Chapter 21

Geoff Curnow is an enemy of Dunwall, and of the Empire. By his actions, he has sown discord, created chaos, and threatened our bulwarks against the Outsider's agents. He conspired alongside Corvo Attano, murderer of the Empress, the two working in tandem to cut off the head of this nation and drop it screaming into the Void.

Callista paused, pen poised above the page. There was a roaring in her ears that wouldn't cease, that hadn't ceased for the last several hours. It sounded like the crash of waves, or like the sucking vortex in a cavern where the sea rushed in and down into the depths of the earth. It was a dangerous sound. She could feel the edges of herself shredding from the force of it.

She knew exactly where in Holger her uncle was being kept – and he was being kept in Holger, albeit with several of the Regent's guards assisting the effort. This was an Abbey victory. It would cement their place in the new regime. Whoever had done this – whoever had tracked her uncle down – was a hero. He had done well. He would be promoted.

With a strangled cry, she swept her arm across her desk, sending the paper dancing in the air and her glass of whiskey shattering against the floor.

Blacky gave an answering growl from where he paced anxiously in front of the door. He'd refused to leave her side since she'd heard the announcement. His hackles were up, his head low as he guarded her.

It was comforting, in its own way – certainly more than Martin's brand of protection ever had been. Blacky was honest. Attuned to her mood. Alert.

She sank forward, bracing her elbows on the desk and raking her hands through her hair. It wasn't fair, the sort of mental acrobatics she had to do to keep herself from screaming. And it was even less fair that they were coming so easily now. The explanations and excuses came to mind so readily: he did this to himself, it was for the good of the city, for safety, for us. It was for the fine whiskey now soaking into the rug, for the fact that she could pretend to have a measure of control over the world.

It was for his own comfort that she would, as soon as she had made her speech and tied up all the loose ends, send one of her men into his cell to shoot him dead, and it was a shame she would have to sacrifice a loyal Overseer to do it.

But as soon as it was done, she could bandage herself, heal each gaping wound he left with itching, festering scabs, and she could get back to the work of-

What?

Tracking down a witch who painted portraits?

What was she doing?

The door rumbled to life before Martin's quick, coded knock, and Blacky crouched low, growing into the slowly expanding gap between floor and door. She heard Martin's swear – soft, controlled – and struggled to keep her breathing easy.

"Call him off, Miss Curnow," Martin snapped as Blacky lunged for his boots with a snarl.

"I'd prefer to be left alone," she replied, fingers curling in her hair.

"Callista."

She bowed her head lower, fingers clawing. Her breath hissed through her teeth.

"... Blacky," she said, and the hound's head jerked up. She lifted her own head and stared at him, until, slowly, he backed away from the now mostly-open door. He was fixated on Martin as the man stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.

"We need to talk."

"Give me the name," she said, "of the Overseer who brought him in."

Martin had seen the broken glass. He frowned at it, wrinkled his nose at the scent of alcohol on the air. "... Overseer Jasper. The one who brought in-"

"I remember him," she said, voice clipped.

"It will take some time for me to be able to- take care of him," Martin said. "Burrows has taken notice of him."

"Burrows," she said, "probably pays him. The Abbey may not entirely know what to do with me, but this- is a calculated move, by somebody with much clearer political aspirations, and a more personal vendetta."

Martin worked his jaw, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. She could hear the leather of his gloves creaking. "You're probably right," he agreed.

"Who can we afford to sacrifice?" she asked, pushing back from her desk and standing.

"I don't think-"

"Martin," she hissed. "Give me a name. Somebody will end my uncle's suffering, do you understand?"

"... I can do it," he said. "During an interrogation, I'll take things into my own hands and-"

"No. Whoever does it is going to suffer for it," she said, approaching him slowly. Her face burned. She felt tense, too large beneath her skin. She wanted to scream, to rage, to destroy- everything. "If you don't give me a name, it will be Windham."

"He's too valuable," Martin said, regarding her warily.

"Then give me a name."

"I need time to think."

"Fuck your time to think!" she snarled, and lunged for him. The roaring in her ears intensified, blotted out everything else, even Blacky's earsplitting barks. There was only sound and anger and motion as Martin backpedalled. The room was small, and his maneuvering had his back flat against the wall as her weight crashed into him. She got a hand beneath his jaw, and forced his head up. Blacky snapped at his heels, but stopped short of attacking.

Callista's other hand held the letter opener from her desk, its dull tip pressed into Martin's belly.

The animal panic in his eyes matched the bestial rage in every sinew of her body. She drank in his fear, the way he went entirely rigid. It was a concession, she knew, to how much he otherwise trusted her. Any other attacker, he would have turned on, thrown off. She wasn't good enough to best him.

But she was important enough to make him listen.

"Callista," he breathed, voice strangled by how she forced his jaw up. "Callista, don't do this."

Blacky answered with a snarl.

She was shaking. Her blood roared in her ears, and she couldn't think straight. All she could do was seethe and press harder against Martin.

Callista shook her head, violently, trying to clear out the noise. She gulped down air, pushing past the maelstrom.

She swallowed and pulled back by a fraction. "Do what?" she asked, dropping the point of the letter opener and pressing her fist against his sternum instead. She lifted her head, jerking her own chin up. "I'm not going to hurt you, Martin."

He laughed, weakly. "My back begs to differ. I- I understand that this is-"

Another deep, sucking breath, another quake of her body beneath the rushing train barreling down the tunnel of her thoughts.

"A nightmare?"

"That's one way to put it, yes," he said. She could feel him shaking as the hound paced in a tense arc around them. "I never wanted this to happen."

"Did you take steps to keep it that way?" she asked. "Did you really look into who had delivered the letter the first time? How Jasper got it the second?"

His throat bobbed. His eyes darted to the hound. "No."

"Why not?"

"There was no time," he said. "Things have been moving so quickly."

"And there were more important matters to attend to," she spat.

He didn't respond.

He was trembling, but her muscles began to twitch and spasm, her breath refusing to come evenly, and she let out a desperate, pained cry, dropping the letter opener entirely and bowing her head against his chest. Her thoughts imploded, her head split with sudden, searing pain. Blacky immediately approached, pressing his flank to her legs, letting her know he was ready to strike.

She didn't encourage him.

"There is nothing good here," she whispered when the screaming of her thoughts gave way to words once more. "Tell me one time that power kept me safe. Tell me. I can't think of a single one. All it's done is paint a target on my back."

"It will come," he whispered.

"When? When I have nothing else to lose?" She lifted her head, and loosened her grip on his jaw. "I'm only in power because of you – and so I'll always have something else to lose."

"You won't lose me," he said. He looped one arm around her, and when she didn't jerk away, he pulled her close. "I swear."

Her jaw tightened by degrees, his words at first soothing against her soul, but quickly drowning it, driving it deep in an attempt to salvage itself. She let out another cry, and shoved him away, slamming his back into the wall again. He hissed in pain and his grip loosened, and she backed away from him, eyes blazing. She put a hand to her head.

"Callista-"

She turned and stalked to her desk, sitting down and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Blacky took up position at her back, lying down with his gaze fixed on Martin. He would be her eyes and ears.

"I'm not a child or a possession to be kept safe," she said, words clipped.

"You said you wanted safety! That's the only way I know how-"

"Well, it's shit." Her fingers curled around her pen. "It's how Geoff protected me, and it has one fatal flaw. One day, you'll be dead."

Martin's breathing turned labored

She licked her dry, thin lips. "And I'll be left picking up the pieces, reconstructing the parts of me that you provided, the architecture that I thought was me, but was really you all along. I refuse to do it again. This is the last time," she said.

"Then what do you want of me?" he asked. His voice had moved. She turned her head to see him right by the door, ready to walk out.

Her chest tightened, but not enough to pierce through the anger wrapping around her like a body bag.

"I want to be alone," she said. "The rest I'll figure out later."

Martin nodded, jerkily, then turned and slammed the button that would raise the door. Callista turned back to her writing.

Fear is our greatest weakness, and our greatest strength. It leaves us alert, but in time, it tires us, leaving cracks in our resilience, our goodness, that the Outsider can worm his way into. Geoff Curnow did not just kill a man; he made us fear. He made us panic. He made us vulnerable.

He betrayed not only this Empire, but the safety of our spirits.

The handwriting didn't look like her own.

"… There is worth in severing ties to him," Callista said, voice rising over the courtyard. Her eyes remained firmly turned from her uncle's struggling body, pinioned in the stocks. "And there is a great temptation in it, to say, this is no longer my blood, this has no bearing on me.

"But to say that would be dishonest. I was raised by this man. I was protected by this man. His actions, his perversions, his weaknesses and his strivings created the foundation of my being, and so it would be dishonest - it would be dangerous - to ignore them. I must instead root them out of my body, my spirit. I must replace them with what is good, what is controlled, what is constrained."

Her gaze was unfocused as she looked over the crowd, a mix of Overseers and citizens of Dunwall. Behind her stood Martin and Burrows, General Turnbull, the Empress, several dignitaries, and Sister Anise.

She lifted her head, the carefully rehearsed words continuing to tumble out of her mouth.

"That has been my path for the last forty-two days. And while for me it was a personal journey, it begins now for the rest of Dunwall. Look upon the traitor Geoff Curnow, note the elements of him that reside in you, and weigh them.

"Does this protect me? Does this protect others? Or does it leave me weak and vulnerable?

"The Strictures give us guidance, but they are broad, unerring truths; there are times where we may feel they do not apply. It is then that we look to the destroyers of peace to learn specifics, to learn the insidious behaviors that seem fine on the surface, but that fester and destroy when taken in by us.

"To that end, Geoff Curnow will be left out to the elements for the next three days. He will be under guard; you need not fear his escape. Come, and look on him. We will cut out his tongue and muzzle his mouth so that his words cannot infect you. Come, and judge him.

"In three days time, he will be brought to Coldridge and executed for his crimes."

She took a deep, rattling breath, keeping her chin high. There were no cheers. There was only a low murmuring, a flow of whispers. Her gaze fell at last on Geoff, who was blessedly turned away from her.

Tonight, Windham would murder him. Tomorrow, Windham would be imprisoned by his former brothers. Burrows would want custody of him, but Martin wouldn't allow it, for their own safety.

But first, two Overseers would approach her uncle with tongs and blade, and-

She turned away and stepped back onto the hastily-built platform where her fellows stood.

"A skilled speech," Burrows said, inclining his head.

Emily looked up at her with a furrowed brow, but said nothing. Waverly Boyle, just behind her, had her gaze fixed on Callista with an appraising, weighing look.

She looked- pleased.

Anise had her brass face dome in place, and Callista didn't dare look at it, afraid of seeing her own reflection. The woman was silent.

Martin, too, said nothing, and did not reach for her, but she could see the tension in his shoulders that came from resisting the urge. She kept her eyes fixed on him as Geoff began to shout.

She'd had no time to speak to her uncle, no opportunity, and now there could never be an opportunity again. The knowledge that her denunciation, her damning, would be their last interaction-

No. She couldn't think on that. She turned, and faced the crowd, standing in proper rank. Two Overseers - one, no doubt, was Jasper - had a hold of Geoff's head, and they worked to pry his mouth open. The crowd shifted, drew back. She saw some turn away, some leave- but some remained, eager for the bloodletting.

They worked a bit into his mouth that kept his jaw open. He howled. His swears were meaningless gurgles of words as they caught his tongue in the grip of the tongs, dragging it out into the open.

She was thankful she could only see a portion of it, could only really focus on the thrashing of his body in the stocks. It was more important, after all, that the people see.

They used a small blade to slice his tongue out. She'd seen it while they're prepared, earlier that morning. She watched now as Geoff howled, then shouted, then only sobbed. His body twitched and spasmed, and the two Overseers held his head down so that the blood would flow onto the pavement and not down his throat.

Her fists curled at her sides. The brilliant anger she'd felt the night before had turned dull and ashen inside of her, creating a pit in her stomach. The roaring and headache had persisted until that morning, but had stopped abruptly sometime after she'd foregone breakfast.

Martin stepped forward, to give the parting speech. She could barely track his words. Avoidance? Desperate dissociation, like that day in the railcar?

She eyed her companions on the platform. Waverly watched the proceedings in the square with keen interest. Burrows looked triumphant. Turnbull was dour, presenting an unflinching front that she didn't know how to read.

Emily was bright-eyed, alert, and terrified. Callista could see the terror in her. She remembered in a flash her own childhood terrors, and the children she'd cared for, and the urge to take the girl's hand grew immense. But Emily wouldn't take hers if she offered.

Martin's speech ended with some platitudes about lying tongues, and the crowd erupted into a triumphant roar. He turned back to her, and at last offered a small smile.

"Well," he said. "Whiskey and cigars, then?"

"Of course," Burrows said, then glanced down at Emily. "Your Highness, would you like to accompany us?"

She shook her head. "I am going to see Lord Pendleton's city estate today. He has promised to show me his hunting trophies."

Waverly snorted, but it was a faint sound, swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. Somewhere, her uncle was crying from pain, anger, and fear, but she could barely hear it. She certainly didn't want to.

Callista cleared her throat. "I'll have to excuse myself," she said. "I find I don't have the stomach for this much blood, even for a good cause."

Burrows inclined his head. "Your speech was very thoughtful," he said. "You've truly become a member of the Abbey, I think."

"Thank you," she said. "Enjoy your meeting, gentlemen. Lady."

Emily stared up at her. Her gaze was accusatory. Callista struggled to guess how she felt. Angry, that Callista could betray family so easily? No- angry that she continued to uphold the idea that Corvo Attano had killed her mother. And there, on the edges, she looked impressed. Nervous.

"We will have to have dinner together sometime, Miss Curnow," Waverly said, smoothly. Callista inclined. "I feel there is much to learn about you."

"Of course, my lady," Callista said, then descended from the platform and headed at as reasonable and stately a pace as she could manage to the railcar line.

The ride to her uncle's apartment was violent, the car jerking to a halt, then accelerating sharply. It sloshed the whiskey out of her glass and rattled her shoulders against the seat. Its aggression, however, kept the tears away. She simply bore up under it until the car rattled to a halt, then climbed out and crossed Clavering to the door to the apartment building.

The stairs up were a second trial, as welcome as the first. She left below her the dirty streets and swarming rats, focusing on a quiet place to sit and reflect waiting for her at the top of the building. Just a little time, and she would adjust. A scream, a splash of cold water to her face, a few hours of boiling rage, and just like every time before, she would become whole again.

Geoff was her uncle, her blood, but he was just another loss. She'd had many.

Callista came to her landing and slowed as she approached the door. Finally, she stopped, hand resting on the knob. She felt again the scream that was trapped in her gut, struggling, trying to rise to her throat. Just over a month ago, she'd been cataloging the contents of this apartment, dealing with a loss that wasn't quite a death, unsure of where to turn.

It had been a horrible idea to ever make this her home; she should have known better. It was like the beach house, infested with ghosts not just of the dead, but of all the opportunities and possibilities that were shut off from her. A house full of doors.

She thought of Geoff, screaming, blood filling his mouth where before he'd been eloquent, thoughtful, with an off-kilter sense of humor and a deep well of caring.

She'd done that.

Perhaps it would have been better to have cut off his roving feet, or his restless hands, but the chance of infection had seemed so much higher. She'd imagined the stumps festering, rotting, in the time before Martin's man would be able to release him from his torment. Her stomach churned. Her thoughts flew to the dead Morlish man, to the Overseer with his throat ripped out. Those had been merciful deaths.

Where had her mercy gone?

She turned, looking down the hallway. It was empty, save for her. There were no rats in this part of Clavering yet, and all her neighbors seemed to have learned from the gunshots and the intermittent presence of the Abbey to ignore the comings and goings in her apartment. Her apartment.

She doubled over, vomiting, shoulders heaving, closing her eyes against the acrid stench of her vomit and the way it stained the hallway runner. Blind, she fumbled for the door, for the key tucked into her belt. The metal slipped against her gloves, and she swore, cracking open her eyelids just enough to guide the key into the lock. It turned, and she stumbled inside, wiping at her mouth with the back of her arm.

The discordant, harsh rhythms of Holger's Device met her, and she frowned.

It had been over two weeks since she'd last stepped foot in her apartment. The device had been off. Even if it hadn't been, it would have exhausted its small canister of whale oil days ago.

Her hand went to her pistol, only to find it gone. Her chest and belly tightened in fear. Martin had confiscated her gun, and anything close to a knife that had been in her room, after the incident the night before.

If she just backed up, quietly-

"Curnow."

Callista's head jerked up, searching for the source of the woman's voice. It was a familiar voice, though she couldn't place it.

Kitchen? Possibly.

"It is you, isn't it? Your High Overseer wouldn't have vomited right outside of your door, I suppose," the woman continued, pitching her voice to carry. "I need to talk to you. Consider the noise- insurance."

Billie.

"I'm unarmed," the woman added.

Callista didn't believe her, but she took another step anyway.

"The box isn't going to stop you," Callista said, slowly. "What kind of insurance is that?"

"Insurance that we won't be interrupted. I have news about the witch, Delilah."

Callista's legs were weak, her throat still raw, but her step quickened. "What is it?" she asked, passing through the open door to the kitchen.

Billie leaned against the counter, favoring her injured leg, face ashen. She'd helped herself to some of the tinned hagfish in the cupboards, the metal discarded behind her, the smell of brine in the air.

She unhooked a bag from her belt and tossed it onto the edge of the counter closest to Callista.

Whatever was inside had a faint odor.

"Open it," Billie said. "And consider it a peace offering."

Eyes fixed on Billie, Callista stepped forward and reached out, hooking the bag on the tip of her finger. She dragged it close, then worked free the drawstring. At last, she chanced a look down.

Her stomach threatened to rebel again.

Inside the bag was a severed human hand, old enough to be cold and clotted, but not so old that it was in full rot yet. It was emblazoned with the Outsider's mark, and was bruised in places, knuckles scraped. It was also dotted with dried paint, spatters of bright colors sunk into the cuticles of the nails.

"What-"

"Delilah Copperspoon is dead," Billie said. "I would've brought her head, but the hand was a bit easier to carry all the way from Brigmore."

Callista simply stared, struggling to square the hand in the bag with all she'd been struggling for the last few weeks. She'd thought she was getting close, but-

"You hadn't even planned on going to Brigmore, had you," Billie snorted. "Two more days and you and the High Overseer would have been dead."

"Why?" Callista asked.

"Because she had a-"

"No, why help me?" She dragged her gaze from the hand to Billie.

Billie hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "You let me live, and I had a mistake to fix. She destroyed my life."

Callista let go of the bag, its soft walls falling over the contents, hiding them from view. "… And the Empress?"

Billie quirked a brow.

"Is Dunwall gold going into your pockets now?"

The assassin's lips curled.

Callista nodded to herself, and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. "I see."

Billie was still a moment longer, then reached back to the counter behind her. She pulled out a canvas crudely slashed from its stretching frame, its edges jagged and torn. "Two more days," Billie said, passing it to Callista, "and you would've put a bullet in his brain, or worse."

Callista's fingers curled around the canvas, then spasmed. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, shins striking the tile. The splitting pain in her head began again. She swore, struggling to stay upright, and flung the canvas aside. It struck a wall and unrolled.

A riot of colors washed over her, and she stared, transfixed, at the perversion of her image on the canvas. All the dull browns of her hair and eyes and skin were gone, replaced by otherworldly colors, the kind she'd seen in the portraits at Timsh's. Her high-set ears and long nose were exaggerated, making her rodent-like features all the more prominent.

But for all the sickening energy rolling off the canvas, plucking at her thoughts, the pose was static. Empty.

She could feel the artist's contempt and disinterest.

"Powerful, isn't it," Billie murmured. She hadn't moved from the counter. That, at least, was good. She'd had several moments to strike, and hadn't. Callista clung to that desperately, the only touchstone she had.

"You'll want to burn it. It'll feel like something snapping off inside of you, but it's not dangerous. As far as I can tell."

"What is it?"

"She uses portraits to get inside people's heads. Used, anyway. The room was lined with them. I was there. Daud was there. You. The Empress."

"Is that why you intervened, then?"

"Yes. By the time I got there, she was dangerously close to being finished with the Empress's portrait. She told me what she was going to use it for - to get inside the Empress's body, replace her mind with her own, and take power."

"She told you this?"

Billie nodded. "She told me that, and all the details. How she'd observed how the girl sat, how she'd used another puppet to test her theory that the body would remember how to sign the name, even with the mind replaced. Used that barrister, Timsh."

Callista's eyes widened. The painting at Timsh's. The strange change in his mood. The way he'd seemed suddenly eager to sign his name on the documents granting her Geoff's apartment.

How he'd claimed to have no memory of the event.

And how last night, her handwriting had seemed strange. It hadn't been her own - it had been the writing she'd used on chalkboards, her tutor's handwriting. Not the script she used for the Abbey.

It had been what her body remembered best.

"Delilah was a proud, haughty woman. Angry at the world for what she felt she'd been denied. Did you know, she'd known Jessamine as a girl? But since Delilah was just a servant girl..." She shrugged. "I came crawling back to her, under the auspices of being lost, powerless."

"An easy bluff."

She snorted. "Easier than scaling the walls of her house, yes. And because our witch so desperately wanted to be in control - because she often was - she laughed at me and let me in, and still wasn't expecting it when I shoved a knife through her heart. She liked ripping women out of the lives they had grown into, preying on their feelings of arrogance, alienation, pride, and replacing their pasts with a life of servitude under one all-powerful ruler, but always with the promise of more power dangling in front of them."

Callista shifted uneasily. Billie watched with glittering eyes.

"So, she's dead."

"She's dead, and a threat you weren't even aware of is gone. You're not good enough to play this game, Curnow. I suggest you get out now. That's your uncle in the heretic's square, isn't it?"

Callista's shoulders hunched forward and her expression hardened. She yanked open a nearby drawer with enough force that the contents crashed and rattled, then drew out a matchbook. "I was pursuing it."

"Not fast enough."

"I was aware of her. I was speaking with Sokolov-"

"Not fast enough," Billie repeated.

Callista bit down a snarl and struck a match, the sharp, fleeting scent of phosphorous being quickly overtaken by the reek of burning oil paint and canvas as she tossed it down to the portrait. Something drew tight inside of her, and she closed her eyes, breath hissing out between her clenched teeth, as it twisted, contorted, came close to snapping. She steeled herself.

The painting's hold on her released in a gentle falling-away, the tightness in her breast fading to nothing.

She opened her eyes and stamped out the flames, which were threatening to creep along to the wall, but the apartment was better built than her old tenement, and not so flammable. With the flames extinguished by her boot, she turned back to Billie. The assassin's chest rose and fell just slightly out of rhythm, and her face looked a little grayer than it had before.

"I'm not going to run," she said. "I've made my decision."

"This city will eat you."

Callista managed a thin, bitter smile. "I have you, now."

Billie's laugh was loud and rough. "You don't have shit, Curnow. I work for the Empress. She trusts you more than the Regent, but what happens after he's gone?"

"Is he on your list? That's why she asked me for your name, after all."

Callista watched her closely, watched the slight downward flick of her gaze, the tightening of her hand on the counter's edge.

"He's not," Callista said.

"Something you said must have stuck with her," Billie admitted. "She wants to be more subtle. Do you have information that can destroy him?"

"Some. Not enough. We were hoping to use his hiring Delilah."

"Then let me give you what I have. Neither I nor my employer have the standing to confront him, obviously. I'd be killed. She'd be patted on the head then locked in her room without supper." Slowly, Billie pushed herself away from the counter. "So if you're in this, you'll have to make the next strike."

"Gladly," she said, taking a step closer to the woman.

"Have one of your contacts get ahold of the ledger. Delilah was seen by many people during that official portraiture session - the Empress was smart and made sure of it. Anything seen by many has a chance of being on the official ledger. Check it. The Regent knew Delilah when she was Jessamine's good friend, and when she worked for Sokolov - so it's easily argued that he knows about her heretical tendencies. If there are records of him hiring her-"

"Then he exposed the Empress, his charge, to a known witch. That's treason," Callista finished. "But he wouldn't have been that foolish."

"Maybe not, but I also know he paid Daud - and that was direct. And you have her hand. That mark's proof."

"Daud's payment isn't in the ledgers," she said, considering how much to reveal. "... But we may have a way of proving it, regardless."

"The two together should be damning enough, I think, to get him at least temporarily removed from office. From what I've seen, Waverly Boyle is quite ready to step in. The Empress will not contest it. But the Regent's tendrils reach deep."

"They're based on money - money provided by Lydia Boyle. Will she side with her sister, do you think?"

Billie shrugged. "Not my job to figure that out."

Callista nodded, slowly.

"If we cut off the head and freeze his assets... it could work," she said.

And if we expose the Regent and Campbell, my uncle's crime takes on new meaning. He would have been protecting Dunwall. He could be pardoned. It seemed nearly impossible, but surely something could be done. Her heart rose in her throat, and her hands began to tremble. She clasped them behind her back.

"If it works, it's much better than a bullet," Billie said. "Though it won't take care of the plague."

"No, but-"

Weeks ago, she and Martin had discussed the possibility of the Pendleton ships bringing the plague. The ledgers would show how the Regent had funded those expeditions. Of course, some uncertainty would enter the picture given their part in kidnapping the Empress, but if the plague had begun well before Jessamine's assassination... The Regent, not the Empress, funds their trips, they bring back the plague... It could be used to turn public opinion.

Nothing to be done about the dead, of course, but more ammunition against the seat of power.

"It will be done. Assure the Empress that we will be her hand."