the man, and Martin being unable to answer her queries as to his outward loyalties and policies in any real depth, but she'd caved, in the end. It had only been a matter of Martin questioning if she was afraid.

And of course, she had been. She still was. But fear, he'd reminded her, was no reason not to do the work - and besides, he trusted her to be circumspect, alert, and responsive. If there was real danger, she was to get out. Simple as that.

The hound would have been a comfort. The ones at the Abbey were well-behaved, highly trained and viciously loyal to their handlers. If Havelock's hound had known to obey her and defend her, she could imagine emerging from the altercation at the pub, if not with less blood on her hands, then certainly with more confidence.

Pendleton's aide opened the door at her knock, and didn't show any of the wariness, confusion, or distaste she'd expected. Apparently, he'd been thoughtful enough to leave her name as a potential visitor. Lord Pendleton, the young man explained, would surely be there in just a few minutes.

Callista passed over the offered chair and went instead to stand by the window.

From there, she could see the glittering waters of the lower Wrenhaven, stretching out beneath the brilliant sunlight of the height of spring. If she craned her head, she could see Dunwall Tower, too. Coldridge was just out of sight. It was a good view, in keeping with the fine carpet and expensive woods and metals that made up the fixtures of the room. All its grandeur wasn't lost on her; despite spending hours in Martin's sumptuous office, and adjusting to her uncle's rooms (which were lavish compared to her old apartment), she was still the small, dun-dressed woman who had grown used to a two room, miniscule space, and who had grown up in comfort, if not security, outside of the cities.

She wondered if she would ever get used to it all. Probably; that seemed to be the way of things.

The aide had his own desk in the antechamber to the office, and she heard him shuffling papers, then speaking into an audiograph recorder. If she strained, she could make out the words. It was only simple records keeping, though, and she soon lost interest.

The door to the hall opened, and the whir of the audiograph ceased. The aide said something in a low tone, and Pendleton's high, nasal voice answered, "Thank you, Bartholomew. Give us some privacy, hm?"

He sounded relieved. Callista turned towards the antechamber as he strode into the room, smoothing out his camel frock coat. The door behind him closed, tight. She looked him over, marking his narrow, awkward frame, his too-wide forehead and too-large eyes, the faint rimming of them and his nostrils with red inflammation. This was not a healthy man. Overbred, and not nearly as vigorous as Martin or Havelock.

But he was quick witted. She could see it in the purse of his lips and the set of his jaw. There was something hunted there, not so clearly broadcast as by the harried women in the streets, or the fugitives by the docks, and not so fresh as her uncle's own barely-concealed terror the last night she'd seen him - but it was there.

And it had honed him. Made him attentive, highly aware. He was able to take her in with a single sweeping gaze, before he turned to his sideboard.

"May I interest you in a drink, Miss Curnow?" he asked.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, and watched as he poured himself a glass of deep red liquid. He had hesitated, just a moment, before lifting the decanter.

Good; her refusal was having the intended effect. This was not a simple social visit.

"I must say," he remarked, not looking at her, "that this may be the first time the Abbey has had a request of me. Should I feel honored or on guard?"

"I come on my own, so make of that what you will," she returned, moving away from the window and settling into the seat across from his desk with more ease than she'd felt in Timsh's office. She went over a list of mental notes, snatches of conversation with Martin mixed in with her own considerations. "We haven't met before, but I understand that we have a... military connection."

Pendleton set the decanter down with less grace than she suspected was normal, but when he turned to her and made his way to the desk (he didn't swagger, or saunter, and the confidence in the motion wasn't entirely studied) he was in total control of himself once more.

"I hear you had a dangerous run-in down near the river recently," he said, and she glanced around, following his darting gaze. Was there a listener nearby?

"A shame, really. Business has dropped off, from what I understand. Too many people heard the gunshots, and with Blacky out of the listings..." Pendleton shrugged and sat down in his chair. "Still, I'm glad you're alright. What can I do for you, Miss Curnow?"

"I want to know what you and your friend know," she said. She glanced around the room. "If there's a better place for this conversation, though, a simple plan to meet would be appreciated."

"My visits to the pub go unremarked on, balanced as they are by my brothers' essential habitation of- of the Golden Cat," Treavor said with a grimace. "But a representative of the Abbey's highest office surely looks less out of place here than down there. The room is secure, if that's what you're asking about." He sniffed, as if vaguely offended, then took a sip from the small, delicate glass he was holding.

"If you're coming here on your own, though," he added after a moment, "I'm not sure I'd like to tell you. Havelock stressed to you that we're more interested in an alliance with Martin? That isn't to say you don't share some of his authority, but with the... novelty of your position, and..."

Callista inclined her head. "I understand, my lord. Let me put you at ease - Martin knows that I'm here, and is interested in what you have to say, but he didn't send me."

Treavor sat back, narrowing his bulging eyes. He set his glass down and thumbed at his nose, which was faintly red at the tip. The beginnings of a cold? Surely not plague, though Callista couldn't help sitting back a little further herself.

"He trusts your judgment a great deal, then?" Treavor asked, looking thoughtful. "I've never met the man, but from what Havelock said-"

"Do they know each other well, then? I only knew that they met once."

He visibly bristled at her interjection, eyes darting to her uniform, and took a moment to compose himself before responding. "They've had a few run-ins. Havelock has told me that he's exceedingly... clever. Perceptive. And clearly a man who becomes High Overseer less than a fortnight after his predecessor's death has some pull, which is always helpful." He toyed with his glass, long fingers twirling it around on a point of its base. "And you have not only influence, but his ear. Good. Well, then- this is what we know.

"Corvo Attano did not kill the late Empress, may her memory live on."

He watched her, closely, for her reaction.

"We suspected as much," she said at last. "We've found evidence linking the assassination to Daud."

Treavor snorted. "I hope you have better than stories. That name's an easy one to lay blame on."

"We do. But go on - if you have more?"

He shifted uneasily. "The whole thing always seemed off to me, you know. I barely knew Attano, but the man was devoted. A bit odd, to be sure - quiet, and definitely not from Gristol - but very skilled, and very loyal. And it's not as if that ship took him to Pandyssia. While months at sea can change a man, by all accounts the trip seemed nice enough. Not traumatic. Not... fractious."

"My uncle was there, and could have attested to that," she said, slowly.

"Well," he said, "we also talked to your uncle once. Maybe twice, you'd have to ask Havelock. According to the good captain, he had been asked to leave the Tower quite soon after arriving, and to take many of his men with him who were already stationed there. It was cast as a go, the Empress is safe now with her Lord Protector, go get yourself a drink, boys- but it had sat wrong with him."

Callista's lips pursed. "He never told me that."

"From what I understand, he was very drunk when he told Havelock. He carried a lot of guilt from that day. But he wasn't given any coin, so he couldn't prove bribery. Still, the order came from our esteemed Lord Regent. Makes you think, hm?"

Callista did her best not to roll her eyes. Pendleton was clearly reveling in telling the story, in revealing its intricacies to her. And the information was useful. It explained the how that Campbell's notes didn't touch on. Convince the guards who couldn't be bribed - because Campbell would have known her uncle couldn't be - to leave, bribe the ones who stayed for the sake of 'legitimacy' so that they'd never speak and would arrest Attano... She wondered if she could find some of those men. Question them.

They were likely all dead, though. Burrows was not a trusting man.

"So the Lord Regent arranged for the death of the Empress, and the kidnapping of the heir?" she asked at last.

"With the late High Overseer's help. He was there too, that day, and both he and Burrows made frequent trips together to Coldridge."

"Martin was invited on one yesterday. I've seen Attano. He's in... a sorry state. He refuses to confess."

Treavor nodded. "Which Burrows feels he needs before he can execute the man. With the plague picking up fervor, he's nervous about his legitimacy. He hardly needs to be; a surprising number of my peers are quite happy Jessamine is dead. Burrows provides more... advancement opportunities, in directions they're interested in."

Callista hummed. "But not you?"

"No, I'm committed to the health of the city, and the Empire, and to the legitimacy of the Kaldwin line. Burrows is a fool. A grasping, conniving fool."

"Do you know where the heir is?"

Pendleton stilled, then glanced away. "No. We suspect out of the city. Attano might know where, if Burrows is using resources of the crown that we don't know about. Our first goal is to rescue him from his captivity. The rest should follow. I assume he's quite motivated, and unbroken, if he hasn't confessed yet?"

"He is an angry man," she agreed, "and very wronged. We offered him our support yesterday. Whether he believes us is another matter."

Pendleton let out a stunned breath. "You- offered-"

"To let him know he has allies. Only in the Abbey, though. We made no mention of you, given our uncertainty as to your motivations and plans."

"We want the rightful Empress on the throne."

"And who would be her Regent?" Callista asked, rising to go to the window. Her skin crawled. The authority she wore like a mantle seemed immense, heavy, but also- thrilling.

A lord would have never listened to her speak treason before, and never would have hung on her every word.

"If... we find no others sympathetic to her cause, the thought was for Havelock to take Burrows' place. He would be able to shield her with the military."

"He still has pull, then?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. "Even with his discharge?"

"Enough. He could build it back up again."

"You put a lot of faith in a navy man," she remarked.

Treavor swallowed, smoothed his waistcoat. His hunted look was back. "Within reason, I assure you. Now- to your offer of alliance. With us, and with Attano. You have access to Coldridge that we do not. Your help in freeing Attano would be- most welcome."

"Should it be traced back to the High Overseer, his position would be in danger, Lord Pendleton. And should it be traced back to me, niece of Campbell's assassin..."

He squirmed, slightly. "But it's the most reasonable approach-"

"I'll bring it to him," she said. "And we will evaluate our options."

We.

She looked back to the window to hide her sudden flush. It was a strange thought, we, but she realized that she'd pictured them as a unit - perhaps of unequal parts at first, but a single thing all the same - since he had tied his red mark around her throat. As they settled into their new roles, they were only growing closer. She thought back to Timsh, and to Martin's delight with her initiative, his interest in her talents.

And now, caught up in a conspiracy, they were truly set apart, the only two in their class. Her lips curled, faintly.

Out in the antechamber, she heard voices, a few words of which were raised in volume. She turned from the window. Treavor was already rising from his seat. Then came frantic knocking, and the aide unlocking the door.

"Your brothers, my lord," the aide managed not to gasp, though he looked harried and frightened.

The door swung open in full and the elder Pendletons strode into the room. They moved in concert, like a pair of hunting dogs, one coming straight for Treavor, the other hanging back slightly, inspecting the room - and then her. His eyes narrowed.

"You are intruding on Abbey business, my lords," Callista said, every inch of her will bent to not bowing to them out of habit.

The one focused on Treavor snorted. "What, did they find your little cache of bone charms, baby brother?"

"I don't-" Treavor began.

But the other one interrupted with, "Don't be silly, Morgan. Our dear brother has clearly turned himself in. He always was a guilty little creature." His eyes glinted, and remained fixed on her. "Women in the Abbey, though - my, times are changing. Campbell only played dress-up with his whores in private."

Her eyes narrowed and her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. The twins were cruel - that she had heard at length before, from acquaintances who knew sisters or friends who had gone to serve their household. They were also rich and, according to Martin, firmly allied with Burrows.

Lucky, then, that they hadn't arrived earlier, in time to hear muffled conspiracy through the door.

She dragged her gaze away from the unnamed twin and back to Treavor, fixing the most bored expression that she could manage on her features. She inclined her head to him - and only to him. His hunted look was at full mast, now, cornered as he was by his brothers.

"I'll pass your inquiry on, my lord," she said. "I am sure that we will be able to bring you guidance on your excellent theological question."

And she left.

In her former identity as a quiet governess, one of the elder Pendletons could have simply reached out and grabbed her, forced her to remain. She would have had no recourse, no authority, no protection.

But despite their mockery, neither moved to stop her. They were too uncertain of her real status.

They let her pass, and she managed not to begin shaking until she was out of Parliament and settled into her railcar once more.

"It's an interesting proposition," Martin said, squinting out at the finger of river that made its way past the rear yard of Holger. "I'll look into it."

Callista pressed her lips to a thin line, trying to find something interesting to look out on. The stretch of barracks and workshops was bleak, though, and she found herself unable to remain as impassive as she would have liked. "It's too dangerous," she said to his back.

Martin turned his head, glancing over his shoulder with a lifted brow. "Not too dangerous," he said. "Neither of us will do it ourselves. I'll send Windham. He'll appreciate the posting - Coldridge is near a particular street he likes to frequent on leave, if I recall."

"Windham is trustworthy enough?"

"Enough, yes," Martin said, turning back to his glimpses of the setting sun on the river. "I won't tell him the purpose, but there are many reasons for our fine institution to keep independent tabs on Attano. I'm sure Campbell did the same. He and Burrows couldn't have trusted one another with their lives."

She followed his hands as he fished his cigarette case from his jacket. They were quick, nimble hands, and she reflected for just a moment on the fact that she hadn't felt them on her in- what felt like ages.

Only days, she reminded herself, and it meant nothing. No, the closeness inherent in standing on a rooftop talking conspiracy - that was what mattered.

When the cigarette was lit, smoke curling from its tip up from his hand, he shrugged and turned to her with his full charming smile. "Are you afraid again, Miss Curnow?"

"A little."

"No need to be. Windham has certain... secrets, that he knows I'm aware of. And that, should I reveal them, will ruin his credibility. I'd prefer not to, of course. He's a good man. But we have insurance."

Callista focused on an invisible speck of lint on her uniform sleeve, brushing at it. She didn't look up as Martin crossed to her, and startled when his fingertips caught below her chin, nudging her face towards his.

"How is your new home?" he asked, softly.

"... Well enough," she said. "Empty, though. Most of the furniture was broken or taken."

"I'll have some sent over. Food?"

"Tolerable. It's been several years since I've cooked for myself on any regular basis, but I'm managing."

He nodded, then let go of her and offered her the cigarette case. "We have yet to have a full celebration," he remarked as she took a finely rolled stick from the silver. When it was wedged between her lips, he struck a match and held it close to her. She bent her head and inhaled.

It had been about six months since she'd last indulged, though, and once the thing was lit she turned away to cough. He chuckled.

"I'm quite fine without the celebration," she said once she'd regained her composure. "There's hardly time for it, anyway. Tomorrow you have ten funerals alone, not to mention all the administrative tasks-"

"I'm considering putting a moratorium on funerals," he said.

She scowled. "The people won't like that."

"It's a waste of my time, Miss Curnow, and a waste of the Abbey's in general. Every day, tens of men die- maybe hundreds, soon. Not all of them are mourned, of course, but the proportion of victims who still have families, and families who can pay, are rising. Campbell used the flow of money for services to line his pockets, but while the gold is tempting, my time and focus is worth a bit more.

"Besides, as the deaths mount, order in the streets will continue to deteriorate. It's best if the Abbey attends to that. A preemptive strike."

Callista considered the lit end of her cigarette, smoke curling from her lips. "I suppose so. What is the latest theory on the origin and transmission of the disease?"

"That I've seen? There have been a few monographs published by various Academy members pointing out similar plague events in Serkonos, and they've tracked the origin to Pandyssia. I wouldn't wonder if the Pendleton ships had brought it over, but I don't exactly have access to their mining records."

"If the plague really is from Pandyssia, and they brought it," she mused, "then the Pendletons would be experiencing high losses. Are they?"

"Their money is dwindling, to be sure," he agreed.

"If they pose a threat to us, then, we have a way to take them out of power - don't we?"

Martin lifted a brow.

Callista flushed. "We make it known - perhaps by funding a few of the natural philosophers - that their ships brought over the plague rats, and public opinion turns against them. Burrows would have to act, even if only symbolically."

"Ah, but their ships are currently blocked from leaving from or returning to Dunwall. There's nothing that can be done to them that would stop the plague. A good thought, though. And potentially useful. It just needs some refining." His smile was indulgent.

"The people won't care that it won't stop the plague. They'll want to see them burned. They'll want the Pendletons strung up," she said, firmly.

The indulgence in his smile faltered, and he blinked, rapidly, as if surprised that she would challenge his assessment. She lifted her chin slightly.

At last, he inclined his head. "Just so."

She turned away from him, walking to the edge of the roof. The spot was well-appointed for a roof, with strong railings and finely cast iron benches. It was an extended balcony of sorts from the top floor of the building, used for all those visitors that never came. It wasn't secure in any sense, but it was a welcome respite from the close, heavy confines of the office proper.

Leaning over the railing, she looked down at the side wall of the kennels.

"Would they be able to train one for me?" she asked.

"Hm?" Martin crossed slowly to the railing, joining her in peering down.

"A hound."

"Possibly. Usually, though, they remain with their handler their entire lives - and you hardly have time to train one from a pup yourself." He turned, leaning back against the railing and tilting his head back to let a jet of smoke from his nose. "As far as self-defense goes, I was more imagining a few hours of target practice for you. Getting you more comfortable with that pistol of yours. If there's a next time, I'd like you to hit a man's heart, not his shoulder."

Callista tapped ash down onto the street below. "Both would be better. But you're right, there's no time for training a hound."

"One could be trained to protect you, certainly, and you could learn the appropriate commands," Martin mused. "But it wouldn't be as much of a partnership as hounds and their Overseers usually are. It might decide to protect you in ways you don't like."

"Forget I asked."

"No, it's a valid proposal," he said. The afternoon sunlight lit his features in stark relief, gilding his dark, pomaded hair and contrasting sharply with the pale blue shadow of stubble on his jaw. Callista caught herself following the line of his neck down to his shoulders, then reached out to twitch his uniform more neatly into place.

He chuckled.

"Always so attentive, Miss Curnow," he murmured, his voice taking on a low note that made her shiver despite the spring warmth.

"You have that meeting with the street patrol captains in half an hour," she reminded him.

"And you have those letters to read and sort through," he responded, pushing away from the railing. "And your translation work. Have you made any progress?"

"I've hardly had the time to," she said.

"Make time, then," he said, simply, before snubbing out his cigarette.