Chapter 12
"Is this the mask you wore?"
Callista smiled as she shut the door. Emily was sitting up in bed, deer mask dangling from one small hand. It was mid-afternoon, and Callista had managed just enough sleep that she could ignore how monumentally horrible the past sixteen hours had been.
"It is," she said, coming to settle down next to Emily's bed. Ms. Brooklaine and Cecelia had been sent home, and Piero and Sokolov had announced Emily was well on her way to full health. Things were- better. Not okay, but better. "Do you like it?"
Emily held it up to her own face. The snout of the mask completely covered her small nose and chin. "Why'd he pick it?"
"I think because it was blue," Callista said.
"What did he go as?"
"A wolf," she said. A hungry, stalking wolf, who kissed like he was starving-
She dug the fingers of her left hand into her thigh. Emily didn't seem to notice the faint blush Callista could feel burning beneath her skin, instead setting the mask down again and peering at it. "I guess that makes sense," she said at last. "And what did Corvo go as?" she added, her tone almost entirely conversational.
Callista could still hear the hopefulness.
"I..." She looked up and tried not to flinch at the rush of memory, the flash and roar of the mansion exploding, the dark figure silhouetted in the flames. "I'm- not sure. We were all masked, he could have been anybody in that room."
Emily hid her frown with a tight little smile, and turned to look out her window. "So you didn't give him my message?"
"I didn't get a chance to, I'm sorry," she said, reaching out to put her hand on the edge of the bed. If it had ever been her place to offer Emily Kaldwin a reassuring touch, Callista was fairly certain she'd lost that honor somewhere between abandoning her and fraternizing with the enemy.
"But you saved the woman you meant to save?"
"We did."
"So he didn't kill anybody?"
Callista's throat tightened.
Emily's brow furrowed and she bit her lip hard. Callista watched her thin shoulders heave with the effort of not crying. And then she closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and mastered herself. She was only ten, going on eleven, Callista thought, helplessly. She shouldn't have needed to be that strong.
"Last night," Emily said, finally, opening her eyes and staring straight ahead, "what did Daud mean when he said Martin would move us? Martin's the Overseer who came to visit me, right? He told me he was trying to find a way to get me out of here. But that's not true, is it?"
"He is trying to get you out of here," Callista said, fingers digging into her leg again. "He's doing his best to keep you safe. There are a lot of people out there who would hurt you."
"But if he can move us, that means he's the one who put me here, right?"
"Emily..."
"I hate everybody who put me here," she said, quietly. "I hate Daud and I hate Martin and I hate whoever built this place, and I hate you, too. You keep helping them."
Callista flinched. "I know."
"I keep telling you not to. Why don't you listen to me?"
She swallowed, thickly. "Because people are people - we do what we think is best, we make mistakes, we-"
"I'm your Empress!" Emily said, and there were tears in her voice. She stared straight ahead at the far wall. Her skin was still pale and waxen from her fever, her hair unwashed and uncombed for days now, but there was fury in her eyes. "If I tell you what to do, you obey me! That's how it works!"
Callista stared at her, at her frail hands fisted in the blankets and at her bloodshot eyes. She was just a girl. But her lips couldn't form the words, couldn't deliver that blow, that Emily's status only mattered here because it kept her alive, made her important.
Slowly, Callista stood. "Do you want something to eat, Emily?"
"Corvo is going to come for me," Emily said, eyes glassy with tears below her furrowed brow, "and when he finds me, he'll kill you all. He'll rescue me."
"I hope so," was all Callista could say as she retreated towards the hall.
"Wait!" Emily cried as Callista reached the door. Callista's hand stilled on the knob, and she looked over her shoulder. Emily had crawled to the edge of her bed, mask in her hands again. "Wait, I didn't- Callista-"
But you did mean it, and I agree with you, Callista thought, mouth calcified, jaw immobile.
"Please, just help me," Emily said. "I'll tell him to spare you. I will. I just... I want to go home. I want to go home, Callista. I don't like it here."
She nodded. "I know," she said. "I'll do my best, Emily. I promise. I'm going to get us something to eat, okay?"
She didn't see Daud again until the next morning, when he watched Sokolov and Piero pack up their lab. Emily had been declared cured after a battery of tests that had left the girl curled up asleep, or determined to be asleep. Callista had her doubts - she'd seen too many people declared healthy, only to relapse in a week, or a month, or a year, so quickly that there was nothing to do but stand by and watch their downward plummet - but she tried to cling to the relief of it. Grief had not taken Emily, and the plague hadn't, either. She was strong. She'd outlast them all.
With Emily asleep and the library occupied, Callista retreated downstairs. Daud had left her a newspaper by the kettle, and a quick glance showed that it was the front-page splash about the Boyle estate explosion. Waverly Boyle, declared dead at the scene. Lydia Boyle, declared dead early on the morning of the 18th day of the Month of Wind. Esma Boyle, missing, last seen leaving the building proper an hour or so before the explosion. All Boyle sisters survived by Esma's daughter, who had yet to be contacted for comment.
She grimaced, and scanned the list of casualties. Lord Montgomery Shaw, in critical condition at an undisclosed hospital. Miss Adele White, declared dead at the scene. Mr. Ramsey, declared dead at the scene. Barrister Arnold Timsh, declared dead at the scene. Lords Custis and Morgan Pendleton, declared dead at the scene. An unknown number of servants and police officers...
Callista flipped through the other pages, looking for some note from Daud. When she found none, she pulled out the trashbin and tore the newspaper to shreds. Emily didn't need to know what had happened that night. She needed to believe in somebody, even if that somebody was a madman touched by an unfathomable god.
Behind her, she could hear Daud herding the two scientists out. Where would Sokolov go? He'd seen too much. Was a bullet waiting for him downstairs? Another prison? Callista closed the cabinet door and refused to look up at a few brief mentions of her name by Dr. Joplin. They'd saved Emily; that didn't mean she had to be courteous and see them out, only to catch Piero staring at her.
Or worse, see the Outsider watching her through his eyes.
The door to Daud's office shut, and she relaxed. She put herself to work making breakfast. Halfway through, she realized she'd made enough for three, complete with turning the coffee machine on for Daud. Her hand froze reaching for his mug.
If Emily ever found out about how she and Daud had danced, or kissed, any need for her the girl still had would be shot and buried. Callista couldn't blame her. Every time she thought about his arms around her, she would short-circuit between the need and fear and confusion and shame. She expected he felt the same way.
Best to sweep it all under the rug. This would all be over in another few weeks.
She poured his coffee and had it set out on the island for him by the time the door opened again. Daud came in alone. She found herself searching for the scent of gunpowder or blood. Finding none, she hunched over the kitchen counter and ate her toast.
Behind her, Daud picked up his mug, sipped. "I'd advise against going into the library until I can go over it again," he said.
"Sounds reasonable," she said, dusting off her hands and rinsing them.
"How's Emily?"
"Angry. Scared. Tired. The same as she's always been." She shut off the faucet. No water dripped towards the ceiling. "She doesn't know about how the party ended," she added. "Please don't tell her."
"Of course not."
She turned around to find him watching her. "How much time do we have? Before the next..."
He shrugged. "I would assume until the Feast is over and Martin is back. That is, if-" He glanced to the stairs, then back to her. "If Corvo controls himself in the meantime. Martin has Havelock on it, apparently. Havelock and Samuel Beechworth."
"And how is Martin?" she asked, hiding behind a cup of tea.
"Stressed. Frustrated. He can't leave Holger until the decision's made, and he has limited opportunities to call out."
Callista glanced to the stairs as well. "Does that mean we have an opportunity?"
"I'm looking into it," he said. "And I'm trying to- find your uncle. In case we need him, or he needs us. But Corvo's recent actions are making me... wary. Martin's protection might be worth it, for now."
Nodding, she turned to set her cup of tepid tea into the sink.
"That doesn't mean we should be unprepared," Daud added. She froze and glanced over her shoulder. He'd looked away from her, towards the great windows. "Our lessons were interrupted. We're going to resume them."
"Is that really the best idea?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. She remembered his weight pinning her in his arms, against his car- and before that, grappling with him, falling to the mat with him on top of her. She'd been stunned, caught between a flash of fear and the overwhelming presence of him. She turned away, licking her lips and clearing her throat. "Given Emily, I mean."
"I want you to be able to protect her, if the time comes," he said. "And yourself."
"I'm not in the mood for wrestling, Daud."
He made a strangled sort of sound in his throat. "No," he said, "I had something else in mind. Let's get your gun cleaned up."
She spun around. "Daud-"
"I can't get you to a shooting range to practice with it, but we can talk theory," he said. "And we can talk theory in close combat, and in evading capture. We can cover a lot of ground without..." His hands flexed helplessly at his side.
"Trust me?" he asked, his voice faintly pleading.
She leaned heavily against the counter. "You keep asking me to do that."
"It's..." His mouth worked over his uncertainty. "It's important."
"I know." She took a deep breath. "That's why you don't have to ask."
A week passed in a sort of tightrope dance, her time stretched between Daud's new style of non-contact self-defense lessons, Emily's lessons and quiet loneliness, and her own habit of anxiously staring out the window, wondering who would make a move first. The whole rhythm of her life was in tatters: home was not home, safety was not safe, up was not up, down was not down. While the taps never dripped onto the ceiling in those seven days, her dreams roiled upside down and inside out, leaving her tossing and turning only to wake to find a night had passed.
Emily was strong enough to leave her bed after two days, and she walked around with more imperial majesty than Callista had ever imagined one person could contain. Daud deferred to her, and Callista did her best to mimic him. Emily was scared and weak and fragile, and Callista couldn't bear to discipline her or humble her. If that meant Emily treated her less and less like a person and more and more like a cardboard cutout of a teacher at times - then so be it.
She'd ask about Corvo, and they would shake their heads and say they didn't know. She'd ask about Martin, and Callista would try to change the subject. She'd tell Callista to put on her blue dress, and maybe even her mask, and they'd have story time together, but when Callista said no, her stony, determined adulthood would return in full force.
Two floors below Emily's domain, Daud walked Callista through theory after theory of self-defense. It was exhausting, trying to picture it all in enough detail that she felt like she was halfway prepared, but it kept her busy.
Nine days after the Boyle party, she sank into the chair that a part of her assigned to Daud, and looked out over a city that seemed barely changed. She knew better, though. There were more electrified checkpoints than ever, now. Burrows had rushed them into construction despite Sokolov's absence. There were reports of malfunctions, Daud had told her, and of more riots now that people could barely move between districts, and the plague continued to spread and build towards a tipping point. Soon, rumors wouldn't be rumors anymore. The hospitals would be flooded. More and more people would die, until...
Until Martin restored order?
She rubbed at her temples and opened the book in her lap. She'd almost pulled Lydia's copy of The Leviathans, but had settled instead on one of the books on whaling that Daud had, indeed, put aside for her on a single shelf in the library. Now she flipped through the familiar diagrams of whale vivisections and ship schematics. The world had been wild, once, before brave men at sea had put down the whales and other strange and unsettling beasts, pulled oil from their flesh and ground their bones to dust, and from it all developed the science and technology that had brought modern industry to its zenith. The world had been a seemingly endless ocean. Pandyssia had repelled all comers with madness and myths, not the harsh climates they now understood and could exploit.
A part of her had longed for that daring, that dawning confidence, for as long as she could remember. She'd longed for the mastery over death they'd all seemed so sure of. The politics of the slaughterhouses and the original fishing treaties had seemed wondrous to her. When she read of how one of Jessamine Kaldwin's ancestors had put down the Morley Rebellions and sealed the trade deal that had brought Tyvia and its rich waters into the empire, she had wanted to be there, on the water, salt spray soaking her clothing.
That part of her was still there, but common sense and harrowing experience had taught her to be afraid of it. Daud had asked her to remember that part of herself, to channel it. She wasn't sure how to.
She turned to one of the last chapters, on how, when the whalers came home, they were never the same as when they had left. She looked for some kind of hint of how to prevent that change, or manage it, because she suspected she could feel it growing in herself already.
The door to Daud's office opened. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as he approached. He held a phone in his hand, and extended it to her as soon as he was within reach.
"It's Martin," he said, with a grim flicker of a smile. "Congratulations are in order."
She bowed her head for a moment and gave him a tight smile in return, then took the phone.
"Callista Curnow speaking."
"So formal," Martin chuckled on the other end of the line. "Has Daud told you the news, then?"
"Congratulations, High Overseer Martin," she said, watching as Daud went to the window.
"I think," he said, "that I'm in the mood for a celebration."
"It would be well-deserved," she said, feeling indescribably hollow.
"Which is why I'd like you to meet me at the Wolfhound in an hour, ready to go out to dinner. Do you like Tyvian food, Miss Curnow?"
The hollowness turned to a sucking void. She frowned. "I- well enough, yes. High Overseer-"
"We have quite a lot to catch up on," he said, and there was no trace of the anxious, harried Martin of over a week ago. "I'm sure Daud's gotten you some appropriate clothing?"
Her gaze bored a hole in Daud's back, but he didn't turn. "Yes."
"Good. I'll be looking forward to it, Miss Curnow."
The line went dead.
He looked more at home in his new, blood-red uniform than he ever had in his dull blues, sitting in the Wolfhound or looming in the tower. The doorman at the restaurant, close to Holger Square, simpered and cleared a seat for them in the back of the restaurant, in a finely upholstered booth with more pillows on the benches than were strictly necessary. She tried to ignore the eyes on them, judging, weighing.
"You are the daughter of a fine policeman who recently went missing," Martin had told her on the drive over. "Nobody has reported you missing after over a month; nobody will realize there's anything out of the ordinary."
She wondered what other explanations people would come up with, what the newspapers would say the next day. Martin didn't seem to mind. He ordered their dinner for them, and spoke idly about the weather and about the public details of the Feast of Painted Kettles. He asked after her health; she replied that it was good. He asked after her uncle; she reminded him that she had yet to hear directly from him.
Wine was poured. Dishes were set down in front of them. Callista tried not to panic, knowing that she was across the city from Daud, that if Corvo thought to follow Martin's indiscreet car, he'd find her and torture her until she told him where Emily was.
"I'll of course be spending more time here in Holger," he said. She barely heard him, barely saw him as he gestured with his glass. "Hopefully making progress on our little project from a position with a great deal more perspective."
She nodded.
"You know," the High Overseer said, dropping his voice to a murmur, "you're really not the most qualified tutor for an Empress." He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table and hands folded beneath his chin.
Her world snapped back into focus. She swallowed. "I know."
"Currently," he said, "it will be difficult for me to... bring you along, so to speak."
Callista pushed a spear of asparagus around her plate, then put her fork down. No sense playing with her food, the way Martin was, no doubt, playing with her.
"Especially," he continued, "given our earlier differences of opinion. I can't have you jeopardizing what will no doubt be a very fragile period in her Highness's life. But I also understand that you and Miss Kaldwin have formed a bond?"
She hesitated, considering the implications of her answer. Which was better, yes or no? No, and she'd be trusted not to be of any danger? Yes, and she was too valuable to lose? And all the while, she could feel Martin watching her, weighing her life against any possible inconvenience from killing her. There wouldn't be any from the outside world - only Emily would scream and scream. Daud, perhaps, would clench his fists and grit his teeth, and perhaps Martin would be stupid enough to give him the job.
But he had to be a clever man, to be High Overseer.
She decided on the truth, and nodded. "She was... distraught, when I left the first time."
"And when Daud went against my instructions and took you along with him on that little date to the Boyle manor?" he asked casually, and she looked up to see him taking a bite of tender fish. She watched him chew, swallow, wash it all down with a sip of effervescent Serkonan wine. "Treavor informed me," he said. "Though I'll admit, I haven't gotten a chance to look at the security footage yet to see what costume Daud chose for you. Well- how did she react to that?"
"She was resigned. She'd been sick for days, Martin." She shoved her hands into her lap to hide how they trembled, how she pulled at her fingers and knuckles because it was all she could do instead of screaming and running.
"And what did you tell her?"
"... That we were going to save a woman's life. I didn't want her to hate me."
"And did she believe you?" He topped off his glass, then nudged hers closer to her. "Drink, Miss Curnow. Enjoy yourself. This isn't an interrogation."
She glanced up sharply. "Then what is it?"
He considered a moment, then held up a hand. "I suppose if I said an interview, you'd tell me it's the same thing," he said with an easier smile than she'd seen him wear in weeks. What had changed? Was it that half the nobles in Dunwall were dead, injured, or terrified out of their wits? That security had been ramped up in response?
Was it that he could wear this new red uniform, so carefully pressed and starched?
"We have had... differences of opinion since we've met. I'd like to smooth them over," he said, spreading his hands wide, then sitting back in his seat. "Your charge is fond of you. That's important. I'm glad that she's found somebody she can trust."
"At least half the time," Callista said, looking away. "She has her doubts."
"But she wants to trust you."
"Yes."
He leaned forward again. "What do you tell her about me?" He kept his voice even and soft, gentle, and she wished she could have trusted him. How much easier it would have been - trusted that he knew what he was doing, that it was all for the greater good. She'd never thought of herself as particularly selfish - not in any real, meaningful way - but she had certainly shied away from the "great work" of his.
"Very little," she said at last. "It wouldn't help her, to know that you're..." She glanced past him to the restaurant.
He smiled a wolf's smile, and she felt more hunted, more cornered, than Daud had ever made her feel. "Orchestrating?" he suggested.
She nodded, hoping he couldn't read from her hunched shoulders, her guarded posture, that while she didn't tell Emily many things, Emily had deduced them all on her own.
He didn't seem to notice. "Eat your dinner, Miss Curnow. I'm glad you're so sensible. That was just a momentary slip, on the phone, hm?"
She nodded and picked up her fork again. She made herself spear a piece of asparagus and eat it in a few large bites.
He watched her throat as she swallowed.
"You can't remain as her tutor, that much is unfortunately true," he said. "But... I will do my best to carve out a space for you. She will need emotional support. A pillar, in the times to come."
"I'm not a nanny, Martin," she murmured, eating a bite of fish. Her stomach felt like it was filled to the brim with lead pellets, jostling for space with each nervous twitch of her muscles.
"Call yourself a confidante, then, if it makes you feel better."
A confidante she needs to order around to feel safe with. A confidante she only trusts because there's no one else.
"She'll have Corvo, won't she?" She dared to look at him.
His pale eyes crinkled with mirth.
"You don't really want that, do you?" he whispered. "You've seen what he's capable of. And he's not capable of being a father. Perhaps if I can rehabilitate him..." He trailed off, then shook his head and offered her what she supposed was a reassuring smile. "It will be tricky, the times ahead. I'd like you to put your faith in me."
She nodded. "Of course," she said, and for his gratification, she reached for the wine he'd poured her.
"If I ask for your trust, will you give it to me?" he asked, refusing to look away.
She nodded again, fingers curling tight around the glass's stem. "Of course," she said. The words tasted like ash on her tongue. It was frighteningly easy to give her trust to Daud - but to Martin, it was a struggle. One she couldn't win. "I realize that anything else would be foolish."
"Good," he said. "I'm glad that's settled. I think we'll be effective partners in the days and weeks to come." He turned slightly to glance around the room, freeing her.
She sagged back into her seat in relief and swallowed down half her glass of wine.
Daud met her at the base of the tower, wearing a heavy wool coat against the brisk night wind. It was the same coat he'd worn the day he'd taken her, she realized as she drew closer. It had a large collar and a broad lapel, and two rows of brass buttons down the front. It hung to his knees, and, along with the scar tracing its way down the side of his face and his ever-present black gloves, it made him look imposing and dignified.
The rush of relief she felt at seeing him grew as he canted his head slightly in greeting. One corner of his mouth twitched up. He opened the door to the building for her, and she stepped in, grateful for the windbreak. She'd gone to see Martin in a black sheath dress with three-quarter length sleeves and no coat.
"I'm sorry for the oversight," Daud said once the door was shut behind them. "Winter's coming faster this year."
She rubbed at her upper arms. "It's okay."
"I'll take care of it tomorrow." He stepped into the elevator, pulling the key card from his breast pocket. She followed. "How was he?"
"Cheerful. Self-assured," she said. The doors to the elevator slid shut and they began to rise. "... Though I think he's planning to remove me from the operation."
Daud hit the stop button; the elevator car shuddered. "What?" he said, the word clipped and sharp. He looked at her, searchingly.
She shrugged, trying to keep her levity in place. Not thinking about the implications of Martin's questions had been the only way to get into the car with him after dinner. "He had questions about my relationship with Emily. He said that he hopes to keep me around as a... companion for her, at least, since I'm not qualified to tutor an Empress in any real capacity. Maybe that's all it is."
Daud shook his head. "No. You wouldn't be scared, otherwise."
"I'm not..." She trailed off and took a deep, shaking breath. "This feels like the time I called Geoff to tell him I thought somebody was stalking me," she said with a weak laugh.
"And you were right that time," Daud said, with a bitter half-smile. "What made you worried?"
"I don't know," she said, rubbing at her mouth and chin. "Something about how intent he was on asking for my trust. And how close I was with Emily. If it were anybody else..." Callista's shoulders hunched forward as she thought. "But with him, I feel like he's weighing his options. Will killing me make Emily hate him? Will Emily ever realize he did it? Can he get you to do it, or blame it on you? He's planning to kill - or rehabilitate - Corvo. And he asked about how much I've told Emily about him. I think he's getting ready for a big move."
Daud nodded, and let go of the stop button. But instead of selecting the floor where his office was, he picked one floor down.
"Really?" she asked. "Tonight?"
"We're not practicing, don't worry," he said as the elevator lurched into motion again. "I... wanted to talk. Somewhere private."
The elevator doors let them out on the practice floor, and he led her without another comment to an unmarked door across the main room. He unlocked it with a key secreted in another pocket. It opened onto the emergency stairwell, and she followed as he climbed.
"The doors to the penthouse are blocked off," he said, "walled over. So this is the only way up to the roof."
Three flights of stairs later and he let her out onto the top of the apartment building, where the wind was colder and faster, and she could see all the way to Kaldwin's Bridge and beyond, to Kingsparrow Island. She shivered at a biting gust of air, curling her arms around herself.
"It's not quite a fancy restaurant," he said, "and all the food's downstairs waiting, but it's at least private, and I brought a bottle of wine up." She could barely make out his expression in the clouded dark, but as she watched, he shrugged out of his coat and crossed the small space between them, draping it over her shoulders.
"And there are no cameras," she said, trying not to think about the wine, or how she could see the bottle and two glasses tucked against the stairwell wall, out of the wind, a few feet away.
"There are no cameras," he agreed. "There aren't any on the training floor; as far as he knows, we're still in that elevator."
"Still conspiring."
He shrugged. "Perhaps I'm threatening you. Perhaps I'm demanding to know what he told you. We can let him imagine."
She couldn't help her smile at that. His hands lingered on her shoulders until, clearing his throat, he retreated to lean up against the side of the stairwell wall. She settled in beside him, half a foot away. The wall broke some of the wind.
"If Martin is going to make a big move soon," Daud said, pulling a cigarette and lighter from his breast pocket, "that probably means Burrows is next. I can't imagine who else is still on his list that counts as big."
"Unless it's not a person," she said. "Corvo's already shown a willingness for wanton destruction. Would Martin gain anything by disrupting the monorail systems? Shipping?"
"The monorail line is already shut down," Daud said, wedging the cig between his lips. A little flame leaped to life in the cupped shelter of his hand. "And it'd be a tremendous production to shut down shipping, and dangerous for the stability of Martin's resulting rule." He took a brief drag, then plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out to her without a word.
She took it, turning it over in her fingers. Had he even intended to smoke it himself? Her chest tightened and she tried not to smile as she placed it between her lips and took a long drag.
"It's possible," Daud continued, "that he could attack the power grid, or some other piece of infrastructure, but he'd run into the same problems - he'd have to go about fixing it all. Quickly, too - the rioting is getting worse out there. His cure for the plague that Sokolov is no doubt working on will go a long way to legitimizing him, but..."
Callista nodded. "It's probably Burrows," she agreed.
"Which means things are going to change very soon. I think you're right, that he's trying to figure out how to get rid of you. You don't support his plan - he knows that. But Emily will hate him if he takes you away. Hopefully that will keep him thinking for a while."
"So, what do we do?" she asked. "I don't... want to die." The words were leaden on her lips, and she looked away quickly.
He snorted, and she flushed in embarrassment. And then he shrugged, the fabric of his suit rustling. "Neither do I."
She looked up at him, surprised he'd admit it - surprised that he even felt afraid.
He regarded her calmly. "We're both expendable as soon as Burrows is down and Martin steps forward, offering Havelock as a replacement," he murmured.
She frowned. "Havelock?"
"He has the military history. He has supporters. Martin can't take the throne, and would you like Pendleton up there?"
Sagging back against the wall, she took another drag. "You have a point." Exhaling, she stared out at the city. "... I keep wondering, though, if what we've done is forgivable. I tried to tell Emily I was doing my best to keep her safe, but..."
"You've done nothing wrong," he said, and the sudden force in his voice made her turn to face him. He met her gaze. "Absolutely nothing wrong."
Her brow furrowed and she fought the urge to look away. "I feel- selfish. And dangerous. And changed."
"We're all selfish, and scared. We're alive." He pursed his lips, then took the cigarette from her fingers, snubbed it out against the wall. Dropping the butt to their feet, he settled a hand against her shoulder. "And yes, you've changed. You'll never be the woman I followed to that bus stop again. Just like I'll never be the remorseless killer believing totally in his neutrality again. I was certain that the fact that money changed hands made me just a weapon, not an actor - just like you were certain that if you just kept your head down, everything would be fine."
She took a deep, shaking breath. "But we move on," she said.
He nodded. "Exactly. I could cling to what I used to be, and hate it, and lay down to die because of it - but I don't want to die."
Callista couldn't help her bitter smile. "Oh, you still cling to what you used to be. Don't lie about that."
His lips twisted. "I'm trying to make a point," he murmured.
"We move forward," she said, quietly. Around the obstacles and the gaping holes where lives once were. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to him.
His hand slid up to cup her cheek. "I swear to you," he said, "that when Martin makes his move on Burrows, I'll get you out of here. I'll get you to Serkonos, or Tyvia, or wherever is safe for you to go. I'll tap favors I'm owed."
She shook her head. "Get Geoff first?" she asked, quietly. "I don't want to die, but I don't want to be alone, either. And if I'm not useful, Geoff isn't either, right?"
She didn't want to imagine Geoff willingly working for Martin. It couldn't happen.
Daud opened his mouth as if to say something, but couldn't manage a single word. His other hand flattened against the wall beside her, and she watched as he bowed his head, took a deep breath. "Of course," he said at last.
"Do you know where he is?"
Daud nodded. "I found him three days ago. If Martin moves and our safety here is lost, I can get him out."
Relief flooded through her, tinged with a flash of annoyance that he hadn't told her. Still, knowing he was safe took a great load from her shoulders. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Then I'll keep myself safe until you get back with him. And then we'll take Emily and-"
"No."
She frowned. "Daud-"
"Emily is too dangerous to keep with us, and while you're the closest thing she has to somebody she loves, she holds no great affection for either of us."
"She's a child."
"Am I wrong, though?" He was standing close enough now that his breath was warm against her cheek. "Tell me I'm wrong, that she'll trust us, that she'll go quietly. That she won't call out to the first police officer she sees. I won't- I can't keep her captive again. Not under my own authority. Not even for her own good."
Callista hesitated, then nodded, looking down between them. Daud's hand returned to her shoulder. "If handing her over keeps her safe..."
"We are selfish creatures," he said, softly. "And with luck, Corvo will be there to stop Martin. He's not a stupid man. Dangerous, but not stupid."
Callista nodded again. "Give me a key card," she said. "So that if Martin comes, I can run."
"I'll move your gun back to your room, too," he said. "And I'll try not to be long. I'll get Geoff to one of my old safehouses, one Martin shouldn't know about, and then I'll come get you. And I'll get the two of you out of this Outsider-cursed city."
She chanced a look up. "Will you come with us?"
"I-" The shadows along his jaw twitched and tensed. "... I want to be here. To protect her if I can. I need to make up for..."
"For being selfish and believing you were only a weapon," she said.
He nodded.
"That will get you killed, Daud."
"Maybe," he said. "Probably." He looked past her, over the city.
"I don't want you to die." She settled her hand on his sleeve, curled her fingers into the fabric. She felt him stiffen under her touch.
She searched his face. There was a flicker of pain, there, quickly engulfed by surprise, and he turned to her with his lip slightly parted. There was wonder in his eyes.
She almost said something about it, something light and joking to smooth the moment. She almost asked about the wine, about if this really was his idea of a date to counter Martin's dinner. Her mouth was already open a fraction of an inch.
And then he leaned forward and kissed her, his mouth filled with the taste of smoke and whiskey, bright enough that it couldn't have been more than half an hour since he'd drank it. Her fingers fisted into his suit, and she pressed up against him, leaving the safety of the wall. The leather of his glove slid against her jaw as he cupped her face, and he wrapped his other arm around her.
This time, there was no feeling of momentary madness. She parted her lips and he dragged her lower lip between his. His coat slid from her shoulders but she barely noticed, devoted to mapping out the contours of his jaw and cheek with her free hand, tracing the pattern of his scar. He mumbled something unintelligible against her mouth in return, then dotted kisses along the line of her mouth.
She trusted him with every inch of herself. The part of her that had longed to chase after whales needed him, craved him, understood him. She smiled against his mouth and murmured his name, and was rewarded by his hands tightening on her, desperate and possessive. She half-expected him to pull away, to mumble some excuse of why he didn't deserve her, to remind her he was a killer. He never did.
He was trailing kisses along her jaw when she saw it, opening her eyes for half a second in a flutter of giddiness. Out across the river, over Dunwall Tower, floodlights clicked on and shone brilliant white against the cloud cover. She went still and stiff. Daud faltered on his path along her jaw, and lifted his head.
"Look," she managed.
He turned.
"... Martin's moving faster than anticipated. If Burrows isn't dead already," he said, hand tightening on her waist, "he will be very, very soon."
