Chapter IV

Billie had slept in far worse places than in front of The Boy's stove. She propped herself up against the chest she had been using as a seat and dozed, as yellowy morning light lightened the painted ceiling from black to a blue so deep it reminded her of nights aboard the Knife of Dunwall. Her cot lay empty aboard her ship, but it was barely more comfortable than the floor.

The Boy tossed and turned. Billie wondered if he was still having nightmares. They had plagued him during those first few weeks in the world of the living, as his mind struggled to cope with the weight of four thousand years' worth of memories. They had stopped after a while, or perhaps he had simply gotten better at hiding them.
He rose silently with the dawn and padded to the window, where he stared out across the slate-grey roofs to the distant mouth of the Wrenhaven. He looked ashen and ill at ease, slowly rubbing his temples. Billie shifted a little to let him know she was awake. It was a far cry from when she used to rap sharply on his cabin door in the early hours of the morning. Rise and shine, buttercup. Your turn on watch.

"You alright, Boy?"

"Just a headache." He never took his eyes off the window. Billie rose and stretched. There was a dull ache in her shoulder, a reminder that she'd overdone it yesterday with her foray across the rooftops. She didn't like it - it made her feel unbalanced. She joined The Boy at the window, but he didn't move. His eyes seemed to be searching the horizon.
"I still hear them," he murmured. "The Whales. They're out there, but they're dying. They smell their brothers and sisters burning in the cities."

Billie raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was the Void that allowed you to speak with them."

"It is. Was," he corrected himself. "But the last time, when you brought me back, I made a promise that I would tell their stories. And now I hear them everywhere."

Frustration bubbled up within Billie. "I thought by destroying Shindaerey quarry, the Void's connection to you would break, or something." The Boy tilted his head, considering this.

"I don't know if that's possible. Perhaps there are other places in the world where the Void overlaps."

"Nothing's ever simple with you, is it?" Billie punched him lightly on the shoulder, and he leaned away, moving instinctively with the direction of her fist. He no longer felt as though he would break at the slightest touch. "Alright, Whale Boy. Go lie down, before you give me a headache." She turned towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To make some coin. The sooner I fill my purse, the sooner we can get back out to sea. Next time you hear from your Whale friends, you can wave hello."

Billie wandered downstairs, retracing the route they had taken the previous night. It brought her through the living quarters of Ames' crew. They had taken down the sheets from the windows, but the place was even dingier in the light. She caught a glimpse of a room mostly taken up by a printing press and stacks of flyers. She didn't even want to know how they had managed to get the thing into the building. In pieces, probably.
She descended to the courtyard, and voices floated up the stairs to meet her.

"But what if the strikebreakers got to her? I promised ma I'd take care of her."

"I hear you, Ted." Billie recognised Abigail Ames' voice at once. "I'll help you find Monty - after I've met with the Guild. We can't afford to let this opportunity slip through our fingers."
Billie reached the bottom of the stairs just as Ames' door guard did. He shoved past her, brow furrowed with worry.

Ames was in the courtyard with a group of her people, all talking in low voices. Billie recognised some of them from last night. When Ames saw her, she lifted a hand in greeting.

"Ah, good morning, Ms. Foster. Do you have a minute?"

"I already told one of your people I'm not interested," said Billie.

"You haven't even heard what I was going to say."

"Things are hard enough without your lot stirring up trouble. When the factory owners hike the prices of their goods to cover your demands, who do you think suffers?" The others bristled at that, but Ames seemed unperturbed.

"What if I told you I can ensure that doesn't happen?" she said. Sensing that she had Billie's attention, she continued. "The nouveau riche of this city prize profit above everything else, but even they have to answer to Parliament. And, of course, the empress."

"I'd say you're crazy."

"We already have some support. If we spread our influence, we could change this whole damn city." There was a pause as Billie turned what she'd just learned over in her mind. She was staring, she knew. The other woman looked faintly smug.

"Who the blazes do you work for?" she managed eventually. Ames smiled, but there was little warmth behind it.

"Aren't you a curious one, Ms. Foster. Come and work for me. Once I know I can trust you, you might find out."

•:•:•:•:•:•

It was fortunate that Corvo liked Wyman, Emily thought to herself, or he probably would have tossed them out of the rail carriage simply for a moment of peace. As it was, he merely folded his arms, with the restraint only a soldier could summon, as Wyman kept up a steady stream of commentary the whole way from Dunwall Tower to the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

"Funny place for scientists, isn't it," they were saying, practically hanging out of the carriage as the Academy came into view. "In the old High Overseer's office and all. There's some poetic irony, for you."

"Arms inside the vehicle, love," said Emily mildly. She barely looked up from her papers. They were hardly riveting - Watch reports detailing the recent surge of strikes in the Draper's Ward - but she had visited the Academy's expanded headquarters so many times that the novelty of the place had worn off. Unlike the grand, vaulting halls in Oxblood Way, which now housed the Academy's vast library and museum, the former High Overseer's office was a utilitarian edifice of cold stone. Sokolov would have hated it. Corvo sat in the backwards-facing seat, loathe to look upon the place at all. Emily knew the memories it held for him were ones he'd rather forget.

When the Rail Carriage ground to a stop, she shuffled her papers and folded them away carefully. She accepted Wyman's hand as they helped her down, although if anyone needed the help, it was Corvo. He held himself stiffly, moving a touch slower than usual. She suspected he would be mortified if she mentioned it, though, so she kept her counsel. Instead, she took Wyman's arm as they passed through the imposing wrought-iron gates. Their presence was comforting in this place, a familiar shape she could anchor herself to, and something bright among the drab stonework.

There were those in the imperial court who clucked and fussed over Emily and Wyman's displays of affection for one another. It wasn't proper, they whispered, not for an empress. She suspected Corvo had a rather old-fashioned view of it himself. But times had changed, and Emily had spent the first ten years of her life watching her mother and Corvo dancing around one another, only able to steal moments together where they could. And then even that was stolen from him. Emily was determined not to let that happen to her. Both she and Wyman deserved better. At least her beau didn't have to endure the ugly speculation about their bloodline like Corvo had.

They made their way through the Academy's echoing halls, but when they entered Zoborik's workshop, they found it strangely silent. Usually, the room swelled with audiographs of classical music playing at top volume. Today, there was no sign of the Tyvian scientist. Her machines were dormant, her work tables stacked with half-finished blueprints. A scale model of a squat, clam-shaped vehicle lay in pieces, surrounded by scattered tools. A scyphic lamp made a lazy circuit of the room. Draped over the back of a chair was a pair of work gloves, coated in the luminous powder that gave the floating lights their signature glow.

"This isn't like her," said Emily, breaking the eerie quiet. It felt oddly intrusive, as if she was trespassing in someone's house. She shifted uncomfortably. That she knew exactly what that felt like was probably a bad thing.

The door slammed open, admitting a harried-looking Anna Zoborik.

"My apologies, Your Highness!" Her hair was damp, and she was still in the process of doing up her waistcoat. Without looking up from her buttons, she jabbed a finger in Wyman's direction. "Don't touch that." Wyman, who had been reaching into a steamer trunk, guiltily snapped their hands back to their sides.

"Good to see you, Zoborik," Emily stepped in, before the scientist kicked them out of the workshop. "And thank you for the scyphic lamps. My guests loved them."

"I know. The Ramseys already sent me an order for twenty of them. Twenty!" Zoborik threw her hands up. "Do they think assistants grow on trees? Bah. Oh, but you're here for a progress report, not to listen to me complain. Allow me."
Without so much as a pause, she strode over to a glass-topped display case and unlocked it. An assortment of mismatched objects lay inside. Zoborik ran her fingers over them before selecting one seemingly at random. She held up a square piece of sturdy cloth and pulled it taut.
"This is my latest sample. I'm sure you have a blade on you. Go ahead - try to cut it."

Corvo drew his sword. Emily's fingers itched to take up its familiar weight again, but she settled for watching as her father pressed it to the cloth. The weave remained undamaged beneath its sharp edge.

"Try slashing at it," Zoborik encouraged him, and he obligingly drew the blade down in a cutting motion. The sword seemed to slide off it, like water on glass.

"It's as if it's repelling the blade," said Corvo, impressed. "I can't create enough tension to tear it." Emily's mind whirled with possibilities.

"Can you reinforce a League uniform with this?"

"It doesn't work against serrated knives," Zoborik admitted, "nor will it stop a stabbing, not with a decent blade. But I will try."
She moved on to the next item in the cabinet, a pot of clear jelly-like liquid. "This," she said, unsealing the cap, "is designed for covering cuts without the need for bandages. Eventually I shall make one that can seal deeper wounds, doing away with the need for cumbersome bandages entirely." Emily and Corvo watched, rapt, as the engineer took some of the substance and rubbed it on the back of her hand. It began to harden even as they watched, creating a membranous layer over her flesh. It roughened and wrinkled, looking like she had spent too long in the sun, and she pursed her lips. "I have not yet worked out how to stop it from doing this. But it is functional."

"This is incredible," Emily dipped her finger in the jar and watched as the substance hardened. It was faintly tacky and itched, but she could mould it between her fingertips.

"I owe my thanks to Lord Corvo. Sokolov's old notes have proven invaluable."

Zoborik gave them a detailed overview of her other works-in-progress. There was a clockwork flying device that could shower a crowd with a soporific mist, a box that emitted a blast of concentrated sound to repel attackers (which she declined to demonstrate), and a pair of boots with moulded insoles that altered a person's gait without throwing off their balance.
"Nothing gives away a soldier in a crowd faster than their posture," she explained. "But these boots don't impede movement - rather, their adaptive weights give the wearer greater stability on uneven surfaces."

"And the League will be able to test all of these?" Emily fought the un-empress-like urge to rip her own boots off and try them right then and there.

"Once I have worked out the kinks. Your League of Protectors will only have the very best - I told you not to touch that!" That last part was aimed at Wyman, who had wandered back over to the steamer trunk and was peering inside.

"I'm sorry!" They held up their hands, their expression pleading. "I just- what is it?"

Zoborik heaved a long-suffering sigh and went over to the trunk, lifting out a cumbersome contraption.

"This is my aethergraph. It is a work in progress, but I must admit it has worked rather splendidly during my tests," she said, setting it down carefully on the closest workbench. To Emily, it resembled a camera, though the main body of it was encased in dense black rock.

She edged closer to her father and leaned in to whisper in his ear, "Is it just me, or does that look like…?"

"This material is voidrite," Zoborik explained to Wyman. She ran a hand across its jagged surface. "As the name suggests, it comes from places where the veil between our world and the Void is weakened. More accurately, this is voidrite encased in clear resin, as it's a maddeningly volatile substance."

"Anna," rumbled Corvo, "where did you get that?" If Zoborik noticed his thunderous expression, she didn't show it.

"This particular sample comes from a mountain in Serkonos. I had to call in-" she paused to smack Wyman's hand away from the device. "-a few favours to get my hands on it."

"What does the camera - sorry, aethergraph - do, though?" said Wyman.

"That is a much more interesting question," said Zoborik happily. "Think of it as a camera, but the images it creates show what has happened, what is happening at the moment the picture is taken, and what might happen. The trick is in separating them to produce anything useful."

Corvo folded his arms. "Sounds more like witchcraft than engineering."

"Witchcraft!" Zoborik's lip curled. "Runes, carved bones, bits of dead things! Superstitious nonsense, good only for driving otherwise rational people into the arms of the Abbey. I am a woman of science."

"You use whale bone," Emily pointed out. "And… voidrite." The word was foreign in her mouth. It left a bitter taste behind, full of unspoken danger.

"Both are materials with many useful properties, that is all. The tonics and tinctures your Royal Physician makes contain plants - would you call them witchcraft? Or medicine?" Emily pursed her lips and said nothing. She may have quietly dissolved the Abbey of the Everyman, but old prejudices lingered in Dunwall. The city was steeped in them, even without the fresh wounds Delilah had wrought.

She was silent on the way back to the Rail Carriage, only half-listening to Wyman's excited chatter. She knew that it was possible for things - and people - to cross between their world and the Void - Delilah had done it, after all. But the idea of using bits of it to create new machines didn't sit right with her.
Many intelligent people had tried to blur the line between science and magic before, and those attempts had rarely ended well. And it begged the question - if Zoborik had managed to get her hands on a hunk of voidrite, who else had?

Judging by the look on Corvo's face, he was thinking exactly the same thing.

•:•:•:•:•:•

The Metalsmiths' Guild was one of the many grand buildings on Guildhouse Row. The structures here were built to showcase the skill of Dunwall's engineers and smiths, with green-stained copper filigree and roofs of paned glass glinting beneath the overcast sky. A crowd lined the street, out of place amongst the display of wealth; men with the soot-stained faces and broad shoulders of foundry workers and smiths. The air was thick with their shouts as nervous-looking watchmen milled around, keeping their hands on their weapons.

The crowd parted easily for Ames' rag-tag group, but Billie couldn't shake the feeling that trouble was brewing. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on - more like the prickling of electricity before a storm. She itched to get to higher ground and away from the press of bodies.

"What's wrong, Foster?" said Ames in her ear. Damned woman didn't miss anything.

"You didn't tell me we were walking into a potential riot." Billie gestured to her pinned-up sleeve. "I'm hardly a prizefighter."

"Rot. You wouldn't be carrying half a Watch squad's arsenal on you if you couldn't fight. Besides, we're only here to deliver a list of demands." Ames smirked. "The workers have come to show their support."

"And when does asking nicely ever work out in your favour?"

"Hardly ever, but at least I can say we've tried."

They reached the stairs at the entrance of the guild house, and Ames went inside with most of the group, leaving Billie and Dubosc, the former Overseer, to guard the front door. He had left his wolfhound at the safehouse. Billie wished he hadn't, rotten teeth or not. Dubosc ignored her, watching the crowd with his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He had affected a casual stance, but Billie recognised the tension in his shoulders. Daud used to look the same way when he was on a job, as if he were expecting trouble at any given moment.

There was a commotion at the far end of the street as a group of at least four dozen people rounded the corner and stopped at the edge of the crowd. The workers booed and threw things, but the newcomers ignored them. For now. Dubosc took one glance at them and swore.

"Strikebreakers," he spat, seeing the quizzical look Billie gave him. "They're here for Ames."

The prickling feeling returned threefold as Billie watched the strikebreakers confer, occasionally shooting glances up at the guild house. One man stepped forward as the watchmen approached, and began to animatedly exchange words with them. Billie couldn't tell what they were saying from this distance, but she doubted it was anything good. Her suspicions were confirmed as the strikebreakers' leader handed a piece of paper to the officer in charge, who shook his head and gestured furiously. The strikebreakers didn't back down. After a moment, the officer's shoulders slumped with defeat.

Billie had never put much stock in the loyalty of the City Watch; Daud had always extolled the virtues of a well-chosen bribe, and she'd seen how quickly the bastards turned on each other during Delilah's coup. But this was different; the watchman's expression was grim as he waved his men away, leaving the crowd and the strikebreakers to face off in the middle of the street. Whatever had been on that paper, it had rendered his squad as useless as a sword without an edge.

"This is going to the Void in a handbasket," Billie muttered to Dubosc. "We need to get Ames out of here." She'd rather get herself out, but she'd already made a mistake by coming along in the first place. She was damned if she wasn't going to be paid for her trouble. "We should take a back exit if we can," she added, as the strikebreakers drew their weapons, advancing on the crowd with predatory grins.

Some of the workers immediately turned and fled towards the other end of the street, but others, fuelled by rage and bravado, stood their ground. Billie shook her head in disbelief. Some had bottles in their hands, others knives or odds and ends they had brought with them, but the strikebreakers had cudgels. And guns.

"Foster, inside!" Dubosc was already halfway inside the door as the first shots rang out, and Billie ducked in after him.

The two of them barrelled through the guild house, past the registry desk, ignoring the protests of the clerks, and burst into a room marked assembly chamber, where Ames was in the middle of delivering an impassioned speech to the guildmasters' council. She didn't look pleased to see them. Neither did the rest of her crew.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, as complaints echoed around the chamber at their interruption.

"Saving your life," Billie answered shortly, ushering her through the door and further down the hallway. "Things are getting bloody out there."

"What about the Watch?"

"Gone." Dubosc uttered a bitter laugh. "Paid off by the strikebreakers." As if to punctuate his point, the sound of breaking glass and screaming echoed through the Guildhall.

Billie allowed herself to watch the annoyance in Ames' expression give way to fear. "This is what you're paying us for, isn't it?" she said, giving Ames a push to get her moving again. "To keep your behind out of danger?"

"This is a disaster," Ames muttered as the crew thundered down panelled, plushly carpeted corridors, shoving aside anyone unfortunate enough to cross paths with them. "The Guild will never support us if half of their workforce is injured in a riot."

Maybe you should have considered that before you organised that little stunt out there, thought Billie, though she kept her thoughts to herself. They found their way to the servants' quarters, with a smaller exit that opened into a small courtyard. There was an alley that led up a flight of steps to street level, but no one moved toward it. Standing in the way were at least twenty strikebreakers, with an assortment of vicious-looking weapons.

"Don't move," said one, with a thick metal chain wrapped around his hands. He rattled it menacingly. "There's no need for a brawl. We're here for her." He jabbed his chin in Ames' direction.
Her crew was outnumbered, and the strikebreakers knew it. They smirked as they edged closer.

"Steady," Dubosc said under his breath. Billie ignored him, too busy frantically scanning the roofs for a likely escape route. Then she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Jennie was perched with her legs either side of a roof ridge, something spherical in one hand, and her crossbow in the other. Her lips were moving, and it took a moment for Billie to realise she was silently counting.

Seven, six, five-

"Get Ames out of here," Billie hissed, hoping the strikebreakers wouldn't hear her.

"What about you?" protested Ames.

-four, three-

"I can take them."

"Alone?"

-two-

"Nope." Billie swivelled her eye meaningfully toward the roof, where Jennie raised the sphere above her head.

-one-

"GO!" Billie yelled, as Jennie hurled the sphere to the ground. It shattered, and thick, sickly-sweet smoke poured from its remains, filling the air and sending the strikebreakers reeling into one another. Footsteps clattered on the flagstones as Ames and her crew fled, but Billie took a deep breath and dove into the smoke.

Someone made a lunging grab for her, but she twisted easily out of their reach and drew her blade, plunging it into their forearm. They barely had enough time to let out a bloodcurdling shriek before she snatched it back and sent them sprawling with a kick to their knee. The twang of Jennie's crossbow was punctuated with shrieks as her bolts found their marks, even through the smoke. Billie spun and smashed the grip of her sword into the base of a man's skull, then felled two more with slashes to their calves.

It was a dance she'd never forgotten the steps to. She could hardly see who she was fighting, but it didn't matter. She was used to fighting in the dark, making her kills where no one would see. For the first time since she had stepped onto Gristol's grimy shore, she felt alive.

Finally, here in the murk with her blade singing its copper-tainted song, she was home.