Chapter VIII

10th day, Month of Rain, 1854

The very next day, Lord Bryton boarded a ship bound for Caulkenny.

It was a commercial steamship, not his own vessel. He boarded in disguise, his departure made known only to his most trusted servants. So naturally, by midday every fever-eyed gossip in the city knew. News of the tragedy at Bryton Forgeworks had spread, though the rumours had gotten mangled in the telling.

"Lady Guillory's telling everyone it was sabotage," said Wyman, during a rare moment when they and Emily could be alone. Since Sweeney's report, they made a point of shadowing Emily everywhere, even within Dunwall Tower. Emily didn't mind spending more time with her future spouse, though they had a disconcerting habit of talking to her through the privy door. "Word in court is that Bryton's scared of an assassination attempt."

Emily snorted. "Because assassins always announce they're coming for you." She washed her hands and checked the mirror for any un-empress-like stray hairs or smudged makeup.

"A dozen people killed, and Bryton swans off to Morley to shoot pheasants and eat cheese," said Wyman when she opened the door. "Seems rather cold, doesn't it?"

"You're not wrong." Emily mulled this over as they made their way downstairs to the throne room, where her court awaited. "It's suspicious, too. I wonder if Sweeney had a chance to talk to him before he disappeared." She stopped dead as a thought occurred to her. "What if Bryton knew something before the attack?"

"That's a bit of a stretch," protested Wyman. "You just said it yourself - assassins don't announce themselves. Remember?"

"No…" Emily's thoughts whirled. "But a witch might."

"So he's… what? Fallen afoul of a hitherto undiscovered coven of witches? Offered up his workers as a human sacrifi-" Wyman's grin fell as they caught the look Emily was giving them. "Sorry." They waved a hand, deflating a little. "I'm just saying, we can't know anything for sure until Sweeney has had a chance to investigate. All we're doing right now is wildly speculating."

"Speak for yourself," said Emily. "You're almost as bad as Guillory."

"Harsh."

"Speculation aside, there's no way Bryton managed to get all of his affairs in order before he left. He might have left something behind that would give us a clue as to what's going on."

Wyman's brow furrowed. "Mm, I'm not sure I like that 'us'. Are you about to suggest something terrible? Because as your royal protector, I should advise that I am duty-bound to advise against… well, everything you're thinking of right now."

"You know me far too well." Emily sighed with a rueful smile. "I really am going to have to fire you, aren't I?"

"Lord Corvo would never allow it," said Wyman smugly, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "He loves me."

Emily wanted to put the matter out of her mind, but for the rest of the morning all she could think of was Bryton's foundry lying silent, and his unoccupied office. Who could guess what missing pieces of the puzzle lay inside? It wasn't her job to go poking around there, and she trusted Sweeney to be thorough. If she wanted, she could send him a message asking him to check the place out, but that felt a little too much like telling him how to do his job. And, if she had to be honest, she was itching to get out there herself - an incredibly foolish notion, but one that she couldn't let go of.

Two years. That was how long it had been since she had truly had an adventure, and the loss was a shallow ache near her heart.

Come with me, she wanted to tell Wyman. She knew they missed their troublemaking days too. They might not say it out loud, but Emily had seen them fidgeting during too many meetings to be fooled by their silence. They could leave through her safe room.

But Wyman wasn't only hers, she remembered with a sigh. Not any more. Their heart belonged to her, but their duty was bound to the crown. That meant no more sneaking out - not unless they wanted to risk Wyman being dismissed from their position in disgrace. Emily wouldn't do that to them.

No. If she did this, she would have to do it alone.

•:•:•:•:•:•

Corvo had promised himself long ago that he would never again set foot in Coldridge Prison. It was a promise he had kept, even after all these years. But, here he was, breaking that promise. All because this Void-forsaken city seemed intent on throwing itself into chaos, one way or another.

After Delilah's defeat, her coven had fallen or scattered across Serkonos, Morley, and inland Gristol. If there were any who had beaten the odds and survived the bloody years before the Abbey of the Everyman's dissolution, they had done so by scratching out new lives for themselves, far beyond the empire's reach.

At least, they tried.

The guards assigned Corvo an escort; a young fellow with a crisply starched uniform and a neat moustache. He whistled tunelessly as he led Corvo deeper into the prison, jangling the ring of keys in his pocket.

Everything had changed. That wasn't surprising, but Corvo had hoped that he would at least be able to catch his bearings. Memories crowded his mind; Jessamine crumpling to the ground as the light dimmed from her eyes. Waking up disoriented in the dark of his cell, terrified that he'd gone blind. The scrabble of rats in the corners. The agony of a red-hot poker pressed to his collarbone. The stench of burning flesh.
Corvo fingered the fabric of his shirt. Underneath, he felt that old scar still raised against his fingertips. A reminder, or an accusation.

"How far do these warrens go?"

"We're almost there, Lord Attano."

With immense discipline, Corvo swallowed the tide of memories and distracted himself by making a mental map of their route. Each bend in the passage, every guard post they passed, every door that had to be opened remotely before they were allowed to pass through. Security was much tighter than it had been before Corvo's fateful escape. The thought should have been reassuring.

The guard led him down a flight of stairs to the lowest levels of the prison, and as the heavy door ground open, the reek of unwashed bodies and low tide rose up to meet them. Corvo's vision fuzzed at the edges, and he had to put out a hand to steady himself.
Pull yourself together, man, he told himself. You're on this side of the bars. You can walk out of here as soon as you're done. Still, he held onto the mental map he'd put together. Just in case.

This cell block was the most secure Corvo had ever seen. Harshly lit, despite the Whale oil rationing, the walls of the cells were solid iron with reinforced doors. The guard produced the keyring from his pocket and unlocked one. The cell beyond was pitch-black inside until the overhead lights flickered on as they entered. The cell was partitioned with close-set bars, creating an even more cramped space inside than Corvo had expected.

Beyond these bars, a bony figure lay on the hard floor, slumped against a wall. The light caught an outstretched leg, and the gleam of shorn, silvery hair. A speaker set into the wall piped a distorted, low jumble of notes into the chamber that caused the hairs to stand up on the back of Corvo's neck. The Overseers once used this 'music' to ward off supernatural forces. He never would have expected to hear it again. It pushed at the edge of his consciousness, muddying his thoughts. He realised after a moment that he was grinding his teeth.

"Don't mind the noise, sir." The guard sounded cheerfully unbothered. "It won't harm you or me, but witches can't weave magic when they hear it. It distracts them, like."

That's an understatement, thought Corvo, remembering the way the music had wormed its way into his head, left him reeling as his borrowed powers slipped away. Even now it made him want to tear the device out of the wall - anything to let him think clearly again. Instead, he schooled his expression into one of mild curiosity and took a step closer to the bars.

"Is that why she's so… listless?"

"Don't stand too close. She's unpredictable. The music does something strange to 'em after a while, makes 'em go mad. Not that Delilah's little coven had much sanity to begin with."

The woman in the cell sniffed the air as if she were a cat. "Is that you, Ivan?" Her voice was hoarse. Corvo tried not to think about why that would be.

"Who is Ivan?" Corvo muttered. The guard shot him a dark look.

"Former guard. Before we brought in the music box we had to keep her shackled. She still managed to bewitch a lad to do her bidding. Infatuated with her, he was." Was, Corvo noticed. "She lured him into her cell, got him to unlock her shackles. And then she snapped his neck."

The witch crawled forward towards the bars and drew herself slowly upright, swaying drunkenly on her feet. She kept giving sharp little shakes of her head, flicking her hands as if there was a fly buzzing close to her ear.
"Ivan," she crooned, "I can't bear it anymore. Please let me out." She seemed to look straight through Corvo. Her eyes were milky pale.

"We're not going to get any sense out of her like this," he said, unable to hide his disgust.

"I'm afraid you may be right," said the guard sympathetically. "She's been here for months."

The witch pressed herself closer, a grimy hand curling around the bars. "I was in love, once." Her face took on a dreamy expression. "When I was a little girl, I used to dream of a beautiful boy with eyes like the deep sea, who told me I would achieve great things someday." She jerked away with a hiss. "I can't think!"
Corvo shut his eyes and massaged his forehead. "Is there a way to turn off the music box?" The guard shifted uneasily.

"There is, but after three minutes it triggers an alarm upstairs. Can't leave it off for too long, you see. It wouldn't do to let her get too lucid." He scratched the stubbly hairs at the base of his neck. "Can't afford another incident, there'd be a Whale-ton of paperwork to fill out-"

"-Then I'll make it quick," interrupted Corvo, tapping his foot impatiently. "Keep your hand on the switch, if it makes you feel better." The guard looked as if he was about to argue, then thought better of it and reached for the switch.

"With respect, Lord Attano, I hope you know what you're doing." He flipped it down, and the music ground to a stop.

The effect was instant. The room immediately felt less oppressive. Corvo's mind cleared, at the same time the witch's gaze sharpened. She stiffened, a predatory smile crossing her features, and then she lunged for the bars, her hand outstretched toward Corvo. He darted forward and seized her scarred wrist.
"No witchery," he said, "unless you want the music back."

The woman's face twisted in a snarl. "I feel you, marked one! You stink of the Void! If Delilah was here-"

"-Delilah's dead," lied Corvo flatly.

"NO!" the witch howled. She tried to wrench her arm free, but only succeeded in thrashing against the bars. "You're lying! I would have felt it!"

"Sir?" The guard was gripping the switch, his knuckles turning white.

"Wait." Corvo tuned him out, focusing his attention on the half-feral woman in front of him. "Tell me, are any more of your kind still hiding out here in Dunwall?"

"Please don't let him turn the music back on," the woman wheedled. Sour breath rolled over him, and he fought the urge to pull away. "I can't stand it any longer! It'll kill me!"

"Answer my question, and we'll see."

"Perhaps, perhaps… we lived like rats, before Delilah came along, so perhaps my sisters have survived, little rats in the dark corners of your city."

"How many?"

"How should I know?" the witch snarled, pressing her face against the bars. "I've been rotting away down here, in this stinking hole!"

"Two minutes," said the guard, his voice strained. Corvo ignored him.

"Someone is using magic to move shadows around the city, attacking civilians. Know anything about that?"

This time, confusion flitted across the witch's face, twisting into scorn. "Shadows aren't poppets to be flung about," she said. "Shadows are cast- ohhhh... " she trailed off and drew a long, shuddering breath, the corners of her mouth pulling into a smile.

"Tell me," Corvo threatened, but the witch was no longer listening. She stood taller, with her head cocked to one side with a beatific expression, as if listening to something only she could hear. Beneath Corvo's grip, the flesh of her arm hummed with power. He let go - or rather, tried to. His fingers refused to move. Then she uttered a throaty chuckle that turned his blood to ice.

"The call of the Void," she rasped, "can you feel it? It's been too long, far too long…"

Numbness quickly spread up Corvo's arm. "Turn on the music box!" he shouted. To his horror, the guard's only reply was a ghastly choking sound. He forced his head round, in time to see the lad sliding down the wall, eyes bulging, his fingers wrapped viciously around his own throat. Somewhere in the tangle of soulless corridors of the prison, a klaxon blared.
Corvo poured all of his will into his frozen fingers as the woman threw her head back and laughed. Hair by hair he loosened his grip until he could tear his hand away, and stumbled backwards. He staggered to the switch in the wall and slammed it home.

The effect was instant - noise flooded the chamber, the witch clapping her hands to her ears with a skull-splitting scream. Corvo wrenched the guard upright, and the man gasped for air as they fled into the hallway. He slammed the cell door shut with a crash, muffling the witch's screams as footsteps and shouts of alarm filled the air over the klaxon's bellows.

The guard sank against the opposite wall, panting. "That was too close, Lord Attano. Far too close. If you hadn't been there…" Corvo shifted uncomfortably as the lad trailed off with a shudder. If he hadn't ordered the music box to be turned off, they wouldn't have been in danger in the first place. He hadn't even gotten anything particularly useful out of the witch, only jumbled nonsense. He sighed, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable hours-long report he would have to make, as the first of the heavily armed guards came sprinting around the corner.

•:•:•:•:•:•

Even the Royal Protector needed a break sometimes, and Emily felt only marginally bad about leaving Wyman to soak obliviously in their evening bath while she sneaked out. It was a trick she wouldn't be able to pull twice (it had never worked on Corvo, who had once chased her across the roof wearing only a bathrobe just to make a point), but by the time Wyman realised she was missing, she would be long gone.
A light rain fell as she carefully picked her way over the roofs, which had turned treacherously slippery. As she watched people below hurrying from railcars to buildings with their collars turned up against the chill, not for the first time she missed being able to bound across impossible gaps in the blink of an eye.

The day the Outsider had taken back his gift, she was devastated. No more melting into the shadows. No more peering through the fabric of the world itself, seeing in the dark as if she were an owl or a cat. The mark had faded to a silvery sheen at first. By the month's end, it had disappeared completely.
"It's for the best," Corvo had said gruffly. "The less you have to do with him, the better." Emily knew he was probably right - The Outsider's mocking voice had followed her to Karnaca and back again, and she never had been able to figure out if he was trying to help her or get her killed. At least now she consoled herself with the fact that he - assuming The Outsider was a he - probably found her boring now that she was on the throne once more. All things considered, that was probably a good thing.

She paused on the other side of the street to get her bearings when her attention fell on a figure in a dark coat, striding purposefully up towards the steps to the rear entrance of the tower. The guards bowed respectfully at his approach. Emily's eyebrows rose as she realised it was Corvo. She hadn't even noticed her father had left, having been so wrapped up in the mystery of Lord Bryton's escape. It hardly surprised her, though, if he was doing some investigation of his own.

"Interesting," she murmured, filing that thought away for later.

While Emily was sure Lord Bryton kept his offices somewhere in the New Financial District, finding it was a painfully slow task. She had to keep stopping to peer into the deepening gloom at the plaques above the doors, shivering as rain trickled down her neck and into her clothes. Her breath dampened the scarf she had pulled over her mouth and nose.
At last, she spotted Bryton's name, marking the first floor of a slender brick building as his. With a sigh of relief, Emily swung herself over the edge of the roof and shuffled along a girder - a remnant of the plague-era overhead train lines - that brought her across the street. Ignoring the protests of her under-used muscles, she followed a rusting fire escape down the side of the building until she reached a window ledge.

Through the misty glass Emily made out a darkened, plum-coloured room furnished with a heavy-looking oaken desk and bookcases. She caught no glimpse of any light or movement, so she drew her sword - a strong but slender blade sheathed at her thigh - and used it to pry open the window. Lifting the window sash, she listened for any sounds of alarm before swinging her legs into the opening and slipping inside.
She landed on polished floorboards, the office smelling faintly of cigar smoke and sandalwood. Now that she was inside, she could see an empty fireplace with a kettle and a squat armchair and table, the remnants of Bryton's last tea sitting on a silver tray. A few feet away, a wall safe hung conspicuously open. She did a slow circuit of the space, taking note of the ledgers on the shelves and the clutter on the desk. It would take far too long for her to search the whole office, but it was difficult to know where to start.

As she riffled through a stack of letters stuck on a spike, the creak of floorboards from the hallway made her freeze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Then the door handle rattled, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock. The window suddenly seemed miles away. She was halfway there when a voice bellowed "STOP, BY ORDER OF THE WATCH!" Emily skidded to a halt, relief coursing through her. She knew that voice.

"Don't shoot me please, Captain," she said, tugging down her scarf to reveal her face, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Or your next report may be rather awkward." In the doorway, Watch Captain Sweeney gaped at her for a moment, then lowered his gun. There was a tense pause as they regarded each other from across the room. Sweeney was without his cane this time, Emily noticed, her mind still racing from the shock.

"This is a… curious place for us to meet, Your Majesty." The captain seemed to consider his next words carefully. "When I brought you my report about the potential threat to your life, I did so under the impression that you would take measures to protect yourself."

"I consider helping with the investigation protecting myself and my city," Emily replied. Sweeney remained silent, so she added, bluntly, "You were there when we took back Dunwall Tower from Delilah. This is how I serve my people, not by hiding behind locked doors."

Sweeney looked as though he was going to argue, but then he glanced around at the paper-strewn office. His shoulders sagged a little, probably at the prospect of having to search it by himself. "I suppose there's no real danger here, unless you count being mistaken for a burglar and shot." He pointedly holstered his gun and nodded toward the window. "I'm assuming that was you."

"Alas, I wasn't able to get my hands on a key." Emily wondered which of Bryton's assistants or solicitors Sweeney had cajoled or ordered to hand one over. It had certainly saved him an arduous climb.

"And the wall safe?"

"No, but I can turn out my pockets if you want."

Sweeney ignored that last remark, crossing the room to the safe and peering at it closely, turning the hatch this way and that. "There's no sign of it being forced. I'd say Lord Bryton took whatever was in there with him. Emergency funds, maybe…" his face darkened. "...or evidence that he knows more about what happened than he's letting on."

They split up, Emily tackling a stack of ledger books and Sweeney methodically going through the contents of Bryton's desk drawers. They worked in near-silence by candlelight.

"This is interesting," said Emily, laying a ledger out flat to compare the pages. "Lord Bryton had a contract with Greaves Lightning Oil offshore for his supply of Whale Oil. But here, two months ago he broke off the contract because they couldn't give him what he needed."

"It's the same across Gristol," Sweeney grunted. "The Whalers just aren't catching the beasts like they used to."

"Right, but look at this - he signed off on a new reciprocal contract with Rothwild Slaughter and Refineries. They're based in Gristol. How are they managing to meet demand if other companies can't?"

"Knowing Rothwild, probably by eating the competition." Sweeney paused, holding up a paper to the light. "Did you say a reciprocal contract? When was it signed?"

"The second day in the Month of Harvest. Two months ago." She leaned forward eagerly. "You found the contract?"

"No, that's likely to be with Bryton's solicitor. But this is the next best thing. Negotiations between Bryton and Rothwild shortly before the contract would have been signed. Tools, iron and equipment for oil, it looks like." Sweeney's eyes travelled over the page, his frown deepening.
"This is… who in their right mind would agree to this?" he said incredulously. "It's bleeding him dry. It hardly even qualifies as reciprocal - Rothwild's practically keeping the foundry operating. Without their oil, Bryton would have to shut the place down."

"Could Greaves have sabotaged the foundry out of spite? Or - or Rothwild? If Bryton lost his foundry, what's to stop Rothwild from buying it out from under him for a pittance?"

"That's some serious speculation." Sweeney had begun to pace to and fro, favouring his left leg slightly. "And hardly the sort of accusation we can throw around without concrete proof. For all we know, Bryton might have sabotaged his own business in the hopes someone would seize the opportunity to buy him out. If it was sabotage at all." He rubbed his face, looking exhausted. "We need more to go on than a single ruthless contract."

They returned to their search, their efforts renewed. Sweeney soon had a small pile of papers neatly stacked beside him. He didn't comment on them, nor did he invite Emily to look. She swallowed her annoyance, reminding herself that she was technically not supposed to be there at all. Even so, when Sweeney opened a small, leather-bound book and something fluttered to the ground, Emily pounced on it.

"An invitation," she murmured, tilting the cream-coloured paper this way and that so the embossed edging caught the light. She ignored Sweeney's look of irritation and scanned it quickly - then let out a sharp breath as a familiar name caught her eye. "To the Rothwild estate!"

"May I?" Sweeney held out a gloved hand with measured patience. Emily quickly committed the dates on the invitation to memory as she could before handing it to him. 'A dinner to celebrate Gristol's titans of industry, hosted by Lady Rothwild'," he read aloud.

"Funny that she would include Lord Bryton, given that his business has been teetering on the brink of disaster all this time," said Emily. "The dinner is in just a few days. We can send someone-" this was entirely the wrong thing to say, and she realised her mistake as Sweeney shook his head, exasperated.

"Your Majesty, with the utmost respect, there is no 'we'. There are more than a dozen people dead, and we still don't fully understand how. You trusted me enough to put me in charge of the investigation, so please," he swallowed hard, stuffing the invitation into his coat pocket. "Trust me to do my job."

Emily felt a white-hot flash of anger then, only for it to dissipate when she realised just how weary Sweeney looked. She'd put him in an impossible situation by coming here tonight. By all rights, he should go straight to the League of Protectors and tell them what she had been up to. But she knew he wouldn't. Not this time, at least.

"Very well," she said stiffly. "You won't see me again - not outside of Dunwall Tower."

It wasn't a lie, she told herself later as she clambered out of the window under Sweeney's bemused gaze. She braced herself for the cold wind that greeted her, and picked her way back across the rooftops of the New Financial District. She'd made no promises to stop looking into Lord Bryton, or to stay away from the gathering at the Rothwild estate.

And she had no intention of letting Sweeney - or anyone else - catch her again.